“Never can figure that ‘Primitive’ part out. What’s that mean? Everybody carries spears?”
“Leonard,” I said. “You got a bad attitude. We find the Reverend, maybe I ought to do the talking.”
“A white guy?” Leonard said. “I don’t think so. Trust me, I know how to warm a guy like the Reverend up. I grew up here, remember. I can play the game, I have to.”
We walked alongside the church and on toward the house out back. Back of the church was green grass and a playground that broke into the side yard of the house. The air smelled like mowed grass and floral perfume.
We could hear a sound coming from the back of the church, a thumping sound, so we stopped to listen to it and to the sound of the sprinkler sputtering, and within seconds we both knew what the thumping sound was because we had both made that sound before.
It was the sound of fists striking a speed bag, quick and rhythmic, sweet and sure.
16.
The sound came from an elongated, low-roofed addition to the back of the church, and from where we now stood, we could see the church was much larger than it appeared from the street. We walked toward the sound.
The back door was propped open, and we went in and down the hall, following our ears. We came to a closed door on the right, and the sound came from behind it. I opened the door and looked inside and felt the air-conditioning and liked it.
It was a small but nice gymnasium. The floor was smooth and shiny and there was a basketball goal at one end, and against one wall some pull-out bleachers. In a corner of the gym was a speed-bag prop, and striking the bag was a bare-to-the-waist black man wearing blue jogging pants and black boxing shoes. He was fortyish, about five-ten with thick shoulders and sweaty skin and close-cropped graying hair. He looked strong, if a bit thick in the middle, but the middle was solid as a truck tire, and the muscles in his arms and chest coiled and released as he hit. He moved quickly and expertly and the bag sang to him as he did.
We stood there for a moment, watching him work, admiring it, then he paused for a moment, caught the bag with one hand, blew out some air, turned his head and saw us.
“I do something for you gentlemen?” he asked, and started slipping off the bag gloves.
We walked over to him and he tossed the gloves aside and we shook hands and introduced ourselves. He turned out to be the Reverend Fitzgerald, his own sweet self.
“You look pretty good,” I said.
“Golden Gloves when I was a kid,” he said, but not to me. He was studying Leonard. “I teach some of the neighborhood boys. I know you?” he asked Leonard.
“I don’t think so,” Leonard said.
“Mr. Fitzgerald,” I said. “We’re looking for a man we’ve been told works here. Illium Moon.”
“Illium?” he said. He used his hands to wipe sweat from his chest, then wiped his hands on his pants. “Haven’t seen him in days. Does a bit of handy work around here now and then. He’s retired, so he doesn’t want anything steady. Sort of chooses his own hours. I pay him a little. He helps run some of the children’s programs from time to time. Assistant-coaches volleyball and baseball.”
“Drives a bookmobile too,” I said.
“That’s right,” he said. “But not for the church. That’s his own project. He’s got all manner of projects.”
“When did you see him last?” Leonard asked.
“I don’t know,” Fitzgerald said. “Week or two ago. You men don’t look like cops.”
“Aren’t,” I said. “We just need to find him on a personal matter.”
“Serious?” Fitzgerald asked.
“He was a friend of Leonard’s uncle. We’d just like to talk to him. Know where he lives?”
“Out in the country. Somewhere off Calachase Road. To be honest, I’m not entirely certain. Here, let’s step into my office.”
We followed Fitzgerald out of the gym and down the hallway and into a small paneled room with a desk and the expected religious
“Leonard,” I said. “You got a bad attitude. We find the Reverend, maybe I ought to do the talking.”
“A white guy?” Leonard said. “I don’t think so. Trust me, I know how to warm a guy like the Reverend up. I grew up here, remember. I can play the game, I have to.”
We walked alongside the church and on toward the house out back. Back of the church was green grass and a playground that broke into the side yard of the house. The air smelled like mowed grass and floral perfume.
We could hear a sound coming from the back of the church, a thumping sound, so we stopped to listen to it and to the sound of the sprinkler sputtering, and within seconds we both knew what the thumping sound was because we had both made that sound before.
It was the sound of fists striking a speed bag, quick and rhythmic, sweet and sure.
16.
The sound came from an elongated, low-roofed addition to the back of the church, and from where we now stood, we could see the church was much larger than it appeared from the street. We walked toward the sound.
The back door was propped open, and we went in and down the hall, following our ears. We came to a closed door on the right, and the sound came from behind it. I opened the door and looked inside and felt the air-conditioning and liked it.
It was a small but nice gymnasium. The floor was smooth and shiny and there was a basketball goal at one end, and against one wall some pull-out bleachers. In a corner of the gym was a speed-bag prop, and striking the bag was a bare-to-the-waist black man wearing blue jogging pants and black boxing shoes. He was fortyish, about five-ten with thick shoulders and sweaty skin and close-cropped graying hair. He looked strong, if a bit thick in the middle, but the middle was solid as a truck tire, and the muscles in his arms and chest coiled and released as he hit. He moved quickly and expertly and the bag sang to him as he did.
We stood there for a moment, watching him work, admiring it, then he paused for a moment, caught the bag with one hand, blew out some air, turned his head and saw us.
“I do something for you gentlemen?” he asked, and started slipping off the bag gloves.
We walked over to him and he tossed the gloves aside and we shook hands and introduced ourselves. He turned out to be the Reverend Fitzgerald, his own sweet self.
“You look pretty good,” I said.
“Golden Gloves when I was a kid,” he said, but not to me. He was studying Leonard. “I teach some of the neighborhood boys. I know you?” he asked Leonard.
“I don’t think so,” Leonard said.
“Mr. Fitzgerald,” I said. “We’re looking for a man we’ve been told works here. Illium Moon.”
“Illium?” he said. He used his hands to wipe sweat from his chest, then wiped his hands on his pants. “Haven’t seen him in days. Does a bit of handy work around here now and then. He’s retired, so he doesn’t want anything steady. Sort of chooses his own hours. I pay him a little. He helps run some of the children’s programs from time to time. Assistant-coaches volleyball and baseball.”
“Drives a bookmobile too,” I said.
“That’s right,” he said. “But not for the church. That’s his own project. He’s got all manner of projects.”
“When did you see him last?” Leonard asked.
“I don’t know,” Fitzgerald said. “Week or two ago. You men don’t look like cops.”
“Aren’t,” I said. “We just need to find him on a personal matter.”
“Serious?” Fitzgerald asked.
“He was a friend of Leonard’s uncle. We’d just like to talk to him. Know where he lives?”
“Out in the country. Somewhere off Calachase Road. To be honest, I’m not entirely certain. Here, let’s step into my office.”
We followed Fitzgerald out of the gym and down the hallway and into a small paneled room with a desk and the expected religious
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