Church Folk - Michele Andrea Bowen [122]
At that point Marcel Brown lost all restraint. He had enough of Theophilus Simmons to last him a lifetime, and now this old country coot was trying to help Theophilus drive him and his father right into the ground. He wasn't having it. If he and Sonny had to whip Theophilus's butt right up on that stage, so be it. Theophilus wasn't scoring any more points in this denomination—and especially not at his expense.
Marcel and Sonny advanced on the stage, backed up by Willie Williams and the thuggish Jimmy Thekston.
When Theophilus saw them, he unzipped his robe, threw it on the floor, and put up his fists, like he was warming up for a good fight. When Essie saw him drop one shoulder and start dancing in a boxing stance, she cried, "Ohhh Lord," and had to beg forgiveness of a few church mothers nearby.
Rev. James, appalled to see a bunch of preachers getting ready to start a barroom brawl at the General Conference, stood up and paced in place, trying to think of something that he could do to defuse the situation. Where was Mother Harold? She had called him, saying she had something to help his cause. And when he acted like he didn't know what she was talking about, she said, "Cut the crap, Murcheson. I know it all and you need what I have."
Marcel reached out and grabbed Theophilus's starched white collar, winding up for a punch, when Theophilus said, "Man, save that swing. Because if you take it—one, I'll whip your trifling butt, and two, ain't nobody gonna vote for your daddy."
Marcel backed off, as did Sonny, Willie Williams, and James Thekston. The last thing they needed to do was further jeopardize anybody's chances of getting elected bishop by starting a fistfight in front of all of these church folks.
Theophilus went back to the podium, recognizing that the time to mince words had passed, and jumped right into what he had to say. "Look, people. You all need to know what's happening, and I just don't have the luxury of spelling it out to you all nice and churchy-like. Bishop Otis Caruthers, Rev. Sonny Washington, and Rev. Marcel Brown are running a cathouse, a brothel, right up under your noses at this conference."
That quelled the hubbub that had arisen at the prospect of a fistfight. The gymnasium grew so quiet that Theophilus could hear himself breathing. Every eye and ear was on him as he said, "People, these men helped Cleotis Clayton, one of the proprietors of Clayton Funeral Homes out of Memphis, Tennessee, operate this club where some Gospel United preachers and bishops betrayed their office by sinfully consorting with women."
Theophilus looked straight at Marcel when he said, "So, what do you men have to say for yourselves?"
"He has nothing to say to you or to anybody else talking this nonsense," said Ernest Brown. "Look here, young man. Your people have schooled you wrong. While I applaud your bravery and concern for our great church, you are a fool to hurl insults at your brother preachers and even a bishop without one shred of evidence to prove what you say is true."
"He has some evidence all right," Booker said. "I have seen the place and can point out a few of the preachers who was there and sitting right up in this audience."
"That doesn't prove anything," Ernest scoffed. "So a few wayward preachers found their way to a hot spot and decided to go on in. Why, we have been dealing with this sort of thing for almost as long as we have had preachers."
"Oh, there's more to it than that, Ernest," Rev. James said, approaching the stage with the blue record book in one hand and Marcel's red leather address book in the other. It was nothing short of a miracle that Mother Harold had found him and given him these books just when they were most needed.
"Young Rev. Brown, do you recognize this?" Rev.