Jesus lowered the volume. “This is it,” he announced, turning left into a side street. Slowing to a crawl, he began checking the building numbers. He spotted it and pulled over. His head was on a swivel, keeping tract of the groups eyeing his cab with deep interest. One or two of the smaller ones began drifting in their direction. Jesus was tapping the stirring wheel now, the pleasant smile expunged.

“Jesus has kept his promise. You go with the blessing of St. Joseph,” he said, making the sign of the cross across his chest before peeling off.

Outside the cab, the three of them stood staring at numbers 333, painted over the door of a decaying tenement. On both sides were rows of equally condemnable structures with the same grimy windows, and rusted wrought-iron fences. The front steps were worn and beveled in the center from the years of traffic. The front door was open, but two large men, dressed like stockbrokers, barred their entrance. Looking over his right shoulder, Thomas could see a crowd of teenagers drifting their way.

“What you want around here, white boy,” one yelled. “Haven’t you heard? The drug store is closed. So, you just turn your white asses around and head on back across 110th Street. You dig!” Thomas ignored the warning and proceeded toward the building. Before they could reach the steps, a muscular man, the color of lampshade, stepped in front of them.

“We’re not here for drugs. So, if you don’t mine, we have business inside,” Thomas asserted, his tone calm but forceful.

“You should have left when I gave you the chance, white boy. Now it’s too late. When I give the order, they are going to use you and your friends for target practice, including you pretty little friend there. Or maybe we’ll just save her for the after party.” Several of the teens, eyed Allira’s form while grabbing their crotch. The smile vanished from the big man’s face and in its place a piercing stare and disconcerting calm. One...two...”

Thomas shook his head in frustration. “I’m here to see the old, blind man.” Mason and Allira braced for the worse. The big man suddenly looked confused. He relaxed his stanch, and halted his countdown to death.

“You just bought yourself some time. But, if you’re lying…” Thomas lowered his gun and reached over and slowly lowered Mason’s gun hand. The large man pulled a miniature walkie-talkie from inside his jacket, and began talking in a low voice, eyeing the intruders from head to toe.

“This is your lucky day, white boy.” Then, he moved aside, and one of the suit-clad men beckoned Thomas forward. The three of them walked up the steps with Mason clutching his .45 automatic.

“Secure your weapon, soldier,” Thomas ordered in a hush tone.

“But, stony…”

“Put it away, and that’s an order,” Thomas’ patience now threadbare. One of the suited men led the way while the other followed the three of them upstairs. There the well-dressed man turned back to Thomas.

“You will have to leave your weapons here or take you chances outside.” Thomas turned over his weapons, and instructed Mason to do the same. Mason complied, but not without a quiet protest. The building was the typical inner-city rattrap, with paint peeling, hallways reeking of urine, caved in mailboxes and rickety banisters. They were led down a long, dark hallway to a door built to withstand a swat team.

Crossing the threshold, they were aghast. Unlike the dreary surroundings they just left behind, inside resembled a corporate suite, featuring Moorish architecture and ornamented with fine African art. So, preoccupied with the plush ambiance, they failed to notice their escort’s departure.

Standing beneath a domed skylight, Thomas spun 360 degrees, taking in the room. The walls were an olive green trimmed in gold with antique rugs covering the floor. Elaborate tapestries spun tales of ancient clashes between the forces of good and evil. It all seemed an illusion, especially, the floor plan. It seemed that this room alone would have occupied the entire landing.

It was Allira who surrendered to the room’s allure and plopped her self down in one of the oversized chairs. “Stony, I don’t like this,” complained Mason. I can’t tell whether we’re the guest or their prisoners.”

“If they wanted us dead, it would have happened down in the street. No, he is here. I can’t explain it, but I’ve been here before.”

“Who’s here? And, what’s that suppose to mean?” asked Mason. “Forget what I said about not wanting to know, tell me everything.”

Before Thomas could utter another word, the door swung open and in walked a tall black man of light complexion and cooper-colored eyes. He donned a plain white tunic and slippers made of linen cloth. His erudite manners and humble appearance set them all at ease, even Mason.

“He will see you now,” the man said, bowing respectfully. Thomas was stunned by the reverence shown to him by the urbane stranger. Allira and Mason followed Thomas to the door, but were halted. “The two of you will kindly remain here. I will return shortly with some refreshments and a first aide for that gash on you head,” he said, motioning to Allira’s forehead.

Allira nodded her approval while Mason stood trying to see beyond the threshold as the door closed in his face. There were several rooms on either side of the long corridor, each adorned with Italian marble floors and terracotta walls. Twin columns of onyx guarded the entrances to each of the rooms.

Finally, the man came to a stop in front a modest wooden door. He then bowed and left. Thomas knocked and waited for an answer. None came. He turned the knob almost expecting it to resist his effort.

Thomas called out again before nudging the door open. The room was not what he had expected. It was dimly lit, and quite ordinary. The setting consisted of a cot, a wooden desk, and a simple wardrobe. At the far end of the room sat the old man, gently rocking.