Looking For Trouble (23 page)

As Susan began to fade into vapors right before Allene's eyes, Allene called out to her, “I love you!”

“I love you, too, my precious Allene.”

Then in the snap of a finger, Susan was gone.

But instead of feeling sad, Allene's heart was filled with happiness and hope. The torch had been passed on to her. It had taken her a long time to earn and accept it, but now it was in her hands, and she was grateful that she knew what to do.

She knew that John was going to be all right. He still wasn't out of the woods with his lunatic girlfriend; so although she hadn't wanted to, she knew it was time for her to intervene. She had to call upon someone who could help him. She closed her eyes, calmed her mind, and searched for the person who could come to John's aid.

Allene concentrated, going through space and time, reading the thoughts of anyone she could find who was connected to the energy that could eliminate John's problems. After several minutes, it came to her, and she smiled, knowing exactly who it was that she needed to reach out to. “You can never go wrong doin' right,” she whispered, carrying her message to the person who needed to hear it . . . the person who would help John. “You can never go wrong doin' right,” she said again. “Go ahead and do the right thing. Help John tonight.”

Allene nodded, confident that her words had been heard and received, and now her heart rested a little better. “Whew!” she breathed out. “All this prophesyin' has worn me out,” Allene said with a sigh. “Time for me to get my beauty sleep.”

Allene drifted off in her comfortable recliner, knowing that when the sun came up tomorrow, both John's and Alexandria's worlds were going to be very different.

Chapter 31

T
he first-floor waiting room of Nedine Memorial Hospital was packed with more people than the moderate-size space had seen since the flood of 1945. The facility had become desegregated a year ago when changing social times and an ambitious new mayor had imposed the long-overdue move.

The nearly all-white nursing staff looked upon the crowd with a mixture of concern and curiosity. They had never seen so many black folks in the hospital at one time. Tall and short, slender and heavy, light and dark—they were all black—and they were standing vigil, waiting for an update on Maxx Sanders's condition.

From the sketchy report the doctor had given the family, which had soon trickled by word of mouth to everyone in the room, Maxx was listed in critical condition by the time the ambulance had transported him to the emergency room. He'd lost a massive amount of blood, and the single bullet was still lodged in his backside, causing the threat of a very serious complication.

“Judging from the entry wound,” Maxx's doctor had said, “it looks like the trajectory of the bullet made it probable for intra-abdominal bleeding. But we can't be sure how much damage has been done until we get him on the operating table.”

In laymen's terms, Maxx was in danger of losing his life because of excessive blood loss and the possibility that the bullet had traveled in the body. Maxx had gone from celebrating his birthday to fighting for his life, and now it was just a waiting game.

“This is awful. Just awful!” Grace Sanders cried as she hung her head against her husband's narrow shoulder while he patted her back. She wiped her tears with a tissue as she shook with worry. Her nose had become a rosy pink bulb of sniffles, the result of nearly an hour's worth of sobs. “They should lock up that woman and throw away the key,” she cried, referring to Thelma Porter, the scorned, vengeful woman who had shot Maxx.

Grace and Milford Sanders had been lying in bed, resting up for Sunday-morning church service, when their phone rang shortly after midnight. As soon as Grace answered and heard John Small's deep voice pipe through the line, she immediately knew that something terrible had happened to her son. She knew it because John never called their house, not even when Maxx had lived there. With the rare exception of last week when a looming deadline forced him to reach out in order to coordinate Maxx's big birthday celebration, John had never ventured to dial their number.

Grace's disdain for John went way back. From the moment an eight-year-old Maxx had come home from school one afternoon, beaten and bloody from a vicious playground fight that had involved John at its center, Grace had looked upon young John with nothing short of contempt. She didn't want any of her three boys getting mixed up with the wrong crowd, and especially not Maxx, who at the time was her youngest and most favored child. She knew how dangerous consorting with the wrong people could be, even for children, and that was one of the reasons she didn't want John Small anywhere near her son.

It didn't matter to Grace that John hadn't started the rumble, or that Maxx had inserted himself into the fight without provocation. What had mattered to her was that her son had been injured as a direct consequence of being involved with the type of person she'd spent her entire life consciously avoiding—“dark-skinned black folk.” In Grace's opinion, they were nothing but trouble. And now, twenty-four years later, her son had been injured again—and just as before, dark-skinned, black-as-tar John Small was on the scene.

At the sound of John's first words, an alarm had sounded through Grace's veins that mimicked thunder. She hadn't bothered to pay attention to the details of what John had said. Once she heard “Maxx” and “been shot,” she woke her husband, who'd been sleeping like the dead, and hurried to the hospital at a speed that could have rivaled a freight train's.

When Grace and Milford arrived, the waiting room was already full of people—both family and friends—who had been at the Blue Room partying with Maxx until Thelma's gun ended the celebration.

“What would make someone do such a thing?” Grace lamented between loud sniffles. “This is why respectable people should stay out of nightclubs. Nothing good can come of it. Might as well be in the gutter!”

“Now hold on just one minute, Grace,” Sylvester Hanks spoke up. “It won't the Blue Room that got your boy shot in the ass. It was his ways. He drug that trouble he had goin' on wit' them two women right up into my club.”

Grace Sanders cut her eye at Mr. Hanks, the wily proprietor of the Blue Room. “It's the kind of crowd that your establishment attracts that caused all of this, not Maxx,” she shot back.

“Woman, you can't be serious!”

“I certainly am. Everyone knows that the Blue Room is a sinners' den full of drunken men and loose women with absolutely no morals.”

Everyone in the waiting room was silent, holding their breaths and rolling their eyes.

Mr. Hanks raised his brow. “I guess you half-right, 'cause Maxx was sho nuf drunker than ten skunks. Your boy couldn't handle his liquor or his women, and that,” he spat back, “is what caused all this!”

Grace put her hand to her chest and drew in a deep breath. “My son is a gentleman and a hero. He's in there on that operating table right now because he took a bullet trying to save a woman's life.”

“He took a bullet 'cause his drunk ass was tryin' to pick up one woman while his other two womens was right there in the club.”

“You should be ashamed to say such a despicable thing!”

“And you should be embarrassed that it's true!”

Seeing that things were about to escalate out of control, a tired and timid-looking Milford finally spoke up. “Let's all calm down. Placin' blame ain't gonna do nothin' for nobody right now.”

Mr. Hanks shook his head. “Henpecked son of a bitch,” he said under his breath in Milford's direction. A few heads nodded in agreement.

The tension in the room turned thick and sticky, and that's when John stepped in. He walked over to Mr. Hanks and began speaking to him in a serious tone.

Grace was furious with Sylvester Hanks. Even worse, though, she wanted to scream at John Small for inserting himself into matters that didn't involve him. She held him partly responsible for what had happened to her son. At the moment, she couldn't stand the sight of him.

She had known from the start that celebrating a special occasion like a birthday at a nightclub was a bad idea. She'd tried to warn Maxx against it, but his mind had been set. And once John encouraged it, even offering to help with the affair, Grace felt as if all reason was lost. Now she wished with all her might that John would disappear back to New York City where he belonged. She didn't want him anywhere near her son, and especially not her daughter.

When she and Milford first walked through the waiting-room doors, she noticed that Elizabeth had been standing a little too close to John for Grace's comfort. She didn't like the feeling she'd gotten when she saw the two huddled, side by side. There was something in Elizabeth's face and John's body language that made Grace's antennae rise. But the moment Elizabeth had seen Grace and Milford, she'd run into their embrace and gathered with them so they could console each other as a family.

Grace started sobbing again as she thought about her son lying on the operating table, all because of the company he kept. Then she looked around the room in search of Elizabeth, who was nowhere to be found. She wondered where her daughter had gone to so quickly. She'd been sitting beside them just moments ago and now she was gone. But Grace knew she could only focus on one calamity at a time. So for now, she concentrated her attention and prayers on her son. Once the good Lord brought him out of danger, she would make sure she did everything in her power to keep John Small as far away from her daughter as life would allow.

Chapter 32

J
ohn cast a cautionary glare aimed directly at Sylvester Hanks. Anxiety and rising tension had gripped every person assembled in the hospital waiting room. Mr. Hanks's verbal volleying with Grace Sanders had proven to make a bad situation even worse. John felt like telling both of them to shut the hell up, but he knew he had to rise above the urge.

John wasn't a man who worried about things over which he had no control; at the moment he had to steel himself against the emotion. He was on edge because so much had happened in the blink of an eye, and he felt nearly powerless to the events swirling around him: the laughter, the screaming, the shooting; following the ambulance to the hospital; phoning Maxx's parents and then calling his own; trying to get updated information from the doctors and nurses; trying to be a voice of calm for Elizabeth; and finally, trying to keep himself from breaking down.

The weight of John's frustrating day with Madeline, and the trauma of witnessing his best friend get shot right in front of him, had all come crashing down on his shoulders. And now, looking at Sylvester Hanks, who'd foolishly bickered with the mother of a man who was fighting for his life, John had had enough.

John respected Mr. Hanks, but he knew that the man was more concerned about the reputation of his establishment than Maxx's well-being. The club owner didn't want the Blue Room's pristine reputation tarnished behind a shooting—or, worse, a fatality that might result from it. John knew that was the only reason why the penny-pinching businessman had even bothered to show up at the hospital shortly after giving the police his statement and closing down his club. He'd walked through the waiting-room doors bearing irritation instead of compassion. When he heard Grace Sanders's remark, it was too much for him to hold. He'd blurted out his true thoughts, instead of using diplomatic refrain.

John saw that poor, docile Milford wasn't equipped to handle the situation; and although he'd never cared much for Grace, he felt empathy for what she must be going through. So he attempted to calm the moment by trying to reason with Mr. Hanks. He walked over to the man and looked him in the eye.

“Mr. Hanks, like my wise, old grandma Allene always says, ‘Just because something is true, that doesn't mean you have to say it.' We all know how things really went down in the club tonight, so—”

“Listen, John,” Mr. Hanks interrupted. “I ain't never had no trouble wit' you. You and your daddy is fine, upstandin' peoples. Respectable Negro bidnessmen, just like myself. I know what you sayin', but I ain't gonna stand by and let that woman talk shit about my establishment on account of her fool-ass son.”

“Mr. Hanks, please lower your voice. This is getting out of control.”

“I'm not the one outta control. It's y'all young folks that can't control yo'selves. I tried to do a good deed, but,
hmph,
never again!” he balked. “I don't care how much money you paid me or how much Slim begged, I shoulda never shut down my club for some birthday party bullshit!”

John officially had reached his limit. His steely eyes narrowed in on Mr. Hanks's. The older man was his height and nearly twice his size, but just like Mr. Hanks, John didn't take kindly to bullshit, either. “Mr. Hanks, this isn't the time or place. I respect you, but you need to respect this situation, too.”

Mr. Hanks continued his rant, ignoring what John had said. “I told Slim that I didn't want no shit goin' down in my club, and now look at what happened! Where is he, anyway?”

“He ran an errand for me, but I'm sure he'll be here shortly,” John replied, still holding Mr. Hanks's stare. “But don't worry about Slim. Right now, we're all gathered here to make sure Maxx comes through this safely. So unless you can offer a prayer or some words of encouragement, it might be best for you to leave . . . right now.” John's words were bitingly sharp, delivered in a threatening tone.

Mr. Hanks stared back at John and then glanced around the room. The tension-filled eyes, which had boomeranged in his direction, all supported what John just said to him. “This ain't even worth the damn hassle,” Mr. Hanks hissed before turning on the heel of his brown loafers and stomping out the door.

John let out a deep breath and walked over to the other side of the waiting room so he could have a moment to himself. He rubbed his hand over his clean-shaven chin, thinking about how he'd just been seconds away from creating a scene of his own. He leaned against the wall and looked up as he saw a voluptuous young woman approach.

“Hey there, stranger.” The pretty woman smiled, planting herself by his side. Her name was Mary-Marie Jackson, and she and John had a history.

Mary-Marie and John had enjoyed lustful dalliances over the years whenever he came to town for visits. Even though Mary-Marie had a steady boyfriend, whenever John rolled through town they always rendezvoused in his hotel room, enjoying heated nights of sexual pleasure. But a year and a half ago, she'd told him that she wanted more than the weekend thrills they shared every few months.

“I want to move to New York and make a go of it with you, John,” Mary-Marie had told him.

John didn't want to lead Mary-Marie on, so he quickly let her know that what they shared between the sheets was all it could ever be. Since then, he had purposely stayed away from her whenever he came to town. He hadn't seen her again until now.

“Hey, Mary-Marie,” John said. “It's been a while.”

“A year and a half, to be exact. I see you're still looking as handsome as ever.”

John smiled; and even though she looked good, too, he held off on returning the compliment. His life was complicated enough; he didn't want to add to it by encouraging an ex-lover.

Mary-Marie moved in close. “That was real noble what you just did, handling Mr. Hanks like that.”

John nodded, casually taking a small step back to put distance between them. “I just did what needed to be done.”

“Yeah, I remember how good you are when it comes to taking care of business.” She licked her luscious lips and took a step forward into the space that John had created.

John caught Mary-Marie's hint and recognized the look in her eyes—a look that let him know he could still have her, if he wanted her.

“If I was the sensitive type, my feelings would be hurt right about now,” Mary-Marie said. “I saw you at the club tonight and you didn't even speak to me.”

“It was so crowded—I didn't even know you were there. I would have spoken if I'd seen you.”

“I guess you had your hands full trying to juggle that tall heffa you walked in with, and then Lizzy Sanders on your way out.”

John tilted his head and nodded. “Thanks for your observation.”

“I'm always watching out where you're concerned.”

“I appreciate that, but right now my interest lies with Maxx. That's why we're both here, right?” John knew that like Mr. Hanks, Mary-Marie had her own set of reasons for being there.

“Yes, of course. But if you want to forget about your worries, you know I can help you do that, right?”

“I'll be just fine.”

“Ray and I aren't together anymore.”

John looked at her as if to say,
And . . . ?

“I got my own place about six months ago,” Mary-Marie said with a smile.

“Good for you.”

“It could be good for you, too.” She pulled out a scratch piece of paper from her small handbag and placed it inside the front pocket of John's now-slightly-wrinkled oxford shirt. “Here's my new number. Call me.”

John didn't want Mary-Marie's number, and he had no intention of taking her up on her hint to come over to her new place. However, he didn't want to appear rude, because, after all, they shared a long and vivid history. So he let her down as gently as he could. “I'm starting a new relationship, Mary-Marie. This woman really means something to me and I'm going to do right by her, so I can't accept this.” John reached into his pocket to give her back her number.

Mary-Marie shook her head and held her hand to his pocket, brushing her body against his. “Keep it. You never know—you might want to use it one day.”

John looked at her ruby-colored lips and ample DD breasts; but instead of feeling aroused, he longed for something else. He scanned the room and realized that Elizabeth wasn't around. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been sitting in a chair near her parents on the other side of the waiting room, but now she was gone. He hoped she hadn't seen Mary-Marie flirting with him and gotten the wrong impression. “Excuse me, Mary-Marie, I need to find someone.”

John walked away, leaving his ex-lover standing in the corner, wearing disappointment and a frown.

 

John quickly scanned the other side of the waiting room; then he went over toward the nurses' station in search of Elizabeth. When he didn't find her there, he walked in the opposite direction and searched the long hallway, but still no luck. He returned to the waiting room, wondering where she could be.

Until a few moments ago, he and Elizabeth had been together nearly the entire evening. Now her sudden absence felt like a gaping hole. He could still feel her delicate hand trembling inside his when he'd driven behind the ambulance on their way to the hospital. “Maxx is going to be all right, Elizabeth,” he'd told her.

A small rush of panic began to beat inside him until he felt a warm touch against his hand.

“She went outside,” Josie said. “I think she needed some air.”

John noticed the weathered look beaten across Josie's face; his thoughts momentarily shifted to concern about her well-being. “Are you all right, Josie?”

He knew she was in a fragile state, still shook-up from all that had happened. He'd had to coax her from under Maxx's bleeding body after he'd been shot. He knew that had to have been a traumatic experience for her. “You've been through a lot this evening. Is there anything you need? Anything that I can do?”

“Nah, I'm as tough as they come.” Josie smiled. “I've got to be, to put up with your crazy friend for all these years.”

“I can't argue with you on that.”

“Everybody thinks I'm a damn fool for stickin' around so long, 'cause of all the drama, the other women, you name it. We've been through some storms, me and Maxx. Truth is, I just plain love him.” She sighed. “But sometimes I wonder if he loves me back.”

John didn't want to put words in another man's mouth, but he knew his best friend better than anyone, so he told Josie what he knew to be true. “Maxx stepped in front of a bullet that was meant for you. Men protect what they love.”

Josie smiled. “Thanks, John. Now go see about Lizzy. She needs you.”

John nodded and gave Josie a small kiss on her cheek. “Come and get me if the doctor gives any updates.”

When John walked outside, the first thing he noticed was the chill that had seized the air. Earlier that evening, he and Elizabeth had been sweating in the night heat. Now the temperature had dropped considerably, which was unusual for this time of year. But he ignored the cool nip on his skin when he spotted Elizabeth in the back of the parking lot. She was sitting on the hood of his car, her bare arms gathered around her exposed knees as she shivered.

“What are you doing out here?” John asked as he approached.

Elizabeth looked up and gave him a small smile. “I needed to get out of there. I couldn't think straight after Mr. Hanks and Mama started arguing, so I decided to leave.”

John breathed a little easier, knowing that she'd left before Mary-Marie's unsuccessful attempt at seduction. “Yeah, that was pretty bad.”

“Mr. Hanks isn't the most agreeable man, but he wasn't entirely wrong about what he said, either,” Elizabeth acknowledged. “Believe me, I know how my brother is, and, truth be told, I know how my mama is, too.”

John didn't say a word. He knew it was never a good idea to talk about somebody's mama—however true the comment might be.

“I just pray that Maxx will be all right. If anything happens to my brother—”

“He's going to be just fine, Elizabeth. He's a fighter.” John was trying to boost her spirits as much as his own. Maxx was more of a brother to him than his own blood brother, Billy, had ever been.

He had to believe that Maxx would pull through. Initially he, as well as most of the partygoers, had secretly snickered when they realized Maxx had been shot in the ass. But when he lost consciousness right before the ambulance arrived, that's when all jocularity stopped and real fear set in. Maxx had always been a popular man-about-town. He was loved by many, which was why the waiting room was packed with people.

“You're shivering,” John said, changing his thoughts to focus on something he could control.

“I'm all right.”

John went to the back seat and then returned with a navy blue cardigan in hand. He sat beside Elizabeth and draped the garment over her small shoulders with gentle care. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you.” She smiled. “You're a good man, John Small.”

“I can't let a beautiful woman freeze in the cold.”

“I'm not just talking about your chivalry with this sweater. I mean everything. Everything about you.” She looked at him closely, scooting her small body next to his large frame. “You're strong, fearless, thoughtful, and kind. You care about people, and you're respectful of others. You're always cool and calm on the outside, and you rarely get emotional. But you're gentle on the inside, because you have a genuinely good heart.”