The mention of a policeman sent a wave of anxiety through the room.
“I walked in here,” I continued, “with no gun, nobody to back me up. All I have is a little information about a government bond and about a white man I saw talking to Grove right out in front of this church three nights ago.”
“What white man?” Brother Bigelow wanted to know.
I moved my head upward, prepared to answer the question, but Father Vincent cut me off before I had the chance.
“Wait a minute,” the elder said hastily. “I need to talk to this man alone.”
This caused bewilderment among the deacons.
“Let us alone for a few minutes,” Vincent said. “Let me talk with him.”
“But, Father —” one deep-voiced deacon said. The rough men hesitated.
“Not now, Brother Noble. Not now. Go on, leave us, I want to question this man alone before he damages William’s name.”
The deacons moved slowly at first as if they were a tangle of logs gradually giving way to a strong river flow. Each one committed my face to memory as he walked around me toward the door.
The last man out closed the door behind him.
“This is —” I began, but Vincent put his hand up for silence.
We sat there quietly for over a minute. Then Vincent walked over to the door. He turned the knob and pushed it open quickly. It hit something, a head I’d bet, and Vincent looked at someone on the other side without saying anything that I could hear.
“Come with me,” he said to me.
He led me from the storage room through the hall to the back of the building. We went through a small yard and into a building that had probably been the garage of the house behind. This was Vincent’s office. There was a green metal desk in the center of the concrete floor with throw rugs and folding wooden chairs here and there. The ceiling was cross- hatched with unpainted rafter beams and decorated with spider webs.
“This is all I wanted to start with, Father Vincent. I don’t want any trouble.”
“What’s this about a policeman?”
“There was a cop killed with Grove.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s in the late edition of the
“The police came. They told me what happent. They didn’t say nuthin’ ’bout no policeman gettin’ killed.”
I hunched my shoulders.
“What do you want, Mr. Lockwood?”
“I wanna know what that white man had to say to you.”
“What white man?”
“The one who you talked to the night that I came knockin’ at your door.”
“You were spying on me?” The Holy Roller’s voice rose, promising righteous retribution to follow, but I wasn’t impressed.
“There’s a lotta money in this, Vincent. And at least four dead people —”
“Four?”
“A woman was murdered too. And a man, an associate of Leon Douglas, died of gunshot wounds in a hospital a few days ago.”
The mention of Douglas hit Vincent like a slap.
“What does any of this have to do with me?” he asked.
“To begin with,” I said. “You don’t want the people who killed Grove to kill you. And to end with, you might be concerned at the worth of that bearer bond.”
“Do you have it?”
“Have what?”
Vincent pinched his lower lip and tugged at it.
“You know what,” he said.
“Who was that white man?” I asked again.
“You aren’t the one in power here, Lockwood,” the minister said, seeking strength in his own words. “This is
