“I hope she doesn’t spot me, because I don’t intend to talk to her. I’ve only got two weeks left to come up with the money to fix the paint, and she could write things that would scare off donors. She could shut us down.”
“No way, man.”
“It’s possible. They say the pen is mightier than the sword.”
“Yeah, that’s why we carry guns in the hood.”
Sam cast the youth a skeptical eye. “And look what good it’s done you. No guns, my friend. And no reporters. I practically had to run her out of the building the other day. She’s trouble.”
“You already got enough of that.”
“No kidding.”
The woman headed straight for the office, head held high, dark brown hair swept up on top of her head like royalty. A queen expecting to command everyone in sight. What was her name? Burns or something, Sam recalled. She figured she was going to burn him. Splatter his sorry hide all over her newspaper. Slam the doors and lock them tight.
Not a chance. He had given his life to this place, and he believed without any doubt that God had commissioned him to the work he was doing with these children. Anything that rose against him became a part of the spiritual war he was fighting. And he certainly wouldn’t allow a prying reporter to sabotage his efforts.
At least she’d remembered the center’s rules and was wearing a plain white blouse. Tall and lean, she had the stride of a runway model as she crossed the floor in her belted slim gray slacks and high heels.
“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