Deacon King Kong(34)

Instead, he said simply, “It wasn’t so nice.”

She chuckled uneasily, surprised by his response, and watched him blush. Suddenly she felt her heart flutter. A charged silence descended on the room. They both felt it, felt themselves suddenly being propelled along a large chasm, feeling the irresistible urge to reach out, to reach across, to stretch their hands from opposite sides of a large, cavernous valley that was nearly impossible to cross. It was way too large, too far, just unreasonable, ridiculous. Yet . . .

“This fella,” Potts said, breaking the silence, “this fella I’m looking for, he’s uh . . . if his name’s not Thelonius Ellis, what is it?”

She was silent now, the smile gone, looking away, the spell broken.

“It’s all right,” he said. “We know what happened with the shooting, more or less.” He meant to say it lightly, as a comfort, but it sounded official and he didn’t want that. The lack of sincerity in his own voice surprised him. There was an ease, a gentle filter in this long, chocolate woman that opened up a part of him that normally stayed closed. He had only four months to retirement. It was four months too long. He wished it were yesterday. He felt a sudden urge to take off his uniform, throw it to the floor, and walk downstairs with the choir and sing.

He found himself blurting: “I’m retiring soon. A hundred twenty days. Going fishing. Maybe I’ll sing in a choir too.”

“That ain’t no way to spend the rest of your life.”

“Singing in a choir?”

“No. Fishing.”

“I can think of nothing better.”

“Well, if that floats your boat, go ahead on. I reckon that’s better than the funerals and going to large drinking gatherings.”

“Like Rattigan’s?”

She waved her hand. “That place don’t bother me. They fight and squabble in every drinking hole from one to the next all over this world. It’s the God-fearing places that’s the worst. God is the last thing in some of these churches out here. Seems like they do more fighting than praying in the church today than they do on the street. Ain’t nowhere safe. It didn’t used to be that way.”

Her words brought Potts around. With effort he returned to business. “Can I ask you about this fella, Thelonius Ellis?”

Sister Gee raised her hand. “Hand before God, ain’t nobody ’round this church by that name that I know of.”

“That’s the name we got. Got it from an eyewitness.”

“Must’ve been Ray Charles who told it. Or maybe it’s somebody from another church.”

Potts smiled. “You and I know he went to this church.”

“Who?”

“The old man. The shooter. Drinks a lot. Knows everybody.”

Sister Gee smiled grimly. “Why ask me? Your man knew him.”

“What man?”

Sister Gee tilted her head at him. The tilt of that lovely face rendered him momentarily helpless. He felt as if a bird’s wing had suddenly brushed his face and pushed a cool puff of misted air into it, the mist fluttering down onto his shoulders. His eyebrows lifted as he blinked at her, then his gaze shifted to the floor. He felt the emotional door he’d managed to close moments before swing open again. Staring at the floor, he found himself wondering how old she was.

“The cop who worked for Hot Sausage,” she said.

“Hot who?”

“The cop,” Sister Gee said patiently, “who worked for Hot Sausage. In the basement boiler room. Hot Sausage is the head janitor and boiler man. The janitor under him. The young guy. He was your guy.”

“What’s Hot Sausage’s real name?”

She chuckled. “Why you trying to confuse me? We talking about your man. Hot Sausage is the janitor at Building Seventeen. The colored boy that was janitoring under him . . . he saved Deems’s life, not nobody else. Folks ’round here don’t know whether to thank him or throw a bucket of water on him.”

Potts was silent. Sister Gee smiled.

“Everybody in the Cause knowed he was a cop. Don’t you know your own people?”

Potts found himself resisting an urge to sprint out of the room, run back to the precinct, and beat the captain silly. He felt stupid. This was cleaning up garbage for the captain. Jet, Mr. First Black Everything. The kid didn’t have the stuff to be a detective. Too young. No experience. No savvy. No allies, no mentors, except maybe him. The captain had insisted, “We need Negroes down in the Cause Houses.” The guy had a soundproof head. How stupid can the captain be?

“That kid’s transferred out to Queens,” he said. “I’m glad. He’s a good kid. I trained him.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Sister Gee asked.

“No. They asked me to step in because I know the area. They’re . . . trying to make a move on these new drug dealers.”

He saw her expression change slightly. “Can I ask you a personal question?” she asked.

“Surely.”

“How does a detective go back to putting on a uniform?”

“That’s a long story,” he said. “I grew up here, as I said. I like the hours. I like the people. If the cops want to make a move on these drug lords, I’ll be a Holy Joe about it.”