Bad Moon On The Rise (5 page)

I decided to do it. It wasn’t like I
had any other leads, and I really wanted to call Corndog Sally with
some progress soon. She wasn’t the type of person to ask for help,
yet she had asked me for help. I felt the responsibility she had
given me keenly. I had to find the boy.

I almost missed the truck in the crush
of vehicles jamming the parking lot of the Holy Redeemer Church of
Christ out on Rose of Sharon Road. If I had not stopped my car to
investigate a mysterious knocking, I would surely have missed
it.

Pulling to a halt near the side of the
lot, I determined two things: the knocking was not my transmission,
but an immense and persistent rhythm coming from inside the church;
and two, the bread truck was right there, parked behind a
16-passenger van that was currently disgorging a bevy of plump
ladies dressed to the nines, the feathers on their hats bobbing
like quail as they scurried inside the massive church
doors.

All of them were black. And, no doubt,
so was every other face in the place. Me? I am not just white, I am
white: as in white trash white, with genetically pale skin that
screams “all I do is watch television, eat Hostess Sno-Balls and
live in a trailer park.” And I was suddenly conscious of my
too-blonde hair and intentionally black roots, which I wear simply
to confuse people into underestimating me.

Okay. I was white. They were not. This
clearly presented a problem when it came to blending in. There was
nothing I could do about it. Except move fast.

The pulsating beat grew louder as I
approached the front stairs. The brick stoop was capable of holding
fifty people, at least, and entirely appropriate to the huge
structure looming behind it. This was a church built for capacity
and, judging from the sound that leaked outside, it was filled to
the rafters. The doors were massive slabs of wood, but not even
they could contain the music that poured out into the world: gospel
music. Not your grandmother’s gospel music, either. Not even your
mother’s gospel music. This was your funky older brother’s gospel
music, infused with a heavy dose of Sly and the Family Stone.
Whoever was performing in there was burning down the house: I could
feel the bass beat clear in the marrow of my bones and I wasn’t
even inside yet. Lord, but if anyone in there had a pacemaker it
had to be thumping in their chest like Jack Rabbit Slim.

As I reached the top step, two doormen
dressed in matching gray suits swung the front doors open for me
like I was the Queen of England. A tidal wave of sound washed over
me. I felt as if I had literally been lifted off my feet and rushed
upward to heaven. It was the most amazing sound I have ever heard:
a Niagra Falls of voices raised in chorus, fueled by passion just
this side of hysteria, soaring over the music of a band that must
have numbered over a dozen people to be making such a ruckus. The
hair on my arms rose as adrenaline shot through my body. This was
why people fell to the ground and spoke in tongues, why normally
sane individuals fainted in ecstasy praising a higher power. Music
like this was impossible to hear and remain unmoved. It was faith
in its most robust incarnation, hope made real in sound. Alto
voices, baritones, tenor, sopranos soaring above them all, guitars,
drums, bells, at least two sets of keyboards—and a driving backbeat
that threatened to blow out the stained glass windows above
me.

The crush inside was so great, I could
not see the front of the church. I began to wiggle my way through
the crowd, slipping from sliver of space to space. People stepped
aside willingly or looked past me. No one seemed to overtly notice
I was white. They were too polite or hypnotized by the show in
front of them. Some swayed along, a very few sang along, but most
seemed content to watch. This was not a service, I realized, but a
performance. And someone was giving it their all.

Suddenly, a contralto voice filled the
air above the crowd with a note that hovered, swelled and broke,
then ran up and down the scales in a spectacular display of vocal
fireworks. The crowd erupted in applause and I realized that
whoever the singer was, she was just getting started. She was
Whitney Houston on steroids, with a hefty dose of Ethel Merman
thrown in. She was my chance to reach the front, as every eye was
on center stage. I weaseled through packs of families and bypassed
groups of sweet-smelling men with gleaming shaved heads that shone
like mahogany in the crimson-stained light pouring in through the
stained glass windows.

I finally reached a cross aisle and
made my way to a side area near the left wall where I’d be able to
get closer to the stage at the front of the church. As I drew
closer, I spotted the source of the driving backbeat that was
rattling the fillings in my teeth. I stopped short, astonished.
This was not something you see every day: middle-aged triplets,
aligned in a row, each one dressed in a different colored
pencil-legged zoot suit: purple, gray and black.  Each held a
Fender Bass 350 and their fingers were flying as they dipped
forward and leaned backward in perfect unison, emitting a beat that
rattled my breastbone like a train driving through the
church.

All three of them were identical, tall
and slender, with coffee-colored skin, delicate features, gleaming
gold teeth winking at the crowd, eyes closed as they concentrated
on the music. A crowd of young women clustered at their feet gazed
upward at them with a rapture not even their mothers could muster
for the Lord himself. Behind them, a huge stained glass window
displayed three angels reaching out to Saint Peter. But,
honey—those angels didn’t have a prayer of being noticed, not with
that competition nearby.

My god. Most unholy fantasies unreeled
in my mind as I stared at the trifecta of perfection above me. Now,
they were proof there was a God.

Unfortunately, when I noticed what was
dominating center stage beside them, my triplet fantasy burst like
a balloon in a briar patch, evaporating at the sight of what looked
to be a massive Little Bo Peep. Step back, Aretha. A woman stood at
center stage, several feet in front of a back-up chorus of women in
glittery gowns who swayed back and forth as they held down the
harmony. There must have been six of them on back-up, but they were
small fry indeed compared to the lead singer. She was at least as
big as my boss, Bobby D., and that was saying a lot. It meant she
tipped the scales at well over three hundred pounds. But while
Bobby tended to favor leisure suits and gold medallions, this woman
was wearing an enormous white dress with rows of ruffles cascading
down the front and flowing out behind her in a milky river of
taffeta. Her hair—if, indeed, it was hers—had been molded into an
elaborate waterfall of bouncy brown curls topped by a floppy white
hat exploding with ivory flowers and pink bows. Even more
inexplicably, while she held a microphone in one hand, she held a
beribboned staff in the other. The tool of a shepherdess calling to
her flock? A giant toothpick to ensure a head start at the
post-performance buffet? She was Mega-Bo Peep meets
Mothra.

I could not decide, nor could I take
my eyes from her. She was magnificent. She sailed across the stage
like a queen, or maybe the Queen Mary, bowing and sweeping her
staff toward the crowd as she sang, raising it high when her voice
climbed into its upper register, lowering it when she took deep
breaths. She was a one-woman symphony orchestra, conductor and all,
and she had one of a handful of voices on the entire planet that
could have out-belted the massive band arrayed behind
her.

Which reminded me—I was on the job. My
drummer was there somewhere.

I searched the lineup, peering behind
the back-up singers, but found no African drummers at all. This was
a thoroughly modern, electronic, totally juiced-up version of the
Word. It was the Gospel according to Marshall and
Fender.

Just the same, it was impossible not
to respond. The whole crowd was dancing, even the little old
ladies. I was busy busting out some moves I had not attempted in
fifteen years, when a very large young woman, caught up in the
throes of passion, trundled past and threw me against a window
radiator. I caught my balance and, for the first time, noticed
someone staring at me. A distinguished-looking gentleman was eyeing
me with more than a modicum of suspicion from his spot at the end
of a nearby row. And no wonder, I was dressed in a black pair of
slacks, black tee shirt and black jacket. In other words, my look
implied  “cop,” while his look implied he was getting ready to
scream, “Cop!”

I decided to move on and make it
quick.

I pushed closer to the front, veering
even further to the side, through a doorway that led to backstage.
Reasoning that if one wanted to find an African drummer, one should
first find an African drum, I followed a man carrying musical
equipment down a passageway into a large backstage room filled with
performers waiting their turn to take the stage.

My man wasn’t hard to spot. Most of
the room was filled with a traditional gospel choir dressed in
purple and gold robes, listening intently to the group still on
stage. Behind them, against a far wall, stood a trio of men dressed
in African robes. They were clustered tightly together, as if
trying to discuss a private matter they did not want others to
hear. I had been wrong in my guess about who owned the bread truck.
My quarry was part of a group. And I was pretty sure I had found
him. Behind three men in daishikis, a tall black man with long
dreadlocks was tightening the frame on a stand of drums while
listening placidly to his bandmates. Whatever disagreement the trio
was having, he clearly had no stake in it.

I was across the room and at his side
before he even noticed me. “Hey,” I said, tapping him on the
shoulder. “Could I talk to you for a minute about —”

I have never see a man move so fast
and, believe me, there have been times when my men could not get
out the door fast enough. This one was out the door before the
words were even out of my mouth.

“
Hey!” I yelled after him
as he turned the corner in a flurry of bouncing dreadlocks. I
started after him, but his bandmates stepped in front of me,
blocking the way.

“
I’m not after him,” I
said angrily, clawing my way through the roadblock. “I just wanted
to ask him about...”

What was the use? I was white, dressed
in black, and looked like I was packing. That meant I was trouble.
Even the gospel choir was in on the unspoken agreement to slow me
down. They shifted imperceptibly, managing to block the door
without ever actually seeming to. I had to push my way past a dozen
of them and it took me a solid minute just to get out the damn
door. Once free, I ran down the hall toward an outer exit, cursing.
I knew this would not help my karma—surely cursing in church is not
a good idea, no matter what religion you belong to? But I was
steamed. I meant the guy no harm. All I wanted was a few
answers.

The exit door led into a side parking
lot. He was going to make a run for it. I darted between two huge
old Cadillacs, almost knocked down a portly man directing traffic,
and nearly twisted an ankle rounding the corner of the church when
I slipped on some gravel. Damn it. I recovered and poured it on.
He’d be heading for his bread truck. And he had a head start. But
he was not getting away from me.

God bless the elderly. My man made it
to his truck, but he was going nowhere. A transportation van from
the Eternal Joy Rest Home blocked his exit. The back doors had been
thrown open and two skinny nurse’s aids were maneuvering an
enormous man in a wheelchair down the handicap ramp.

I had the drummer trapped.

“
Well, hello there.” I
said sweetly as I slid into his front seat. “Come here
often?”

“
What do you want?” he
said, staring grimly ahead. He was a handsome man, the kind that
looks as if his family tree is groaning with the genetic fruit of
generations of African and Egyptian kings. I felt outclassed just
looking at him.

“
Why did you run?” I
asked.

“
Who are you?”

“
Who are you?”

“
Who wants to
know?”

This was getting us
nowhere.

“
Look,” I said. “I’m a
private investigator. I’m not after anything but some
information.”

“
Information about
what?”

“
Tonya
Blackburn.”

He leapt from the car and started
running again.

“
Jesus Christ!” I jumped
out on the gravel, my ankle twitching at the
impact. 

“
Tell it, sister!” the fat
man in the wheelchair yelled back enthusiastically at me. “Jesus
saves! Jesus saves!”

I dashed around him and headed for my
quarry. The nurse’s aids stared after me, worried, their hearing
obviously better than the old man’s.

The church bordered a small farm and
that’s where my mystery man was headed. He darted into a small
grove of gangly pine trees separating the church lot from its
neighbor. Pine needles slapped at my face as I gained on him. Bad
ankle or not, I could move—and this man was not getting away. He
was fast reacting; I was fast pursuing. And I wanted him.
Badly.

I gained a few feet when his way was
blocked by a tangle of fallen pines. He slipped, regained his
balance and started toward an open field that stretched out on the
other side of the grove. I took the more direct route. I leapt up
on a fallen trunk, took a deep breath and launched myself into the
air, flying over a bush and landing squarely on the back of his
shoulders. I wrapped my arms tightly around him as we tumbled to
the ground. He was not getting away again.