Church Folk - Michele Andrea Bowen [97]
"Sure, he come back to the church," Booker said. "He came back lookin' to make a whole heap of money off it.
"So," Uncle Booker demanded, "we told all y'all mens of God"—he waved his arm around the room, pointing to Theophilus, Eddie, Murcheson, and Bishop Jennings—" 'bout this devilment happening right up in church. What y'all gone do 'bout it?"
"We're gone need something to back this up," Rev. James said. "All these years I been knowing you, I believe you, Booker and Pompey. But these preachers have a lot to lose. You know they not gone let you go up and say they involved with this club without putting up a good fight. And a mess like this bound to tear apart the denomination."
"That's right," said Theophilus. "All we have so far is an overheard conversation—which Marcel and Sonny can and will deny—a witness who saw them talking to Bishop Caruthers, and a visit by Sonny to the Clayton Funeral Home. That is not a lot to hang such serious charges on."
"You mean, you want proof?" Pompey said. "We can get that."
"How can you prove it?" Eddie asked.
"Eddie Tate," Uncle Booker answered for Pompey. "Now, we all may look like some country Negroes and we just may be some country Negroes. But we got plenty of sense and know-how. Me and Pompey, we is some slick Negroes—always been slick, haven't we, partner?"
Pompey and Booker started laughing and slapping palms with each other.
"Yes, me and Pompey," Booker promised. "We country Negroes gone get you all the proof you need."
Chapter Twenty-two
PRECIOUS POWERS SAT AT THE TINY TABLE IN ONE of the offices at the preachers' club, staring at the record book in front of her. Marcel, who was terrible with numbers, had asked her to make sure the record books were in order, so he could keep up with the money made by the club. Precious was surprised when Cleotis Clayton agreed to Marcel's request to let her go over the books. But even his openness didn't ease the feeling in her gut that there was something up with this agreement—that a lot more money was being made than what was showing up in the books, money Cleotis wasn't splitting with anybody.
She had been sitting at the table for half an hour, trying to force herself to get to work—pushing receipts around, flipping through the record book, and then slamming it shut. Marcel paid her well, but not well enough to make her feel okay about what she heard less than an hour ago. She opened the record book and started adding up the numbers, pounding the keys of the old adding machine so hard she knocked off a sparkling red fake fingernail.
"Shoot! I knew I shouldn't have used that old five-and-dime glue on my nails," she thought, putting her throbbing finger into her mouth—dried, nasty-tasting, cheap fake fingernail glue and all.
Precious continued to suck on her throbbing finger, tasting the bitterness of the glue, and used her pain as the excuse to cry over what she had heard when she had gone to Marcel's hotel room. She was about to knock on the door, just to check on something with him, when she heard him with some hollering, moaning fool who sounded a lot like Bishop Giles's wife, Jackie. And Precious stood there listening long enough to make sure there wasn't any doubt about what was going on.
"You devil, Marcel Brown," she whispered to herself. "How could you mess around on me like that—and right up under my nose? You ain't nothing but a low-down, dirty dawg."
She blew her nose and painfully mentally replayed the sounds she'd heard coming from the room. The worst was hearing, over all Jackie's carrying on, the exact same groan Marcel released when he was with her. That trifling, two-timing dog had lied to her, saying that she was the only woman who could make him groan like that. She wiped away another tear, taking care to rub the wet mascara from around her eyes.
"Low-down, dirty dawg," she mumbled again and started adding the numbers up so fast until she feared that