Blaze Read Free Page B

was old school. No cell phone, no home security system, just his shotgun and his Bible. He was the quintessential bitter clinger. When former president Obama had unintentionally branded those who took comfort in guns and religion with that label during his first campaign, it was folks like Pastor Liam he must have had in mind. In regard to the Church doors in particular though, it was more of a welcoming thing for the Pastor. In his mind, God didn’t close His doors to anyone, criminal or not. Besides, truth be told, there ain’t no criminal in Detroit that would not soon regret trying to mess with Pastor McCardle. There are some skills that nothing can stop—be it the cloth of the pastorate or the drag of the whiskey bottle. And it was those skills that the good Pastor possessed that would halt any criminal dead in their tracks long before their intentions could be made known.
    After a few speechless seconds, the secretary continued her deer-in-the-headlights stare and waited for Blaze to speak.
    â€œI’m here to see Liam. Is he in?” Blaze smiled.
    â€œUmm, well, umm. Could I, umm, let him know who wishes to see him?” She was horrified as she stared at Blaze’s muscles and ink. She was clearly in her early to mid seventies, or possibly older, and was not at all used to seeing so much indelible art on a man’s arms. Her expression did nothing to hide her lack of ability to assimilate what she was looking at.
    â€œPlease just let him know that Blaze is here, ma’am.”
    â€œUm, why, certainly.”
    She walked with a cautious step down the hall a bit and quietly let herself into Pastor McCardle’s office.
    â€œPastor Liam, um, there is a man here, um, looks like an army man, or something. He calls himself ‘Blaze.’ Do you, I mean, were you, expecting him, sir?”
    Pastor Liam made a quick note in his weekly planner, doggy-eared the page he was currently reading in a biography on Abraham Lincoln, and slowly closed the bottom right desk drawer with the tip of his loafer. He closed that drawer just before his secretary could see the bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey that hid in there with the cork barely secure. McCardle always favored the protestant whiskey and left the Jameson to the Catholics.
    â€œWhy, yes, he’s a bit early. But, um, yes, you can tell him to come in. Thanks Betty.” McCardle was looking forward to his meeting with Blaze. But, as always, he wasn’t quite sure if he was ready for it.
    After being retrieved by the hesitant secretary, Blaze walked back to Pastor McCardle’s office. He gave two light knocks to the slightly open door and decided to just walk in before Pastor gave him permission. Waiting for permission to see what was behind a door was not Blaze’s modus operandi given his past line of work.
    â€œTop of the mornin’ to you Pastor.”
    â€œHello, Blaze, have a seat, my friend. It’s good to see you.” Liam smiled.
    â€œYou too Liam. As usual, once I sit my ass down in this seat, I’m sure I’ll discover a whole new unopened bag of issues for us to dig into.” Blaze could not hold back on his tendency to lay it all out on the table instantly.
    â€œBlaze, please my friend, I’ve told you before about the language.” Liam was really not offended by the nominal use of foul language, but he knew that sometimes Blaze used it liberally in his presence for the explicit purpose of trying to get a rise out of him.
    â€œI know Pastor, you’re right. I’m taking baby steps. I’m weaning off the f-bomb and employing damn, hell, and ass like it’s a nicotine patch. It’s tough to quit cold-turkey.” Blaze chuckled lightly.
    Despite Blaze’s faith, his practice of that faith still had many gaps. Control of the tongue being one of them.
    McCardle smirked and waived his hands dismissively. “Enough of that already! Please, tell me, how are things? How