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Simpson let out a loud laugh that filled the van.
Cross composed himself, then turned and made it to the sidewalk without further incident.
He went to the stage, hopped on it, and then surveyed the view from there. This time he raised both hands above his head, all fingers extended, turning right and then left, addressing an imaginary crowd. He then, apparently satisfied, nodded and lowered his arms, then hopped down from the stage.
As he walked purposefully toward the open red front door, a short, heavyset black male came out with a cordless phone handset and extended it toward Cross. He wore black jeans and a long-sleeved yellow T-shirt on the front of which was what at first glance looked like the logotype of the Warner Brothers movie studio.
But it wasn’t.
Nice, Simpson thought.
“WarnaBrotha.”
Keeping the no-snitching real in the hood.
How many of these murders can be directly connected to that bullshit? Nobody talking about who the doers are?
He watched Cross take the phone and follow the male back inside.
Simpson shook his head as he reached down and poured another cup of coffee.
VI
[ ONE ]
Word of Brotherly Love Ministry
Strawberry Mansion, Philadelphia
Saturday, December 15, 3:01 P.M.
“Hold on for a minute, Rapp,” the Reverend Josiah Cross said into the cordless telephone handset, then motioned with it to get the attention of the heavyset male wearing the yellow WarnaBrotha T-shirt. “Deacon DiAndre, come back here!”
Hearing his name, twenty-five-year-old DiAndre Pringle, who was five-foot-four and one-sixty and had big brown eyes that seemed to slowly scan his surroundings and take in everything, looked up from his tablet computer, nodded acknowledgment, then walked toward Cross as his big eyes dropped back to the device and he rapidly typed on its glass screen.
The large main room, featuring gold-and-black-patterned wallpaper and red-painted trim, was filled with more than two hundred brown folding metal chairs. They formed two dozen rows arranged at an angle and separated in the middle by a wide aisle that went from the red front door to almost the far wall. There, a crucifix crafted of rough-hewn timber hung on the wall above a vacant area that an hour before had held the black wooden cubes and the lectern and speakers that now were outside on the sidewalk.
A series of more black cubes were arranged to one side, stacked to form two tiers, with five brown folding chairs lined up on each level to accommodate members of the choir. On the wallpaper just above the highest chairs, the outlines of lettering that had been pried off spelled out a faded BUFFET.
Pringle approached Cross, who stood beside a flight of wooden steps that led to the upper two floors. Two young men carried cardboard boxes down them, then went to the front door and out it.
“What up with the numbers, DiAndre?” Cross said.
Pringle held up the tablet computer for Cross to see, then tapp
ed the glass screen and pointed to it.
“I just sent out another call to action to a new group in Frankford that’s got about three hundred people,” Pringle said. “But look here, Rev. There’s five thousand two hundred and forty-one—and still climbing pretty quick—thumbs-up Liberty Bells for the Stop Killadelphia Rally. If we get half that many people to show up, just that’ll be some crowd.”
“What’s this call to action thing you said?”
“When I go on Philly News Now—you know, its social media site?—I can reach all kinds of people around the city. Who these people are and how many of them are in whatever group depends on what their interests are.”
“Like that star one for my ministry here, right?”
“Right. Our asterisk–Word of Brotherly Love has almost a thousand followers. That ain’t a bad number, ’cause their interest is this church and this neighborhood.”
“What do you mean by that?” Cross snapped.
