Pastor Needs a Boo (20 page)

“Bishop,” Marcel began, “we want to push this ruling through at the next Board of Bishops meeting in Raleigh, North Carolina. We need you to come forth as a willing example of why we need this policy. You have to confess you should no longer remain an active bishop because of your many marriages. I know you can fix this up when you talk to your colleagues and get their sympathy.”

“What would I say?” Bishop Jefferson asked.

“Don't
say
anything,” Sonny told him. “Just preach. You know, get up and get to whooping and hollering and carrying on. That will work just fine for me.”

“Then,” Marcel added, “you tell them why you know the Lord led you to spearhead the denomination implementing this rule, and to use you as the first bishop to step down as a result of so many marriages. That will carry a whole lot of weight and make your petition look authentic.”

“Looking authentic is relative, Marcel. It depends on who's watching you. I might be able to sway some of the bishops. But the ones in the Theophilus Simmons and Eddie Tate camp are going to be very suspicious, because they know it's time for me to retire anyway.”

Sonny sighed heavily. No matter what they did, it always boiled down to having to deal with those two. He said, “The stakes are too high to let Theophilus and Eddie sway bishops away from us. We are going to have to grease some palms to get what we want, and make promises to scratch those itchy palms from time to time.”

“And how are you going to do this, and keep it up?” Bishop Jefferson asked. He knew paying off greedy and crooked preachers could get real expensive. Sometimes it was more expensive than getting rid of a wife you were tired of.

“Attorney Luther Howard,” Marcel replied.

“How can Luther Howard help us?” Bishop Jefferson asked.

“Luther has a fat discretionary fund. He needs to get some bonus points for his tax situation. So he is donating his excess to us. Thomas, it's enough to work like some green cortisone cream on the right hands.”

“Okay, Marcel,” Thomas said. “We get all the money we need to sway folk in our direction. But that can't end with this vote. We'll need money to carry us all the way through to a win for an Episcopal seat.

“Plus, what does Luther Howard want? I've never known him to scratch somebody's back and then not turn around and demand you return the favor.”

“Luther wants us to put our muscle behind Reverend Xavier Franklin. And once Xavier is elected, he wants us to buy his way into the Seventh Episcopal District, which is now under Bishop Jimmy Thekston Jr.,” Sonny said.

“I'm in complete agreement with Luther wanting Xavier as the next bishop. But I don't know how Luther is going to get a Thekston to pack up his office in the Seventh simply because he asked him to.”

“Luther Howard is not worried about getting Jimmy Jr. to concede to his request,” Marcel said. “Luther will lay an offer on the table Jimmy will not turn down.”

“Why the Seventh, Marcel?” Bishop Jefferson asked. Reverend Xavier Franklin was smart, ruthless, a good liar, and would do whatever he had to do to make it happen in any district he was assigned to.

“Money.”

“Money? That's your sole answer, Marcel?” Sonny asked. “Hasn't it always been about money for us?”

“I'm talking about the kind of money you wish you could get your hands on. Like us getting a ten percent cut and walking away with a couple million. We've had some good money schemes, and made a lot of money. But we've never scored as big as we will if we do things Luther Howard's way.”

“Where is Luther planning on getting all of this money from?” Sonny said.

“Right now, Luther Howard is putting together three dummy corporations that will get its hands on that ‘BP “We messed up big time” oil money,'” Marcel told them.

“One corporation will handle bogus claims requests for money. The second corporation will get paid to pretend it is helping small business owners in the seafood industry continue getting back on their feet. And the third corporation will claim to be involved in making amends for the environmental damages to the area as a result of the oil spill.

“He's done this kind of thing before and made millions. But this time he needs help from the church to make it happen. People love to see the church working to set things right in the community and help get folks jobs. This will look good on paper. But all of the money will go straight into our pockets—kind of like an on-shore, off-shore account. Only thing we need is a bishop who will come in on the ground floor to help make it happen—a bishop like Xavier Franklin.”

This plan was so wild, exciting, corrupt, and crazy it made Marcel Brown feel like he did when he saw a fine woman he wanted to spend the night with.

“That's a helluva plan, Marcel,” Bishop Jefferson said.

“Yes, it is,” was all Sonny said. He had felt such a rush listening to this, he almost started hyperventilating.

“All we need is to get Xavier elected as bishop,” Marcel said.

“So, Thomas, you understand why we need you to do this, right?” Sonny asked.

“Yeah,” he answered with a heavy sigh. It was going to take a lot to get used to being without a district to run. But the thought of making all of that money made him feel better. Plus, Thomas was going to make sure Luther gave him some extra bonus money up front for having to go through all of this for the plan to work.

“So, we're all in on this?” Marcel asked.

“Yep, we're in,” Thomas told them, and went to stand on his open porch to watch the waves hitting up against the shore.

 

Chapter Thirteen

Marsha parked Lacy next to the black CTS Cadillac sedan in Denzelle's driveway. Lacy looked quite modest next to the sleek black hog, as the old players used to call Cadillacs back when she was a kid. But she didn't care how small and low-key Lacy looked next to this car. She loved Lacy and dreaded the day when she would have to get rid of her.

Marsha named all of her cars, and then drove them until the car would practically scream no more. Marcus chided his mother about how long she drove a car. He always told his friends, “I've only been in two cars my entire life—Callie, Mom's blue Subaru, and Lacy, Mom's blue Ford Escape. It would be nice to see the inside of another car before I have children of my own.”

She turned off Lacy's engine and patted the steering wheel.

“Girl, I don't know why folk give me such a hard time about you. Lacy, you have made sure that I have always gotten everywhere I've needed to go.”

Marsha got out of the car and walked up the fancy brick walkway leading to Denzelle's huge, double front door. She had heard that his house was so sharp it was almost off the grid. But Marsha was not prepared for a house that was so inviting and lovely.

Denzelle lived in the North Hills section of Raleigh—one of Marsha's favorite areas of the city. She always thought he would have a home in one of the newer sections, like the neighborhoods off of 540. But she was impressed that Denzelle had gone completely old school by purchasing and upgrading one of the more traditional homes, located not too far from North Hills Mall.

She really liked the deep crimson color of the front doors, set against the pale, almost cream-colored brick of the house. There were rose bushes framing the large windows and an old-fashioned red swing sitting on the porch. This house had Yvonne Fountain Parker's hand all over it. Yvonne was a premiere interior/exterior designer and landscaper in North Carolina. The swing on the front porch was Yvonne's signature for any house she worked on.

Marsha rang the doorbell, hoping she presented a cool composure in spite of the mixed feelings she had about having this meeting at Denzelle's house. Part of Marsha was secretly excited to spend some time alone with Denzelle. Another part of her was uncomfortable and hoped he would not discern she had a deep crush on him. And the worst part was that the crush was getting more intense the longer they worked together on this Pastor's Aide Club business.

She was about to ring the doorbell again, but then checked her notebook to make sure she had the right day and time. Marsha was so nervous about going to Denzelle's house, she feared she may have written down the wrong information. But that very irrational “I'm so excited to see him again, I scare myself” fear was put to rest when Denzelle's uncle, Reverend Russell Flowers, answered the door.

“It is Miss Marsha Metcalf in the flesh. I hope I left you enough room in the driveway,” Uncle Russell said, with a big smile spreading across his face. He was a handsome man—an old-school, silver fox with plenty of charisma to add to his good looks.

“Hi, Reverend Flowers,” Marsha said softly.

She had a sweet voice. It reminded Russell of the voices of the soloists who sang two of his favorite gospel songs, “I'm Still Holding On” and “Fully Committed.” He said, “Come on in and take a seat in the living room.”

Uncle Russell's keen eyes hadn't missed Marsha trying to hide the disappointment spreading across her face when he opened his nephew's front door. He'd heard there were some sparks between those two from Denzelle's older brother, Yarborough. Now it was confirmed—at least where Marsha Metcalf was concerned.

Denzelle, on the other hand, was a cool piece of work, and would be very careful to keep his true feelings hidden from his uncle. But if there was one thing Russell Flowers knew was that a man in love couldn't hide his feelings all that well. That's why some men in love actually choose to run from instead of running to the woman who touched their hearts with a gentle fingertip. They'd rather shove her away and hurt the girl's feeling than have someone see that all of the cards in their hands were hearts. Uncle Russell was making it his business to stay longer than necessary to get a read on the cards his nephew was holding awfully close to his chest.

He certainly hoped that what Denzelle felt for Marsha was the same thing she was trying to pretend she didn't feel for him. Marsha Metcalf was a good woman and had been walking around without a man in her life too long. Russell didn't know what was wrong with these younger single brothers when it came to women like Marsha. And he didn't like what he saw.

Brothers like his nephew would discover a woman they needed to spend time with and then hightail it in the opposite direction, toward one that wasn't worth the energy it took to blink your eyes. There were times when Uncle Russell, who was now retired from pastoring, would have to fight back tears when he saw all of those good and beautiful women sitting in church alone because the men were too scared to step up and claim a blessing. He hoped there was something so special about this Marsha Metcalf that she would make Denzelle think twice about running away from her.

Marsha followed Uncle Russell into a lovely and cozy, creamy-colored and brickred-accent living room. The sofa and matching chairs were brickred and had an assortment of pale gold-, cream-, and camel-colored pillows on them. The walls were a soft and soothing cream, with windows framed with shutters of a deeper cream. There were original oil paintings on the wall and huge plants in cream, gold, and deep-red ceramic pots. The room smelled good, too—like cinnamon with just an itsy-bitsy taste of lemon in it. Marsha wouldn't have thought to pair up those two fragrances, but they worked well together.

“I like this room, Reverend Flowers. Looks like one of Yvonne Parker's jobs.”

“Yes, it definitely has Yvonne stamped all over it. And you can call me Uncle Russell.”

“Okay … Uncle … Russell,” Marsha responded very carefully. She'd never been one to try and rush to get to know folk and their families. It was always a good idea to let folk get to know you in their own good time.

Marsha sat down in one of the chairs, next to a walnut end table. There were several pictures of Denzelle as a little boy, in an assortment of gold, crimson, and light-brown wooden frames. She picked up a picture of him in a cowboy outfit, with toy guns in both holsters hanging off of his narrow, little boy hips. His chest stuck out, obviously from the pride of wearing the bright gold badge attached to his brown-fringed vest.

“That boy was always into fighting crime,” Uncle Russell said with a chuckle.

Denzelle came into the living room looking so good, Marsha forgot herself and whispered, “Oh my.” She prayed he hadn't heard her. But something told her Uncle Russell hadn't missed a thing.

Denzelle was wearing dark gray athletic pants that hugged that high butt like they had been sewn on his body. He had on a gray, blue, and black athletic shirt and a pair of blue, black, and silver athletic shoes. His navy baseball cap was turned backward and made him look like he was as full of mischief and playfulness as the little boy in the cowboy picture.

Marsha felt her heart skip a beat. She knew that look. It was the one of the sweet little boy underneath all of that man stuff. She saw it in her son all of the time. And she also saw how Marcus worked to hide that part of himself from most folk—especially women.

She reached out to shake Denzelle's hand.

Denzelle looked at Marsha and her hand like she was on the kind of drugs that were not available at a CVS pharmacy.

“Girl, give me a hug. I cannot believe you have walked yourself up into my home, and you have the nerve to try and reach out and just shake my hand. Do you honestly think I would let somebody I don't like enough to do more than shake their hand into my home, and on a work night, too?”

Marsha smiled. He had a point. She'd never invited anybody into her home she didn't like well enough to do more than shake their hand. She stood up, and was surprised when Denzelle reached out and grabbed her in a big hug. Marsha positioned her body so all he could get was a side hug.

Denzelle rolled his eyes and looked down at Marsha. He said, “That is the most pitiful hug I've ever gotten. I don't stank, do I?”