When It All Falls Down (5 page)

I need some direction and God is silent. Maybe God is disappointed in me; maybe I am disappointed in Him. I have come to the one place where I feel like God and I can hash out our differences, Shiloh Temple . The lights are off in the sanctuary and I take a random seat in the middle. I like the fact that I have my pick of any of the 2,000 seats.

The Jubilee job has a big payoff, but the job itself is unchartered territory. A husband who goes rogue can cost a lot of money and time. I am sure that the juice is worth the squeeze. I am also not sure if I should take on another job in light of the fact that I haven't shaken off the loss of Pastor Lewis. I sit in the church with my head bowed and I pray to God for clarity. My sanity holds on by a thread and I need God's help.

While in the midst of my prayer, the lights of the sanctuary come on and footsteps approach my aisle and then stop. I lift my head up and there is Pastor Green with a smirk on his face.

“The more things change the more they stay the same. You still like to pray in the sanctuary with no lights on.”

I can say the same for Pastor Green. It has been almost ten years since I left Shiloh and went into the problem-solving business, and Pastor Green still is against wearing suits. Pastor Green loves to wear polo shirts and khaki shorts.

“This is still the best way to hear from God for me,” I say.

“I remember when you use to spend hours upon hours laid face down, praying.” Pastor Green takes a seat behind me.

I don't look back, but I feel a sense of joy over the good old days when I used to pray for God's guidance. I remember when I used to pray to God to use me to change a life. Lord knows how many lives I've changed over the years, and not for the better.

“That was a long time ago, Pastor Green.”

“So what brings you here?” Pastor Green asks.

“I just wanted some alone time with God.”

“You don't need to come here for alone time with God, but you already know that. No, I think you're here because you're tired of wandering aimlessly throughout the wilderness.”

“You cut right to the chase, Pastor,” I say.

“You're the only man I can cut to the chase with. Let's not kid ourselves; you look like you've been dragged through a war zone. You're weary and need rest. I know things went south with you here at Shiloh, but a lot has changed. I have changed and I would love for Shiloh to be your home church again.”

I would love for Shiloh to be my home church as well, but the skeptic in me thinks that all Pastor Green wants is an in-house problem solver. I know there is no such thing as a perfect church; I know that better than anyone. I know it, but sometimes I would like to attend a church where I don't know the dirt behind the scenes.

“Do you know if Garland stops by during the day?” I ask.

“He comes by every day for noon prayer.”

God bless Garland for being a faithful servant.
I admire and envy my friend for his ability to forgive and forget.

“Do you need prayer?” Pastor Green asks.

“Go ahead,” I say.

Pastor Green and I pray. I try to block out Pastor Lewis's suicide, the missing first gentleman, and my descent into alcoholism and depression. I try to block all of those roadblocks out and allow the love and grace of God to wash over me, but to no avail.

We conclude our prayer and I do not say another word to Pastor Green. I just get up and walk out of the sanctuary. Just as Pastor Green foretold, Garland is in the hallway, about to enter the sanctuary for noon prayer.

“Nic!' Garland says.

Pastor Green passes me and gives me a pat on the back. “It's good seeing you, Minister Dungy.”

“You as well,” I say to Pastor Green. I then turn my attention to Garland. “Pick me up by eight forty-five
P.M.
”

 

 

Some of my friends used to joke that I had the makings of a serial killer with my obsession for details and order. Whenever I go on a trip I line up every item from the smallest item, being my cufflinks, to the largest item, which is my suit. I begin the process of packing. I already have on my slacks and white undershirt so I put on my watch and collar shirt. I place my wallet in my back pocket and slide on my wool sports coat. I can't afford to leave anything behind; and laying everything out and in order is my way of ensuring that nothing important is left behind. I go to my closet and remove a suitcase that is big enough to hold my clothes, and, at the same time, small enough to fit as a carry-on. I also remove one suit bag. After I pack away my casual clothes and personals, I start to pack my suits.

I decided to take the job. The money is not the primary reason, though the job is quite lucrative. The job has a sense of mystery that reminds me of a Walter Mosley novel, and since this is the closest I will come to being Easy Rawlins, I figure, why not?

I do, however, feel a twinge of guilt that I broke one of my rules. I am convinced that the good Minister Blackwell was not all that forthcoming with information in regard to the details of the job. I make a firm rule not to take a job if I think that my employer has a hidden agenda. There is something that doesn't add up, and in so many ways that is my job: to add things up so that they made sense. As a man who works for God and does not work for a corporate boss, I have to have some rules set in stone. Breaking rules is a luxury I cannot afford.

Part of me wanted to go up North to see some of my old college buddies. I formed lifelong relationships with people I met along the way. I don't have a lot of friends because it's hard for me to trust people. The few friends I have I want to keep, and this job affords me the opportunity to get some sense of normalcy in being able to spend time with my friends.

After I finish packing, I take my suitcase and suit bag into the living room. I set the suitcase down next to the front door and drape the suit bag over the suitcase. I go into the kitchen and I pick up my envelopes of bills. This job can take anywhere from a week to a month depending on what kind of trail the husband left and what exactly happened that made him leave.

I know we live in the twenty-first century and bills can be paid online and I can set things up on auto-pay. However, I can't imagine my vital information being sent across an information superhighway where the future Mark Zuckerberg can steal it and go on a binger. I prefer the old-school method of dropping my bills off at the post office on my way to the airport, and my bills will be paid up for two months.

Now let's see, I got my suitcases and my bills.
I realize that I am missing two key elements: my laptop and the file. I go back into the bedroom and grab my laptop bag and the file. I need to review all available information regarding both the church and the pastor. I have to know the church inside and out. There is something that jumps out at me from the file; this is not a large ministry. The church boasts on its Web site of having a large ministry, but from what I gathered there are maybe 600 chairs, which means fewer than 600 people attend the church on a regular basis.

I check the time on my cell phone. I check my watch. The time is 8:37
P.M.
I purposely set my watch ten minutes fast because I get physically ill whenever I am late. My ride is supposed to be here by 8:45
P.M.

I am in the middle of my thought when Garland knocks on the door. I place the papers back on the desk and make my way to the living room toward the front door. A six feet three inch husky-framed man darkens my door. Even though I know it is my friend, the image is still frightening.

“You're early,” I say as I step away from the door and make my way to the living room. I hear Garland close the door behind him.

“You got everything you need?”

“Just about,” I say as I put the printed material in a folder.

“Come on; you're going to miss your flight.”

“The last time I was late was in the delivery room,” I say as I head toward the front door. Garland helps me with my suitcase and opens the front door for me.

“Thank you, good sir,” I say.

Once outside I set my belongings down and wait for Garland to pass, as I lock the door.

“Sometimes I think that you're a vampire because you only travel at night,” Garland says.

“If I were a vampire I would've bit you.” I chuckle at the thought as I descend the stairs.

Garland is right on my heels, which means that after all of these years of being around me he has finally grasped my need for punctuality. I put my bags in the trunk of Garland's Kia Optima and I make my way toward the passenger seat. I sit and reflect on the questions that still burn in the back of my mind as my body adjusts from the ice-cold air of November to the warmth of Garland's car. Garland gets in the car and does not say a word to me; he just starts the car and makes his way toward the post office down the street from my place.

“Maybe you should take a break after this job,” Garland says.

“Can anyone take a break from ministry?” I ask.

Garland allows my question to hang in the air unanswered as he pulls into the post office parking lot located on Avalon.

“Be back in a second.” I recall my body moving in a light sprint up the stairs and into the main office, but my thoughts are stuck on rest and vacation. And even though I have enough money saved away where I can travel anywhere in the world and live like a pharaoh for a few weeks, I still feel like I have invisible shackles that prevent me from going anywhere.

I feel more relaxed knowing that tomorrow all of my bills will be sent out to the right collectors, but my walk back is slower. I have half a mind to tell Garland to drop me off at LAX instead and I will take the first flight out to Maui where I can enjoy warm sand, cool water, and breathtaking volcanoes. I don't too much care for waterfalls; volcanoes are a much more rare beauty to behold. I can eat lobster until I get sick and have a drink since nobody will be looking. I would have to find a way to give Minister Blackwell back his money, but that wouldn't be a problem.

Those thoughts carry me to the car. By the time I get back into the car my sense of purpose overrides my sense of adventure. Duty is a word that acts like a double-edged sword: on one end it is used to convey honor and integrity; on the other it is a wound to convey hardship. In the car with Garland I feel the sting of the latter.

“We're all set?” Garland asks as he turns on the car.

“All set,” I reply.

Garland maneuvers the car out of the parking lot and we cruise down the street until we enter the 405 freeway.

“So what do you think about the job?” Garland asks.

“Interesting enough. The pay is good and the pastor seems like a genuine person from what I've gathered from the Web site. I just have one question.”

“What?”

“Who's paying me?”

Garland thinks it is a stupid question, I'm sure. Of course Garland isn't the type of person to question blessings. I, on the other hand, realize that behind every blessing is a price tag.

“The church.” Garland shrugs his shoulders.

“No, it can't be.” I shake my head. “The church only has six hundred members on its roster, which means about sixty percent of those members attend service on a weekly basis. Roughly about 275 to 300 people attend the service the most. The average income is fifty thousand dollars. If all three hundred were tithing, which they're not, then that would make their income about $1.5 million. With property costs, maintenance, different ministries, staff salaries, and mainly thirty percent of average church tithing. I come back to my original question. Who is paying me?”

“Maybe you shouldn't be so skeptical,” Garland replies.

“One should always have a measure of skepticism. It keeps you from being manipulated. But I'm telling you there's more to this job than what I'm being led to believe.”

“So why take the job?”

A fair question, and yet the answer remains elusive to me. “I guess there is something about the job that intrigues me. It's like I can't not take the job no matter how much my mind tells me not to take the job.”

And like that, our drive continues in intense conversation followed by awkward silence.

We get off the freeway and I can see the airplanes as they descend to the ground. Airplanes at night remind me of the UFOs I used to see in movies and
Unsolved Mysteries.
As we get close to the departure section, I get a jolt of excitement. I always love a good adventure and I am certain that I am about to go on one today.

“If you need anything, give me a call,” Garland says.

“Will do, but you continue to do your thing,” I say.

The car stops in front of JetBlue and Garland and I exchange hugs while I grab my bag.

“Have a safe trip,” Garland says as he goes back to the car.

“See you when I get back,” I say as I take out a cigarette and smoke.

It will be two hours before I can have another cigarette. My flight leaves in forty-five minutes and it is an hour-and-ten-minute flight. As I stand outside inhaling the cool night air and exhaling the menthol from cigarettes, I wonder if I will come back or if this will be the last time I see Garland and my place in Carson?

I enter the plane and slide through the narrow space between the rows. I take my seat near the front of the plane because I have to be one of the first people off the plane when it lands. I put my suitcase in the overhead compartment and I take my seat next to the aisle. I have no desire for a window seat. There isn't a beautiful sight for me to behold at ten o'clock at night. My job starts from the moment I accept the assignment until the completion of that assignment.

From the time the
FASTEN SEATBELT
sign goes off until the time the light will come back on, I am in research mode. I read through as much information as I could get from the Web site, and a few published articles. My file is razor thin and in-between the humble beginnings of a church and the disappearance of the first gentleman is a Grand Canyon of information missing. Like, where is the bulk of the church's revenue stream coming from? Why is Pastor Robinson's ministry so geared to help distraught women? I will need to fill in the blanks as I go along.

The first gentleman thought his wife had an affair with a musician, and I will need to pull out information on the musician as well. I wonder what happened that would make a man disappear. Minister Blackwell made mention of rumors of the affair. Most men I know would've turned the church out in the process, but to vanish is strange and I couldn't wrap my brain around what happened. This job will take more than a week unless I seek help. I have to use discretion, but a missing person and an affair is a concoction that I alone can't handle.

 

 

The plane lands an hour and fifteen minutes later after a brief delay caused by an incompetent flight attendant inexperienced at opening the doors. I make my way through a quiet Sacramento airport. Most of the shops and restaurants are closed except for the bar. I could use a drink, but that will need to wait.

Since I have only one suitcase and one suit bag that is big enough to fit in the overhead compartment, I don't worry about baggage claim. I make my way to the rental car agency where I already have a car reserved. I am no stranger to the Sacramento area so I elected to rent a car as opposed to having my point man drive me around an unfamiliar city. Unlike other jobs, I have an advantage with the fact that this job takes place in Sacramento. I have my contacts and I can cover a lot of ground in a short amount of time. I step outside to a somewhat warm night and I wait for the shuttle to arrive so that it can transport me to the rental car place.

It is about ten minutes before the shuttle arrives. I step on the bus and begin my journey to the rental car agency. The ride is no more than seven minutes, but it feels like the shuttle takes forever to navigate through the traffic and turn down a narrow road. I am ready to get my car and go. In fact, I don't even place my suitcase on the shelf; I sit with my suitcase on my lap and my briefcase on top.

When we arrive at the rental car site, I get off the first shuttle and I do a slight jog to Dollar Rent A Car. A young Latina does data entry on her computer until she sees me approach.

“Good evening, sir. Welcome to Dollar Rent A Car.”

“I have a reservation,” I say as I hand the girl a printed-out version of my confirmation.

“Thank you,” she says while she inputs my information. “And do you have your—”

I hand her my ID and other information before she even finishes.

“Thank you.” The rep takes the information and makes eye contact with me while she inputs my information. “Here you go.” She hands me my ID and a pamphlet with the keys. “The car is out back.”

“Thank you.” I grab my things and head outside. Once outside I find a cherry red Camry. The car is too flashy, but I love the Camry for the purpose of completing my assignments. The car has room and is reliable. Space and consistency in my field is equivalent to speed and accuracy in any sport.

The congested rental car parking lot is all that resembles Los Angeles. As I drive out of the parking lot and onto the freeway, I see a city that is unchanged through the persistence of time. There are tall buildings, gas stations, fast food restaurants, and Walmart, but for the most part Sacramento remains a massive farmland. Life seems to operate at a slower pace in Sacramento as opposed to its sibling. The 80 freeway is not well lit so I rely heavily on my lights, as opposed to the skyscrapers and the Staples Center that light up Los Angeles. I see my exit, Fernrock, and I take the snakelike exit to the surface streets and arrive at the executive-stay hotel.

I know I have spent too much time on the road when I can pull into a parking lot of a familiar hotel and feel like I am home. I guess that means that my apartment in Carson is nothing more than a permanent hotel room. I pull into an empty parking space and turn off the car. I rest my head back on the seat and take in deep breaths and I exhale. This will be one of a few moments when I am able to rest and relax before I enter the chaotic world of problem solving.

I open a crack in the window to let the smoke out. I don't know if I am addicted to smoking or if I just find comfort in it. Life carries with it many challenges and twists and turns. Stress can produce cancer cells just like smoking, so it is a catch-22 all around. I can't worry about the multiplicity of ways that I can die; that is unproductive.

After I finish my cigarette, I flick the butt into the night as I exit the car. I follow the neon lights of the executive stay and enter an empty lobby.

“Welcome to Executive Suites,” the cheerful girl at the help desk says.

“Reservations under Nicodemus Dungy.” I hand her all of my documentation.

It takes her only a minute to process my reservation. Preparation is the key for me and I can't expect to be successful if I can't even book a decent hotel.

“Here you go.” She hands me both my ID and my room key. “The elevator is to the left.”

“Thank you and good night.” I make my way to the elevator and on to the second floor where I find my room on the other end of the hall.

After a couple of failed attempts, the key finally grants me access. I open the room door and turn on the lights. The room has a living room with a TV, wet bar, and a desk. The bedroom is in the next room. This room is designed for both business and pleasure. I systematically start to unpack and hang all my clothes up in the closet and lay out all of my valuables in order from wallet to watch along the dresser in my bedroom.

I take a peek at the wet bar and figure that since the church will pick up the tab on my hotel room, I might as well have a glass of Jack Daniel's before I go to bed. Sometimes I'll read the Word and go to bed. Other times I read the Word with single malt and go to bed. I know that God doesn't approve of my drinking, but I have seen some things that would shake anyone's faith. My faith hasn't been destroyed, but it has been damaged to the point where I feel like I need more than prayer to get by.

I read a passage from the Book of Nehemiah. This book has a lot to do with rebuilding. I know that there are areas of my life that have been broken. I grew up in a broken home where my mother left my father. I grew up in a broken neighborhood where decadence reigned supreme and I work in a ministry that is broken by idol worship of its leaders. The inside of my stomach has a burning sensation both from the Jack and the burning sensation that came from the Word. That is the last recollection I have before I go to bed.

At two in the morning I am awakened from a light sleep by an urgent knock. I fumble my way, half asleep, from the bed to the urgent knock. I open the door to find Minister Blackwell on the other side.

“What happened?” I asked.

“She wants to see you.”

It takes me a moment to figure out who she is until I realize that “she” is Pastor Robinson. I open the door wide enough to let Minister Blackwell inside the hotel room. I turn on the lights as I close the door.

“I need you to come with me,” Minister Blackwell says.

“What happened to tomorrow at eleven
A.M.
?” I am supposed to meet with Pastor Robinson tomorrow at the church when the sun is out.

“She doesn't want to wait.”

“Where are we going?”

Minister Blackwell hesitates to answer. Minister Blackwell is a pushover; anyone can see that, so I decide to be devious. I walk toward Minister Blackwell and he backs up until the heel of his foot touches the wall.

“Okay, I'm not going anywhere until you tell me.”

“Minister Dungy, may I remind you that we're paying you a lot of money and—”

“And may I remind you that my contract requires full disclosure.”

Minister Blackwell grumbles and mumbles under his breath, “The Sunset Inn.”

Unless there is an all-night revival that I have never heard of, the Sunset Inn does not sound like a religious event; it sounds like a sleazy motel.
Okay, now I am game to go and check this whole situation out.

“Give me a minute,” I say before I close the door and throw on my slacks and sport coat. Moments later, I walk out the door and follow Minister Blackwell down the hallway.

Nothing is said while we walk to the elevator. In fact we are silent in the elevator as well. I observe Minister Blackwell, who doesn't appear to be nervous nor on the edge. He does appear to be a little stiff-necked, but I believe that is his natural disposition.

We walk outside into the night cool air. It's not as cold as it is in Detroit, but it is cold nonetheless. Minister Blackwell turns off the alarm of his black Cadillac with his keys. Even his car lacks personality. I get into the car and the leather interior does not ease my chill factor. The one thing that I will give him credit for is that the good Minister Blackwell is a pretty efficient driver. I almost forget that I am the passenger considering how well Blackwell maneuvers out of the parking lot.

“It takes a lot of dedication to do ministry in the wee hours of the morning,” I say and Minister Blackwell does not answer; he just continues to drive. I know what may get his goat. “I'm sure you and your wife have had a lot of fallings-out as a result.”

“Lorraine died of ovarian cancer four years ago. No children and nothing else you need to know about me.”

Wow, and I thought I was tight.
Minister Blackwell is a no-nonsense person. He is different from when we met in Los Angeles. People wear different faces at different times for different people. Minister Blackwell is probably all smiles and jokes and encouraging words on Sunday, but on a Tuesday night in a car with a problem solver, I get to see the real Minister Blackwell.

“We will be there in a few minutes, Minister Dungy,” Black says.

We ride along the 80 freeway and it is unnerving to travel along a poorly lit highway, especially when I am unsure of the destination.

 

 

The Sunset Inn is a motel located off of the 80 freeway. The motel is perfect for a slasher film but what I discover when I arrive is not a psycho serial killer running loose but women in short skirts and revealing clothes escorting desperate men into one of their rooms. I can only imagine why I or anyone a part of Jubilee ministry is here at 2:30
A.M.
Minister Blackwell seems comfortable in this element.

“This way, Minister.” The minister marches onto the grounds without the slightest hesitation. I follow him with my eyes wide open.

It is a shame to see women so dejected that the only way they can get by is by using their body as a scheme. I feel equally appalled by the clientele. What can cause a man with a good job and family to seek comfort with a desperate woman?

“Hey, handsome, you want to party?” a woman says to me. The woman's hair is a carrot orange and her skin-tight black skirt is way too short in the front. I ignore the woman's advances and follow Minister Blackwell to the room door.

Minister Blackwell knocks on the door and a young woman opens the door. She puts one finger over her mouth for us to be silent. She then uses the other hand to bring us in.

“Thank you, Father.” A heavyset woman says as she holds the hands of one of the prostitutes in a hot pink spandex dress with splits along the side.

The heavyset woman has tears flowing down her face and words of fire flow from her tongue. I felt the omnipresence of God fill the room, and only an eternal being could transform a hotel room used for turning tricks into a holy place of worship.

I bow my head and begin to pray to God. Not only for the sins of the hookers and johns, but for my sins as well. The prayer concludes and the heavyset woman hands the girl about three twenty dollar bills from what I observe.

“Go and get you something to eat, honey. And listen, God loves you. Don't let the devil make you think that this is all that life has for you. You are beautiful and God has a beautiful plan for your life.”

The girl in the skin-tight pink spandex skirt takes the money and wipes the tears from her eyes. The young woman who opens the door also escorts the girl out of the door. I am left alone with Minister Blackwell and my client, Pastor Robinson.

I can tell Pastor Robinson has a beautiful personality. She can make any man happy who doesn't mind a woman with a little extra weight.

“One night a month I come here. I rent a room and my people pretend to be clients and lure the girls in. Anyone who doesn't want to stay can leave, but those who want to hear the good news, well, I pay them for their time and I pray for them.” Pastor Robinson takes a seat on the bed and crosses her legs. “There are at least twenty women who go to the church that was walking the track when I met them.”

I give Pastor Robinson a lot of credit. She is a maverick by most religious circles. I like her because she had tremendous confidence and belief in her calling.