Charlie Sparks and the little black book

It was a small church, sat off the road behind trees and brush common to the area but overgrown, especially for this time of year. It was mid-February and there had been an unusual deep freeze, one that kept most people inside, shivering, covering up in blankets and lighting fireplaces.

More than once along the way, Charlie had thought to turn around, to just quit… but then he remembered the envelope in the glove box containing the twenty grand and, just a quickly, he’d think about the other thirty that he would get once the mission was finished.

Mission. Hell, this was a plain old snatch and grab… maybe a murder if things went south… but hell, this old guy was just a preacher in a little off the road church back of the woods in some poor old East Texas village. You had to search the map to find this place and if you missed the one blinking light in the center of town near the Dairy Palace, you were screwed, blued and tattooed.

Then he smiled a broad, gap toothed grin, lit another cancer stick, and despite the below freezing temperature, kept on going.

Fifty grand for a little black book full of secrets.

Piece’a cake.

But even Charlie had been a little hesitant, and that was after had given him the twenty grand advance, when he realized the little black book was owned by Carlos Morales, see?

Yeah.

THAT guy.

Gun runner, drug smuggler and all around king of one of the biggest cartels in the United States… maybe even the Northern Hemisphere… THAT guy… kept a lot of important numbers in this particular little black book.

So, then, NOT a scam, just a dangerous as hell job.

Charlie Sparks pulled up during services, catching his breath in the frigid atmosphere of East Texas pine, gathering his coat around, slipping and staggering for the steps that led up to the dark chapel doors of the white-framed building with the cross atop it. He entered quietly, stepped onto a red carpeted hallway where two large doors mirroring the outside entrance faced him, and shook the bitter cold off his bones. The smell of roses and burning candles welcomed him and it was warm, even slightly too warm, inside. He stepped through the chapel doors, they being parted barely as wide as needed to allow his tall gaunt frame passage. Directly ahead, he saw a pulpit framed in wood and towering over, a large pipe organ, its triangular form displayed in beautiful polished copper tubing pointing fashionably at the orator, a smallish, white haired man of about sixty or so, speaking softly into a microphone.

As light from the stained glass windows poured in, the flowery scene was quite lavish for a Sunday service, thought Charlie; but, he realized then, this was no come-to-Sunday potluck.

This was a funeral.

So Charlie sat near the back of the church, listening to the sermon, already in progress. The minister spoke in low even tones, almost singing.

“…And it is true, that while he was a complicated man, he was a child of the Lord, as are we all.”

A cough from the crowd now. Several people looked back, spotted Charlie, turned away.

The minister hit a stride. He motioned with his hands to the coffin, then out to the small crowd that had gathered there.

“The Lord loved him as He loves all of you here today, in this place, His house, His home. And He gives you all this same chance, this same opportunity… this time of introspection… that you may come to Him and lay down your burden, give Him your lives, give Him your spirit to care for; yourselves to love.

This is the greatness of the Lord, that He can forgive. That which WE might NEVER consider forgiving, He gives no pause, no thought, but to forgive.

Ask and ye shall receive. Knock and the door shall be opened. Acceptance of the Lord is the only way for NONE shall enter the Kingdom except through Him.

The power. The glory. The spirit that is the Lord.

Pray for your continued guidance. Pray for His everlasting love. Thank Him, the Father who dwells forever in His Kingdom. Amen.”

And with that, the organ, played by a slight, small framed spinster, began to play. The minister began his final refrain.

“You may come up and view the remains now. We ask that the family remain seated so as to allow friends to come first and clear the building before we carry the body to the cemetery out back. Thank you.”

The crowd stood, all but the few that remained to carry the coffin, and made their way to the viewing of the body.

Charlie didn’t think it strange at the time that there appeared to be no family at all for this poor soul lying in state, but then, his mind was only on the little black book he had come to retrieve.

Oh, and Charlie Sparks didn’t like funerals. Never had. When he was but nine years old, his family lost seven people he was close to and he attended all the funerals. Of course, they were all very old- the people in Charlie’s family tended to live long and productive lives- but he had seen enough death that one year to last him a lifetime.

Yes, Charlie Sparks truly hated funerals.

So it was that when the others all left and the coffin was being carried away, Charlie waited in the Church for the minister to return.

He didn’t have to wait long. Father Drake returned from the gravesite and walked across the small stage towards the hall entrance in the back of the building. Charlie ran up behind him. The minister either didn’t see Charlie or didn’t hear his approach as he continued to walk down the hall to his office. To the side of the office door, a small brass plaque was mounted with the name “Father Drake Tarragon” upon it.

Charlie, his gun drawn and his face set, walked through before the door could even close behind the short little man.

He spoke loudly, confident now that they were alone.

“Hello Father.”

Father Drake never turned, just sat in his large comfortable overstuffed chair, opened a small drawer to his right and pulled a bottle of whiskey with two glasses.

He poured.

“Hello Charlie.” He lifted a glass and held it towards the stunned Mr. Sparks.

Charlie sat down in a plush chair opposite the minister and took the glass, drank it all at once.

The minister smiled. “To your health, then!” He smiled broadly, drank deeply, sat back and folded his hands across the not-so-small expanse of his mid-section. He spoke in a deep melodious voice very unlike the one Charlie had heard earlier.

“What can I do for you, Charlie Sparks?”

Charlie held out his glass in a slightly trembling hand. The minister poured another for each of them.

Charlie looked at the glass wondering, closed his eyes, and spoke slowly.

“What you can do for me, preacher, is get me what’s mine.”

The minister turned to his side, recapped the bottle and put it away, all the while speaking.

“And that would be what, Charlie?”

Charlie sneered, “You know what you got. Hell, you knew who I was even before I introduced us.”

“That’s true, Charlie. But it seems you have lost so much, I can’t keep track of just what it is you are looking for. I mean, we talked about this before, or have you lost your memory too?”

Charlie DID remember something about a discussion with this man. Something itched at the back of his skull now. He reached to scratch it.

The preacher laughed. “That’s right. It was right after that happened.”

The itch was now becoming unbearable. Charlie scratched at it hard and fast.

The preacher stood and walked over to Charlie, putting his hand on his shoulder as he crossed to the window overlooking the cemetery.

Charlie pulled his hand back from his head where he had been scratching. It was covered in blood and gore. The preacher kept talking.

“See Charlie, I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen…” He turned to look at Charlie now, and his eyes looked funny.

Charlie held up his gun and pointed at the minister. He screamed now, afraid and sick all at once. “I’ll kill you for it, I swear. I’ll shoot you dead. That little book has all the mafia numbers in it and you WILL give it to me. I been paid 20 grand to find that book, and I tracked it all the way to this hole in the wall. And you should know, even if you don’t give it to ME, someone else will come for it! There’s too much money involved. I’m telling you, they WILL COME!”

With that, the minister turned and gave Charlie Sparks a great huge grin. His sparkling white teeth glowed in the dim light and he stood what had to have been a good three inches taller.

He almost gurgled the words as they rolled off his tongue, “Oh, Charlie. Charlie, Charlie… I’m counting on it.”

“See, there IS NO little black book. No 20 grand. There never WAS a little black book.”

“It’s just that some of you won’t come in out of the RAIN, Charlie. And YOU people are EVER so hard to track down and catch after you’re dead.”

“So, I INVENTED the little black book to GET YOU to come to ME, Charlie. See, it’s all just smoke and mirrors. Just an illusion, old boy.”

And then the minister named for the two dragons turned slowly as the fire in his eyes burned brighter and brighter and the sulfurous scent began to rise along with little wisps of smoke and ash.

“But I have to tell you, I DO feel bad for you, Charlie, most of all. I mean, you have NO LUCK, Charlie.”

And, now fully revealed, the satanic dragon laughed, belching fire in Charlie Sparks direction, burning his soul to a crispy little shard which he quickly stepped on with his scaly clawed foot.

“Why, you even arrived late for your own funeral.”