Like Sheep Gone Astray (22 page)
And what about the politicians who
had
pledged their public support? Did Councilman Banks forget to check his schedule, or had he become engrossed once again in another act of civic heroism somewhere else? But was this meeting not as important as any other and worth attendance?
Eric prayed to squelch the growing heat of discouragement and anger rising within him. People are human, and things do come up, he knew. Brother Philman may be tied up with a customer at his store, Mother George might be home-bound with her arthritic knee, and Walter Banks never stepped down from his public support of CASH even when everyone else had six months ago. There was no reason for him to back down now, Eric reassured himself.
He began meditating on the miracle of Jesus feeding over five thousand people with five loaves of bread and two fish. God can meet the needs of many with the donated resources of a few. Or, as was the case with Jesus and the multitude, the donated resources of one.
One little boy gave up his lunch to Jesus, and here I am one man willing to give up his life for God's use
. Eric smiled to himself, the mustard-seed-sized faith in him sprouting a bud.
And I am not just one; I have two others beside me
, Eric nodded at Sister Malburn-Epworth and the sleeping Mr. Rutherford.
It was nearly seven-thirty; there was no need to keep waiting. As Eric pulled a chair from the front row to face his faithful attendees, a troubling thought occurred to him. Nikki Galloway, his less-than-dependable secretary, had been responsible for mailing out notices and reminders about the meeting. Maybe he should not have left such a crucial task solely in her hands.
“Mrs. Malburn-Epworth, did you receive a reminder about tonight's meeting in the mail?” Eric's question came out slowly, almost hesitantly.
“Oh yes, I received a letter. In fact, I received both letters, the one about the meeting, and the one about you and what you're doing with all our money.” There was a coolness in her voice that Eric had heard existed but to date had never heard directed toward him.
“Mrs. Malburn-Epworth, what are you talking about? I don't know anything about a second mailing.”
“Of course
you
wouldn't,” she hissed.
Ernest Rutherford woke up with a loud snort. “Wh-what's going on? Are we talking about Eric's drug relapse yet?”
Mrs. Malburn-Epworth was frowning intensely, her arms folded tight across her broad chest. “We were just getting started.” Her eyes narrowed at Eric's.
“Drug relapse?” There were many desperate people out there who wanted to see a permanent end of CASH, but this was a personal attack that could destroy the credibility and progress of
everything
.
“Mrs. Malburn-Epworth, Mr. Rutherford, whatever you heard or received is a complete lie! Who sent you this second letter?”
“A concerned citizen.”
Even as the elder lady puffed out an answer, another question crept into Eric's mind:
Who had access to his mailing list and what else were they planning to do
?
G
irl, can you believe this place? I don't know how much they're paying him, but Fabian really outdid himself this time. Did you see the ice-sculpture garden by the front entrance?”
Terri was only half listening as she and Cherisse gave their coats to a tuxedoed man and received pink tickets in return.
“This is definitely high-class. High-class food, high-class music, high-class atmosphere. High-class brothers.” Cherisse smiled warmly at a man passing by who could have been mistaken for Denzel Washington. He smiled back as his eyes generously lingered on her body. “Ooh girl, I'm getting shivers standing here in the hallway. Do you see all the men in there? All the
unaccompanied
men?”
“Uh-huh.”
Terri was looking past the clinking wine flutes, the sparkling sea of diamonds and sequined black. She saw the jazz band but did not hear the music. Saw the white-gloved waiters passing by but did not smell the stuffed mushrooms and shrimp they were carrying.
“He's not here yet.” She pointed to the place card at the front of the room where Anthony's name stood out like an ink spot on good linen, each letter carefully scripted and outlined in silver glitter. Gloria Randall's name was on the white bone-china plate next to his.
“I'm going to catch him. Them together. And when I do—”
“Mrs. Murdock, I'm glad you made it.”
Terri felt the warm embrace of Reggie Savant before she heard his voice. She turned to face him, and for a brief second she forgot the who and the why of her being there. Standing in a collarless black tuxedo, if it were possible, he looked better than his normal perfected, polished state.
“You look absolutely enchanting, Mrs. Murdock.” He smiled before turning to her side. “And it's good to see you again, Miss Landrick. I'm glad you both were able to make it tonight.”
Cherisse grinned under his gaze. “I have never seen my boss put together a function this elaborate in such a short amount of time. You sure know how to throw a party, Mr. Savant. A man like you capable of planning such an upscale event obviously has impeccable taste.”
“I do set high standards.” Reggie smiled at Terri for a long second before taking both her and Cherisse's hands. “Come, now, let's join the festivities. Looks like the program's already begun. Our guest of honor should be here soon.”
Terri's eyes narrowed at his words.
The rear entrance where deliveries were received at the Diamond Mount was far less elaborate than its imposing front. Anthony turned his car into the alleyway, where only a small truck and one of Fabian's vans was parked.
“Must be something going on tonight,” Anthony mumbled as the trills of laughter and the scent of alcohol wafted toward them in the beginning night breeze.
“Do you see anyone?” Gloria studied the vehicles parked near the back entrance, fearing what the darkness of the alley held for the three of them. Sitting in the front seat next to Anthony was the only comfort she had in an evening that felt surreal to her. Walter Banks sat behind them, continually removing his gold spectacles, wiping them with the corner of his suit jacket, and replacing them on his oval face.
“What's this detective's name again?” He asked as he readjusted his glasses.
“Cassell. Kent Cassell. I still don't see why I have to meet him here instead of his office or somewhere like that.”
He parked the car next to a Dumpster and cut the ignition. All three of them got out and stood quietly for a few minutes, looking around. Music and laughter continued to pour gently into the night air.
“This is crazy. What time is it?”
“Seven-thirty on the dot. Did he tell you where to meet him exactly?”
“His assistant said the back entrance.”
The three of them looked at the single white door at the top of the truck ramp. Anthony shook his head before heading for it.
“I'm going to go knock.”
Lord, something doesn't feel right about this.
Walter and Gloria were standing next to Anthony when the door swung open. A small, chestnut-colored man in his mid-twenties greeted them with a warm smile.
“Mr. Murdock, Councilman Banks. You must be Gloria Randall, the councilman's assistant.” He grabbed all of their hands in a quick shake. “Wow, I can't believe I finally get to meet all of you personally. They told me you'd be coming in this entrance, and I can understand that, with all your big bucks and clout and all, both of you. You, Mr. Murdock, are the superstar of the evening.”
The councilman and Anthony looked at each other, the same puzzled expression on both of their faces.
“I'm looking for Kent Cassell. Are you Mr. Cass—”
“He's here,” the man shouted into a walkie-talkie, cutting Anthony off. “You're just in time, Mr. Murdock.” He smiled again. “They are expecting you onstage in thirty seconds for the presentation. Your generosity is awesome, man. God bless you, brother. Excuse my rudeness. It's been so insane in here, I forgot to introduce myself in all the rush. I'm Shawn Blakeman. My brother and I were shocked when we found out you were going to support our little homegrown tax business with such a large donation. It means a lot that you would have that kind of belief in us. We hadn't even sent you our portfolio yet.”
“Look, I don't know what's going on. I came here to meet with—”
Anthony was cut off by a frenetic call on the two-way.
“We're coming!” Shawn shouted back into the walkie-talkie. He grabbed Anthony by the arm and began pulling him deeper into the building as he continued talking. Councilman Banks and Gloria stood frozen until the man reached out a hand, pulling both of them along also. “Mr. Banks, we know how much you've been a mentor to Mr. Murdock. It's only fitting that you join him onstage. You might as well come too, Miss Randall, 'cause there's no time to escort you to your seat at the table of honor.”
“Now wait a minute—what is going on here? Where are you taking us?” Walter's words were drowned out by the clatter of plates and pans being jostled around the kitchen through which they were being quickly pulled.
Anthony was dazed in the commotion, silently confused as he was ushered past tuxedoed waiters and waitresses, suited men with walkie-talkies, women in long black gowns. It was not until the three of them were suddenly bathed in a bright flood of white light that he realized he was standing on a platform in front of about one hundred well-dressed people. Shawn was gone and an older man with a microphone was now pulling him across the platform. He beckoned, and then grabbed the councilman and Gloria to join them center stage.
The entire place broke into a roaring cheer. Nearly everyone circling the round banquet tables was standing on their feet. Anthony scanned the audience looking for answers, a clue as to what was going on, and why he was in the middle of it. He saw Terri still sitting in the crowd of standers. She was angry. Their eyes locked for a brief second until the spotlight turned on him in a blinding sheet of light.
What is Terri doing here? Does she know what's going on?
“And here he is, ladies and gentlemen: the benefactor and founder of the brand-new Black Entrepreneurs Alliance, Mr. Anthony Michael Murdock.”
The applause grew louder as the jazz band clashed in with a few notes of “He's a Jolly Good Fellow.”
“He is joined tonight by our fine councilman, Mr. Walter Banks, who will be providing the BEA with the political backing we need to ensure African-American businessmen and -women have a voice in this city. Miss Randall”—the speaker grabbed her hands and placed them in both Walter's and Anthony's—”you keep up the fine support you've been giving these gentlemen.”
Anthony backed away, stunned. The man with the microphone laughed and pulled him closer.
“Not so fast, Mr. Murdock. I've heard you don't like the spotlight, but everyone needs to know about your hard work behind the scenes.” He turned to the audience, which still echoed with isolated claps and whistles. With his hands clasped around the microphone, he beamed as he spoke. “As quiet as it's kept, this man has been working hard in the field of marketing, and through his efforts, he's earned himself quite a fortune making sure African-American businesses have equal advertising and exposure—a chance—in our locality.”
Anthony noticed Mr. Haberstick sitting at a table near Terri. He was grinning, both hands resting on top of a wooden cane.
“And if that's not enough,” the speaker continued, “he has unselfishly decided not only to start up this worthwhile foundation, but also to donate a large part of his hard-earned fortune to each of the businesses that make up the BEA. In an unheard-of public display of generosity in this part of Shepherd Hills, Mr. Murdock has agreed to give $100,000 each to the five cornerstone businesses that make up the Black Entrepreneurs Alliance: Blakeman Brothers Tax Services, Future First Financial, the Empress Hotel Corporation, Pride and Fidelity, and Coleman's.
“All other businesses that apply and are accepted as part of this alliance will be given $10,000 from the endowment funds, and, as I understand, there are already several other businesses pending. Let us all join in a hearty applause once more for the generous efforts of Mr. Anthony Murdock. Because of him, all this is possible.”
The crowd stood again, applauding wildly; but this time, Anthony had headed for an exit offstage. Walter and Gloria were close behind him.
“It was all a trap, a ridiculous, well-planned trap that successfully put me publicly in the center of this fiasco. How do I get out of this? I don't even know what's going on. I'm sorry they've got your name in the middle of all this too, Walter. They're using my respect and care for you against me, to get me. And now they're drawing you into this too, Gloria. I just wish I knew who the ‘they’] was. And Terri…”
“We need to pray and ask God for some direction.” The councilman followed Anthony out of the rear service entrance. Short puffs of breath punched out his words as he ran behind him. Despite his reassuring words, Anthony could hear fear and uncertainty in Walter's voice as he continued. “God will show us what to do and everything will turn out fine.”
But even as he spoke, all three came to a halt at the sight of a police cruiser parked behind Anthony's car. It was Sheriff Malloy.
“Got a call about a car illegally parked in a tow-away zone. Can't say that I'm surprised to see it's you, Mr. Murdock. Didn't I see you the other night?” Even as he spoke to Anthony, his eyebrows were raised at the councilman standing beside him.
“Look, Sheriff, there's something going on and I don't even know how to begin explaining it. I came here tonight looking for—”
“From what I understand, you've been giving out a lot of money to a lot of people. How does a local man like yourself keep coming up with so much money? After our little run-in the other day I checked with the IRS, and they have no records supporting the amount of money you were carrying around with you that evening. Where are you getting all this cash from, Mr. Murdock—enough to be giving hundreds of thousands of dollars away to a select group of people?”
“That's not my money. I don't know whose it is, or where it's coming from. Believe me, Sheriff Malloy, I don't have that kind of cash.”
