Catherine Palmer - Thread Of Deceit

“Acts like she owns the place,” Raydell remarked.

Sam chuckled mirthlessly. “Yeah, comes gliding in here like a Stealth bomber out to do her damage.”

“Just let her try.”

“Calm down, Raydell. This is God’s battle.”

“She better not try nothing. Ain’t nobody messin’ with my people.”

Pumped up now, the young man was flexing his muscles and clenching his fists as if ready to knock the reporter out with a single punch. Sam shook his head and focused on the game again.

“Shoot, Abdul!” he shouted. “You’re in perfect position. Go for it!”

Raydell elbowed Sam and pointed to a heavyset teenager standing flat-footed beneath the basket. “Hey, look at Natasha. She got concrete shoes, or what?”

“Jump, Natasha!” Sam called out. “Get those feet off the floor, girl!”

Raydell threw back his head and laughed. “Aw, man, that’s pitiful! I’m going back outside where at least I got something interesting to watch.”

“Later, Raydell,” Sam said as the teen sauntered away. He glanced at his watch. Almost time for activity change. He would send Miss Burns packing as soon as he could hand over these kids to someone else. She had stepped into the office, and he could see her talking to Caleb. One hand on her hip, she leaned over and said something to the boy.

That’s right, Cleopatra. Try to work your wiles on a seventeen-year-old boy. It won’t get you what you want.

A moment later the office door opened and Caleb walked out. But instead of coming for Sam, he headed toward the row of small rooms where the younger children were doing crafts projects and listening to stories. The young man poked his head into one room after another. Finally, he headed up the stairs.

So that was her scheme. She knew she couldn’t get anything out of Sam, so she had set her sights on his Haven partner. Young Caleb had been sent off to fetch Terell Roberts while she sharpened her claws. Smooth move, Cleopatra, but—

“Uncle Sam, I think the basketball is flat, sir.” Tenisha tugged on the hem of his T-shirt. “It don’t bounce good, and Gerald keeps on stealin’ it away from me.”

He studied the orange basketball as players maneuvered it around on the makeshift court. “It’s still got air, Tenisha.”

“I can’t do it, Uncle Sam.” Her face crumpled as she clenched her fists. “I told you! I can’t play basketball. I can’t run.”

“Hey, now—what’s this I can’t nonsense? Is that how we talk at Haven?”

“No, sir, but I really can’t. My legs don’t work good ’cause of the palsy, and every time somebody throws me the ball, Gerald pushes me out of the way and takes it.”

Sam focused on the skinny boy with buckteeth that stuck out so far he had a permanent groove on his bottom lip. Gerald carried a massive chip on his shoulder because he’d been bullied for years about his appearance. The kid had learned that Tenisha made a handy target when he felt the urge to take his frustrations out on someone.

“Stealing the ball is part of the game, Tenisha,” Sam told her gently. “But pushing is illegal. Tell you what, next time Gerald pushes you, fall down flat and start wailing.”

“You mean crying?”

“Just let out a squawk loud enough to get the referee’s attention. Who’s ref today?” He glanced at the court. “Okay, see Patrick over there with the whistle? If you fall down and squawk, he’ll notice what’s going on and call it. Before too long, Gerald will foul out of the game.”

“Ain’t that cheatin’?”

“Not if he really pushes you. The pros do it all the time.” He paused as his line of vision centered on Miss Cleopatra Burns, notebook out and pen in hyperdrive, having a big confab with Terell.

“Hey, T-Rex!” he hollered. Then he patted the girl on the back. “Go on out there, Tenisha. Don’t let Gerald mess with you.”

Before the codirector of Haven could spill the beans about their problems with the health department, Sam hoofed it over to him. “Terell, this is the reporter I told you about, and we don’t—”

“Anamaria Burns,” she cut in, turning to him and sticking out her hand. “How are you this afternoon, Mr. Hawke?”

“Not happy to find you back here.” He took her thin, strong hand and gave it a hard squeeze. “I told you we don’t have anything to say about paint.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her,” Terell spoke up. “This lady doesn’t listen, man.”

Sam regarded his best friend. Terell was the color of rich, dark coffee, but otherwise he looked like Sam’s twin. However, while Sam was the keeper of rules and the master of the clock, Terell functioned as Haven’s mascot. A teddy bear.

Today, as usual, a child hugged him, small arms wrapped around the man’s large leg as if clinging to a tree trunk. He held a little girl with blond hair on his back, her cheek resting on his head and her arms around his thick neck. She was asleep.

“Terell and I discussed this the other day,” Sam told the reporter. “We don’t think it’s a good idea to talk to you.”

“She won’t take no for an answer,” Terell said. “She keeps on saying she’ll write about the good we’re doing here.”

“She’s going to make a big deal about the paint.”

“I can write the article any way I want,” the reporter interjected.

“I’ve been burned by the press before,” Terell added. “But I don’t know, Sam. Maybe she could help us.”

“Does my opinion carry any weight around here?” Sam shot back.

“Not as much as you like to think, dog,” Terell replied. As he spoke, his face split into a grin, and his distinctive deep laugh rolled up out of his chest. He guffawed for a moment, the little boy who clung to his leg joining in with a giggle.

Sam turned on Cleopatra. “Is that the focus of your story, Miss Burns? The good things we do at Haven?”

“Well, no, but—”

“That’s what I thought. You’re going to write about our building, and how we don’t meet city code and the health department is breathing down our necks.”

“How long do you have to fix the paint problem?” she asked.

“Two weeks,” Terell said.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Way to spill the beans, T-Rex.”

“Two weeks is not long.” She scribbled on her notepad. “Are you planning to raise funds, or do you have an account set up for emergencies?”

“An account!” Terell started laughing again. “Did you see any of these kids pay to get in here? None of our donors are handing over enough money to set aside extra, ma’am. We pulled together the start-up money from what was left after my NBA days with the Magic, and now we’re basically what you’d call a charity case.”

“You played professional basketball, Mr. Roberts?” she asked, writing fast.

Sam eyed his friend in dismay. “You’re going to give her enough for a book, aren’t you, Terell? Sure, tell her everything.”

“No way, man. Not about DFS and all that.”

“Division of Family Services?” Ana spoke up. “They have a problem with Haven, too?”

“I can hardly wait to read the article,” Sam growled.

“Well, why don’t you handle it then?” Terell glanced at his gold Rolex watch, one of the few remaining luxuries from his once-lucrative career. “It’s time for activity change, anyhow. I’ll take care of it, and you talk to Miss Burns.”

“I don’t want to talk to her. I want her to leave.”

“Listen, Mr. Hawke,” she said. “I already have enough information here to include Haven in my article, so you might as well fill in a few holes. I can always talk to DFS myself.”

Sam stared at Terell. Terell stared back. Ever since their basketball days at Louisiana State University, the two had butted heads. Sam was intense, driven, edgy. Terell loved everyone, saw the silver lining in each situation and would give away his last dime. Sam had practiced on the basketball court for hours, honing his skills, pushing himself to his limits. Terell arrived late to practice, barely passed his college classes and led the team to one victory after another on raw talent. Sam trusted no one. Terell believed the best about everyone he met. So-called friends had conned, manipulated and cheated him out of most of his money, yet he never held a grudge. The two men loved each other like brothers.