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  “Maybe that’s why I’ve never wanted to know where it is or go there,” Marcel mumbled to himself, thinking that it had been a while since he and Cleotis had crossed paths. In fact, the last time they had been face-to-face had been on their very first trip to Africa. It didn’t seem as if it had been that long. But they hadn’t laid eyes on one another in years.

  Marcel frowned. He thought about how Cleotis had stood back and watched his then-fiancée, Saphronia Anne McComb, jump on him and bang his head on a hard wooden floor because she was so angry over his cheating on her. Marcel would never understand women. They got so bent out of shape when they found out you were sleeping with someone other than themselves. That was so stupid. Women needed to understand that some of them were wives, and some were the women men slept with on the side when they were bored with their wives.

  Cleotis had filled out, and was buffed up as if he was eating right, sleeping well, and staying out of trouble. It was obvious that he had made good use of the correctional institution’s athletic training program when he was in prison. He used to look like a black, semi-churchgoing Shaggy from the Scooby-Doo cartoon series. Now he looked like one of the brothers the other prisoners made it their business to defer to whenever he came on the scene.

  Marcel had always thought that Cleotis was ugly, especially with that conked Jackie Wilson hairstyle he used to wear. But standing before them wearing an expensive rust-colored silk leisure suit, rust alligator shoes, a slender gold chain hanging around his neck, and the freshly done fade haircut, Cleotis almost looked like a man capable of pulling some fine women his way. And that was a very good thing because this business venture, like most of their failed ventures, required an arsenal of fine women.

  Cleotis Clayton had just returned from Nigeria. Bishop Giles had sent him over there when Marcel and Sonny threw temper tantrums about going, complaining that they couldn’t stomach “King Negro.” Cleotis couldn’t stand King Negro either. But if there was one thing prison had taught him, it was to lay his personal likes and dislikes aside when there was important business at hand.

  Cleotis poured himself some of that irresistible watermelon wine. He downed his wine, barely blinking, and glanced down at his watch. As if on cue, his new help came walking through the door, grinning and running his mouth like he was the brains behind this huge undertaking.

  Rico Sneed of Durham, North Carolina, could not believe his good fortune. He had been doing what he called “dirty work” jobs for several years. Rico earned good money on the side designing computer programs for folk who knew little if anything about computers, and needed everything they didn’t want others to know about put in order and formatted on a personal computer.

  It was rare for Rico to come face-to-face with the people he worked for. Usually it was just a go-between who brought the computer to him and then picked it up when he was done. And now he’d come up in the world because tonight he was dealing directly with the most notorious preachers with something to hide. Rico could hardly contain himself, and tried to think of something to say that would make him stand out from Cleotis Clayton.

  Cleotis kept right on talking as if Rico weren’t even there. He needed Rico, and hated that he did. But they had to have someone from Durham working for them. Not only did Rico have the expertise to develop a sophisticated computer system for the business, he also knew where they should be located, whom to hire to help them out, and how best to proceed when they got to Durham, North Carolina. The only problem with Rico, other than his being a jive-time punk, was that he was an opportunist and the biggest phony Cleotis had ever met.

  But all in all, this new business was a go. They had a location, people to help them run it, and a growing customer base. Rico had painstakingly gone through every district’s roster of preachers, pastors, assistant and associate pastors, and lay members with some kind of administrative responsibilities in their respective districts. He had put all this information on a file for the computer, so that they could identify and categorize potential customers. Plus, he had copied all of the information onto floppy disks so that they could carry the business around in a briefcase or coat pocket.

  This was essential to the business. Everyone in this room knew that an attempt to sell WP21 to the wrong person could spell disaster at this conference. But they would make a whole lot of money if they were successful in identifying the right folks, and approached them with finesse and discretion. They would also be able to lay the groundwork for a business enterprise they could continue to run and use to make even more money once the conference was over. This business could make millionaires out of the key players at this meeting.

  Rico Sneed had set up the system so well that the business was like a very efficient portable office. He could take this business anywhere and set up shop wherever he had access to a computer. But as well as that worked, it wasn’t good enough. Without his own personal computer Rico didn’t have anything other than the floppy disks for designing, storing, cataloging and updating all this important information. The business needed a permanent home in the hard drive of a top-of-the-line personal computer system.

  Rico had been pestering Cleotis to invest in an IBM home computer. Right now he had to sneak and use the computer at his job after hours. If he’d had a home computer he could have done even more with the database because he would have more time to work out all the kinks in the system he was creating.

  There was so much they could do with this technology. But it was an uphill battle trying to explain all of this to the men in this suite. They didn’t want to understand how investing five grand in computer equipment half of them didn’t know how to use would make a difference in setting up and running this business. It also didn’t help Rico’s case that he was expecting them to give him the equipment once the conference was over. That was a whole lot to ask of this group of men, who spent most of their waking hours scheming on how to get, not give up, something for free.

  Bishop Giles examined his copy of the detailed report Rico had put together, copied, and bound for each member of the “committee.” Larsen was impressed with what the young dude had done, even if he didn’t like Rico. The negro grinned too much, and he was always trying to act like more than he was. Plus, Larsen had never cared much for men who invested too much of their spare time and extra money in movies that could not be shown at a reputable theater.

  The bishop had noticed that Rico Sneed spent too much of his time and money in that very vice. And even though the young man was college-educated, gave the outward appearance of being clean-cut, didn’t drink heavily, wasn’t too partial to marijuana, and shunned cocaine, he was grimy—way too grimy for his comfort.

  Larsen had learned the hard way from the late and very infamous Bishop Otis Caruthers, Sr., that it didn’t bode well for a man to get caught up in the activity of watching films you couldn’t watch with other folk. He’d watched his friend go from being corrupt to the point of outright perversion before he died of a massive heart attack and stroke.

  It had hurt Larsen something terrible to watch Otis disintegrate like that, and there wasn’t a thing he’d known to do to help him. If Larsen had been a praying man he would have been on his knees petitioning the Lord to tear down those strongholds in Otis’s life. But he didn’t have a personal relationship with the Lord like that. Larsen Giles knew all about the Lord. But he didn’t know the Lord, and certainly didn’t spend any time trying to make His acquaintance, either. The best he had to work with was what someone else had told him about the Lord. Sadly, after decades in the ministry, Larsen Giles didn’t have a clue concerning how to pray a decent prayer of intercession for the man he loved like a brother when he needed it most.

  When everyone had finished reading over Rico Sneed’s report, carefully reviewing all the numbers, Sonny Washington grinned and said, “We are going to make a killing on this stuff.” He sniffed at the air. “Smell that, Rico?”

  Rico Sneed eyed Rev. Washington curiously and asked, “Smell what
, sir?”

  “Money, boy. What you just gave us smells just like money.”

  Marcel sniffed the air right before he took a long swig of his vodka.

  “Heck yeah… smells like money all over the place to me.”

  While Sonny and Marcel were grinning and drinking and sniffing “money” in the air, Ernest and Larsen were waiting on Cleotis to tell them how they were going to pull this off. It was one thing to get a fancy report from the so-called computer expert. It was another thing for Cleotis to outline what this was going to look like and cost in real life.

  “We will have to use several different ways to get WP21 to the conference,” Cleotis told them as he put a résumé on fancy gray linen paper down on the table before them.

  “What’s this?” Larsen asked as he picked it up. Odd—he’d never seen credentials like this on a formal résumé.

  “What does it look like?” Cleotis shot back. He’d worked with these preachers over many years, and had yet to develop a fondness for them.

  “A résumé for a crook,” was all Larsen said as he handed the résumé to Ernest Brown.

  Ernest read it over quickly and asked, “Is this his real name?”

  “It’s a résumé, Ernest,” Cleotis answered, laughing. “Of course it’s his real name.”

  “So what you’re telling me is that this man’s name is Big Dotsy Hamilton,” Ernest said.

  Cleotis laughed some more. He and Dotsy Hamilton had just recently met via a contact from his days in jail. Cleotis liked the brother a lot. Dotsy was straight up, did what he said he would do, and would not try and double-cross a brother when the deal went down. He’d forgotten that his boy had put “Big” in front of his proper name.

  “His real name is Dotsy Hamilton. He has good connections with the kind of folk we’ll need to help us get WP21 into the conference, and enough of it to help us turn a good profit. Dotsy has said we will not be able to get the drug—”

  “It’s not a drug,” Sonny corrected him. “It’s a supplement.”

  “How about a ‘potion,’ ‘love potion,’” Marcel added. He didn’t think of WP21 as a drug. Because the first thing he thought about when he got his hands on the stuff was that it worked just like a magic potion.

  “I agree with my man here,” Rico stated. “This stuff will go over better with your buyers if folks see it as a potion.”

  Cleotis threw his hands up in the air.

  “Okay,” he exclaimed in exasperation, “it’s a potion—a PO-TION. We’ll call that daggone drug a potion. Now, will that make you negroes happy?”

  These preachers were such butt-holes. And they always thought they knew stuff, even though they didn’t. All of them were sheltered from some of the hardcore realities of everyday life.

  They thought they were bad with some gangsta leans. But Cleotis was the only one who had been to prison, he had friends who were lifers, he’d shot several folks, people had been afraid of him in prison, and he’d killed a man who attacked him while in prison, just to make a point. Cleotis Clayton was one of the few who came out of prison a better man, he had plenty of money, he had managed to get a passport, he looked good and felt good, and he had a good woman in his corner back in Memphis. Now, if there was one thing he knew, it was the difference between a “supplement,” a “potion,” and a drug. “Rev. Washington, WP21 is a drug,” Cleotis said. “Now, you and pretty boy over here”—Cleotis pointed at Marcel—“You all may have taken the stuff and it supplemented you so well, it made you feel like you had just swallowed a magic potion. But make no mistake, this is a drug. And all of you better treat it that way if you are smart and don’t want to end up as a casualty of your own product.”

  Sonny stopped grinning. He did remember having some problems when the powder—no drug—started leaving his system. It had scared the daylights out of him when he got back home and a week passed before he was able to perform for his wife. And Sonny’s wife, Glodean Benson Washington, was not the kind of woman you left hanging after leaving her alone while on a big trip to Africa. When he called Rucker Hemphill about the problem, all the bishop had told him was to take some more. Fortunately for Sonny, he didn’t have enough WP21 to take without risking falling short when he brought a sample to this meeting in Detroit. It was no wonder Rucker was taking the stuff the way he did.

  “Okay, Cleotis, it’s a drug,” Sonny conceded. “But if we want to make money in Durham, we better get used to calling our drug a potion that can work magic.”

  “It’s made from natural products,” Marcel countered. He liked this stuff, and was having a hard time accepting that it was a drug.

  “Natural, like mescaline or real pure marijuana?” Rico asked, never taking his eyes from the Players magazine he was so enamored of.

  “Yeah, nig… negro,” Cleotis snapped, “natural just like that. Now, if you don’t mind…”

  Rico put the magazine down. Gazing at that magazine made him feel bold. He glared at Cleotis and said, “You need to watch your mouth with me.”

  Cleotis didn’t open his mouth. He walked over to where Rico was sitting and flipped him and his chair over onto the floor. He’d learned hard and fast in prison that you didn’t waste time talking when a man was jumping bad on you. It was important to put that man in his place as quickly as possible.

  Rico flailed around for a few seconds and then tried to get up. But Sonny, who had seen the way Cleotis was looking at the young brother, went over to him, put a firm hand on his shoulder, and said, “You need to calm down and stay here a moment, if you know what’s good for you.”

  Rico’s nose flared open and he blew air out of his mouth. Rev. Washington needed to shut up and get out of his face. Because what he needed to do was hop up and deal with this jailbird. Rico made a move to get up, but found himself being held firmly in place by Sonny Washington. It had never occurred to Rico that Rev. Washington was that strong.

  “I said to calm down. Now do as I’ve told you, Rico, before you get hurt.”

  Rico struggled for a few seconds, and then gave it up when Sonny slapped him upside the head.

  “It’s natural,” Marcel was saying again. It was clear that he didn’t think Cleotis knew what he was talking about. “What harm can a natural powder made out of watermelons do to you, to me, or to anybody? Huh, Cleotis?”

  Cleotis didn’t even deign to honor that stupid question with a comment. Marcel had eyes. He’d seen Rucker Hemphill. The man looked bad—like somebody who had been sucking on a crack pipe. Not everybody was affected to that degree by WP21. But one person messed up like that was enough for him.

  They were going to the Triennial General Conference to convince some brothers that using this stuff was the way to paradise—and that the supplement would make them better, not worse. Now, whether or not that was completely true was not an issue for Cleotis. What concerned him, however, was whether this stuff was as addictive as it appeared to be.

  WP21 could enhance a man’s performance and make his woman go gaga when he unveiled the goods. But if you took too much of that stuff, and then couldn’t replenish your system with more, that so-called “magic potion” would backfire on you in the most terrible way. The goods would not only diminish in your sight, they would lose their ability to operate at maximum capacity.

  “Man, what part of natural do you not get, Cleotis?” Marcel demanded. He wanted an answer, and was tired of waiting for this no-good ex-con to answer him.

  Cleotis still refused to answer Marcel Brown. But he did say this to the other three men: “You all are sitting up in this fancy-tailed club, in a fancy-tailed suite that few of the very people you’ve been called to serve can even afford. You might bear a license to wear a purple or a black clerical shirt. But if you go through with this enterprise, you are drug dealers pure and simple. And natural or not, WP21 is a drug—a good drug as far as the street value is concerned, but a drug nonetheless. And with any street drug—”

  “Wait just one daggone minute,” Marcel sa
id, jumping up in Cleotis’s face.

  At first Cleotis flinched and got ready to floor this negro just as he had the other one. But his instinct told him to wait and hear what the fool had to say.

  “You are talking to a bishop, a senior-level pastor, and two upstanding preachers in the Gospel United Church, like we are some common criminals like you…”

  Cleotis thought back to when they had gotten involved with the late Bishop Otis Caruthers with that funeral home brothel fiasco in Richmond, Virginia. He had been leery of working with them then, and he was even more leery of getting tangled up with these crooked fools now. He said, “You think that collar you wear will protect you from Hell, Marcel? You think that wearing a black robe trimmed in red with a cross emblazoned across it will make you right and above the law? Well think again, preacher.”

  Marcel bristled and raised his hand. Even his daddy thought he had gone too far this time. But Ernest was not about to intervene. If Cleotis mopped the floor with that foolish boy, so be it. Ernest was tired, his bank account was too low, and he was ready to retire with some financial security. He was also fed up with always having to bail that boy out—wasting his money on all the foolishness Marcel had been involved in over the years.

  Cleotis backed away from Marcel. He was not going to waste time and energy on this man. Marcel was lazy, dumb, and greedy—a very bad combination. He turned toward Bishop Giles and said, “I have a team of folk in Durham who will help me figure out how to get enough WP21 into the Triennial Conference to make it worth your putting your careers and personal freedom in jeopardy. If this works, we will make a whole lot of money. We just have to do this right, keep it out of the wrong hands, and keep control over our product. My team and I will work out the logistics and get back to you as soon as we can.”