Free Only the Strong by Jabari Asim Page A

the papers. But they can’t take back that ring. It says I’m a world champion. My name’s in the books and they can’t take it out. It doesn’t belong on any finger but mine.”
    â€œWhy were you wearing it in the first place? Why don’t you keep it in a safe deposit box or something?”
    â€œI wasn’t wearing it. I was carrying it in my pocket. I’m telling you man, them bitches went through my stuff. Say, Guts—you ever killed a woman before?”
    â€œNaw, and I don’t plan to start.”
    â€œJust asking, just asking.”
    â€œTell you what, All-Star. I’ll put the word out. But I don’t want to promise something I can’t follow through on.”
    â€œOkay, whatever you can do. ’Preciate it.”
    Guts hung up and yelled for Playfair.
    He entered the office immediately, almost as if he’d been listening outside the door.
    â€œWhat it is? You heard about my wedding dresses?”
    â€œCome again?”
    â€œWedding dresses. In my trunk. Bridal veils and trains and whatnot. I can let you have one today for half of what I’ll charge tomorrow. One I’m keeping, though. For Nichelle.”
    Guts waited for an explanation.
    â€œNichelle Nichols. Uhura , baby! I got one she’ll look perfect in when we walk down the aisle. But from the look on your face that’s not why you called me in here.”
    â€œNo, although I wish you the best of luck with Uhura. Actually, I’m looking for a ring.”
    Ananias Goode, like Guts, was no fan of churches. Although Rev. Washington was Goode’s best friend and he contributed generously to Good Samaritan, he had absolutely no interest in going inside. Even a memorial service for a man he’d known since childhood wasn’t incentive enough to end his decades-long avoidance. So he sat outside the church in his New Yorker while Rev. Washington conducted Fish’s homegoing service. Oddly enough, Sharps had asked for and received permission to attend, although he’d hardly known the man. Alone in the backseat, his eyes hidden by dark glasses, Goode lifted his glass of bourbon and raised a silent farewell toast.
    Nearby, Guts was outside the church, too, leaning against the side of his Plymouth while Mr. Logan bid Fish goodbye. Mr. Loganhad practically raised Guts after his parents died. With his eyes failing, Mr. Logan didn’t need to be anywhere near a steering wheel, So Guts took him where he needed to go or made sure someone was available to do it when he couldn’t. Mr. Logan’s fidelity to Good Samaritan was the reason Guts drove the van every Sunday.
    Throughout Goode’s rise to prosperity, the word “gangster” had clung like white on rice. For example, Good Samaritan was frequently whispered about as “the gangster’s church” because of its pastor’s curious friendship with him. By 1970, however, Goode had begun to reinvent himself in earnest. His friend Levander Watts, publisher of the Citizen , had helped with timely photographs of Goode engaged in community service. His annual turkey giveaway for Thanksgiving, his dedicated service as a board member of Harry Truman Boys Club, his contributions to the Abram Higgins Memorial Garden in Fairgrounds Park—all received front-page coverage. As a result, over time “the gangster” came to be referred to, with admiration, as “Mr. G.”
    The new nickname pleased Goode. Underneath the displays of power, the long trail of bloodshed and intimidation, the penchants for bourbon and good cigars, Ananias Goode, like most human beings, harbored a desire to be loved and appreciated.
    Few men were as aware of this as Guts Tolliver. He tapped on Goode’s window.
    â€œMr. G., I’m sorry to bother you, especially at a time like this,” he said. “I need to ask you a big favor.”
    Goode rolled down his window. “Guts, always good to see you,”