Jackie and the Preacher

Contents

1979

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Author’s Note

Works Cited

Also by Janet M. Henderson

The Assassin Who Loved Her

Lunch With Cassie

I dedicate this book to my mother Bernice and to my Jewish mother Marlene who have both given me a greater knowledge of God.

…And how shall they hear without a preacher? And how shall they preach except they be sent? Bible, Romans 10:14-15.

1979

Prologue

Jacquelyn Taylor showered, dressed, and packed. Then she ate a breakfast of Belgian crepes, scrambled eggs, and Swiss chocolate, wondering if her next magazine piece would be about politics or religion. She had written about everything else. Her current piece was due on the managing editor’s desk in 48 hours, and she hadn’t finished it yet.

After eating, she glanced out of her hotel window in Zurich at snowcapped mountains and chalets. Then she grabbed her brother’s Colt derringer and dropped it in her purse. She’d never touched a gun before and felt strange carrying it around. Checking out of her hotel near the Bahnhofstrasse, she wondered how she’d get it on the plane.

As she passed window displays of Mont Blanc pens, Rolex watches, and more diamonds than she’d ever seen in her life, she thought about her brother Ray and wondered if she’d ever see him again. She hadn’t heard from him in two years, and after checking the prisons, hospitals, and morgues on six continents without any luck, she didn’t know what to do next.

She entered a huge department store at the end of the block, and from the neat racks of jeans, blouses and sweaters, knew she was in the Misses section as planned. The music on the PA system was loud and familiar. American. Thousands of miles away but still heard music from home. Searching for a silky blouse or fluffy sweater to add to her wardrobe, she found just what she was looking for.

Is that all? the clerk asked in German as she rang up Jackie’s lone purchase.

Yes. One pretty red cashmere pullover was enough. While waiting, she glanced at the clock just off to the right. It was 10:10 a.m. How could that be? Her non-stop Swissair flight was leaving at eleven. When a glance at her watch revealed it had stopped an hour ago, she grabbed her bag and pushed past startled shoppers and clerks and ran as fast as she could to the train station several blocks away. The next train was leaving for the airport at 10:17, so she had to hurry.

Running past banks, shops and cafes, she thought about the magazine piece that had brought her to Europe and realized that if she didn’t make her flight, she wouldn’t make her deadline. With that thought in mind, she ran around the corner, up a broad avenue, and across a major thoroughfare filled with people, trams and buses while the cold morning air blew her short black hair in her face.

People stopped and stared. Some moved out of her way. Drivers honked their horns as she darted out into traffic while eluding the slowest of pedestrians. She had never run so fast in her high-heeled boots and hoped she wouldn’t slip and fall on the sidewalks and streets frosted with snow.

She knew the area where the station was located but didn’t know what street it was on. Streets in large cities always looked the same to her anyway. She’d gotten lost in Chicago, Detroit, L.A., and Miami. Yet she couldn’t get lost then. A heavy snowstorm had hit Chicago, blanketing it in six feet of fluffy, white snow. Some called it a blizzard. Others called it a nightmare. The storm had damaged buildings, held up deliveries and delayed transportation. Her Swissair flight, non-stop to O’Hare, was the only flight going to Chicago that day, and she had to be on it.

Where are you going? a bakery shop owner asked in German as she raced past.

The bahnhof, Jackie yelled over her shoulder as she ran on, tired and nearly out of breath. After running six blocks, her legs ached, her side hurt, and her fingers were almost numb with cold. She wanted to stop and catch her breath, but each moment was precious as she hurried to the station.

She could see the tracks and depot a block away.

It was 10:17 when she finally reached the Hauptbahnhof. The train was still in place! She sighed with relief and hurried toward it. Then she opened her mouth in horror when it suddenly pulled out and headed down the tracks without her. Wait! Wait! She ran faster, but it did no good. The train was leaving, and she couldn’t stop it. She bit her lip in frustration. She had been warned that Swiss trains were maddeningly punctual, but she hadn’t believed it. Now she was sorry.

The next train would leave at 10:29. The trip to the airport would take fifteen minutes. Clearing security, might take ten. Getting to the gate, with few mishaps, would take five. The entire trip would take approximately thirty-five minutes. Could she still make her flight? What about her deadline?

Chapter 1

When Jackie awakened the day she left for Europe, she was excited about the new changes she’d be making in her life. After years of writing magazine articles, she might be moving to the editorial board. It all depended on the success of her next piece. Therefore, she had to choose wisely. Life was what you made it, and despite a few missteps, she wanted to make hers count.

So that Friday morning she kicked back the covers, hopped out of bed and hurried to empty her bladder so she could get on with her day. Following doctor’s orders, she drank eight to ten glasses of water a day, which cleansed her body and made her healthier, but couldn’t help with her anxieties.

She was moving to New York to attend college and start a new life. She’d lived in many places when her father was in the Air Force, but Chicago was always home. The thought of moving again was depressing. As she made coffee and turned on Good Morning America, she thought of things she’d have to pack and those she’d have to give away. According to the weatherman, it was only twenty degrees. Ugh!

She ran out for the Sun-Times, turned to her favorite column and laughed at a story about a celebrity who was suing a tabloid for libel. Sipping her first cup of coffee, she vowed not to be the type of journalist who repeated malicious gossip when most of it wasn’t true anyway.

As she ate scrambled eggs and toast, she saw an item about the religious practices of America’s youth. According to the American Bible Society, 80% of America’s twelve to eighteen year olds believe the Bible is important, 70% use the Bible to guide their everyday lives, and 33% attend church every week. Fifty percent of girls and 40% of boys said they turned to the Bible when depressed or seeking solutions to their problems. Most of them prayed regularly and said they believed their prayers were answered. Some said they read the Bible just about every day.

Then why is the world in such bad shape? Jackie asked.

In her sociology class, they discussed teen pregnancy, drug abuse and street gangs. When the class disagreed on the issues, they were assigned an essay about the parents’ role, the child’s role and society’s role in juvenile delinquency. As Jackie wrote, she thought about her own life and the importance of having mentors, role models, goals, and future plans. She got an A on the paper but was sorry she didn’t have better ideas.

Today’s children marched to a different drummer. No one knew the beat or the rhythm. Each generation had its challenges. Her parents’ generation had enjoyed rock and roll and LSD. Her generation coped with crack cocaine, teen pregnancy, and school violence. What would the next generation have? Jackie sometimes wondered if there would be another generation. The world was becoming so bad.

Reading further, she grew depressed about violence in the Middle East. There were suicide bombings, riots, and people killed in the street. Deciding she’d absorbed enough news for the day, she folded the paper, finished breakfast, showered, dressed and, with pen and paper in hand, sat down to plan her move to New York City.

She hadn’t even told her father she was leaving yet. After her mother died and her father remarried, Jackie’s stepmother Lorna made sure Jackie’s half sisters, Nicole and Jasmine, got better clothes, better schools, and more time with their father. They got whatever they wanted, but Jackie was forced to get everything she wanted on her own. The last straw was when her father couldn’t—or wouldn’t—pay for college.

When she asked about her mother’s life insurance money, he mentioned funeral expenses and a second mortgage on the house. Feeling angry and betrayed, Jackie moved in with Lolo and Marie, two friends from high school, and decided to do it herself. After her first semester though, she realized that her part-time job in a bookstore didn’t pay enough. So she began writing for the college newspaper. She tried to freelance, but it was hard without connections or experience.

She didn’t give up though. Dreams of an exciting life and career kept her going. Her efforts paid off when Real Life magazine in Chicago published a piece she wrote about her struggles to become a freelance writer. Other pieces followed. She was glad the magazine had given her a chance. It wasn’t the New York Times, but she was getting paid to do what she loved. How many people could say that? With a little more experience, she’d be on her way.

What she needed was a standout piece, something to put her on the map. Otherwise, no one would know she was alive. When her editor suggested she write about politics, sex or religion, she’d groaned out loud. She hated politics, had written about sex more often than she liked, and hadn’t been to church in years. She doubted if God even knew she was alive.

While sorting it out, she continued her education.

After two years of junior college, she was accepted at Columbia University to finish her bachelor’s degree in English. She would enroll in August and could hardly wait. Since it was February, she had plenty of time to pack, find housing, and a halfway decent job. Would the Columbia Daily Spectator hire her?

She thought about it as she sipped her coffee and watched more of Good Morning America. She watched Julia Child prepare a luscious dessert, and she had just switched the TV off when the telephone rang. It was almost nine a.m., and the only person who called that early was someone she didn’t want to talk to. She whispered a prayer and reached for the receiver.

Bon jour, Jacquelyn, the French-accented female voice said, pronouncing her name Jacques-lean. How is my best girl?

Jackie sighed. Her prayers weren’t answered. I’m starting a new life, Lilly.

Lilly laughed. You do not sound happy about it. Perhaps I can cheer you up.

The police are watching me. If you try to cheer me up too much, it could get us both in hot water, and no fancy lawyers and plea bargains will help.

Do not get melodramatic with me, Lilly retorted. I know more about the police than you ever will.

I don’t doubt that, Jackie said, clutching the phone and pacing the floor. Why are you calling me?

One of your regulars has asked for you.

Jackie sighed and examined her French-manicured nails. Tell him I’m not available. You can do that, can’t you?

You do not know who I am talking about.

There was silence for a moment. Jackie heard her own breathing, the crackling of the telephone line, doors slamming in her building, and an ambulance siren miles away.

It doesn’t matter. I can’t see him, Jackie said. She picked up a tube of Curel dry skin lotion and massaged it into her fingers. Her skin was so dry in the wintertime that she had to do it several times a day, but it never seemed enough.

Lilly sighed. He’s an important client, Jacquelyn.

I know. But I already have a date, and I’m leaving town at six o’clock. She had also planned a trip to Bally’s and a visit to her manicurist. She hadn’t worked out in a week, and her nail polish was chipped.

Then you can see Mr. Smith at the Regency. Be there at noon. The phone clicked.

No! Jackie screamed. Lilly, how can you do this to me? She stared at the receiver in disbelief, slammed it down, and stomped around her high-rise apartment on Lake Shore Drive in an angry snit. I am not at your beck and call. I don’t have to go if I don’t want to!

She thought of calling Lilly back and actually telling her so. She contemplated telling her other things too, but knew Lilly wouldn’t like it. Madame Lilliane Depailler could be bossy, but she was not someone to cross. Rumor had it that her brother was a ruthless gangster with plenty of power on the street.

Jackie had never met him, but she’d heard lots of stories, and none of them were good. Tales of girls with broken arms, black eyes, and missing teeth went far and wide. Jackie shivered just thinking about it. Since he owned Lilly’s Escort Service, and Lilly had booked the appointment, Jackie knew she’d have to go or face the consequences.

So she took a deep breath and decided to get ready.

Since Mr. Smith (his real name) liked her chic and elegant, she yanked the ponytail holder out of her shoulder-length black hair and shook it to loosen it up. She kicked off her white Nikes and peeled off her gray Adidas warm-up suit. Then she slipped into her finest black underwear, a lacy garter belt, and black stockings.

Standing before the mirror, she added black mascara to her lashes, a red gloss to her lips, and a rosy blush to her cheekbones. She squinted to see if she had added too much. Then deciding she hadn’t, she walked to the closet, found the perfect little black dress and zipped herself inside. She added gold hoop earrings, her Wittnauer watch and a pair of tall black leather boots. She brushed her hair into a soft bouncy bob. Then she gazed into the full-length mirror on the bathroom door.

The clingy Christian Dior dress, with its long, tight-fitting sleeves and plunging neckline hugged her slim, shapely body all the way to her knees. The Ferragamo boots made her look taller, leaner, and more sophisticated. The swingy hairstyle was a perfect frame for her even-toned caramel-colored skin, which was clear and unblemished. Her brown eyes sparkled, and her red lips glistened.

Satisfied, she packed a bag, put on her coat, and glanced at her watch. It was almost eleven a.m. Time to meet Mr. Smith.

Chapter 2

Jackie joined the oldest profession in the world when Real Life magazine wanted to do a story on prostitution. Most people knew it was legal in parts of Nevada, Canada, and European countries, like Spain, France, Greece, Italy, and the Netherlands but was regulated by their governments to protect the women and their clients. It was also legal in Latin American countries, like Brazil, Chile, Peru, Venezuela and Colombia.

Most governments didn’t allow open solicitations, pimping and brothels and required the women to have regular checkups and health certificates. Since millions of U.S dollars were paid for sex outside the U.S., the editors wanted to know why it wasn’t legal all over the U.S. They also wanted to know what type of woman became a lady of the night and why.

You want to be a writer, right? Gina Cregier, the feature editor asked Jackie.

Yes, answered Jackie quickly. That was exactly what she wanted.

This could be your big break.

Jackie knew she was right. The story was just what she needed. Wanting to do her best, she pounded the pavement and phoned escort services, but no one would talk. How could she do a story without getting the scoop? The women either demanded money or were afraid of the police or their pimps. Jackie couldn’t pay them and didn’t want to get them in trouble. She was about to give up when a blonde named Cleo, and a black girl named Trudy, whom she met in a bar, invited her to Las Vegas. Excited, Jackie hurried home to pack.

On the flight over, she asked questions she knew her editors and readers would ask and planned to make both women sound glamorous and worldly. Cleo and Trudy discussed their work, their clients, their pay, and their reasons for entering the profession, which was, of course, m-o-n-e-y. In Las Vegas, they checked into a suite at Caesar’s Palace. After freshening up, they went to the lobby and met with their high-roller celebrity clients while Jackie watched from a nearby bar.

While the women plied their trade, Jackie sipped a drink and toyed with a poker machine. She had won fifty dollars by the time Sonny Costello, a balding sixtieth movie producer, sat down, introduced himself, and offered to buy her another drink. She didn’t believe it was him at first. She had seen most of his Oscar-winning films and felt honored to be meeting him. The fact that he was alone in Las Vegas was a shock. As they sipped drinks, they discussed his films, including one that had just been released.

When he asked her to attend a show at the Flamingo, she went along happily, flattered to be asked. Afterward they dined in his penthouse suite on steak and lobster. Lulled by the breathtaking view of the Strip and the glamour of Hollywood, she drank too much champagne and was soon lured into the king-sized bed of the pushy, demanding producer, who kept telling her how beautiful she was. The next day he gave her $2,500.

What for? she asked, wide-eyed.

It’s a gift, he said, waving the $100 bills like a fan.

The money was tempting. Would it be considered prostitution? Jackie knew her father would scream and her stepmother would cry, yet she needed the money for college. So she thanked him and stuffed the bills in her purse. In Chicago, she followed Cleo and Trudy to Lilly’s Escort Service and met the glamorous Madame Lillian Depailler.

Aren’t you lovely, Lilly said, admiring Jackie’s slender frame as she led her to a private room where they sat and sipped tea. Beauty like yours is a tresor. She shook her dark hair out of her eyes and smiled at Jackie over her teacup. So, why do you want to be an escort?

Jackie thought carefully. Then she said, I need money for college.

Beauty and brains. I like that. Stand up. As Jackie stood and paced the room, Lilly’s sharp eyes looked her over. Very nice, she said. Then she nodded at a man at the door and sent Jackie for a physical and makeover. When Jackie returned with a pretty made-up face, manicured nails, designer clothes, and shorter, swingier hair, Lilly smiled. Tres bien. J’aime que je vois. I think we can find work for you. Lilly showed her what fork to use at dinner, what wine to order and how to please her clients. She also gave French language lessons and refined her taste in art and music. Jackie became one of her best girls and received some of her wealthiest clients.

Jackie made tons of money, saved for college and moved to a luxury condo on Lake Shore Drive where she had a dazzling view of Lake Michigan and more privacy than in her other apartment with two roommates. She shopped in Paris and Milan, owned designer clothes, shoes and bags. She attended the opera and ballet, flew on private jets, traveled first class, and stayed in five star hotels. She was treated well by most of her clients and received extravagant gifts.

Yet, after three eventful years, she grew to hate the smell of cigarettes and cigars. Hated the taste of whiskey and beer. Hated spending time with men she didn’t know or didn’t like. And hated lying to people she loved. In short, she hated being an escort. So, she told Lilly she was leaving to attend school full time.

Nonsense, said Lilly. You can work and go to school at the same time.

I have another job, Jackie said, and began drifting away. She only took dates when she needed money. When she got $2,000 for the magazine article and became a regular freelancer, she felt her walk on the wild side had paid off.

She was now a real writer. At nineteen she had sullied her life by becoming an escort. Now at twenty-two—she was getting a new one. After she gathered enough material for the follow-up piece, she’d be through for good. Working for Lilly had made her feel old before her time, but she still had her whole life ahead of her. She could do things she liked, instead of things she wanted to forget.

Then there was her brother Ray.

Before her mother Tamara died, Jackie learned she’d had a son by a man named Norris Capistrano before she married her father, Charles Taylor. Jackie met her brother Ray when she was six and he was eighteen. He spent Christmas with them and kept touch when he went away to college. He wrote regularly and always remembered her birthday. Jackie knew how much Ray loved her and how hurt he’d be if he knew she was working for Madame Lilly. The last time she saw him was at her high school graduation.

Then he joined the U.S. Army and went to Europe. Afraid he’d be sent off to war, she begged him to come home. He wrote back and told her not to worry. He sent her a silver key to keep for him. She wrote again but got no reply. So, she wrote his commanding officer who said Ray had been honorably discharged and that he didn’t know his whereabouts.

Fearing him dead, she hired a P.I. from the Blue Moon Detective Agency at $100 a day. The P.I. picked up his trail in Europe and put her in touch with a banker in Zurich. The banker asked her to come to Zurich and to bring two pieces of I.D. and anything her brother had sent her. Did Ray have a Swiss bank account? Was he doing something illegal?

Since she had other fish to fry in Europe, she had to go. She was also doing the magazine’s follow-up to the original call girl story. This one would feature girls who’d left the life and were married or gainfully employed. Jackie interviewed women in America, but one was in Paris. Jackie was going to see her, but thanks to Lilly, she had to go to the Regency Hotel first.

Tyrone Payton Smith, a real estate tycoon, with property all over the world, money in several banks and two private jets, was in his fifties, with short black hair, graying at the temples, and dark skin, which contrasted sharply with the white terrycloth bathrobe he wore. Since trysts with Jackie were like secret missions, he usually left a key at the hotel desk under the name James Bond. They usually kissed when they met and pretended they were lovers.

While sipping champagne, he discussed current events and his golf game. Jackie didn’t mind the small talk, but she barely listened until he mentioned a bachelor party in New Orleans during Mardi Gras. He talked about the jazz bands they would hear and all the fun they’d have. How could she tell him she couldn’t see him anymore?

Lilly said his wife of twenty years had caught him with a woman half his age. He was now divorced and married to the other woman who didn’t know he saw Jackie twice a week. Jackie dined on his yacht, flew in his plane, met him in his office, and saw him at the same hotel more times than she could count. She hated men who cheated and thought they were the lowest of the low, but for a cheating husband Mr. Smith paid her well.

For one hour, she’d earn $1,000 charged to Mr. Smith’s Visa card. Lilly would get 40% or $400, and the rest would go into Jackie’s college tuition fund via direct deposit. Lilly said Jackie was lucky to have a regular who paid so much for her, but Jackie didn’t care. She was leaving the business anyway. With a college education, she could do something better with her life. She raised her head, filled with new determination.

As she and Mr. Smith finally got down to business, she thought of what she had forgotten to pack and would have to get in Europe. She also wracked her brain for the quickest route to the airport. It wasn’t easy, but she worked and plotted at the same time. The most successful women in the world knew how to do that. Jackie was learning too. An hour later, she was ready to roll.

What about New Orleans? he asked. You might like it.

I’m already booked, she lied as she combed her hair. Lilly will find you another girl.

You’re the only girl I want.

You’ll like the other girl too, she predicted. All Lilly’s girls are special.

She kissed him good-bye, knowing she had an hour to reach the Gold Coast and couldn’t be late. The last time she was tardy she’d had to wait while her client held a conference call with hundreds of people. He paid her $500 more and gave her a nice gift, but Jackie couldn’t be late that day. She had a flight to catch and a deadline to keep. So, she left Mr. Smith, and an hour later, swept into the luxury condo building of her next client on time, glad the lobby was empty. She didn’t want to run into a cop. Once in the Regency Hotel, a man had followed her out to the curb.

What can I get for a dollar? he asked in a teasing tone.

It’ll cost you more than that, she said.

How much? When she told him, he whipped out a badge and mentioned Lilly’s Escort Service. Though she denied knowing Lilly, he took her to a squad car anyway.

I would’ve paid more than a dollar, he said, ready to slap on the handcuffs.

How much? Jackie asked, not wanting to go to jail. Although prostitution was a misdemeanor, she didn’t want an arrest on her record. She wouldn’t have been working for Lilly anyway if she hadn’t needed money. Not that I’m saying I’m an escort or anything, she said."

Of course not. He smiled and put the handcuffs away.

For his silence, she’d dated him at the bargain rate of $200 and was late getting to her next client. When she complained, Lilly laughed and told her to be more careful. She already had enough policemen and judges on the take and didn’t need trouble. Well, Lilly didn’t have to worry. Jackie had other plans, and they didn’t include madames, clients or crooked cops.

At three p.m., she headed to the airport. Taking her first class seat on the American Airlines flight to New York where she would change planes and fly on to Paris, she thought about her years with Lilly and realized the only thing she would miss would be the money. The job paid well. There was no point in denying that. However, all the money in the world couldn’t give her what she really wanted: love and respectability. None of her clients had given her that. They paid money. She did her job. That was all there was to it.

There had been declarations of love and fevered proposals of marriage at certain times, but nothing was real. Nothing lasted. Nothing changed. She was a woman for hire, a convenience, a luxury, someone to ease their boredom and unhappiness, like a tranquilizer or a drug. She was not a person to love and marry. When she’d finally admitted it to herself, she’d cried a long time. Then she’d dried her eyes and become more determined than ever.

All that mattered was her education and career. A good education would never break her heart or take her for granted. A good education could get her a good job and take her where she wanted to go. She had become a writer because she liked expressing her ideas. Maybe she would write with a purpose in mind, like righting the wrongs in society or helping people change their lives, starting with her own.

Feeling better, she sat back and sipped the flute of champagne the flight attendant gave her. Not too dry. Not too sweet. A lot like life. She glanced out at the darkening sky, realizing that she could get everything she wanted if she planned well. Life was what you made it, and despite a few missteps, she was still planning to make hers count.

Chapter 3

Pastor Malcolm Irving jogged down the sidewalk on Malcolm X Boulevard beside his best friend and fellow pastor Brian Butler. The two men ran together every morning, come rain, come shine. It had been that way for almost ten years. It was eight a.m. and just above freezing in New York City, but the two men were oblivious. They enjoyed the outdoors. It was the only place they had time alone.

"Nice piece in the New York Times, said Brian as they ran side-by-side on their way to Marcus Garvey Park. They praised the efficiency of our soup kitchen and homeless shelters."

They’ve been doing that for years.

The piece in last Sunday’s paper was exceptional.

Haven’t seen it yet. With everything that’s been going on.

Great photo of you. Brian smiled. They turned the corner and ran in silence for several minutes until they reached the park. Then they ran around the perimeter, which was cleared of snow and debris and stopped near a bench.

The piece was supposed to focus on the needs of the community, Malcolm said as he tied his shoes. We need solutions, not compliments from the press. He sat down, wiped the perspiration on his face with a handkerchief from the pocket of his Adidas jogging outfit and ran it through the short raven black waves in his hair.

Give them time.

That’s the one thing we don’t have. We’re losing people every day, Malcolm said. I agreed to do the interview because I thought the publicity would help.

Brian sat down and wiped his damp face and blond hair. It does more than we realize. We’re getting help from the government, and donations are up.

These people don’t want handouts. They want jobs and opportunities.

So, we’ll pray a little more and pound the pavement more. What is it the pastor always says: ‘Never give up’?

We won’t give up, Malcolm said resolutely.

That’s the spirit. Ready for the meeting today?

I’m always ready.

You probably know what’s on the agenda too. He shot a glance at Malcolm who smiled and gazed off into the distance.

Malcolm was a prophet. Like the prophets of old, he was wiser than most people and sometimes seemed strange or peculiar because of his unusual gift. Though he loved helping people straighten out the messes in their lives, he was also very lonely. Sometimes he wished he knew nothing at all, so he wouldn’t be asked.

When the pastor calls a meeting in the middle of the week, it’s got to be important, Brian said.

There will be some announcements and proposals, Malcolm admitted reluctantly.

We already know he’s planning to retire soon, and we know that he’s going to appoint a successor. So which one of us will he choose? Brian asked.

Why must it be one of us? Malcolm stood and did some deep knee bends.

Would he appoint someone outside the church?

Brian stood and executed a few deep knee bends and stretches too.

I think he’s trying to decide right now.

Brian stopped. Would you take the job if it was offered to you?

Malcolm smiled. "Would you?"

I asked you first.

Malcolm laughed. I would be surprised if it was offered to me.

"Why? You’re the youth pastor. You have a huge following, and no one is more revered in evangelical circles. You’ve been written about in the Post and the Times more than any other preacher in New York City."

That has nothing to do with becoming senior pastor of a church.

It gives you a respectable platform.

Malcolm stood and faced his best friend. They were both tall and lean, but Malcolm was an inch taller and a few pounds heavier. He also had a thin mustache and sideburns. His blond, blue-eyed friend was clean-shaven. Both were handsome but looked rather scruffy that morning. Neither had showered or shaved yet. They would do that after breakfast. They had just driven to the church and begun running. It was a ritual they had performed for years.

In the summer they played a brisk game of basketball too. Early in the morning there was less traffic and fewer people to get in the way. The streets were slick in the wintertime and not easy to navigate, especially the side streets. Malcolm was in better shape than Brian, but Brian was faster. They were both healthy and strong and looked good for their twenty-eight years. Running three days a week and working out regularly helped them stay that way.

Selecting a man to run the house of God should not be a popularity contest, Malcolm said with total seriousness. It should be based on good character, dedication to service, commitment to God, and a commitment to serving mankind.

You have all those qualities and more.

So do you. You also have some things I do not: you’ve been with the church longer; you have a wife and two children. You’re also an assistant pastor, so you’re next in line.

There is no line.

There is as far as we’re concerned. Malcolm smiled. I’m not a married man. I don’t have children, and I travel overseas several times a year. These are not ideal situations for a senior pastor. He must be available to his flock around the clock.

I agree that those things are important, Brian said as they left the park, which was rapidly filling with adults and children, who called out greetings to the two ministers while rushing to keep their morning commitments, but one could argue that all of those reasons would make you an ideal candidate. Without a family, you can serve God more freely. He paused to greet a few people and to shake a few hands.

Not if I’m halfway around the world. Malcolm greeted the people too. They were mostly mothers with small children hurrying off to their jobs in Midtown or teenagers on their way to school. Many were church members who attended services two or three times a week.

A teenage boy approached them. I’m taking a test. Can you pray for me?

Did you study? Pastor Brian asked with a knowing look.

Not a whole lot, the boy said, wrinkling up his nose.

Well, you study a little more, and God will help you, Malcolm said.

OK, the boy said.

Brian and Malcolm laughed and walked on.

Who does not want divine intervention when taking a test? Malcolm asked. The question of whether or not God helps students cheat seems to be coming up a lot here lately. We both know the answer is no. God helps those who are prepared.

Amen, amen, Brian said. Then he returned to the original topic. Christ said, ‘Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature.’ So you are just being obedient.

In every church there are apostles, evangelists, teachers, pastors, preachers, prophets and so on. I’ve been called a prophet and a teacher. God only knows what I will be when He is finished, and believe me He is far from done.

That’s true for me too. ‘The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong…but time and chance happeneth to them all.’

Then you better get ready, Malcolm said grinning. It just might be your time.

It could be yours too, Brian argued as they turned the corner.

The February air was frosty. People in Harlem, who were unable to make the trek to New Orleans, were planning Mardi Gras celebrations of their own that week. Yellow, green and purple beads and streamers hung in the windows of shops and restaurants. There were also masks and costumes. Many of the shop owners had family in the Big Easy. Some just liked to celebrate. Either way, they were prepared.

Malcolm and Brian entered Sylvia’s Soul Food Restaurant on Lenox Avenue, which was slightly crowded that time of the morning. They both ordered coffee and omelets, glad there were two seats available. Brian ordered his with egg whites only and Malcolm ordered his without ham or cheese.

After ordering, they sipped their coffee and waited. The two had met ten years ago when they were college freshmen. The bond was still strong in spite of their lifestyles. Though both enjoyed their work and tried to right the wrongs in society, Malcolm, a bachelor, was more of a crusader and more actively involved in the community than Brian, a low key family man.

As a black man, Malcolm was viewed as a peer or brother, someone who knew the struggle, but Brian, a white man, was viewed as an outsider who couldn’t possibly understand the challenges of poverty in the inner city, but he was still well liked and highly respected. While they waited, Brian brought up another subject that was on both their minds.

If one of us becomes senior pastor, who will take our position?

I’m sure God already knows.

Go ahead, Brian urged with a smile, as he sipped his coffee, you can tell me.

I honestly don’t know. Malcolm sipped his coffee and stared off into the distance.

You’re a prophet. Since when don’t you know what God is up to? You prophesy to people every day. Just the other day, you said there would be changes at church. The fact that the pastor is planning to retire soon sounds like you were right.

Malcolm peeked into his coffee cup. I see what’s up for others but not for myself.

You mean, God doesn’t tell you your own future?

Unfortunately, no. Malcolm ignored Brian’s laughter when he saw Gladys approach with their food. Both men were famished and the tantalizing aroma of their freshly prepared food was hard to resist. In addition to the omelets, Brian was having sausage and hash browns, and Malcolm was having turkey bacon and Sylvia’s famous waffles. When Gladys placed their plates on the table, they immediately bowed their heads, said grace, and began to eat.

That seems unfair, Brian said, attacking his hash browns.

Malcolm smiled. I’ve told you that many times.

So you honestly don’t know what God has planned for you? Have you ever asked?

It does no good. He doesn’t reveal things until He’s ready. Malcolm poured syrup on his waffles, which were garnished with fresh strawberries. Then he sliced them and began to eat.

That’s got to be rough.

You have no idea. Yes, Malcolm said after he had chewed and swallowed his food, but if I knew too much about my own future, I’d be too preoccupied to help anyone else.

You have a point there. Brian took a swallow of his coffee. But is there a reason why He wouldn’t want you to become senior pastor of the church?

The fact that I’m not married is the first thing that comes to mind.

Apostle Paul says a married man cares about how he may please his wife, but a single man cares about the things of God.

Examining the lives of many successful clergymen, it would seem, Malcolm said, sipping his coffee, that a man should be able to do both.

Ideally, yes.

You have a helpmeet, and it hasn’t hurt your ministry.

No, it hasn’t. Brian ate a forkful of food and wiped his mouth. But sometimes that helpmeet has ideas of her own. He chuckled.

Malcolm smiled. So there’s a lot of compromise?

Yes and yes.

That’s true in any relationship though.

You are right again.

It seems to be working for you.

"How is the search going for your own Mrs. Right?"

Malcolm frowned. Not as well as I’d hoped.

What does God say?

What he always says: That I’ll meet her at the right time and not a moment before.

Brian chuckled. That sounds pretty definitive. Barbara says you’re just too picky, that you’re looking for someone who doesn’t exist. She believes you could have any woman in the church, but you look right through them. It must be that prophet thing, seeing into their hearts and minds and all. He shuddered. I’m glad I don’t have that gift.

Malcolm chuckled. "Yes, it can separate the good from the not so good, and I hope Barbara is wrong. The woman I want has to exist."

So what are you looking for again?

The same as always—just someone kind, gentle, intelligent and loving.

A total knockout with brains and a heart?

Malcolm laughed. Looks aren’t that important. But as I told you, he said when Brian was about to protest, "my ideal woman must have inner beauty too. She should be committed to serving God and her fellow man. She should also have some quality I can’t define, he said, shaking his head. I’ll just know it when I see it."

It’s probably that ‘some quality’ you ‘can’t define’ that’s causing the delay, Brian said with a laugh. Well, Barbara and I are praying for you.

Thank you. He and Brian ate quietly for awhile, thinking of other issues. Malcolm’s mind was surprisingly not on his love life but on how Latasha, his latest assistant, had just given two weeks’ notice. She was his third assistant in five years, and he didn’t want to lose her. Brian was thinking of Barbara and the children. He was excited and wondered how they’d feel if he became pastor. Would Barbara mind? Would the children adjust if he wasn’t home very often?

When they finished eating, they sipped their coffee and savored the warmth of the hot brew. It was cold outside and growing colder. The wind was gaining strength. Malcolm’s mind went back to their earlier conversation. Brian’s mind wandered on to another issue, something more urgent. He didn’t tell Malcolm, but believed the other purpose of the church meeting would focus on that issue more than anything else.

There was another shortage Friday night, Brian finally said.

The offering?

The petty cash fund. We had over $2,000, but Barb says there’s only about $500 now.

Is she sure?

She counted several times.

Malcolm shook his head. You told the pastor.

I was hoping there was a mistake and that the money would be accounted for.

There was no mistake, Malcolm said as he got a sudden revelation. Sometimes the revelations came quickly and clearly, other times more slowly. Sometimes he got the entire message, sometimes bits and pieces. What he got then was crystal clear. The money was taken.

By whom? Brian put his cup down.

I can’t say. This issue has farther reaching circumstances and will not be resolved soon. We need to keep praying about it.

They finished their coffee, paid and walked outside. The wind had grown sharper and crisper. It howled around them and rattled the shutters on houses and storefronts. They buttoned their jackets, pulled on their gloves and began the trek back to the church. The city was waking up. More people were out and about, and they greeted the two ministers enthusiastically. When the men reached the church parking lot, Brian headed for his green Range Rover and Malcolm to his black Jeep Cherokee.

You never answered my question, Brian said as he unlocked his car door and turned to face Malcolm. Do you want the job or not?

Malcolm smiled. Are you telling me you don’t want it?

I’m saying I don’t think I’ll be asked.

God knows who He wants for the job. If He chooses you, I’ll congratulate you and support you 100 percent. If He chooses me, then…so be it.

That’s the spirit. Brian grinned. I’ll see you in a few hours.

When Brian drove off, Malcolm headed home. As he drove, he reflected on the conversation he had with Brian about the possibility of becoming the senior pastor of the House of Prayer. He had been preaching for six years and had been youth pastor for four. Since he knew the pastor wouldn’t retire for at least three more years, it meant he would have seven years on the job when the new pastor was selected. Malcolm thought about the number seven. It was God’s number of completion and used a lot in the Bible.

There were seven days in a week. Naaman dipped in the Jordan River seven times to rid himself of leprosy. Jericho was taken after being circled seven times and seven days. Jacob served Laban for seven years and got Leah and served seven more for Rachel. Egypt had seven rich years and seven lean years. There were supposedly seven deadly sins: greed, lust, gluttony, sloth, anger, envy, and pride, and there were many other biblical uses of the number seven. Seven was a godly number. Would he, Malcolm Irving, become senior pastor in his seventh year of ministry?

It was true that his ministry attracted many young people in the New York area. As the future leaders of America, they were an important group. He knew they were drawn to him because his youth and bachelorhood gave him a freedom and status the other ministers didn’t have, and it made him more accessible. Church attendance was up when he was in town and down when he was overseas.

Driving down Lenox Avenue or Malcolm X Boulevard, which some called it, he saw familiar faces. Like the young people in Harlem, he was from a humble background. He had always known he was illegitimate but didn’t know the entire story. His mother was an African American street walker from Brooklyn, whom he didn’t meet until he was twenty-seven. She hadn’t known which of her six clients, of various racial groups, had fathered him until he was born, and he hadn’t known his real father until he was twelve.

His mother had named him Malcolm in honor of the late Malcolm X whom she’d met in Harlem when she was a child. Unable to care for him, she allowed a Jewish couple to adopt him when he was two. The Irvings were Christians and raised Malcolm and their eleven other adoptees as Christians too. They were a large, gregarious group who spent holidays together. Malcolm attended public school in Philadelphia and then Yale, his father’s alma mater.

Brian Butler had been his roommate. Brian met his wife Barbara at Yale too, and they’d married shortly after graduation. Malcolm had remained friends with them over