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  Denzelle had been right, too. That potion-powder stuff was the key. Chief wanted full control over the smuggling when Hemphill went back to the States for good. It was clear that Chief wasn’t interested in anything crossing the Atlantic. All Chief wanted from the bishop was full control over the import business. And the bishop was ready to give up his import business in exchange for getting as much of that powder stuff as he could when he left for Durham en route to the Triennial Conference. It was the plan to bring loads of the powder into the States that concerned Denzelle, as he would quickly discover that something was terribly wrong with this “miracle” drug.

  It was during what Denzelle had planned on being the next-to-last evening at Bishop Hemphill’s home that he discovered something very disturbing about the potion-powder. He had been feeling energetic and rested but now Denzelle was so exhausted he was concerned that he was coming down with a nasty virus. In fact, the last time he had felt this bad was when he had the flu and was flat on his back for two weeks. The last place he wanted to be sick was this far from home. Denzelle’s head hurt, he had a fever, every muscle in his body ached, and he was so sleepy his eyelids hurt when he tried to open them.

  He dragged down to the kitchen and found Rucker there scooping some powder out of a scuzzy-looking glass jar that was in stark contrast to the otherwise immaculate area.

  “Bishop, you wouldn’t have any Tylenol, would you?”

  Rucker poured some whiskey into the glass with the powder in it. Denzelle sniffed the air. It smelled just as bad as Uncle Lee Lee’s shed when he took the lid off that old pickle jar.

  “This is some funky stuff,” Rucker told him. “But it will get rid of everything that ails you, preacher.”

  Denzelle raised his hand and said, “Bishop, I just need some Tylenol, that’s all.”

  “Tylenol? You want that weak stuff?”

  Rucker took a long swig of the whiskey and ground his teeth together. His eyes started to water when he forced the rest of the whiskey down.

  “Whew… nasty. But if you want to feel better, you need some of this stuff.”

  The last thing Denzelle wanted was some of that stuff. He’d rather go back to his room and suffer through the flu cold turkey. Cold turkey—of course. How could he have missed that? He didn’t have the flu. He had a terrible case of withdrawal. And judging from the way the bishop was sweating and heaving as if he was trying not to hurl, he was, too.

  That had to be some potent stuff, if that little dab on his tongue had caused all this suffering. The powder may have worked for Uncle Lee Lee, who he suspected had some kind of antidote that counteracted the highly addictive qualities of the powder. But this drug was not something to mess with on its own. And you certainly couldn’t be dumb enough to think that you could get away with using it on a regular basis.

  This powder was highly addictive, and it would be like a dangerous weapon if placed in the wrong hands, like the ones holding on to the old pickle jar on the table. Denzelle hoped that stuff would start working fast. Because Bishop Hemphill gave him the impression that he was a hurl away from throwing up all over his fancy Italian marble floor.

  What was it about crooked folk? They always had to have the best, the top of the line, or the rarest of the rare. It was ridiculous and evil. Here they were standing on marble, and the bishop’s neighbors lived in houses with worn-out, or, better yet, dirt floors. It was downright shameful.

  It wasn’t surprising that the membership rolls for the Seventeenth District had been dropping steadily ever since Rucker Hemphill became the presiding bishop. Who would want to join a church where the bishop lived in a huge mansion with a bunch of fancy stuff, while you had to do the best you could with your little bitty shanty. Plus, just how much church work could Bishop Hemphill do, now that he had a monkey on his back?

  Denzelle was convicted down to the bone when he remembered his thoughts about figuring out how to sell that powder in the States. He closed his eyes and whispered, “Lord, forgive me. I did not know what I was doing.”

  “Are you okay, Rev. Flowers?” Bishop Hemphill asked him in the nicest voice Denzelle had heard coming out of his mouth since he had first gotten there.

  “Not really, Bishop. I still feel like crap. And I have yet to find a Tylenol tablet. Can you help me out here?”

  Rucker fixed himself another glass of that stuff. Only this time it was mostly liquor. He said, “You sure you don’t want any of this stuff? I guarantee that you’ll feel a whole better.”

  “Naw… that’s okay, Bishop. I don’t like the way that stuff smells. It would be like drinking an eight-ounce glass of butt-juice.”

  “Man up, son. Everything can’t taste like fruit punch.”

  “But it doesn’t have to taste like something that fell off the garbage truck,” Denzelle told him.

  Rucker frowned. He hated being reminded that the stuff was horrible. The only way he could take it was to mix it into some whiskey.

  It occurred to Denzelle that the bishop had taken a lot of the potion. He hoped that the liquor would slow down Rucker Hemphill’s body’s reaction to that stuff. No brother needed to see something like that—especially at such a close visual range. Heck, you tried not to shoot folks when they were too close to you because it could be one nasty mess. And you definitely didn’t want to get a zoom-lens view of that stuff on another man’s body. That was enough to make a brother feel that he needed to put some Novocain on his eyeballs to numb them from the pain of having to see all of that.

  All of a sudden the maid, who Denzelle had discerned was the eyes and ears of the bishop, rushed into the kitchen. She pretended to load up the dishwasher, which Denzelle found a bit unusual. The folks in houses surrounding Rucker Hemphill’s didn’t seem to have the kind of plumbing that was dishwasher-friendly.

  The maid brushed by the bishop, gave him a sultry smile, and then looked at Denzelle as if to say, “You’re dismissed.”

  He couldn’t believe this heifer, with her head all wrapped up with that fancy piece of material. There was no way she was going to get away with that bama mess, and he didn’t care if he was in Africa. He said, “Bishop, I had hoped to be able to say hello to Mrs. Hemphill before I headed back to the States.”

  “Well, son, that won’t be possible. The missus decided not to stop by here, and went on to Paris to shop. She will be back in the States in a week or two to show off her new Parisian clothes.”

  “Hate that I missed her,” Denzelle said. “But maybe I’ll run into her when I get back home.”

  The maid rolled her eyes at him, and Denzelle resisted an urge to stick out his tongue at that mean woman and say, “Na… na… nanana.”

  “I hope that spoiled American woman never comes here,” the maid grumbled under her breath.

  Rucker heard the maid and said, “Girl, you better watch your mouth talking about my baby like that.”

  The maid, who had honestly believed the bishop preferred her over his own wife, said, “Your baby? Bishop, you cannot be serious.”

  Bishop Hemphill’s eyes narrowed. He said, “Mrs. Hemphill is my baby, and she’ll be that until the day she dies. Now, do you have a problem with that? Or do I have to send out for someone else?”

  It was that “do I have to send out for someone else” that did it. The woman blinked back tears before she mumbled an apology, and then followed Rucker Hemphill out of the kitchen.

  Denzelle didn’t like this powder. And he especially didn’t like it that Uncle Lee Lee had left out the most important ingredient—the one that made the drug a welcome supplement rather than a lethal substance. And he knew something was missing because that old man’s male relatives took that stuff.

  He had seen the men putting teaspoonfuls of the powder into their tea like it was sugar. He had wondered if the sugar was going bad because there was a point when the room smelled like the crack of somebody’s butt. Those men had sipped a lot of that stuff, and remained okay and in control of their bodies the entire evenin
g. They worked the version of the potion they took. It didn’t work them.

  Not one of those men showed any immediate “reactions.” He also noticed that they didn’t get nauseated right after taking it. Rucker Hemphill had needed some whiskey to get his dose down—but those folks had only tea, if that.

  He went back to his room feeling horrible, and decided to just go cold turkey and suffer it out. Cold turkey was a hard way to go. But it was one of the most effective methods of purging your system of a drug.

  There was a soft knock on the door right before another maid, who was a very sweet and anointed woman, walked in carrying a tray with a pot of tea, some broth, and saltines on it.

  “Rev. Flowers,” she said, “I made this especially for you. Eat what you can of the broth, and then drink this tea every two hours. It will make you feel better.”

  Denzelle wasn’t so sure about taking another thing on Mozambique soil. He stared at the teapot as if it had some kind of toxic waste in it. The maid started laughing.

  “You Americans are so funny and so suspicious of your African brothers and sisters. This tea is made from ginger root, some peppermint, honey, and just a tiny bit of chamomile to help you rest better through the night. And I also blessed it in the name of Jesus, so that it will aid in a speedy recovery.

  “I know all about WP21, Rev. Flowers. It is a vicious and wicked drug. I also know about the powder that Chief’s great-great-uncle makes only for his family. It is better, but not that much better. They do experience some mild withdrawal symptoms if they decide to stop taking it. But I’ve never known anybody to get addicted to it like it is heroin or something like that, until I saw its effect on the bishop.

  “Rev. Flowers, do not let them get that stuff in the United States, and especially around our beloved church members. I do not like the bishop but I do keep him lifted in prayer for his sake, Mrs. Hemphill’s sake, and this district. He is a bad leader and the Seventeenth District deserves better than someone like him. I don’t know why our church will not pull from the cream of the crop right here on African soil to lead our district.”

  Denzelle blinked back hot tears. This woman had spoken the truth—a hard truth that all the preachers in the Gospel United Church needed to hear and take heed of. How had they gone so low that he was over here in Africa suffering from the aftereffects of a drug some preachers were trying to take to the US, and use to get rich and powerful in the denomination?

  Rucker Hemphill and his cronies wouldn’t even have to go outside the denomination to make money from WP21. All they needed was a loyal and hooked following to make this work. And the best place to get all that established was at a major gathering of church folk like the Triennial General Conference. They could put on some good-looking sheep outfits and blend in with the folks who were there for all the right reasons, to do as much wrong as they could. Denzelle’s older brother, Yarborough, always told him that the Devil liked to go to church because that’s where he could do the most damage. He already had the folks at the club and in the streets.

  It was no secret that some preachers came to these conferences to do stuff they had no business doing. They could prance around in their preacher suits, mop their faces with some handkerchiefs, talk shop, and network, all the while scoping out women and opportunities to get into something better than a conference session. And unfortunately there were plenty of women who were willing and able to go the whole nine yards. It was a perfect setting to capitalize on WP21.

  On the surface this thing appeared kind of Mickey Mouse, for a bunch of old players past their prime. But in reality it was a very dangerous game, and nothing good would come from it. Denzelle’s heart was heavy. He loved his church and could not abide anyone doing anything that threatened its well-being. He got down on his knees and began to pray.

  “Lord,” he whispered, “Help me to help my church in the name of Jesus. Let no weapon formed against the Gospel United Church prosper. I cancel out this assignment of the enemy against this church in the name of Jesus, amen.”

  He wiped his eyes and stayed there on his knees until he felt the power of God touching him in his heart. He didn’t have a clue how all of this would work out, or even play out for that matter. But he did know that no matter what happened, how it looked, or even what it seemed like, God was running this show. Now all the good Rev. Agent Flowers had to do was keep his heart in tune with Heaven, and his eyes focused on Jesus.

  Denzelle drank a cup of that tea. It did work wonders. He climbed into bed and rested better than he had since getting off that plane. As soon as his feet touched American soil he was going to his mentor, Rev. Eddie Tate, his best friend, Rev. Obadiah Quincey, and his supervisor, Agent Gregory Williams. Together, with God’s help and guidance, they were going to stop this mess right when it started.

  As far as Denzelle was concerned, Ottah Babatunde, Ray Caruthers, and Rucker Hemphill were not coming back to America to pawn off some jacked-up male super-drug on more church folk. They were not using that potion to make a quick and easy buck, and to collect enough dirt on some dumb and reckless preachers to buy votes, presiding elder spots, Episcopal seats, and an Episcopal district or two. This kind of scheming hadn’t worked back in the 1960s when Ray’s dad had tried to do the very same thing, and it wasn’t going to work twenty-three years after the good preachers in the denomination had shut those crooks in clerical collars down. He thought about the singer Ann Peebles, and started humming, “I’m gone tear your playhouse down.”

  Denzelle Flowers and his colleagues had their work cut out for them both on the natural and on the spiritual level. Bishops Jennings and James were right. The only way to defeat and destroy the stronghold he saw the enemy building around the church was to put as many right-minded folk in Episcopal seats as they could. They needed more good bishops to effectively counteract the mayhem caused by the bad ones, and ignored by the double-minded ones who also wanted the extra money, access to the available and willing women, and choice church assignments, all without getting their hands dirty—even though they were incapable of keeping them clean.

  Both Bishop Murcheson James and Bishop Percy Jennings had been riding Denzelle’s boss, Rev. Eddie Tate, to run for bishop at the Triennial Conference. Two Episcopal seats were up for grabs, and Eddie was a formidable opponent who would blow holes in the enemy camp. Denzelle only wished his friend, Obadiah’s mentor, Rev. Theophilus Simmons, would run, too, instead of volunteering to serve as Eddie’s campaign manager. He didn’t know why Theophilus Simmons, who had been groomed and tapped as one of the next Episcopal leaders, had decided not to run for bishop.

  Denzelle walked out of the terminal to board the plane. He was happy to be leaving Mozambique, and couldn’t wait for the plane to take off and fly him home. This had been one of the worst trips he’d had to take in a long time. He was about to whisper, “Thank You, God, for taking me back home,” when he turned around to see the maid who had given him that tea when he was so sick. She and her husband and children were waving at him with huge smiles lighting up their faces.

  This trip had been to a church district, and Denzelle had not met one truly “churched” person since he first set foot on Mozambique soil. And he certainly hadn’t met anybody who struck him as being saved and filled with the Holy Ghost. That is, not until this moment. How had he missed this in this lady? She’d been nothing but kind, and had made it clear that she prayed for people—even her enemies. Denzelle realized that he had been so wrapped up in himself and his issues that he had failed to see the blessing God had put right at his feet in the form of this anointed lady. To think that she thought enough of him to come with her family to see him off touched his heart deeply.

  Denzelle smiled and waved. His heart was full and flooding with the joy of the Lord. In the midst of all of the darkness he’d seen over the past week, light was piercing through. His heart brimmed over with love for his new friends. Denzelle waved back one more time and boarded the plane.

  EIGHT
/>   Denzelle’s plane landed at Dulles Airport. He rented a car and drove down to Quantico to meet with Greg Williams. Throughout the entire interview, Greg sat there looking at Denzelle as if he had an extra head sprouting out of his shoulder.

  When Denzelle gave his boss the skinny on how WP21 worked, Greg almost fell out of his chair, he was laughing so hard. He slapped the desk, wiped at his eyes, and said, “My man, my man. Agent Flowers, I swear I thought I’d heard it all. Preachers?”

  “Actually, it was a bishop,” Denzelle told him, trying his best to keep a straight “agent” face. He’d been upset the entire flight back. And now, after hearing himself talk about that stuff, he had to admit that it was some funny mess.

  “I still can’t believe that some preachers, who don’t know anything about dealing and the streets, have come up with a cockamamy scheme like this,” Denzelle continued. “And they are just dumb, greedy, and crazy enough to think that they can pull it off when they get stateside.”

  “I know,” Greg said, finally sobering up when he thought about the potential harm WP21 could do if it were turned loose on folks as a street drug. It was funny to hear how WP21 worked. But that stuff was highly addictive and lethal. And it would become something akin to chemical warfare against American citizens, if some brilliant souls decided that they could make even more money if they used cheaper and synthetic materials to make larger batches of the stuff. They were already up to their armpits with the crack cocaine epidemic—a drug that had morphed just as this WP21 had the potential to do.

  “So what do you suggest we do, sir?” Denzelle asked. “Because our one advantage is that we have the rare opportunity to stop this before it starts.”

  Greg’s first choice was to be waiting for the bishops when their feet touched American soil, dangling a Bible in one hand and handcuffs in the other. But that would be jumping ahead of the game. While he could get a few wayward souls, he risked missing the chance to catch the “big dawgs” and annihilate the entire operation. Greg knew that the best thing he could do was give them some rope, wait, and watch. He said, “Agent Flowers, we are going to let them get the stuff the best way they can. I suspect they will have to use more than one strategy because they do not know what the heck they are doing. And that’s a good thing. Because it will lead us straight to the people who will be going crazy to get in on this operation. Folks like the Dinkle brothers in western North Carolina, who have connections with the Southern-based drug cartel leaders who have been slipping by us for years.”