L.A. Blues III Read Free Page B

prayers. You’re welcome to come visit my church, too.”
    I looked down at the small business card. Fellowship Baptist Church, Inglewood, California. Reverend Edgar Broussard. I slid the card in my purse next to my Glock, which was licensed, and which I carried with me at all times.
    â€œI hope to see you again.” He gave me a tentative look, as if he expected me to say something in response.
    â€œHow are you getting back to the shore?”
    â€œI’m taking the ferry back. I’ve got to get to work. ”
    â€œWhat kind of work do you do?” I leaned forward with interest.
    â€œI’m a fireman.”
    â€œA minister who works?” I lifted my eyebrow in an incredulous manner. I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic, but a working minister was an oxymoron in my world. I’d seen all the big churches on TV and splattered throughout Los Angeles. My relationship with organized religion had been like that of a relationship with a distant cousin since I became grown. I think the last time I stepped foot inside a church was at my nephew Trayvon’s funeral. Shirley made us go to church so much after I went to live with her as a foster child at the age of nine, I really made a vow that when I got grown I’d never go to church.
    â€œYou know Apostle Paul and the disciples were tentmakers,” Reverend Broussard said. “They worked when they weren’t out making disciples. So I follow in their footsteps. Besides, not all of us have mega churches.”
    â€œOh, so you’re not one of the pimps in the pulpit?”
    The minister paused. “If that’s what you want to call them. I could take offense at what you’re saying. I know there are some bad ministers out there, but I try to live by the Word. I fall short sometimes, but I do my best.”
    I didn’t respond to him.
    â€œWell, I must be getting along.”
    I wanted to tell him I didn’t want to hear anything about any old God or any Christianity. But most of all, I was angry at God. I almost wanted to shake my fists at the heavens and scream, “What next, God? You’re doing a good job up there. First, You take my family from me when I was a child, then You kill off my first true love, and now I’m pregnant with a baby that may or may not be my lover’s child. What else you got good for me, God? Is that all You got? ”
    I silently made a vow. I promise to find the two men who kidnapped my brother and indirectly caused Romero’s death. I will get to the bottom of this if this is the last thing I do.
    I knew whenever I made a vow, I followed through with it.
    I wanted to tell the good reverend I didn’t want to hear anything about any old Jesus or any Christianity. If there was a God, why was I born into the life I was born into—with my mother being a Crip, my brother Mayhem being a Crip, or, the coup de grâce, my father being murdered in front of my eyes when I was nine years old? How could I not be scarred? Give me a break.
    Â 
    As everyone got up to do the Cupid Shuffle from the movie Jumping the Broom, I remained seated. I looked on as the dances evolved into the Wobble, the Electric Slide, and the Dougie. The women outnumbered the men ten to one, so it was good they had the line dancing going on. The party was getting heated up. I thought about how well Romero and I used to salsa together and a pang of loss hit me again. I sipped my water slowly to keep from regurgitating again.
    Gradually, my stomach began to settle down. Instead of dancing, I was enjoying myself with a bottle of water, and finding solace in my settled stomach. One day I would be happy; the next, I’d be miserable. Little things, such as not feeling sick to the stomach, made my day now.
    Even water tasted good, now that it wasn’t coming back up. I didn’t want to go into the main ballroom and sit on the dais with Haviland and the wedding party because if I got sick again, she