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  The three bishops all agreed that WP21 would prove to be a big success at the conference. While they could make a lot of money with the “import” business, the potion was better, cheaper, and easier to manage. Getting luxury items and selling them at high prices wasn’t an easy venture. Plus, they had to form partnerships with the wrong kind of people to make it all work and turn a profit—thieves and smugglers, who would do whatever they had to do to get the job done.

  Even Ottah Babatunde, who believed it was his due to have the best of the best at bargain-basement prices, was uncomfortable dealing with the men who provided them with their luxury items. Ottah was a crook, but he valued being a preacher, and relished the prestige and level of respectability that came with being a bishop in the Gospel United Church. And more and more he realized that the power brokers in the denomination would not put up with behavior that was too risqué and questionable for a man of the cloth. Those men were straight shooters. They would shut Ottah down, take his district, and revoke his preacher’s license.

  Folks mistakenly believed that Bishop Babatunde was crazy. Ottah had trained under Ray’s dad, Bishop Otis Caruthers, Sr., who really had been crazy. But Ottah Babatunde was not crazy. He was just the meanest black man on either side of the Atlantic Ocean. Rucker and Ray hoped that Ottah would watch himself when he was at the conference. He got away with running a reign of terror on the preachers in his district. But he would feel a foot up his royal behind if he tried to pull that stuff on some brothers in the States.

  When it was clear that everybody was on the same page, they began to make plans. They had to get the potion into the States, and then be able to market and sell it, while at the same time avoiding the close scrutiny of the power brokers in their denomination. They knew that Bishops James and Jennings were like some bloodhounds, and they would sniff out some mess as soon as a whiff of it hit the air. Unfortunately, they didn’t know that their nemeses had already gotten a whiff, and were gearing up to find out just what that smell was.

  Rucker’s district was always under close scrutiny. Percy Jennings was never satisfied with Bishop Hemphill’s reports. It was clear from Rucker’s finely tailored Italians suits, ties, and shoes that he was dropping some serious cash somewhere. Percy wore some very expensive clothes, but he didn’t have anything in his closet to rival what Rucker was wearing whenever he was in the States. The shoes alone were a month’s salary—and that was for somebody with one of those “good jobs.”

  Both Percy and Murcheson knew that Rucker didn’t have anything legal on the side that could bring in that kind of cash. The bishops and preachers in the denomination who were wealthy on their own were usually high-ranking professors or college presidents at prestigious institutions, they owned businesses, some were lawyers, a few were doctors, they were wise investors, or they had wives who had made a mark in their own right. Theophilus Simmons and Eddie Tate were perfect examples. Their churches had huge budgets, and their wives were pulling in some serious cash with their investments and enterprises.

  Johnnie Tate had a business degree, was a financial consultant, and had a high-powered job at one of the big Chicago-area banks. And Essie Simmons had just expanded from having a boutique to hiring designers, and was in the process of building a small factory to produce a line of clothes and hats. Rucker’s wife, on the other hand, stayed at home, was in every wealthy black women’s organization there was, and lived like the wife of a millionaire. She was in the Links, Inc., a regional officer with her sorority, the AKAs, and the only black woman to be invited to join her city’s Junior League.

  It was no secret that the Hemphills had money, and lots of it. The question that was being asked was where was all of the money coming from? And how did they get enough of it to support a lavish home on either side of the Atlantic? Because everybody in the denomination knew that Mrs. Hemphill didn’t like Mozambique. She’d taken one trip over there, walked into the compound, turned up her nose, booked a flight, and come home. And she said that she was never going back—not ever.

  So folks also knew that the bishop was going to try to come home as soon as he could. And this meant that he would do whatever he had to do, to get reassigned to the States. That was not good—not good at all.

  The Gospel United Church was very concerned with what its overseas bishops were up to—and with good reason. The stakes were high going into this next Triennial General Conference. Rucker was going to get back to the States, and he didn’t care how he did it. Ray Caruthers didn’t care about staying in Swaziland for another term but he was always greedy for more money. And Bishop Ottah Babatunde was going to want to get the Americans out of his business, since he couldn’t understand how a bunch of foreign commoners believed they had a right to intrude in on what was happening on Nigerian soil.

  Twice Babatunde had asked for full control of the Nigerian district. And twice Percy had told him that he could control whatever he wanted to control, as long as it was not connected to the Gospel United Church. When Babatunde jumped up in Percy’s face, Bishop Jennings had reached inside his suit coat and said, “Ottah, you have a God-given right to be head of whatever you want to be head of. And if you want to be the ‘Head Despot In Charge’ over the church activities in your native land—you go right ahead and do it. Because, bro-man, you can start your own church any daggone day that you choose. But if you are planning on doing anything in my church, you gone do it my way.”

  Bishop Babatunde was incensed at that meeting. He spat on the floor and said, “I am African royalty. And if you were in my territory, you’d be subject to me.”

  At that point Percy Jennings, who was a slightly built, light-skinned brother in that five-eight-to-five-nine range, walked over to Ottah and got up in that big African’s face. He said, “Negro, if I were in your country, I’d still mop this floor up with your raunchy behind. But since you in my country, I suggest you take your funky royal tail out of this meeting, and hightail it back home before something real bad happens to you.”

  The other bishops had been quiet the entire time. One or two had exchanged words with Ottah on occasion. A few were getting some kickbacks from him. But none of them had ever jumped up in his face like Percy just did. That day Percy Jennings scored some serious points with his colleagues, and even his enemies had a new level of respect for their senior presiding bishop.

  As much as they were being watched by their own church folk, the Seventeenth, Eighteenth, and Nineteenth Districts were also being watched by one other group of folk. The FBI had been trailing a dope-and-smuggling ring that was headquartered in the Northeast, with two satellite command centers somewhere on the Eastern Seaboard. They knew the goods were being acquired from Europe. But the trail always went cold when they followed it over there.

  Just recently, one of the few brothers assigned to this case began to wonder if that trail would pick up in a warmer spot like Africa. It was the perfect detour, and in a place where the white agents couldn’t easily infiltrate. Plus, Agent Gregory Williams had also discerned that the African trail was leading them to territories with a visible black American presence through the Gospel United Church—Swaziland, Nigeria, and, most importantly, Mozambique.

  It had taken Greg Williams weeks to connect the dots on this. But he started getting some disconcerting news from one of his informants—a disgruntled preacher who was struggling to hold on to his church in the Seventeenth Episcopal District in the Gospel United Church. Agent Williams knew that this district was run by Bishop Rucker Hemphill, who had all kinds of luxury items, including some high-powered guns a preacher shouldn’t have in his possession.

  From what the preacher told him, Hemphill had plenty of money, despite the fact that he was assigned to a district with limited resources. The Seventeenth District’s headquarters looked like something out of a James Bond movie, where the evil Dr. Somebody-or-Another resided at the expense of the native residents. Plus, the preacher kept talking about some kind of watermelon-based herbal powder that
did some mighty interesting things to a brother. At first glance it just appeared to be some home-remedy type of exotic aphrodisiac. But on closer look this potion, if made with some man-made ingredients, had the potential to become a lucrative street drug.

  Something was not right. The denomination knew it, and the feds knew it, too. They both needed a person who was not a potential threat to Bishop Hemphill, to go over and check things out. Not that the bishop would tell this brother anything. But if it were the right brother, he wouldn’t have to. The two organizations ended up selecting the same person to do this job—Field Agent/Rev. Denzelle Flowers, a unique combination of professional skills and training if there ever was one.

  Denzelle Flowers was one of those ultra-cool and super-smart brothers. He had finished his bachelor’s degree in religion and earned a master’s of divinity from Evangeline T. Marshall University in four years, while also serving as a star player on the school’s basketball team. He had finished his ordination training in record time, and was now doing his apprenticeship in Chicago under Rev. Eddie Tate.

  Rev. Flowers was recruited into the FBI by Agent Gregory Williams while he was still an undergraduate student at Eva T. He graduated in the top two percent of his FBI class, and had been given special permission to serve as both a preacher and an agent. It had taken some fancy, Michael-Jackson-quality footwork for Greg Williams to convince the higher-ups that they would do well to have Denzelle well placed in the community. And what better placement could he have than as a preacher, with his finger on the pulse point of what was happening. Right now Agent Williams, who was also Denzelle’s supervisor, thought it wise to work with Rev. Flowers’s church and send the brother to get the inside scoop on what was happening in Mozambique.

  Gregory knew the senior bishop in Denzelle’s denomination was not happy with the bishops in the motherland. And Bishop Jennings was more than happy to have one of his preachers go over there for the church and the FBI. Talk about a blessing in disguise—a brother with a clerical collar at his neck, and a standard-issue FBI gun anchored on his hip.

  As far as Percy was concerned, it didn’t hurt that Denzelle was ordained to enforce the law. And for Gregory, it sure did help to have an agent who was ordained to call on the name of the Lord—especially since that agent was sent to scope out some crazy-acting preachers.

  The day Chief and Uncle Lee Lee decided to bring Rucker out for another visit to the farm, Percy Jennings was putting Denzelle on a plane to Mozambique, with the blessings of Agent Williams. On that day, Rucker Hemphill received a call that made his day about a trip to the farm to discuss the business. And five minutes after hanging up the phone he received another call that made his blood run cold in his veins.

  Rucker almost peed in his pants when he heard Percy Jennings’s voice on the telephone. Percy never called Mozambique for anything other than to run a check on Rucker. And this time he was calling to tell the bishop that he was sending someone to check up on what was happening in the Seventeenth District. Chief had already told him in that first phone call that an FBI agent was scheduled to come their way. Rucker hoped that the preacher and the agent didn’t cross paths. The last thing he needed was to be checked up on by one of the senior bishop’s cronies, and a federal agent, too. Little did he know that his worst nightmare, Rev. Agent Denzelle Flowers, was about to step off a plane.

  SIX

  Rucker Hemphill was no longer anxious about Bishop Jennings’s sending Rev. Flowers to his district. Now, he didn’t appreciate having a junior-level preacher, who wasn’t even a full-fledged pastor of his own church, being sent to check up on him. But it could have been worse. Instead of suffering through an official fact-finding visit from a rookie preacher, he could have been on the receiving end of a question-and-answer session with the FBI agent.

  Rucker was so happy that he didn’t have to deal with the feds, he thought about going to get the good Rev. Flowers from the airport himself. But he quickly tossed that notion back to wherever it came from, and sent Chief instead. He wasn’t in a mood to be bothered with the young preacher, and would savor the time he had left before he arrived at the compound.

  While Chief was on his way to the airport, Rucker had come up with all kinds of schemes to get rid of Denzelle Flowers. He settled on a rogue version of the kill-’em-with-kindness strategy. Rucker figured that rolling out the red carpet would make the good Rev. Flowers feel so comfortable and at home he would pay little attention to what was going on around him. If Rucker could accomplish that, he would go a step further and slip the good reverend enough bills to discourage him from wanting to talk to Percy Jennings about his trip to Africa.

  Denzelle wanted to come to visit Bishop Rucker Hemphill in Mozambique about as much as Rucker wanted him standing around the compound’s storage room the day the luxury delivery man came to town. Denzelle had fussed and carried on about being ordered to take this trip so much, he received a formal reprimand twice—once from Percy and once from Greg Williams. Truth was, Mozambique was not on Denzelle’s must-see list of places to go. The arsenal of immunization shots and malaria pills alone was enough to make a brother want to stay at home.

  Just thinking about that long plane ride over all of that water almost caused poor Denzelle to clean out his desk, turn in his robe and collar, then turn in his badge (he wasn’t going to turn in that gun) and tell his bishop and his boss to forget it. And he came real close to blurting that out the day Bishop Jennings put the first-class plane ticket in his hand and said, “You are going to Mozambique, son.”

  “Sir,” Denzelle said, desperately hoping that something he said would discourage the bishop from wasting good denominational money sending him on this trip. “Do you honestly think that Bishop Rucker Lee Hemphill is going to let me, a rookie preacher, in on what’s going on just because I’m there?”

  “What I think,” Percy answered, “is that Rucker will do everything he knows how to do to make your stay there so good, you will not want to see anything, hear anything, or tell me a thing when you get back.

  “But you didn’t earn those high scores at Langley, become a sharpshooter, and carry around two Bibles—one loaded with the Word of God, and another with the inside carved out to hold extra clips for that piece strapped up under your arm—to be duped by a poot-butt like Rucker Hemphill.”

  Denzelle chuckled at the bishop’s description of Rucker Hemphill. But he still wondered why his senior bishop believed he was the one to send to the Seventeenth Episcopal District. Did Bishop Jennings honestly believe he could hop on a plane to Mozambique and then boom, the information would run free and rampant as soon as he got through customs?

  Percy wasn’t paying that young buck any mind. He’d been in this business a long time. And the one thing he’d learned over the years was that unrighteous preachers always did something to tell on themselves. They couldn’t help it—something about trying to get over on the Lord always jammed them up. Some of these preachers couldn’t get over on each other. What made them think they could pull one over on the Creator of the entire universe?

  He knew the Lord. And Percy knew the Lord had laid it on his heart to send Denzelle to Mozambique, even though he also knew Denzelle dreaded taking that long flight over to Africa. Percy knew Denzelle had law-enforcement eyes and instinct reinforced by Holy Ghost–inspired direction. Percy knew the God he served was able and never failed. And Percy knew that if God called him to send Denzelle Flowers over there, God would give the young brother every piece of information he needed and then some.

  Galatians 6:7–9 came searing into Percy’s heart and mind, causing him to stop for a second to digest what the Lord had seen fit to bless him with. He said, “Denzelle, Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows. The one who sows to please his sinful nature, from that nature will reap destruction; the one who sows to please the Spirit, from the Spirit will reap eternal life. Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not
give up.”

  Denzelle wasn’t sure if what the bishop had just said fit with what they were talking about concerning Bishop Hemphill. He didn’t know how to respond, and nodded as if he and Bishop Jennings were seeing eye-to-eye on the subject.

  Percy just looked at that rookie preacher and chuckled. That boy really thought he could slide by an old-school church player like himself. He said, “Boy, you don’t have a clue about where I’m coming from. Do you?”

  “No sir, Bishop,” Denzelle answered contritely.

  “Son, you and I love the Lord. We fear Him, we honor Him, and we respect Him. And with the help of the precious Holy Ghost, we do our best to obey the Lord. Son, we know that God knows our very thoughts and the exact timbre and tone of the beat of our hearts. We know that He knows the subtlest of nuances in the deepest depths of our hearts. He can catch a tear before it even rises high enough to trail down our cheeks. And we know that you cannot get over on the Lord. And if you are dumb enough to try, especially if you are a preacher, you are making a mockery of Him. So know that God will not be mocked and you will reap what you sow.

  “Are you following me now, Denzelle?”

  “Yes, sir,” Denzelle answered, still not sold that he was the one with the skills to get the goods on an old coyote like Rucker Hemphill.

  “Son, you have the Lord, a gun, a badge, a collar, a Bible, a thumbs-up from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and an official letter from the highest-ranking bishop in the Gospel United Church. Honestly, Denzelle, what else do you think you’ll need to do what you have to do over there? Rucker is just an asthma breath short of being a crook. He is slick and he is greedy. But what he is not, and will never be, is wise enough to hide the truth from someone who can cut through some bull with a plastic church knife like yourself.”