“No, and so far, they aren’t telling.”
Walter and Myk spent the next hour sifting through faxes, reports, and notes sent in by NIA operatives on various projects. There were photos of snitches to ID, names of dealers that needed cross-referencing in Federal law enforcement data banks, budget requests to consider, and a lot of other issues demanding attention that would have overwhelmed someone lacking Myk’s organizational expertise; but he had an eye for detail, and a calm about his leadership that kept everything and everybody up to speed.
Myk lifted his head and sniffed the air in his office a few times. “Is that chicken frying?”
Walter lifted his nose to the wind. “Smells like it to me.”
Myk went over to the monitors and brought up the kitchen. There she stood, frying fork in one hand, yelling at the game on TV. “Why is she watching football?”
“Says she’s a fan.”
Myk turned and stared. “Really?”
“Said her uncles started taking her to games when she was eight.”
They could see her banging her fork on the counter. Myk hit the button to bring up the room’s sound just in time to hear her yell, “Catch the damn ball! A squirrel with one arm could’ve caught that pass!”
Myk looked over at Walter, who asked with a slow grin, “I take it, Saint didn’t tell you about this part?”
As they continued to watch her berate the home team for its inability to score on fourth and goal, Myk answered, “I think Saint didn’t tell me about a lot of things.”
Dinner consisted of jambalaya, fried chicken wings, and the lightest corn bread Myk had ever tasted. “I knew you could cook breakfast, but you can cook, can’t you?”
Sarita smiled mockingly. “No kidding.”
Walter was too busying savoring his jambalaya to state an opinion, but his silence said it all. “Mmmm,” was all anyone heard.
After dinner, Myk and Walter helped with the cleanup, and soon, the dishwasher was loaded, the leftovers were put away, and the kitchen was as spotless as before.
Myk and Walter excused themselves to head back upstairs, and Sarita settled into the recliner in the den and clicked on the TV. The home team had lost, again, and the local news had just begun. The female reporter, one of the best in the city, was doing a special report on a rash of crack house busts. Sarita sat forward. This was her first real look at the news since her confinement, and she hadn’t heard anything about the busts. According to the reporter, over the last eight weeks, there been sixteen similar incidents in various parts of the city. What made the busts unusual and, therefore, newsworthy was that they weren’t being conducted by law enforcement. Witnesses to the raids talked of seeing masked men dressed all in black, hauling out dealers and throw ing them into dark-colored vans with black-tinted windows, and driving away. Also unusual was the fact that once the houses were raided, they stayed closed down; the dealers didn’t move back in the next day and set up operations again as often happened. When the reporter canvassed the people in the affected neighborhoods, most had nothing but praise for the mysterious men in black. A spokesman for the police department denied that the operations were theirs and said vigilantes weren’t what the city needed. The citizens didn’t agree. The folks interviewed on camera didn’t care who the men were or where they came from, but expressed hope that they’d come back and clean out the rest. One elderly man was so happy that the house next door to him and his seventy-six-year-old wife had been raided, he had tears in his eyes. He told the reporter the masked men had been sent by God and that he hoped Judgment Day would come to every dope dealer in the city.
After the reporter signed off, Sarita made a note to ask Silas when she saw him tomorrow if the men had visited any of the dealers in their neighborhood. Like the people in the report, she was all for whoever these men were, vigilantes or not, and like the old man, she also hoped they paid a visit to every dope house in the city.
Sarita clicked over to the Sunday night football game and settled in to watch. She wondered how much longer Chandler and Walter would be working, but more importantly what they were working on. Was Walter tied in with Chandler and Saint? Probably, her inner voice answered. She thought about the report on the dope busters and thought it sounded like something Saint would be a part of. She went still. A chill ran over her skin. Sarita knew she was jumping to conclusions; she had absolutely no proof to link Saint and Chandler to anything but the diamonds, but what if? Sarita’s grandmother had often chided Sarita for having a too-vivid imagination sometimes, and right now that imagination was working overtime trying to come up with a scenario that fit into what she’d seen on the news. Nothing came. Sarita knew her foster brother well, and all that masked man stuff really smelled like Saint. She’d rarely asked him for details on what he really did for a living because most of the time she didn’t want to know, but now, suddenly she did.
Sarita ran her hands over her eyes. She needed to go home and get away from all this intrigue. Maybe the only reason she was trying to tie Saint to the masked vigilantes was because she was losing her mind from being locked up. She drew in a calming breath and forced her imagination to go away so she could watch the game.
At the end of the first quarter Chandler and Walter came into the den. Chandler had on his coat. “I need to go over and check on one of the construction sites. The security company called and said an alarm’s going off.”
“How long will you be?”
He shrugged. “Couple hours? No idea. Walter’s going to stay with you until I get back.”
Sarita’s eyes strayed to Walter.
Chandler said, “I don’t want you here by yourself.”
“I’m not going to disappear.”
“That’s not the reason. It’s a safety issue.”
She eyed the men and thought about the two dead women. “Okay. Well, if you’re not back by the time I head to bed, I’ll see you in the morning. We’re still going to the center, right?”
“Right.”
Their eyes held. He said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Without a further word, he headed to the door.
Sarita and Walter had a good time watching the game. He was amazed by her knowledge of the game’s intricacies, and she found him a good game-watching companion. They popped popcorn, drank soft drinks, and second-guessed the coaches and officials.
It was after eleven when the game ended. Sarita said good night, and left Walter in the den watching the sports news.
Twelve
After school, the center’s parking lot was usually packed with children, but when Chandler pulled the car up to the curb and cut the engine, Sarita didn’t see anyone playing outside. She assumed they were all inside to avoid the midforties temperature.
Sarita stepped out of the car, and the moment her feet touched the ground, she felt home. Looking around at the familiar grayness of the neighborhood, she didn’t see the run-down houses or the boarded-up stores; instead she saw the beautiful red and gold mums still blooming in Mrs. Kennedy’s front yard; the familiar wooden rocking chair on Mr. Wilson’s porch. He wasn’t sitting in it, but would have been if the weather were warmer. She looked across the street, and seeing all the birds perched on the rim of Viola Boston’s birdbath made her smile. During the winter Viola was known for coming out in her housecoat and pouring hot water into the birdbath so that her babies, as she called them, wouldn’t freeze. Sarita had grown up here, buried her uncles and grandmother here with the help of the church. Her neighbors, of all ages, were her family. Being here meant she could step back into herself and live a true life once again.
Myk watched her look up and down the street. He could almost touch the emotion she was radiating. For a few moments, she simply stood there, silent, taking in first one house, then another. He stayed quiet and still; watching her. In less than two weeks he’d learned a bit about the Sarita who posed as his wife, but knew very little about the Sarita who ran this center. It was this woman that he needed to kn
ow the most. This was what defined her.
She finally looked his way. “Come on. Let’s go in.”
The perimeter of the old brick building was surrounded by a fifteen-foot-high, wire fence, so she and Chandler had to walk down the sidewalk to the only opening in the wire to enter. While the October wind whipped at their faces and blew up the edges of his black cashmere coat like a flag, they crossed the cracked asphalt parking lot that doubled as the playground, then over to the door.
Myk pulled the heavy industrial door open for her to enter first, and they were almost bowled over by the Cobb twins barreling outside. Ten-year-old Tracey and her sister Sally immediately stopped dead in their tracks. Both gave Sarita a curious look. “Miss Sarita?”
“Yep, it’s me.”
They checked her out in the expensive leather coat and the high-heeled boots, and decided, “You look different.”
“No kidding,” she answered.
“You look rich,” Sally added.
“I like your coat,” said Tracey, Sally’s mirror image, then asked, “Who’s he?”
“My husband,” Sarita answered. She was surprised to hear herself say the word so effortlessly.
“He’s cute,” the girls declared with a giggle. “See ya!” And off they ran.
Sarita made no comment on their assessment, but saw Myk’s mustache twitch with amusement.
Sarita’s assumption about the weather forcing everyone inside had been correct because the cavernous place was filled with children. The din was deafening. She wondered why they were all on the main floor though. As usual there was a basketball game going on, but as the players tried to keep themselves from tripping over the little kids gathered around for story time, knots of girls jumping double dutch, kids playing backgammon and chess, and a circle of girls throwing jacks, the makeshift court resembled more of an obstacle course. Why was everybody there instead of spread out around the building in the rest of the rooms?
With Chandler trailing behind, she walked farther into the chaos. She and the tall, well-dressed Chandler weren’t noticed at first, but once they were, all noise and activity stopped. Just as with the twins, it took her children a minute or two to reconcile their old jeans-wearing Sarita with the fashion plate standing in front of them; but once they did, all hell broke loose.
She was mobbed by the little kids and circled by grinning teenagers. Everybody competed for her attention and the privilege of talking to her first. She basked in their love, and tears of joy sprang to her eyes. She was home!
She gave out as many hugs and kisses as she could. Her vision was blurred when she finally ended the celebration by yelling, “Okay, hold up!”
They finally settled down, and she looked out over the smiling faces while she smiled teary-eyed in return. She had missed each and every one of them. “Yes, I’m back.”
“For good?” little Corey Davis called from the back.
“Yes, Corey for good,” she promised. Chandler will just have to deal with it, she thought to herself. “But tell me, why is everybody up here? Why aren’t you using the basement?”
They all answered at once, telling her about pipes and water and the furnace and Silas said, until finally she threw up her hands and yelled out again, “Wait a minute! I can’t hear everybody at once.”
Grinning, they quieted.
“Now, I want one person, just one,” she added quickly as a handful of kids opened their mouths at once, “to tell me what’s going on.”
In the back of the crowd she saw sixteen-year-old Keta Kennedy wearing his purple beret. “Keta?”
He made his way to the front. “The furnace died last Thursday, so there’s no heat, then the pipes busted from something on Saturday. The Health Department is going to shut us down on Wednesday if everything isn’t fixed. So, Silas said for all of us to use this floor until he came up with something. We didn’t know where you were, and Silas wouldn’t tell us anything, except you’d be back.”
Keta then looked at the man standing so silently behind her. “Who’s he?”
Although Keta was tall for his age, Myk looked down into the sixteen-year-old eyes and smiled. He knew a challenge when he heard one.
Sarita had forgotten all about Chandler. “Oh, this is Mykal Chandler, everybody,” she offered absentmindedly. Her brain was preoccupied with the tale of drama Keta had just told.
“Why’s he here?” Keta asked. He checked out Myk’s expensive suit and the cashmere coat thrown over his arm. “Is he somebody from downtown come to help us out?”
“No, he’s my husband,” Sarita answered still immersed in thought. “How much water is in the basement?”
When Keta didn’t respond, she asked him again, “Keta?”
But Keta hadn’t heard. His whole sixteen-year-old being was focused wholly on Chandler. Before Sarita could ask him about the water for the third time, he pushed his way back through the crowd and headed toward the exit.
Watching him striding away so angrily, Sarita murmured, “What in the world—” Had she missed something? Keta snatched up his coat and books, and Sarita turned puzzled eyes to Chandler. Then, it finally dawned on her what the problem must be. “Keta!” she called urgently, but he was already out the door. She was stricken over the pain she saw in his retreat, and she chided herself for forgetting how fragile sixteen-year-old-boy hearts could be. Keta had considered himself “in love” with Sarita for quite some time. She, of course, had never encouraged his crush, but it hadn’t mattered. She turned back to Chandler again and saw sympathy and understanding in his eyes. Apparently he’d figured out Keta’s problem also.
“I was young once, too,” he told her.
Sarita was going to have to have a talk with Keta as soon as possible, but right now there was work to do.
She and Chandler spent over an hour assessing the damage done by the busted pipes. There had to be at least four feet of water in the basement, and the furnace problems couldn’t be dealt with until the water was gone. The two floors above the main floor didn’t have the benefit of the body heat generated by all the playing kids, so it was almost see-your-breath cold as she gave Chandler a tour of the place.
Myk took the tour silently and listened carefully to her explanations about the programs run out of the building and in which area the programs were housed. All the while, he watched her intently. With so many items needing her immediate attention, it was clear she didn’t want to spend the time showing him around, but she took the time, and he respected her for it.
When she showed him into her so-called office, he looked around and thought about the contrast between his many opulent offices and this cluttered, closet-sized space.
Going behind the desk, she offered solemnly, “Have a seat.”
He had to move a stack of flyers announcing a nearby church’s sale of chicken dinners from the dilapidated folding chair underneath. It didn’t look sturdy enough to hold him, so in the end, he said, “I’ll stand.”
“It looks bad, but it’ll hold you.”
Myk still had his doubts, but sat on it precariously. It immediately took a slow tilt to the side.
“You have to balance yourself in it. Yeah, like that.”
Myk used the weight of his body as a counterweight. He felt like he was on the deck of a listing ship. He got to his feet. “I’ll stand.”
“Okay,” she said, but her attention was focused on the stack of mail awaiting her return. She opened a few of the envelopes, then tossed them aside.
The grimness on her face, made Myk ask, “Problems?”
“Nope. Just more bills I can’t pay—to add to a basement full of water and a furnace that’s probably drowned by now—not that it really worked before.”
She shook off her coat and instantly regretted it when the cold snapped at her, but she tossed the leather onto the desk and walked back over to the open office door. Sticking her head out into the frigid hallway, she yelled, “Messenger!”
A few moments later, a teenager wearin
g a purple beret entered the office. Myk watched silently as she gave the kid his instructions.
“Tell all the Guard captains, I need to see them, ASAP.”
He nodded.
“And go by Silas’s place and see if he’s home.”
“He went to the doctor. He said he’d be back before five.”
Sarita checked the fancy white gold watch on her wrist. It was a little past four now. “Okay, that’s fine. Who opened up after school today?”
“Keta.”
Myk noted that the young man, who looked to be about fifteen, stood before Sarita like a private before his commanding officer.
The teenager asked, “Anything else?”
“Nope, that’s it. Oh, Jerome, split up the job so you can get the word out quick. I’d like everybody here by five, if they can make it.”
Jerome turned to exit, but risked a sideways glance at the tall man everybody was talking about.
Sarita saw his interest, and said to Jerome, “This is my husband, Mr. Chandler. Tell your mama that she and the ladies at the church can stop praying for me now,” and she nodded meaningfully in Chandler’s direction.
Jerome smiled. “Okay, I’ll tell her.” He gave Myk one quick parting look, then exited to carry out her orders.
Once Myk and Sarita were alone again, he couldn’t keep the curiosity out of his voice, “Messengers?”
“We don’t have a phone here, and many of our families don’t either, so this is our communication system. By being a messenger, the children learn responsibility and to listen. Everything is a lesson. The Guards escort the seniors to the store, help with chores, run errands, mow lawns, tutor.”
Myk could see the seriousness in her face.
“We’re about education here. Any fool can open a neighborhood center and let the kids come in and play ball all day, but we do more than that. Our mission is to save this one small portion of the city and its children. We have rules and regs, and anybody not playing along has to leave, sometimes permanently, but most times not. The kids love coming here, and none of them want to be banned, which is what they call it when you can’t come back.”