Romeo's Way, page 8
part #2 of Mike Romeo Series
Two very different women. Sable Williams at home in her soul and body. And this one, an exposed nerve. I pictured them on a continuum of existence, and wondered where on that line I would fit. Closer to Sable? Or the other?
What direction was I moving?
I decided to go inside. It was almost time for the yakking to begin. I wanted to hear it, even though Kwame told me I wasn’t supposed to come in. Maybe that was the main reason I did.
Before entering I made one more round of the exterior. I didn’t see Leonard or the protesters. But I did see the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge. A lovely invitation to get out of town.
I PICKED A spot in one of the back corners of the church and looked around. What was supposed to be a sacred space now had the feel of a horse auction. The buyers were standing and babbling to each other, while the saints in the stained-glass windows looked down with bemused detachment. One of the icons was holding out his hand as if to perform a miracle. From his simple habit, I thought it might be Saint Francis of Assisi. He was a man who left everything behind to go and serve the poor and love animals and challenge the pope. I guess if you’re going to do anything, you might as well go all the way.
At other spots in the church stood Kwame’s dogs. They looked like boys playing soldier. I didn’t spot Kwame himself. Maybe he was in a room taking his nightly dose of bile.
A pool news camera was set up behind the back pews. The tripod was next to the font of holy water. The sacred and the profane. Perfect.
On the other side of the church, I saw Sable sitting in a dignified silence. Next to her was the young woman I figured was her granddaughter. She was fidgeting with something in her lap. Sable put her hand on her in a calming gesture. The young woman sat back like a petulant child being told what to do.
Finally, Jay J. Parsons made his way down the center aisle, pausing every now and then to glad-hand. By this time the place was stuffed. The air was stuffier. Stained-glass windows are not known for their ventilation.
Up on the stage sat Father Dwayne Weaver, decked out in green-and-gold priestly robes. Kat Hogg sat next to him.
Jay J made his way up the steps to the stage. He talked a little to Kat, then to Weaver. Then he laughed. Then he went to the podium and tapped the microphone. “Testing, testing,” he said. Satisfied, he asked people to find a seat.
The place gradually came to order.
“How’s everybody doin’ tonight?” Jay J said.
The crowd whooped it up.
“Yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Are we ready to get it on?”
The people responded with more whoops. Yes. They were ready to get it on.
“Are you ready to kick Samuel Johnson’s butt?”
Yes, they were ready to kick Samuel Johnson’s butt.
“And reelect Genevieve Griffin?”
Oh, yes.
“Are you ready to keep America safe from the fanatics?”
They screamed like fanatics.
“All right then! Put your hands together and welcome the man himself, Dr. Rodney Shipp!”
The place went nuts. Rodney Shipp walked out onto the stage and gave Jay J. Parsons a hug. Then he went to the foot of the stage and smiled. He put his hands out like he was blessing the people.
I belched.
After about a minute the place quieted down and Shipp began.
“Tonight I’m honored to address you folks, the good folks of the golden city, where hope remains vibrant and alive and full of love in your hearts.”
Applause and whoops.
“A little over twenty years ago, the Reverend Jesse Jackson stood up at the Democratic National Convention right here in San Francisco and talked about freedom. It was a speech that made history, a black man at the podium, talking about the great hope that we still fight for today. Just last week, though, I had the distinct displeasure to listen to another black man talk about taking us back to the past. His name is Samuel Johnson.”
Boos and jeers. It sure didn’t take much to rile this audience.
“No, no, this is not about popularity. This is about ideas and the promise of America. The promise of America says we will guarantee quality education for all children and not spend more money on metal detectors than computers in the classroom.”
Cheers.
“The promise of America does not seek to regulate your behavior in the bedroom, but it does guarantee your right to have food in the kitchen. The promise of America is that we stand for human rights, whether it’s fighting against slavery in the Sudan and for immigration at home, a chance for all to succeed. Are you with me?”
They were with him.
“Will you stand with your great senator, Genevieve Griffin?”
They would.
“Will you tell Samuel Johnson to keep his nose in his books and not bother us with his dangerous ideas?”
Oh yes, definitely.
He went on. And on. His talk was peppered with the cadence of the Pentecostal preacher and the Old West snake-oil salesman. He got louder. The church got stuffier.
And Father Weaver looked like he was sitting on thumbtacks.
“Then go on to tell all your friends and neighbors not to stay home on voting day. This is too great a danger facing us. We are never going back. And if they try, there will be no peace. No peace from us. No rest. Justice is what we expect, and justice is what we will get!”
The place rocked.
Somebody started singing, and soon the whole place was like a revival meeting.
That’s what they want, after all, the movers, shakers, and president makers. Not deliberation but enthusiasm. Not thought but shouts.
And Dr. Rodney Shipp ate it up like an ice cream sundae.
Jay J. Parsons got the crowd to quiet down long enough for him to introduce Father Weaver. This being his church, he got the last word. But there was clearly alpha-dogging between him and Shipp.
When he got up, the crowd gave him a respectful silence. He started pacing.
“Brothers and sisters, tonight I speak up on behalf of God’s people, the weak and the halt, the poor and the prisoners! In this world there is room for everyone. And the good earth is rich and can provide for everyone. The way of life can be free and beautiful, but we have lost the way.”
He spoke as if the words were a fire in his belly. I had to admit he was good.
“Greed has poisoned people’s souls, has barricaded the world with hate, has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed, but we have shut ourselves in. Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical. Our cleverness, hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery we need humanity. More than cleverness we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost.”
Boy, those were good words. But they sounded familiar to me. Like they were from an old movie, or newsreel ... wait ... The Great Dictator. One of my dad’s favorite movies. Weaver was doing a Charlie Chaplin speech!
“To those who can hear me, I say: do not despair. You, the people, have the power to make this life free and beautiful, to make this life one of justice and peace. But only if you listen to the voice of God crying in your souls. Don’t listen to men. Don’t even listen to me! Listen to your hearts.”
There were some amens then, and a few cheers. But up on stage Dr. Rodney Shipp was muttering to one of the men on his left.
“Don’t be told what to do anymore,” Weaver said. “Listen to your own heart and walk with God to a new dawn and a new day. Come with me on this journey. We are in this together! We are—”
He didn’t get a chance to finish.
IT WAS A smoke bomb. White, acrid clouds billowing all over the front of the church.
Screams and panic and bumping bodies. People must have thought there were guns in the house of the Lord. They crushed toward the aisles and exits.
Haze blanketed the altar and Father Weaver. In the middle of it all, I saw Kwame’s men moving into some sort of action focused on the front of the church. Since I was part of the security squad for the night, I followed.
I pushed my way through the panic, banked right, got to an open door leading to the back. One of Kwame’s men was in front of it, arms folded. He just stared at me.
“Really?” I said.
“Only our folks.”
“I am your folks.”
He shoved me in the chest.
I stumbled back a couple of steps, hit something. Heard a woman cry out. Turning, I saw a heavy-set woman on the floor, legs splayed. Good thing she was wearing pants.
I helped her to her feet and apologized.
She gave me an unforgiving look as her mouth uttered a word that should not be heard inside a house of God, and very few places outside.
I turned back to the dog at the door. He was smiling.
He shook his head in warning.
I smiled and nodded, put my foot behind his as I pushed his face. He fell backward and down some steps. His head made a resonant thump. I stepped over him and went down a couple more steps into a corridor with a series of doors. Looked like classrooms.
I looked through door number one, nothing, then door number two.
Pay dirt.
It was a nursery. There were four of the Dogs and Kwame. They had her in a chair, a little chair for a little girl. One of the Dogs was holding her arms behind her, hard.
Tattoo Girl yelped in pain then cursed like the curator of Urban Dictionary.
“Hold it,” I said.
Kwame turned on me. “Get out!”
“Let her go,” I said.
“Get him out!”
One of the Dogs came toward me. “Hold on,” I said. “This is police matter now.”
“Police? They ain’t never gonna know.”
“They will if I tell them,” I said.
“You ain’t gonna tell them.”
The Dog at my side repeated, “You ain’t gonna tell them.”
“Shut up!” Kwame said. “Just take him out and make sure he don’t come back.”
The guy reached for the baton in his belt. I kicked the bottom of his chin with my heel. He crashed backwards over a craft table. Glue and crayons and construction paper scattered.
Everyone in the room seemed to take a collective breath. I needed to take advantage of the moment.
I gave Kwame my signature move from cage days. Gripping his left arm like joystick I got him down to one knee and wrapped my right leg around his neck. He held him there like a giant nutcracker with a pistachio at the ready.
“Nobody move or Kwame becomes physically challenged.”
Nobody moved.
“Let the girl go,” I said.
The Dog holding her arms did not let go.
I flexed my leg and Kwame grunted and sucked for air.
“Let her go,” I said.
A pause. A thought. A look. And then the guard dog let her go.
“Get out of here,” I told her.
She didn’t have to be asked twice. She ran out the door.
Which made for a rather embarrassing tableau. I was holding Kwame, head of security, in the crook of my leg. Four other military-dressed hard guys were frozen in positions of what-do-I-do-now?
And into the room walked Dr. Rodney Shipp with two bodyguards.
“What goes on here?” he said.
“A little security problem,” I said.
“Who are you? Let that man go.”
“Tell him to cool off and I will.”
Shipp looked down at Kwame and back at me. “You better be sure what you’re doing.”
I unwrapped my leg from around Kwame’s head and let him up. He took a swing at me. I ducked it, grabbed his wrist, and put him down on his knees again. And held him there.
“No more of that,” Shipp said.
Kat and Jay J. Parsons appeared at the door. “You have the person,” Parsons said. “A woman. Where is she?”
“Good question,” Shipp said.
Dwayne Weaver breezed in. Now the room was starting to resemble a fraternity prank.
I said, “Your boys were about to do something really stupid that would’ve brought you a lot of bad publicity. Here in the church. Assaulting a suspect.”
“You’re a dead man,” Kwame said.
I twisted his arm.
He growled through his teeth.
“Stop it,” Shipp said. “Let him up. Please.”
Since he said please, I let Kwame up.
And up was what Kwame got, fast, like he was going to try me then and there. But he looked at Shipp and then just pointed at me.
“Who are you?” Shipp asked.
Parsons said, “He’s somebody we hired.” Then to me, “You’re fired. You don’t work for us anymore.”
Kat said, “Jay J, don’t do this—”
“No. That’s it.” He looked at me like a wimp showing off because the big boys were there. “Get out and get gone.”
“Let him stay,” Kwame said. “Let him stay with me.”
“All right,” Shipp said. “Let it go.” To me he said, “Sir, you are excused.”
“It’s been lovely being with you all,” I said.
“You better leave the city,” Kwame said.
“I haven’t picked up my sourdough yet,” I said.
THE CORRIDOR SMELLED like the Fourth of July. I was almost out the rear exit when Kat caught up with me.
“Where will you go?” she asked.
“Outside.”
“I want to talk.”
“I don’t like who you run with.”
She held my arm. “Give me a chance.”
“You have a car?”
“Across the street.”
There was all sorts of chaos outside, people milling around, oncoming sirens in the distance. Kat’s Subaru was down the block.
“Drive somewhere,” I said. “Somewhere away from here. Then find a place to pull over.”
She drove several blocks, fighting traffic on the way. The center of activity was now the church, and why not? It had everything––politics, a bomb, TV. It was a natural for the news.
Kat found a spot to pull over on a tiny street in what I think was Russian Hill.
“Okay, what’s going on?” she said.
“What do you know about Kwame’s men and the kind of people they are?”
“Everybody pretty much knows. Shipp keeps them in line.”
“Are you that naïve?”
“I’m not! I know there are costs.”
“That’s a great way to look at human lives.”
“Now who’s naïve?” she said.
She had a point. “There’s a girl who works at the campaign office. A lot of tattoos. Heavy black makeup. You know the one?”
“Yes.”
“They had her, Kwame’s crew. They thought she was the one who delivered the smoke bomb. Does she seem like that kind of person to you?”
“I don’t know her.”
“Who would have hired her?”
“Jay J. Or maybe Monique.”
“Who’s Monique?”
“She works for Genevieve. She has her hands in a lot of things.”
“Do you have a way of finding out who this girl is?”
“Sure. We have all the contact information.”
“Access it.”
“Why?”
“We have to find her. Before Kwame does.”
I should have let it go then. This wasn’t my business. It wasn’t what I was sent up here for. But then again, this tattooed girl had something going on I needed to know about. I could find out more from her than from Kat, at least right now. I’d use Kat to find her and then put the Kat out the door.
Kat pulled out a tablet and started fingering around. Presently she said, “Here it is. Her name is Leeza. Leeza Edgar. She lives on Van Ness.”
“Take me there.”
WE DROVE TO the address. It was a dumpy building. Or an arty building if you were in a good mood. Kat pulled in front of a driveway across from the building.
“What do you expect to do?” she asked.
“Wait for her, then talk. Find out why she did it.”
“You think she’ll tell us?”
“I think she’ll give me some credit for getting her out of there.”
“This is nuts,” Kat said. “Why would she do such a thing?”
“If she did.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe she’s what they used to call a fall guy. We don’t know anything except there was a smoke bomb and Kwame thought she did it. For all we know he did it. There’s some sort of rivalry between Shipp and Weaver.”
“How do you know that?”
“Am I wrong?”
She shook her head.
“Wait here.” I got out and crossed the street. Edgar was on the directory. I buzzed and got nothing.
I went back and got in Kat’s car.
“So we wait,” I said. “Unless you want to go. I can hoof back to my hotel.”
“No way,” she said. “We’re in this together now. I’m out on a limb with you.”
“How do you like it?”
She put her hand on the back of my neck and pulled me into a kiss.
It was her play. I let her. And I kissed her back.
She knew how to kiss.
Then just as quickly it was over and she put both her hands on the steering wheel and looked forward.
“Unbelievable,” she said.
“I believed it,” I said.
She shook her head. “I‘m talking about me. I don’t do that.”
“It’s okay.”
“Can we just forget that I did that?”
“That would take some brain surgery,” I said.
“Un-freaking-believable.”
“It’s all right,” I said. I put my left on her right, which was tight around the wheel.
“Mike?”
“Hmm?”
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“After that kiss? Ask away.”
“What happened to your hand?”
She was looking at my left and the jagged white scar around the base of the little finger.
