Church Folk - Michele Andrea Bowen [115]
The only thing that betrayed the purpose of the room was the mirrors on sections of the ceiling and the wall facing the bar. It was those mirrors that snapped Saphronia back to attention and reminded her that, tasteful or not, this was the reception room for a brothel. Now, for the first time, she noticed the men standing around in front of the mirrored wall, sitting on the couches, and stretched out on the chairs.
She adjusted her purse on her shoulder and walked around the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of Marcel and trying to act as she thought a brothel hostess would behave on the job—swinging her hips and smiling at the men who made eye contact with her. She had just spotted the back of Marcel's head across the large room when she felt the tickling of fingers running from her shoulder to her hand. She jumped and turned to look into the face of a pastor who served at a small church in Detroit. At first she was afraid that he would recognize her, but then she remembered that this man, who liked real fancy-looking women (even his wife always wore busy, ruffled dresses and hats with too much trimming), had never bothered to look her in the face the few times they had met when she visited Marcel's church.
Saphronia smiled at him sweetly and said in her new voice, "Baby, why you runnin' yo' hand down my arm like that? You know you could make me lose my job, temptin' me to take you up in one of them rooms for the en-tire evening."
She started fanning her face with her hand, as if just the thought of being with him was enough to make her hot. The pastor, who Saphronia thought looked like a shriveled-up little laboratory frog, said in a raspy, gravelly voice that sounded like he was up in the pulpit, "And . . . ah . . . ah . . . you know . . . ah . . . I wish you could afford to lose your job ovah me. 'Cause I been lookin' for a blessin' all evening. And I believe goin' up to one of those rooms with you, Laaawwwd, would be more exciting than when Ezekiel saw the wheel way up in de middle of de air."
What a fool, Saphronia thought. He had the nerve to use words from an old Negro spiritual to try to hit on her. She was about to walk away from him in disgust when the man reached out and pulled her close to him, wrapping his arm tightly around her waist. She held her breath when he placed his face a few inches from hers because his breath smelled like whiskey and hog maws.
She looked over his shoulder, trying to find Marcel, and saw a preacher go over to the juke box to play a song. Lavish as the Sanctuary was, Marcel and his cronies were so cheap that they didn't have the decency to provide their club members with free music—and worse, these men were stupid enough to pay for it, too.
The song that began to fill the air was "Just a Closer Walk with Thee" by Evangelist Elroy Thorn, until somebody yelled, "Turn that crap off. We ain't in no church up in here."
Now someone played Big Mama Thornton's "You Ain't Nothing but a Hound Dog," and Saphronia thought that if she could get this pastor to dance, maybe it would get his stinky breath out of her face. "Sweet daddy," she crooned, "why don't us get out on that floor and do some dancing. You know, a little moving around might help to cool me down a bit."
He gave Saphronia a great big grin, said, "Well, Lawd yes, let's dance," and grabbed her even tighter, giving her such a strong whiff of his breath that she could actually tell where the hog maws started and the liquor left off.
She pulled away from him, saying as nicely as she could, "Pastor, this here song got a upbeat sound to it. We'll look silly out on this here floor if we get to dancing all tight and close."
He took a moment to think about what she said and answered, "Ah . . . ah . . . guess you