Nickel City Crossfire by Gary Ross (children's books read aloud TXT) 📕

shake. “Charlie doesn’t want anything you got. Now get your shit and go.”

“Then I want my knife back,” Norm whined, cocking his head toward me. “That other nigger picked it up. Make him give it back.”

Brother Grace looked at me and grinned. Then he turned back to Norm. “You really are a dumb shit, aren’t you? Can’t you see that man is a cop?”

Everyone nearby began to cast sidelong glances in my direction, some to edge away. Charlie, who never thanked Brother Grace for saving him from a belly wound, started toward the other side of the room.

“I was you,” Brother Grace said to Norm, “I’d grab my bag and go before he took me downtown and hooked me up to one of those machines.”

Norm looked at me, his eyes widening in a panic that spoke volumes about his mental health. “Not the machines,” he whispered.

“You still got time to get over to Night People,” Brother Grace said.

“Occifer, I’m sorry,” Norm said, hefting his garbage bag and backing toward the front door. “I’m real sorry.” When he got to the exit, he turned on his heel, pushed the crash bar, and disappeared into the night. His exasperated “Niggers!” was audible as the door closed.

Handing Brother Grace the knife, I said, “I’m not a cop, not anymore.”

Pocketing the knife, he smiled, his teeth strong and white. “But you still got the look, my man.” He nodded as if congratulating himself on his perception. “You still got the look.”

“Gideon Rimes.” I stuck out my hand.

“Jeremiah Grace,” he said, taking it. “I work here with Pastor Paul. So what brings you to Sanctuary Nimbus? You don’t look like our typical volunteer.”

“Just helping a friend.”

He looked past me to Ileana and Veronica. “Miss Tassi-whassis, in the nice coat. She must be your friend.” Turning back to me, he half-whispered, “Can’t be Nasty Nica.”

I tried to match his volume level. “Nasty Nica?”

Brother Grace glanced back at Veronica. “Don’t know where it started but her street handle is Nasty Nica. Maybe ‘cause she cusses like a biker—or maybe ‘cause she’ll give anybody a hummer for five bucks.” After an impression of her throaty, slurred speech—“Blow job fi’ dolluhs”—he shook his head. “I hear she can be haggled down to two. The microbes in that mouth have gotta be in their own version of World War III.”

I looked back at Veronica and felt a stab of sadness anyone could have fallen so far. She wasn’t close enough to hear what he had said about her but she watched Brother Grace intently, her expression somewhere between hunger and uncertainty. Just then the phone in my jacket pocket buzzed once. I didn’t check the text because Pastor Paul joined us, his mild confusion tinged with concern: “Are you all right, brother?”

“Fine, Pastor.” Brother Grace hooked a thumb toward me, and light glinted off the raised infinity symbol on the large stainless steel ring he wore. The print above and below the symbol was too small for me to read. “This guy had my back.”

“Thank you, Mister—what was it again?” The old man appeared to concentrate but his unfaltering smile made the effort seem eerie. “I know you’re a friend of Ileana’s.”

“Rimes. I met you when you let me in.” Not ten minutes ago, I thought.

“Mr. Rimes. Thank you.” He shook my hand, his grip feeble, liver spots south of his knuckles. “Brother Grace is one of my best helpers. We could not function without him.”

“You’re not gonna lose me, Pastor.” Jeremiah Grace patted the old man’s back. “I owe you too much. Why don’t you finish your rounds and let me talk to Mr. Rimes and Miss Ileana for a minute.” A hand on each shoulder, he began to steer Pastor Paul away from me.

But the pastor turned back as if attached to a resistant spring. “Maybe you can get this strapping young man to volunteer.” As he studied me, I wondered if the flutter in his voice was from a neurological disorder like Parkinson’s. “Latecomers will need a meal and conversation. Mr. Rimes, you look like a man who’s seen lots of things to talk about.”

Pastor Paul moved away and bent to speak to an oversized woman sitting on one of the cots. She wore layers of rags, three scarves on her head, and filthy fingerless gloves. Toothless, she smiled at the attention and slapped her knee when he said something funny. Watching him, I remembered an article I’d once read about mental illness among saints.

Brother Grace turned toward Ileana and Veronica as if ready to go to them but I asked him a question before he could move: “How long have you volunteered here?”

He grinned. “I don’t serve food and launder sheets. I’m the shelter troubleshooter—kind of the operations manager. Only four of us get paychecks—Judy the cook, Marco the business guy, Drew the custodian, and me. Pastor and I are the only ones who live on site.”

“You live here, in the building?”

“Not here, with the drop-ins.” He shook his head. “I’m up all night. Volunteers clean the church after folks clear out in the morning. There’s no place else in the building to sleep. The basement’s too cold. The bell tower is locked because it’s not safe. Our rooms are in the parsonage next door. I crash in the morning. Then I’m up by three for deliveries.”

“Deliveries?”

“Food, blankets, linen, used clothing, cleaning supplies. Sometimes money.”

“Pastor Paul gets a lot out of you for the roof over your head.”

He laughed. “A roof that needs as much work as the rest of this joint. Pastor is rich but even he can’t do all that needs to be done.” Then Brother Grace started toward the table in the back. I followed him.

“Hi, Miss Tassi-whassis,” he said when he got there. “I’m sorry but I always have trouble saying your name.”

She looked at him without smiling. “I’ve told you to call me Ileana.”

“Miss Ileana,” he said, his tone ingratiating. “I truly respect what you do, so it’s only right I