No Sin in Paradise (5 page)

I watch as Victory scans the airport with a smile and a look of curiosity.
Special
doesn't begin to describe her.

“You don't have to tell me. I already know.”

“Let's get you cleared through customs and send you guys on your way.”

No sooner than we clear customs do I hear a honk, and from the distance I see Cameron waving us down.

“Who's that?” Victory asks.

“A maniac that almost got me killed. We'll catch a cab.”

“He acts like he knows you.”

“He acts like he knows everybody. That's his whole get down.”

Victory takes me by the hands and tries to calm me down. “Listen, I want to spend time with you, but I know that you have some business to take care of first. But if this person can get us there, then let's give him a second chance. Besides, where do you see a cabdriver like this in the States?”

You
don't
see cabdrivers like Cameron in the States, and that's for good reason. I cringe at the thought of Cameron being in New York or New Jersey or California where the drivers are known for being aggressive. He would cause accidents left and right.

“Hey, fam, good to see you,” Cameron says.

I wish I could say the same thing. “Good to see you as well,” I lie.

“Where you headed? Cameron will get you there in no time.”

Victory looks at me, and I wave off any notion she has of asking why Cameron refers to himself in third person. We hop in the cab and, like before, Cameron guns his bike and takes off. Only difference is, instead of screams, I hear Victory's laughter. I would've thought that we are on a roller coaster.

“Hold on, fam!” Cameron yells as he makes a steep turn down the hill. I feel like we're going to crash, but Cameron maintains just enough control to keep us from crashing . . . just like before. I realize that Cameron didn't take my advice to choose another profession, and it's useless at this point.

Yesterday when I arrived at this hotel, it, at least, had a small police presence. Today, it's a ghost town. Nice to see that the long held theory that not too many people would shed a tear over a dead preacher holds true.

“Beautiful. Is this where Pastor Cole stayed?” Victory asks.

“Yes, this is where he stayed and had his conference every year.”

“So sad, but he couldn't have picked a better place to host the conference.”

We walk up to the front entrance. The two doormen open the doors for us like we are royalty. I enter in the hotel, and unlike the outside, the inside is pretty busy, which means the conference is in full swing.

“I tell you what, why don't you go have a daiquiri at the bar, and I'll catch up with you in a little bit.” I release my grip, but Victory still holds my hand.

“Hurry back, okay?”

For a moment I forget what is so important that I have to leave Victory's side, and then I remember that there is a dead pastor with a hefty payday in it for me. All I have to do is find any info that leads to the murderer of Pastor Cole.

I cross the lobby and move past the receptionist desk toward the back of the hotel where the conference is being held. The closer I get to the conference room, the louder the voices I hear.

“And as Pastor Cole liked to say, be aware of what season you're in. There is a time for everything under the sun and recognize your season.”

Every so often I am led to read the book of Ecclesiastes. The book can be real melancholy, especially when I used to read it with a fifth of Hennessey. Lately, I have been contemplating chapter three, that talks about seasons. I wonder if I have moved into a different season, and I haven't realized it. Maybe I'm in a season to be out of the problem-solving business.

As I walk along the back of the conference I notice that there are less than a thousand people in attendance. That is rather small for an international conference. Only a thousand people at an international conference means something's afoot. I see Pastor Bryant on the side of the stage, and I can tell he's distracted, but if he thinks that he's been having a long day, his day is about to get longer.

I don't get any of the ushers' attention until I start walking up toward the stage to where Pastor Bryant and the other ministers sit. An usher walks toward me and meets me midway down the aisle.

“Can I help you?” One of the ushers holds up his hands to prevent me from going any farther.

If I was a cop I would break the usher's wrist and keep moving. However, I realize a more subtle approach is required. I look beyond the usher's shoulder and make eye contact with Pastor Bryant. I mouth to him, “We need to talk.”

Pastor Bryant gets up and walks down the side of the podium. As soon as he gets down, his armor bearers meet him, but Pastor Bryant waves them off. I join Pastor Bryant on the ground floor and walk alongside the conference toward the exit.

We walk down a long hallway that leads to the office he took me to the first time we met. I walk into the office after Pastor Bryant opens the door. He turns on a light to a quaint office with a minirefrigerator on the inside of it.

“You must have some information for me seeing that you're here,” Pastor Bryant says as he opens the refrigerator door.

“Who is Demetrius?” I ask.

“I never heard of him. What does he have to do with this?”

Judging by his body language, I can tell that Pastor Bryant is telling the truth. He doesn't know Demetrius, which narrows the list of people who I suspect informed Demetrius about me.

“Is that what you came over here to ask? That's most disappointing, Minister Dungy. I was told that you can be quite resourceful.”

I don't respond well to criticism, but there is a larger problem looming. “Let's just say that I met Demetrius last night, and he's not the kind of guy you would want to be alone with in a room.”

“Really?” Pastor Bryant seems unfazed by my statement. Instead, he starts checking his cell phone, and, I assume, texting.

There is a glass crystal ball on the desk. It's the size of a baseball, and it appears to be a replica of the globe. I pick up the ball from the mantle and toss it in my hands a couple of times before I hurl it past Pastor Bryant's head, and it shatters against the wall.

“Are you out of your mind!”

“Are you out of
your
mind? There's a guy who threatened me less than a few hours after I met with Pastor Cole's kid, and you don't even know who he is?”

“I don't know him. What else do you want me to tell you? Pastor Cole started hanging around some shady characters, and I had to start distancing myself from him.”

“And yet, here you are at the conference as if nothing has happened.”

“He's still a brother in Christ. I don't have to agree with every move he makes, but I will stand by him. But that's not the point; the point is . . . I sent you to deliver a message to Elisha. What happened?”

I reach into my jacket pocket and remove the letter Bryant had originally given me. I toss it on the table. “Return to sender. She thought your offer was a joke. She wants double.”

“Double?” Pastor Bryant shakes his head.

“Or she's going to expose the dirt that she has on you.” I notice the change in Bryant's body position. He now knows just how good I am.

“What do you know?” Bryant asks.

“Not enough. I need to know what you are willing to pay $2 million for to keep from coming into the light.”

“And why would I tell you that?”

“Because you're going to pay me two million to not only help find the person responsible for Cole's death, but to make sure that your secrets remain secret.”

“Two million dollars? You've got to be kidding, Dungy. I'm not paying you $2 million.”

“I'm putting my vacation on hold and my life is at risk. So if I'm going to do that, then I'm going to make sure that it's worth it. Two million dollars or I walk. It's really that simple.”

Pastor Bryant mulls over my proposition. For me, it's a win-win situation. I either resume my much-needed vacation, or I'm about to get the ultimate payday.

“I can't believe I'm doing this,” Bryant mumbles to himself. “You better deliver.”

“I will. Not let's hear it. What does Elisha Davis have on you?”

“What do you know about the Cloth?'

I am somewhat surprised to hear Pastor Bryant mention “the Cloth” in a sentence.

“I know that they do not officially exist, but in certain circles they are an international conglomerate of pastors and religious leaders who share their resources together and big megachurches with Starbucks in the parking lot.”

“That's not all that they do.”

Obviously, but that is just a general assessment. I happen to know for a fact that the Cloth is also a safe haven for wayward pastors who need to indulge in some of their vices without causing a scandal. What I didn't know was that Pastor Bryant was somehow affiliated with it.

“How does Elisha know about the Cloth?”

“Because her father was a member of the Cloth as well,” Bryant says.

I long suspected that Pastor Cole has a closet full of skeletons. Why does it seem like only in death a person's true nature comes out?

“So every leader that's here is a member of the Cloth?” I ask.

Bryant gives a head nod in agreement. “Well, not exactly. When I last saw Cole, he told me that he was getting out. After I found out about his death, I decided that when this conference is over, I'm getting out too.”

Even though Pastor Cole believes his fellow members of the Cloth are above murder, the truth is, Pastor Cole's departure from the group, and then his murder, raises a lot of red flags.

“So what did Elisha catch you doing?”

Pastor Bryant lets out an embarrassed grin. “I was photographed in a hot tub with two women the other night. I don't know how she got that picture.”

Neither do I. Elisha has turned out to be quite resourceful, but why would she have incriminating photos of an organization that her father was a part of? What did Elisha stand to gain? My face must've conveyed disappointment because Pastor Bryant gave me a dismissive wave.

“I didn't do anything, but it's pretty hard to resist being in a hot tub with two beautiful women.”

“I'm sure that argument would go well with the wife.”

Pastor Bryant gives a head nod to my sarcasm. I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a small tablet with a pen. I scribble a number on the paper and hand it to Pastor Bryant. “Half now, half when the job is complete.”

“What do you need from me?” Bryant says.

“I need a name with evidence and the photos.”

Pastor Bryant purses his lips, but he then agrees. And just like that, I have become a millionaire.

The next morning I find myself in attendance at New Haven Community Church. Like practically everything on the island, the church is a stone's throw away from the ocean. I kind of like having church close to the beach and being able to hear the sea while worshipping God.

The church could hold maybe sixty people at most. Less than thirty are in attendance, but, boy, I can feel the presence of God in this place. Adele invited Victory and me to church, and we sat in the front row clapping and singing along with the two-member praise team while Sammy Moses accompanies the praise team on piano.

“Bless that wonderful name of Jesus! Bless that wonderful name of Jesus!” the praise team sings.

I have to admit, Sammy is a pretty good piano player. He's not a Beethoven or a Thelonious Monk or even a Little Richard, but he does play the piano with enthusiasm. I enjoy watching him stare down at the keys as he thrusts his fingers down on the keyboard. The song went on for much longer than need be, but it is nice to see a church that thrives on praise as opposed to being theatrical.

“This feels like home. Look at Sammy get down,” Victory says.

“That fool is going to mess around and hurt himself,” Adele replies.

Sammy and Adele are both in their sixties, so I understand why Adele is concerned with Sammy's health and safety. She may not share a romantic connection with Sammy, but they do share the journey of getting older.

All of a sudden, Sammy stops playing and stands up. Now only the drums, tambourines, and hands clapping could be heard. Sammy walks up to the front of the stage and does a dance across it. Adele rolls her eyes at the sight of Sammy.

“He always got to show out.”

Victory lets out a girlish laugh, and I smile. Even in the midst of Pastor Cole's murder, the mood in the sanctuary is not lost. I get the sense that there is still hope, and there is more life to live.

When the song concludes, Sammy walks off the stage and takes a seat next to Adele. He puts his arm around her, and she smoothly takes his arm off of her. Pastor Clayborn is a petite woman who is barely taller than the pulpit. She walks up with a Bible in her hands that is bigger than her.

“This has been a grievous week,” Pastor Clayborn says in her raspy voice. “I have never met Pastor Cole. Like some of you, I was only able to view him from the TV, which is not the best way to view a man.”

I can tell that Clayborn is an educated woman who is only concerned with one thing, and that is the truth.

“You see, man looks at a man subjectively; God looks at a man objectively. If a man is a man of faith but struggles with alcohol, then man will demonize him and call him an alcoholic. God sees both the man with a drinking problem and the promise that is birthed within him. He doesn't step away. No, he gets right into the thick of it and begins to reconcile and reshape and mold that man into his original purpose. Just like God is molding all of us to accomplish His will. Don't get too caught up in yourself to see that you're a part of something much greater in the body of Christ.”

I know that I have struggled with drinking and smoking for a long time, to the point where I stop referring to myself as a man of God. I have troubles seeing a flawed man worthy of such a title. Pastor Clayborn reminds me of the power of God and His ability to transform lives. Maybe I am a man of God. A deeply flawed man of God, but a man of God, nonetheless.

After service, Pastor Clayborn stands outside on the side of the church. She doesn't rush through every member, but she takes her time and talks with each of them like she has known them for all of her life.

“Thank you, Pastor Clayborn, that was an awesome sermon,” I say.

“Thanks, to God be the glory.”

Just like that, my mind starts to turn and I wonder if Pastor Clayborn would carry that same humility in the States, where name brands are worshipped. I wonder if being on a secluded island helps one avoid temptation as opposed to living in an environment that embraces it and flaunts it.

“That was a great sermon, Pastor Clayborn.”

I recognize the voice, and when I turn around, there he is . . . Demetrius. I know for a fact that Demetrius was not at service this morning. His large girth and sinister grin is easy to spot at a church. But how did he know I was here?

“God bless you,” Pastor Clayborn says with a crooked smile. She obviously knows who Demetrius is and is not buying the sinner-coming-to-church gimmick.

“I seem to have forgotten your name,” Demetrius says tome.

“Nic.” I extend my hand, and Demetrius shakes it.

“God bless you, Brother Nic,” he says.

I have a short list of things I hate. On that list is grapefruit, the 405 freeway, and nonbelievers who mock Christians. Demetrius is the latter.

“Nic, I was wondering if I could have a word with you in private.”

Somehow, I don't think that this is a request. We are in public so there's not much he can do with a bunch of eyewitnesses, so I excuse myself from Pastor Clayborn and walk with Demetrius until we get out of earshot of others.

“Okay, I don't particularly like being messed with, so what's up?” I ask.

Demetrius acts like he is offended. “I'm shocked. I can't believe you would think that I would waste your time.”

“Well, you wanted my attention, and you got it.”

“I wanted to apologize for the other night. I know I can come on a little strong, but my intentions are good,” Demetrius says.

“Did you ever hear the expression that the road to hell is paved with good intentions?” I ask.

Demetrius loses his smile. How easy it is for the serpent to shed his skin, and just like that . . . His smile returns.

“I never heard that expression before, Mr. Dungy, but I will keep that in mind.”

I bet he will, but I'm still wondering why Demetrius has taken a sudden interest in me. The only way I will find out is by having a conversation with him.

“What do you want, Demetrius?”

“I was wondering if we could have a private conversation.”

“What do you call this?” I ask.

“Two brothers in Christ having a conversation,” Demetrius says.

“I didn't take you for a Christian.”

Demetrius laughs, and he starts to look down at his feet. “I guess not, Mr. Dungy, but there is something time sensitive I need to talk to you about.”

“I'm listening. What's on your mind?”

“Not here. Come to my house around ten p.m. It's the biggest house on the island.”

Again, I suspect that this is not a request. “It's a date.”

 

 

From church I hitch a ride with Sammy back to his house. My meeting with Demetrius gave me a lot to feel nervous about. As we drive along the road that leads to Sammy's house, I take in the scene. Sammy didn't have a big retirement to live off of, but who does in this day and age?

He bought his house in the part of Crystal Cove which is similar to a ghetto that I've seen back in the States. It's about a ten-minute drive from Adele's beach house. Ten minutes . . . That's all that separates a slum from a dream home.

“You okay, Doc?” Sammy asks.

I hear Sammy, but I don't respond. My attention is set on the people walking around these neighborhoods. There are young boys with their shirts off who are walking about aimlessly. The young girls are half-naked and clueless, but who am I to judge? Demetrius came up on these streets, so, in essence, he's only doing what these streets taught him.

“Doc, you've been acting goofy on me ever since that girl of yours came out here.”

“I'm sorry, Sam. I just have had a lot on my mind.”

“I know, and it hasn't been the right thing. You've been running back and forth to Green Cove and not communicating with folks. It looks bad, man.”

I didn't have time to worry about how my actions look, especially when I have a drug dealer who has made threats on my life looking for me. And I have no reason to believe that Demetrius will not make good on his threats. I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea about me, but what can I do?

Sammy pulls into his driveway. Like most homes on the island, Sammy's place is only one story. I guess that's to protect against the storm season, though I could be wrong. Unlike the other homes in the neighborhood, Sammy takes pride in his home. The yard is kept up, and there isn't any trash or anything that would create an eyesore.

I follow Sammy into his home, and it's a different story. While the outside of the house is kept as immaculate as possible, the inside of the house looks like a category-three tornado hit it. Newspapers, fishing equipment, and empty bottles of beer are scattered all over the place.

“Would you like a cold one, Doc?” Sammy asks.

“Sure.”

Sammy goes into his refrigerator and produces two domestic beers and pops the cap back on both of them.

Sammy isn't a heavy drinker. He enjoys a good beer, but he never drinks in front of someone who has struggles with alcohol. The Bible says, “Do not cause your brother to struggle.” Of course, if Sammy knew about my struggle with alcohol, I doubt he would offer me a beer. I have always been somewhat delusional about my alcohol problem and not wanting to confide in Sammy about my struggles makes me question how genuine of a friend I am to him.

“So what's on your mind?” Sammy asks after he takes a swig of his beer.

“What's not on my mind? I can't even call it nowadays.”

“Well you seem a little distraught since we left church.”

“Demetrius showed up at church today,” I say before I take a sip of my beer.

“I know. He ain't hard to miss. So what about Demetrius showing up at church?”

“He wants to meet with me.”

For the first time, Sammy gives me a look of concern. He may not be so quick to demonize Demetrius like how Adele does; however, that doesn't mean that Sammy thinks Demetrius is an upstanding citizen either.

“Now why would he want to talk with you?”

This is the part where my friendship and my profession collide. I can't tell Sammy why Demetrius wants to meet with me, but I need his advice on what to do in this situation.

“I don't know, maybe he needs some spiritual counsel.”

“Well, we all are in need of spiritual counsel. If Demetrius wants to turn his life around, then I say you should at least hear him out.”

Something tells me that Demetrius is not interested in a “Come to Jesus meeting.” “You may be right, Sam, but listen, since I don't know who I'm dealing with, I have to ask you, do you have a piece?”

“A peace? Yeah, I have a peace that surpasses all understanding.”

“I'm not talking about that kind of peace. I'm talking about steel, heat—a gun.”

Sammy takes a swig of his beer but does not swallow. He just looks at me. The moment turns awkward because Sammy's look is a look of disappointment. He finally swallows his beer.

“Now, why in the world would you need a gun?”

“I just don't want to find myself in a jam with this guy, and I don't have any protection.”

“I thought the Holy Spirit is your protection,” Sammy says.

“The Holy Spirit is my guide and my comforter, but what if Demetrius doesn't respect the Holy Spirit?”

“Don't matter. If Christ be lifted up, then He will draw all men to you. If you're lifting Him up, then you ain't got nothing to worry about. That is the question you have to ask yourself,” Sammy says.

I wish it was that simple, and I wish that I didn't get myself mixed up in a situation where I would have to make such a dangerous request of Sammy. “I'm sorry, man, I'm just a little worried about meeting with him.”

“You know you could cancel,” Sammy says.

“That's not an option.”

“I don't understand; why not?”

“It's just not. Trust me, I have to go.”

Sammy takes another swig and sits there and stares at me. Growing up, I was in search of a father figure, and I found them in the church. My father was only in my life for a brief moment and in that time he caused more harm than good. Sammy is the first real father figure I have and to see him look at me with so much disappointment is a little too much for me to bear right now.

Sammy gets up and goes into his room, and for a few minutes all I hear is rumbling going on until Sammy reenters the living room with a .38 revolver in his hand.

“I'm going to loan you ‘Old Bessie.' You bring her back now, you hear?”

This gun is perfect for robbing stagecoaches. I can both feel and see the rust on this gun as I hold it in my hands. In short, I've seen water guns that are more intimidating. “Did you steal this off of Jesse James?”

“She'll work just fine, but I have to admit, it's strange for a minister to feel like he has to carry a gun to preach the Gospel.”

Strange indeed, but tonight, I'm not sure if it's going to be the Gospel that will be preached. “You know what, Sammy? That's okay. I'm going to take your advice and listen to the Holy Spirit.”

“Now you're talking, Doc.”

I just hope that it's the Holy Spirit and not my instincts telling me not to show up to this meeting empty-handed. I can't afford to make a mistake if this meeting with Demetrius goes south.