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  Another pastor in the group made a silent commitment to the Lord to cast his delegate vote for Rev. Eddie Tate. He was tired of this kind of mess in his church. And he hoped with all of his heart that the presence of a man like Eddie Tate would help the other decent bishops put a stop to the kind of mess that he’d just witnessed.

  The Eighth District was considered one of the most peaceful, prosperous, and well-run districts in the denomination, thanks to the anointed administrative skills of Bishop Murcheson James. Bishop James had gotten rid of all the incompetent and problem pastors during his first tenure as bishop of this district. And he worked hard to make sure that each man or woman coming into the ministry via the Eighth Episcopal District was saved and determined to make Jesus Lord of his or her life, that each strove to live in the manner Paul outlined in 1 Timothy 3, got a BA degree, got trained by the Board of Ministerial Studies in the denomination, and then got a divinity degree from an accredited master’s degree program.

  These requirements had caused a big stink when Bishop James first proposed and then implemented them. And to be sure, some of the “bad eggs” among the Eighth District’s preachers ran to other districts. But once things were in place the district flourished, the membership rolls were increasing in all the churches, tithes were up, and they were beginning to witness a mighty move of the Lord among the church folk.

  But when God’s people are doing the right thing en masse, it is inevitable that the Devil will get mad and busy, working overtime to start some mess. So it came as no surprise that the last folks the Eighth District wanted at their pre–Triennial Conference planning meeting would make it their business to be there. However, as Percy Jennings was known to say, “God has a wonderful sense of humor.” And the Lord certainly got a good and hearty laugh at the expense of these ne’er-do-wells.

  Most of the troublemakers were trifling and not prone to reading any booklets or newsletters with information about any changes that might affect them. And what they didn’t know was that whatever district planning meeting a pastor chose to announce his candidacy for bishop, that pastor would have to give a finance report to that district. It had taken some maneuvering to get this policy passed by the Board of Bishops. But Percy Jennings, the senior bishop, pulled off this coup when he called for a vote during a time when he knew his opponents would be getting into trouble in Bishop Thomas Lyle Jefferson’s Fourteenth District, when they went to the Bahamas for some alleged R & R.

  Eddie and Theophilus were cracking up with laughter at Sonny and Marcel when the latter two discovered that they would have to give the Eighth District a report on Sonny Washington’s campaign activities. And to add insult to injury, the report would have to be approved by both Bishop James and Bishop Jennings. Plus, Sonny would have to give them information about the “fund-raising” efforts that had gone on at the back of the church during that service the night before.

  Knowing that Sonny’s report was going to take some time, Eddie volunteered to come before the committee, which consisted of Bishops James and Jennings, three pastors, and three presiding elders out of District Eight. Since Eddie had just announced his intent to run, his presentation was short and complete with a written report that outlined expenses and any funds that had been collected and spent to date.

  Most of Eddie’s campaign funds came from fund-raising activities that took place outside of normal church functions. Any money raised and donated by the church had been voted on and cleared by his church’s Steward Board, collected by the stewards, and then given to Eddie via a check. This check had not been written to Eddie but to the campaign fund account Theophilus asked his own Steward Board to set up and monitor. It was a smart plan, with checks and balances, and a record of money collected and money spent.

  So far Eddie had raised $75,000 in the three months since he had committed to running for bishop. Twenty-five thousand dollars had come from the Steward Board’s fund-raisers, $15,000 had come from private donations, and $35,000 had come from a big raffle for a brand-new Chevy Monte Carlo that had been donated to the campaign by Eddie’s wife Johnnie’s brother, who owned a car dealership on the South Side of Chicago.

  Sonny came to the podium trying to look cool, but started sweating in his pink “Easter suit” and tugging at his shirt collar when Percy Jennings started flipping through Sonny’s hastily prepared ten-page report that told them absolutely nothing. It was obvious to even the most untrained ministerial eye that this report had been written to be convoluted, boring, and so hard to follow that whoever was reading it would throw up his hands, throw the report across the room, and move on to the next candidate.

  But Percy Jennings, who had worked for the IRS many years ago, had a remarkable amount of patience with matters such as these. He said, “Rev. Washington, my mind should be on this report, but it keeps wandering to a song by the King of Soul, James Brown. Every time you open your mouth I want to start singing, ‘Talkin’ loud and sayin’ nothin’.’ ’Cause that is exactly what you have been doing the whole time you’ve been before this committee.”

  Percy glanced around at the men seated at the conference table with him.

  “Am I right on this, preachers?”

  “You ’bout to take it to the bridge,” Murcheson said, laughing because he was definitely enjoying this. He gave Sonny a hard stare and said, “Now, Rev. Washington, I notice you, like Rev. Tate, were able to raise some funds before officially announcing that you were running for bishop. And based on the report on this table, you’ve raised $37,000 so far—that is, if we don’t include the unknown amount you collected last night.

  “Aside from you being $39,678.89 in the hole, I am confused about a few things you put down. I am thinking that you will want to deduct the $8,200 worth of tailor-made suits off of your taxes as a business expense—which I do understand. But what confuses me is why these items are necessary to your campaign. I’ve been watching you for a long time, and I’ve never known you to be poorly dressed and looking like you needed some new clothes to run for bishop. You want to enlighten an old country preacher like myself on these matters?”

  Sonny shifted from foot to foot, suddenly wishing he had not worn this brand-new and obviously very expensive suit. He was looking good and as if he had a bunch of money, which he did. Just last night at least ten women had put hundred-dollar bills in his hands for the campaign. One woman waited until Glodean went to the ladies’ room. She slid over to Sonny and said, “Bishop, watching you shout like you did when the choir was singing last night really did something special to me. And if I were a delegate, you’d have my vote. But since I ain’t, I’ll make sure you get my money. And if there is anything else I can do for you, Bishop—and I mean anything—you let me know.”

  She slipped one of her hotel room keys into Sonny’s hand, wrapped in five one-hundred dollar bills, and then hurried off when she saw Glodean.

  “Now,” Percy continued. “Rev. Washington, help me understand why you felt it necessary to spend $1,800 on your hair. I know that you are still wearing a Jheri curl. But since the back of your collar isn’t greasy and dripping with curl activator, I don’t see where your money is going with regard to your hair.”

  While Sonny searched for a plausible answer a woman with gold-frosted hair stood up to reveal a big round behind trapped in some very tight skinny-leg jeans. She said, “Pastor needed to spend that money because he has a campaign travel team. I’m his hairdresser. He has to pay me to keep his hair cut and trimmed, touch up that perm, get rid of the gray, and make sure that he has all of the right hair-care products while on the road. And Pastor has to pay for my travel expenses, along with my salary. You know running for bishop is like trying to be a congressman or senator. You need a whole team.”

  “Is that so, Miss…”

  “Heidi Johnson, Bishop Jennings. Miss Heidi Johnson.”

  Murcheson tried not to laugh but couldn’t keep it in. If that sister looked like a “Heidi,” he looked as if he and President Ronald Reagan
were first cousins.

  Heidi was barely five feet tall. She was shapely but thick. She was brown and had a head full of gold-frosted weave. And the girl had a booty hanging off the back of her that seemed more suited for somebody named “Lil’ Pooh.”

  “And,” Heidi continued, “Pastor got some pretty clothes, and he needs somebody like my cousin, Tarleetha, to handle his wardrobe—taking suits to the cleaners, alterations, laundry, and so forth.”

  “Wow,” was all Percy could say, as he prepared to go in for the kill where Sonny Washington and this suspect budget were concerned. But before he could open his mouth there was a warm stirring in his heart that gave him cause to pause long enough to know that the Lord didn’t want him to venture down that road just yet. So he retreated, content to let the Lord fight this battle. Percy knew that if God told him to wait, there was a whole lot worth waiting for.

  Eddie Tate’s members and supporters were sitting in the sanctuary wondering when it had become fashionable for dumb folk to run for bishop. Rev. Tate was a big and bodacious man. He was also very smart and knew the denomination’s discipline and bylaws the way he knew his Social Security number. Plus, Eddie knew black church people, along with the nuances of how church policy was implemented in the Gospel United Church from state to state and in the Caribbean and Africa.

  Most of the folks in the First, Fifth, Sixth, and Eighth Episcopal Districts knew that Rev. Eddie Tate was the best candidate for bishop and that he could be counted on to bring about some much-needed change in the denomination. Business as usual just wasn’t working anymore. And there were too many bishops who were not right or were too comfortable with riding the fence between right and wrong.

  Until now Theophilus had not been all that committed to running Eddie’s campaign. And Eddie hadn’t been enthusiastic about running for bishop, despite the fact that increasing numbers of pastors from around the country were coming forth and endorsing him, and the delegates were openly pledging their votes. But after sitting here and watching a preaching pimp like Sonny Washington try to run a Boston on the entire church, Eddie and Theophilus decided that it was high time they got girded up in the Lord, and charged up about this run for bishop.

  TWELVE

  It was less than three weeks before the Triennial General Conference. The hustle was on at Evangeline T. Marshall University, the place where this event would take place. All the nearby hotel rooms were sold out, even the ones on the Wake Forest, North Carolina, side of Raleigh. With the shortage of rooms, some folks were forced to find rooms as far away as Henderson, North Carolina, and Greensboro. To help give relief to conference attendees, the denomination decided to go old-school and contract with folks in the area to open up their homes.

  In the 1960s Rev. Theophilus Simmons had won kudos for designing a wonderful home hosting program. It was only in the last six years that the church had allowed this program to fall by the wayside. But now they were short and Theophilus appointed Obadiah Quincey, a Durham native, to oversee this project. And Obadiah didn’t let them down. The young preacher used his considerable connections in Durham County, along with his computer skills, to create a program and manual that could be used across the entire denomination. It was this demonstration of administrative skills that put Obadiah in the running to get a church in Chapel Hill, so that he and Lena could finally come back home.

  While everyone was preparing for the trip to Durham, Cleotis Clayton was already there, working with Big Dotsy Hamilton to make all the necessary connections with Durham’s most respectable criminal element. Cleotis didn’t have patience for anyone trying to perpetrate a reputation. He needed people who would walk the walk and not just talk bad. He also wanted folks with a steady and available supply of capital for their enterprises. It was never a good idea to work with broke crooks. He had tried that back in the sixties and ended up doing a short stint in prison as a result.

  Despite his criminal record, Cleotis had managed to remain a licensed mortician. One of the ways he and Dotsy had initially come up with to get WP21 into North Carolina was to create a way for bodies to come into the state for Eva T.’s budding medical examiners’ studies program. But they couldn’t come up with a plausible reason for shipping bodies in from Africa without sending out red flags to the authorities in every government agency monitoring shipping the deceased to the United States.

  Cleotis needed another way to get WP21 in fast. The only person on Earth who could help him was Chief over in Mozambique. So he called the brother, wired him a chunk of American money, and hoped that Chief’s plan to send the stuff over in a bunch of traditional outfits one of the preachers working for Chief’s family planned on selling at the conference would work. Chief made good on his promise and got the supply to Cleotis in record time. But it wasn’t enough. Plus, after the second shipment arrived the airport authorities started getting curious and began nosing around their stuff.

  They had enough to get started, but not nearly enough of the WP21 to make this plan work once the conference was off and running. Cleotis, following Big Dotsy’s advice, took some of the powder in the second shipment to try to figure out how they could make this stuff on their own. And since they still needed more to come in from Africa, he was able to route a few more shipments through Europe and Canada, and then down to the US.

  This time the powder came in with some mail-order items from a Canadian “company” run by one of Big Dotsy’s old contacts. This plan had actually worked out just fine with regard to getting past the authorities. But all of that making-the-trail-grow-cold activity cost too much money. There were just too many people to pay off to make getting WP21 into the country this way work. At some point they would start losing money, and end up in the hole. The last thing Cleotis and Big Dotsy wanted was to be in debt to some men who reminded them of some criminals in a Charles Bronson movie.

  So Cleotis and Dotsy found themselves struggling with figuring out how to make the drug on their own. Cleotis had a basic knowledge of what the stuff was made of. He didn’t know how many watermelons were used, how many different kinds were blended to make the powder, if there was anything else that went into the powder, or if something else was used to minimize the aftereffects of the drug.

  The last time Cleotis was in Mozambique, he had noticed that Chief, Uncle Lee Lee, and their male kinfolk didn’t appear to experience the same withdrawal symptoms that he and his people had experienced. And judging from the way they walked—as if they all had a special kind of weight causing them to stroll with exceptional swagger—they didn’t seem to be suffering from any of the more severe side effects, either. And he knew that they had been taking that drug regularly for many years.

  They had to be taking something else with WP21. Or they had altered the formula. Or they were doing both. And it was this missing piece that made WP21 work at the optimal level. But since Cleotis didn’t have a clue what the missing link was (especially since Chief had been curt and dismissive when he asked these questions), he and Big Dotsy would to do the best they could.

  Cleotis and Dotsy had yet to piece that formula together, and now the Triennial Conference was only ten days away. The hotels were filled to the brim, which meant that more and more potential customers, with plenty of money to spend, were landing at the Raleigh-Durham Airport every day. They had to do better, and do it fast.

  By the time the conference was four days away, the campaign booths had sprung up all over the Evangeline T. Marshall University campus. Eddie Tate’s people had come in before him, and they were running the booth and campaigning hard for the first wave of uncommitted delegates who had come in early for some preliminary meetings.

  Eddie’s wife, Johnnie, had flown out to Durham a week earlier. Prior to marrying Eddie, Johnnie had worked in food service alongside Theophilus’s big sister, Thayline. The two had been friends for years, and Thayline, who was a fabulous cook, had a recipe for homemade Neapolitan ice cream that was to die for. She and Johnnie got in touch with the Eva T. Marshal
l food service manager and were able to convince her to help them produce the ice cream, promising to tithe 15 percent of the sales back to the Home Economics Department at the university.

  The ice cream was a hit. Folks came by Eddie’s booth for samples, and then left with gallons in hand, grinning because the ice cream was so good. Johnnie and Thayline were making a whole lot of money with this campaign fund-raiser. They were drawing folks to the booth. And the Tate for Bishop campaign committee was able to reach the people when Thayline’s husband, Willis, did his presentation on Rev. Eddie Tate while they were waiting on their ice cream orders to be filled.

  But their booth was not the only popular one with people lined up waiting to get some goodies and then some information on the candidate. It appeared as if Marcel Brown had the magic touch with a lot of the male delegates. But they couldn’t figure out why since they never saw anything other than campaign paraphernalia being distributed. Plus, there was no music (Eddie’s booth was jamming all of the hottest gospel tunes), and Marcel didn’t even seem to be saying all that much to get folks excited about Sonny Washington. But they were doing something. And it was enough to make the Eddie Tate campaign committee concerned, especially when Cleotis Clayton seemed to be ever-present at the Washington booth throughout the day.

  There just didn’t seem to be a legitimate reason for Cleotis to be in Durham, and at a campaign booth for someone running for bishop of all places. He was still a longstanding member of Greater Hope Gospel United Church in Memphis—which was the congregation Theophilus had pastored before he was assigned to Freedom Temple in St. Louis. But he had not demonstrated that he had experienced such a change of heart that the next natural thing for him to do was work a campaign booth for a church-based election. And Sonny Washington’s being married to Cleotis’s first cousin, Glodean, wasn’t a good enough reason for him to be there either.