From Faith to Faith

“Tweet…Come On…It’s late and my feet hurt,” Reva commanded. The women were leaving an awesome party at Club Nikko in Detroit. Two parking lot attendants nodded when the girls walked by. The brothas were used to fine half dressed women limping to their cars at three o’clock in the morning. Sometimes they even got lucky and got a little action in one of their vehicles; but tonight looked like it wasn’t going to be one of those nights. One girl looked drunk, her skintight miniskirt caressed toned thighs and a butt that had them shaking their heads in appreciation; but the other walked with a purpose. Attitude and thick dark hair cascaded down her back. If it was a weave; it was an expensive one but these brothas wouldn’t get the chance to find out. Resigned, the attendants let them pass.
“Why are we hurrying…,” Tweet slurred. “My Momma’s got my kids tonight.” She whined. Reva walked even faster. She used her remote to unlock her Ford Edge. The distinct aroma of pot wafted from a parked car. The car vibrated from the House Music softly playing in its interior. It appeared that another kind of party was going on in there. Reva smiled. She loved the city life. She wasn’t a suburban girl. She loved thuggish brothas, attitudes and bling. She even loved the smell of the city. Detroit was her home and she understood its streets. Reva and Tweet climbed into the vehicle. Feeling sick, Tweet reclined the passenger seat and stretched out. She slid three inch heels from her bruised and swollen feet and sighed.
“Girl…That was some party in there…It was just getting good too…Why we leavin so early?” she asked. Reva looked at her best friend since childhood. Tweet had never been able to hold her liquor, even expensive liquor. The watered down drinks that the club served hadn’t even begun to affect Reva.
“Something is getting ready to go down…I can feel it,” she answered. Reva backed out of the parking space and waved to the parking lot attendants when she passed. Their nod of acknowledgment answered. She pulled out onto the quiet industrial street and drove towards the traffic light. Two cars were already stopped waiting for the light to change. It did and both cars turned. Darkness now blanketed the industrial park. The isolation of the club was part of its draw and was just as enticing as the music that could still be faintly heard pulsing up the street. Goose bumps erupted on Riva’s arms and neck, her sixth sense stronger than ever; she said a quick prayer. Heart pounding, she continued driving on the desolate road. In the distance, she saw a dark figure step out of a vehicle and walk briskly to a parked car located on the side of the street. Reva drove by. Looking in the rear view mirror, she saw the man point a gun at the driver of that vehicle. Three shots echoed. Paralyzing fear fueled by self-preservation clung to Reva. “Oh…Crap,” she cried. Tweet’s glazed eyes opened. Reva had gotten a good look at the shooter and his accomplice. Adrenalin surged. “Tweet…Dial 911,” she yelled. Groggily Tweet retrieved her cell phone from her purse and dialed. Reva flattened the driving peddle of her car. The dark Escalade made a u-turned and took off in pursuit. Surreally, the 911 dispatcher directed the women to the nearest police precinct. Reva focused on driving as Tweet now somewhat sober hollered directions. Catching almost every light but driving through some, the girls arrived at their destination. Armed officers were waiting for the women when their car careened into the parking lot as additional officers gave chase based on Reva’s accurate description of the shooter and his vehicle. Surrounded by officers, shaken and stunned, the girls were escorted into the station. Appreciative glances passed over them as they were ushered into a holding area. Too many sets of hopeless, empty eyes peered back. At three in the morning, the station was somber and depressing. Eventually their statements were taken. Now sober and scared, Tweet was sent home to take care of her kids. In her drunken state, she hadn’t seen anything anyway. Reva stayed much longer working with a sketch artist to give details while they were still fresh in her mind. Tired and emotionally exhausted she managed to get home. That night the shooter was apprehended. When an officer showed up at Reva’s walk-up apartment the next morning, she found out she was the sole witness to a brutal murder. The shooter was second in command for one of Detroit’s most notorious street gangs. The victim was an undercover agent. The killing never made the six o’clock news. Within thirty-six hours, Reva entered into a state operated witness protection program. Unlike the federal program, she didn’t have round the clock surveillance; nor was she given a new identity. She was told to get out of town until the trial began and basic services would be provided. Reva took the cash that was offered, packed her car with essentials and directed her Edge westward on I-94. Having never visited Lake Michigan, she followed the signs directing her to one of the larger Great Lakes. She’d never heard of the small community located near it where she eventually stopped to fill-up; but it looked quiet and peaceful. Reva smelled the fresh air and noticed that everything just looked greener and crisper on this side of the state. Silence permeated. Wind rustled through the tall pine trees that encompassed the filling station. The rhythm that Reva was accustomed to feeling now pulsed dimly. Parking her car next to the pump, she walked into the service station to pre-pay. Bored, yet cheerful, the female attendant looked up from reading a magazine article. While Reva took money out of her purse she asked, “You live around here?
“Yep, all my life,” the girl replied. Reva handed the money to the attendant.
“Pump 2.” Reva held up two fingers. The attendant hit the authorization key. Odd, the girl didn’t sit behind security glass.
“African Americans really live around here?” The girl smiled.
“Yeah…we live in and around Indigo Beach. The town’s about five miles up.” The girl motioned with her head. Reva contemplatively looked up the road.
“I’m looking for a place to stay.” She reflectively looked out past her car. The girl reached for a faded telephone book located on a shelf above the register and flipped pages.
“Here…contact Property Management Inc.” Ripping the page from the book; she handed it to Reva. Both girls laughed. The attendant shrugged her shoulders. Reva fingered the well-worn page. Nobody used a phone book these days anyway. Walking towards her car she dialed the number at the bottom of the advertisement. Fortunately, the office was open. Ascertaining directions from the receptionist, Reva drove to its location. After contacting her handler in Detroit, four hours later she had a signed lease and a place to call her own. That evening, Reva ate fast food on the floor of her bare apartment. If it hadn’t been for a praying Grandmother Reva wouldn’t have known the power of prayer. Thank God; she did. Spread out prostrate on the carpeted floor she prayed. Reva went to sleep that night curled up on the scratchy fibers, in a strange place, a quiet place. A blanket, snatched from her home in Detroit and thankfully packed, protected her from the night chill. Too keyed up to relax, silence too unsettling, sleep was hard in coming. Eventually, Reva succumbed but fitfully slumbered until dawn.