He wasn’t sure how long he sat in that pew. But it was long enough that they turned the sanctuary lights off. Pretty Boy had been sitting there, looking up at the cross, wondering what had just happened, wondering about what he was supposed to do now.
Everything kept telling him the same thing.
Tell G-Ma. Ask G-Ma.
He needed to tell G-Ma about what happened. Not all the details about Kriminal and Nefarius and the robbery and cops, but just this bit about church and God and the cross of Christ. About his prayer. About his prayer being answered.
G-Ma’s gonna ask what I was doin’ here but that’s okay.
Slipping out of the pew, he saw the big guy with the blockhead and short crew cut shutting off the lights. Slowly, knowing Pretty Boy was still in there. He walked toward him.
“Why’d you do it?” Pretty Boy asked him.
The man kept shutting off the lights. “Do what?”
“You know . . .” he said.
The big guy finished turning off all the lights and thought about his answer for a moment.
“The Holy Spirit put it in my heart that you were in trouble and asked me to help you.”
Pretty Boy just laughed. “You expect me to believe that?”
The stranger just shrugged as they walked into the foyer of the church.
“Doesn’t matter if you do or if you don’t,” he told Pretty Boy. “You’re still here, aren’t you? Speaking of which, I gotta close up.”
Pretty Boy stood near the doorway, but before he left, he turned and looked at the unlit church. He didn’t want to go. There was a restless longing that made him want to stay, at least for a little more time.
“You okay?” the big guy asked.
“Yeah, I’m just thinkin’.”
He saw a small smile on the man’s face, beneath his gray stubble.
“Tends to happen when the Spirit gets involved,” he said.
Pretty Boy was going to ask him what he really meant, to ask him to elaborate and fill in some more details. This guy looked decent. He knew what was happening and he still helped Pretty Boy out. He actually saved him in a way. So Pretty Boy knew the guy was looking out for him.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Before he even slid it out of his pants pocket, Pretty Boy knew who it was.
The name on the screen told him he was right.
The good news was that Kriminal was still alive. Unless, of course, someone else was using his cell, but that surely wasn’t the case.
The bad news was that Kriminal probably wanted to know about the money. Yeah, sure, he was probably checking in on his little brother, but that money was what mattered.
The money I don’t have.
Pretty Boy declined the call.
“Thank you,” he told the big guy before opening the door.
“Take care of yourself.”
On the street again, no blinking lights or guys carrying guns could be seen. No cars were in the parking lot, making him wonder about the guy he’d just seen and where he might have parked.
He slid into the night still on a mission.
• • •
IT WAS STILL there.
The duffel bag lay upside down, still obviously full of something. They hadn’t found it behind the dumpster. He assumed maybe they didn’t think he’d be stupid enough to drop a big bag of cash on the side of the street.
Pretty Boy had run back to find it but deep down he had hoped it was gone. He had hoped he could tell Kriminal that the money wasn’t there, that the cops or someone had found it. There was nothing they could do. It wasn’t there anymore.
But it’s right there.
His phone buzzed again. It was Kriminal calling, as if being able to read his mind. He sighed and then took the call this time.
“You okay?” Kriminal sounded out of breath, worried, talking fast.
“Yeah, I guess. But I keep thinking about Little B and 40 . . .”
“I know.”
There was a pause.
The guys get shot dead and left behind and all his brother can say is “I know.”
Would you say the same about me?
“You got the money?” Kriminal asked.
“No,” Pretty Boy answered.
“You gotta find it, P.B. Nefarius made it out—you know he’s gonna have his boys huntin’ us down. We need that money.”
“I hear you,” Pretty Boy said.
Pretty Boy asked where his brother was at, then told him he needed to hide away for the night.
“Where’re you gonna go?” Kriminal asked.
“I’ll figure it out.”
For a while after hanging up, Pretty Boy stared at the money. All this time, he’d believed that this was a way out, that this was their chance. The hope and the dream.
This bag is nothing but desolation and death.
He didn’t want to pick it up.
The wages of sin is death.
The pastor’s words stuck in his head.
We are all sinful. We deserve death.
He thought of the cross in the pocket of his leather coat.
The only way out . . .
He could feel his whole body shaking as he bent down and picked up the bag. Then Pretty Boy disappeared.