Parishioner by Walter Mosley Page A

Xavier said. “Could you wait a few minutes?”
    “As many as you need.”

    The phone rang nine times before he answered.
    “Church services, Clyde Pewtersworth speaking.”
    “Hey, Clyde, Xavier Rule here.”
    “Mr. Rule.”
    The congregation used real names with the church staff; that, Father Frank said, was a matter of trust.
    “How come you put Guilly and Lance on me, man? You know what they’re like.”
    “You needed help and they were available.” Clyde was not loquacious. He said what was necessary, rarely a syllable more.
    “Who told you you could even call them?” Xavier asked.
    The momentary silence made Xavier smile. It was rare to get a leg up over the switchboard operator.
    “Frank told me to help you in any way possible.”
    “Really?”
    “What do you need, Mr. Rule?”
    “I might need a lawyer before this night is through. Cylla Pride in town?”
    Another pause on the other end of the line.
    “What shall I tell her the charges are to be?”
    “Nothing nearly as bad as what she’s done. Just breaking and entering, maybe some burglary if I see something shiny.”
    “Call me if you have a problem,” Clyde said. “I’ll make sure you two are connected.”

    “You go on, Win,” Xavier said, standing in the street next to his friend’s car.
    “At least try and start your car first.”
    “No. I’m gonna stay around here for a while.”
    “For what?”
    “Business.”
    “Let me help you, brother.”
    “This is no car wash, Win. This is what the bastards on Wall Street call ‘outside the box.’ ”
    “I know. I knew that when you threw that dude up against the wall and put your forearm across his throat. I saw in his eyes the kinda business you in. But you know, brother, I’m California born and raised. We follow the sun out here … wherever it go.”
    “Okay. It’s your funeral. First let me get a couple of things from my car.”

    The front porch was partially hidden by vines of pink roses grown over crosshatched wooden trellises. Xavier knocked and then rang. When there was no answer the duo moved to the left, broke through the hidden side trellis, and went down to a path that led around the side of the house.
    The brick patio was dark but the Parishioner could feel his way around.
    “Here.” Xavier handed his friend one of six pairs of latex gloves he took from the hallway outside of his hospital room. “Put these on.”
    Using the tiny hand-pressure flashlight on his key chain, Xavier could see that the slidingglass door was closed. After a couple of little shoves he knew that it was locked. He then took the twelve-inch tire iron he retrieved from the car and wedged it in the lock mechanism of the door.
    “Hold up, Ecks,” Winter said. “They probably got an alarm system on a nice house like this one here.”
    “No, brother.” Xavier savored the short phrase a moment and then continued. “We in my neighborhood now. People like me and the folks live here don’t have alarm systems. We use semiautomatics and dynamite, Dobermans and ice hooks—but never no alarms.”
    Xavier wrenched the short, thick tire iron and the lock cracked. The door didn’t come open because there were two other places where internal bolts had been thrown. He loosened them up and the glass door, which didn’t fracture at all, slid open.
    Upon entering the sunken living room, Xavier sought out a wall switch that turned on the overhead chandelier. It was a gaudy light fixture made from amber-colored crystals and real amber beads.
    “Hey, man!” Winter complained.
    “What?”
    “People might see that light from the street.”
    “So?”
    “What if they told somebody they were out of town or somethin’?”
    “They don’t know their neighbors.”
    “Are these friends’a yours?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “Then how you know who they know?”
    “Like I said, Win, we in my neck’a the woods. I understand these people like a California surfer knows his wave.”
    They went from room to