Of Blood and Sorrow by Valerie Wilson Wesley

warned me to be. “My calendar is full now, and I’m simply not able to help you. I will type up my report, and you will receive it in the mail by the end of the week. If, after reading it, you’d like your money refunded, I’ll gladly do it, and if you have any problems with that, please take them up with the state agency. I don’t want to see you again.”
    “What did you say?”
    “For all I know, you could be making this whole thing up. How do I know you even talked to Thelma Lee? You didn’t trust me; I don’t trust you. Our business is over. I’d like you to leave.”
    “You throwing me out?”
    “Yes, I’m throwing you out.”
    I didn’t realize my legs were shaking until I tried to stand up, but I forced myself to stand straight, move toward the door. He stood up and followed me but stopped when I opened it.
    “I’m asking you to leave now, sir,” I said, my voice trembling.
    “You sure about that?” he said, his voice cagey, cute, like he was flirting with me.
    I nodded, too scared to trust my voice again. He looked me up and down, sizing me up, then walked out the door. But he stopped at the top of the stairs and stood to the side. Sweet Thing and Jimson Weed were coming up, slow and with concerted effort. When Jimson Weed saw him, he stepped back against the wall. Treyman Barnes looked at him hard, his eyes narrowed into mean slits.
    “Where I know you from, man?” he said.
    “Hell,” Jimson Weed muttered, so low I barely heard him. He roughly pushed Sweet Thing into my office in front of him. I stood back amazed as the two of them barged in. They looked like extras from a movie circa 1960. He sported a forest green polyester suit, flared pants, Nehru jacket, and a white turtleneck that fit tight around his thick neck. He was built like a fighter, and the suit complemented his physique. He obviously hadn’t gained a pound since he’d bought it forty years ago.
    She was dressed grandly—from the decade before: crisp seersucker suit, neat white gloves, small black hat with a veil that reeked of mothballs, which I smelled as she’d whisked past. In one hand, she held a black plastic handbag fastened with a fake diamond clasp, and in the other, a pink and white umbrella, meant, I assumed, to block the sun. When she sat down, he stood behind her like a soldier-protector—hands at side, back ramrod-stiff. She preened like a reigning monarch for a moment, then opened her handbag, took out my card, and placed it on my desk.
    “You told me to come if I needed something, so here I am,” she said.
    “You still working for him?” Jimson Weed nodded toward the door where “the Devil,” as he’d called him before, had just exited.
    “No. I’m not working for Mr. Barnes anymore,” I said wearily.
    “He in that big building over there on Broad Street, the one they been working on, ain’t he? He rich now, ain’t he? He paid for that fancy car he got parked outside with blood, you know that?”
    I didn’t give him an answer; I doubted if he was looking for one.
    “If he came for that child, ain’t no way in hell he’s going to get her back,” said Jimson Weed. “And if he try, Sweet Thing got something in that bag for folks who mess with her family. I taught her to use it, too. She can aim straight, and she can aim sure.”
    I glanced down at Sweet Thing’s handbag and realized he was talking about a gun. Older women who grew up in the South often kept their .22s next to their compacts and combs in their fancy handbags. My aunt Odessa, a strong, beautiful woman as tough as nails,
never
left the house without “protection,” and she wasn’t talking condoms. Sweet Thing was of the same generation, so she was probably packing, too. All the more reason to get these two out of my office…and out of my life.
    “Do you know where the baby is?” I asked.
    They shook their heads in unison, as if they were attached by a string.
    “Last we saw her she was with Thelma Lee,” said Sweet