Read Parishioner for Free Online

all been built in the last twenty-three years; Xavier was pretty sure of that. They were cheap but not yet dilapidated, like so much of LA that was not Hollywood, Beverly Hills, or one of the other neighborhoods colonized by the rich and the pretenders to wealth.
    The one house was older but dark blue, not brown as Benol had remembered. However, paint was inexpensive and its reapplication necessary under the constant glare of sunlight on the Southern California desert landscape.
    Twenty-three years. What was he doing there? Why had Father Frank set him on this path?
    The rapping on his window testified to his distraction. Back in the day, in Harlem, no one could have come up on him unawares like that.
    The white policeman had tapped the glass with his nightstick.
    Xavier smiled out of reflex as the cop moved his hand and fingers in a circular motion, indicating that he wanted the window to come down. The displaced Harlemite complied.
    “Afternoon, Officer.”
    “Step out of the car, please.”
    The pistol was in a hidden pouch under the driver’s seat, and so Xavier felt comfortablegetting up and out of his vintage car. To the left stood the young policeman’s partner, a milk chocolate black man with steady eyes and no hint of humor.
    “License,” the white cop said.
    They stopped him because he was a black man sitting in a parked car at an intersection where he obviously did not belong. Once he emerged there was even more fuel for their suspicions—much more. The brown shirt and lime suit were bad enough, but his shoes were the color of mottled grapefruits—there were very few professions that wore this uniform, and most of those were illegal.
    Xavier handed over his California license and smiled.
    The black cop scowled while the white one read.
    Rule noticed that there was an angry pimple on the left side of the white policeman’s neck. Half the diameter of a dime, it had a yellowish eye that seemed about to explode.
    “What are you doing here, Mr. Noland?”
    “Deacon.”
    “Say what?”
    “Deacon Noland of the Interfaith Church of Redemption.” He plucked a blue business card from his breast pocket and handed it to the policeman.
    All ninety-six parishioners were deacons. They were given cards with the private line of the church across the bottom. During business hours, and at most other times, there was a secretary named Clyde Pewtersworth who would happily answer any questions about the cardholder.
    Xavier smiled. The only legal profession that allowed him to dress like he did in the old days was deacon. He could see that thought come up in the policeman’s eyes.
    “What are you doing here … sir?”
    “On a mission. One of our members’ father is sick and he’s been asking for his sister—a Miss Sedra Martin. He remembered that she lived in a house at this crossroads here. I’ve come to see if I could find her and let her know about her brother’s condition.”
    “Seabreeze City,” the policeman said. “I’ve never heard of it before.”
    “Small town just a little north of Ventura.”
    He was racking up points against the impromptu investigation. A deacon from up north named Egbert. This was all he needed—almost.
    “Why were you sitting in your car?” the cop asked, handing back the card.
    “I just drove up, Officer. The information I had was that there was a house on every corner and that Ms. Martin lived in a brown one. As you can see, the only house here is blue. When I saw what I was faced with I took a moment out to pray that a brown home had been painted blue. I find that prayer often helps.”
    The policeman moved half a step to his left and put his hand on the front hood of the classic car. Xavier stopped himself from smiling. He knew that the hood would be warm, proving his story with no real proof.
    The cop stared a moment more. No self-respecting law enforcement officer trusted a man in greenish yellow shoes, but the pieces seemed to fit.
    “Sorry for the trouble, Deacon