“Ever try to live on welfare, Reverend?” Puck asked.
“Certainly not!”
A door opened down the hall and a woman stepped out, a Latina, dark eyes, her hair braided with colorful beads, wearing blue jeans and a peasant blouse. Slender and strikingly attractive.
“Can I help you?”
“It’s Pastor Arroyo, Carmen. I’m giving some of my people a tour. Carmen San Miguel, this is Mr. Dan Shea. He’ll be handling the heavy construction. I believe you’ve already met Mrs. Ford.”
“Our lease agreement allows us to operate until the end of the month,” Carmen said flatly. “I expect you to honor it.”
“Why fight progress, my dear?” Arroyo chided. “I should think you’d be overjoyed to move to the west side. It’s not the end of the world.”
“It might as well be. There’s no bus service out here and most of my trainees don’t have cars. How will they get to the new jobs center? Speculators are already buying up rental units in the district and evicting the tenants. Where do you expect them to go, Reverend?”
“I’m sure there’s affordable housing in other parts of town.”
“Hit-or-miss, maybe, but they’ll be isolated, no relatives or sense of community. Most of them grew up in this neighborhood. They’ve never lived anywhere else.”
“Perhaps a few people will have difficulty adjusting, but what about those kids playing out there? How often do they duck behind those walls to dodge drive-by bullets? Do you really think they’re better off in this neighborhood? Suburban kids their age are deciding between Michigan State or U of M. Kids in the Chapel district get jumped into gangs while they’re still in junior high. Breaking up this community will be a public service.”
“This place is a jobs center, right?” Shea interrupted. “Got any people who want to work?”
“Of course, that’s why they’re here. We help them earn GEDs, prep them for job interviews—”
“I don’t care about resumes, miss, but I’ll need workers to help clean up the Chapel. Manual labor, seven to five, six days a week till the job’s done. Minimum wage plus three bucks an hour. Five people for openers. Can you supply ’em?”
“That depends,” Carmen said. “Will it be a problem if some are ex-convicts?”
“Only if they got sent up for bein’ lazy. House rules: no dope or booze on the job. If they show up late or stoned, they’re gone. Period. No excuses, no second chances. Deal?”
“I can supply the people, as long as you don’t try to order them around like cattle. They’re poor, but they have pride. A few may have, well... difficulty with authority.”
“So does every man in my crew.”
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you, Mr. Shea. When do you want them to start?”
“Tomorrow. Seven o’clock. Tell ’em to wear old clothes.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Carmen said, smiling for the first time. “My trainees have problems, but overdressing isn’t one of them.”
“Well done, Mr. Shea.” Arroyo beamed as they made their way out of the school. “I’ve been battling with Carmen San Miguel for the past eighteen months. She’s attended every council meeting to speak against this project. Two minutes and you get her cooperation. Maybe I should switch to your brand of aftershave.”
“She’s got workers, we’ve got jobs. Why can’t we all get along?”
“Her being a pretty little thing doesn’t hurt, neither,” Puck said slyly.
“Didn’t notice,” Shea said. “Is there someplace we can grab a cup of coffee and kick this around?
“Right across the street,” Arroyo said. “Paddy Ryan’s. The only cafe in the neighborhood.”
A pleasant surprise. Paddy Ryan’s was like stepping back in time forty years. An old-fashioned diner, tiled walls inside and out, large windows with a view of the Black Chapel parking lot and the surrounding streets. Turquoise Formica counter- and tabletops, chrome-sided stools. The only thing missing was bobbysoxers in poodle skirts.
An odd mix of photographs staring down from the walls. Black luminaries like Langston Hughes mingled with IRA heroes — Charles Parnell, Michael Collins. All of them as dead as the district.
The only customers were three young black guys sitting at a table in the corner, backs to the wall. Gangbangers: jeans, muscle tees, tattoos. Eyeing the new arrivals like lions staked out over a waterhole.
Arroyo chose a booth beside a window facing the Chapel and the others joined him.
Two old guys behind the counter, built like beer barrels, both bald with gray fringes, same blunt features. The older one was wearing Coke-bottle glasses, sitting on a stool, an aluminum cane at hand. His brother bustled over to Arroyo’s booth, cheery as a leprechaun.
“Welcome to Ryan’s, folks. I’m Sam, that’s my brother Morrie over there at the counter. Before you ask, nope, we’re not related to Robert Ryan or Meg Ryan or even Ryan O’Neal, but we’re the only Ryans in this ’hood. Coffee all around for openers?”
As Sam hurried off to fill their order, the tallest of the gangbangers rose languidly and sauntered over. A black pirate do-rag and wraparound shades gave him a praying-mantis look.
“Y’all lookin’ for some action? Smoke, coke, light you up, mellow you out?”
“All we want is a quiet place to talk, if that’s all right,” Shea said.
“Then maybe you best keep lookin’—”
“You know these folks, Razor?” Sam Ryan interrupted, brushing past him with a tray, dealing out steaming mugs of coffee.
“I’m meetin’ ’em right now, Sam. Tryin’ to drum up a little trade, them bein’ new blood and all.”
“Okay, you’ve met ’em. How about you see to your friends?”
“My dawgs are okay where they are. These people don’t belong here, Sam.”
“Yeah? When I was a boy growin’ up on Williamson, folks said your people didn’t belong neither. But here you are, and you’re welcome, Razor. As long as you mind your business.”
“Don’t be pushin’ me, Sam.”
“Push you? What are you talkin’ about? I’m just a fat old man. ’Course, if you put me in the hospital, you and your dawgs’ll need a new place to hang. And there ain’t noplace else. Is there?”
Razor stared at the old man for what seemed like a month. Sam met his gaze calmly, and in the end, Razor looked away first.
“Maybe you right. The Paddy’s ain’t much, but it’s all there is.” He turned and sauntered back to his crew, graceful as a stalking cat.
“Friend of yours?” Puck asked, watching the youth snake between the tables.
“Just a local businessman.” Sam sighed. “The way the neighborhood is nowadays, me and Morrie can’t be picky about our clientele.”
“Maybe Reverend Arroyo’s new development will help your business,” Lydia offered.
“We could use some help. Maybe you folks can, too. We’ve got a fair-sized parking lot, which isn’t exactly overcrowded these days. Why don’t you folks park your cars at our place, let the local kids play ball in the Chapel lot? It’s the only basketball court in the neighborhood.”
“That’s a generous offer,” Shea said, “but they’ll have to find someplace else. The lot will be a construction zone. It won’t be safe.”
“Safe?” Sam snorted. “Believe you me, they’re a lot safer shooting hoops than shooting each other. Or you. And your job site’s safer if they’re playing where we can watch ’em instead of hangin’ on the corners thinkin’ up mischief. At least at the Chapel they can duck behind the walls if some gang decides to shoot up the neighborhood. Keeping the basketball court open will buy you some goodwill, mister. And in this part of town, you can use all the good you can get. Think it over. Either way, our offer stands.”