When It All Falls Down (9 page)

I understand why Minister Blackwell referred to Kanisha as special. I take a seat next to Pastor Robinson and observe this buffoonery. Kanisha's appearance tells an exhaustive story. She has tattoos all over her body from her neck down. Most of her tattoos are carefully hidden. My hair is both longer and less vibrant than Kanisha's honey blond hair. I would've figured her to be a lesbian back in the day, but today's youth does some of the strangest things that I can't begin to explain. The song concludes and Kanisha takes a moment to catch her breath.

“I just wanted to give an honor to God and my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ for saving me and bringing me a mighty long ways. I know that without Him I'm nothing and I want to thank God for our pastor, Pastor Robinson.” Kanisha is still out of breath. “If it wasn't for her speaking and pouring into my life, God knows where I would be. So thank you, Pastor Robinson, for not judging me, and thank you, Jesus, for sending this awesome woman into my life. I love you and I want to be like you when I grow up,” Kanisha says.

After Kanisha sits down in her seat, Minister Blackwell gets up and approaches the pulpit.

“Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord!” Minister Blackwell says.

The congregation gives Minister Blackwell a halfhearted response. I imagine that most of the people who attend Bible Study desperately need something to get them through the week. Sunday morning does an excellent job of inspiring people on Sunday, but it's easy to stay inspired when all that follows is a hefty meal, football, long naps, and evening programs. I find that it is hard for a Christian to stay inspired once Monday morning hits. Tuesday night Bible Study is a way for the saints to recharge in order to go back into a secular environment.

“We have a special treat tonight, and our pastor has been extremely gracious to allow Minister Nicodemus Dungy from Southern California to speak with us tonight. Jubilee, let's give a warm welcome to Minister Dungy and let's tell him to preach!”

“Preach!” the congregation says.

“Amen and God bless!” Minister Blackwell says.

Minister Blackwell invites me up and I walk up to the pulpit. I feel awkward standing in the pulpit. I never care for standing over people and shouting down scriptures. I decide to walk down the steps and stand in front of the congregation.

“What is grace? Grace is not just the ability to overcome sin. God has given us the grace to be overcomers. Grace is not the excuse to sin, but the power to transcend your life.”

I feel like a complete hypocrite. I use my grace to sin and indulge. I stopped feeling empowered a long time ago, and one thing is for sure, a congregation knows when the preacher doesn't believe in what they are preaching.

“The Apostle Paul talks about how those who are delivered from sin do not have to continue in it.”

I get a few amens, but most of them are silent. I now have a newfound respect for Pastor McMurray. Getting up in front of a crowd is not easy.

“Grace is not just there to catch you when you fall. It's there to pick you up and remind you who you are.”

“Jesus!” a woman says in the back.

I feel a rush of adrenaline as the amens start to pour in. I turn to Pastor Robinson and she is mentally someplace else. A tidal wave of emotions overtake me. I look down at one of my scriptural references and several other scriptures will pop up. Examples that can further illustrate my point also come in like a tidal wave.

“The world would have us think that ‘grace' is a term reserved for the weak, but we as Christians know, that grace gives us the power to stand. When we get down on our knees to seek God for help, God extends His hand and helps us to our feet.”

The amens become thunderous and people start to stand up and give praises to God. I close my eyes and take in the moment. My skin breaks out in bumps and even a smile creeps out of my face. I have let the circumstances of life and my profession beat me to my knees, but at this very moment I feel like God has just helped me to my feet. This is supposed to be a Bible Study and not a sermon, but I cannot ignore what everything in my spirit is telling me.

I look back at Pastor Robinson and she is not even paying attention. The concern for her husband has finally resonated with Pastor Robinson. I need to find her husband and find him fast before Pastor Robinson self-destructs.

After services conclude, I stay back to chat with some of the members. Well, at least I give off the illusion that I want to chat with other members. I really want to talk to Sister Deborah. And I'm not disappointed; Sister Deborah approaches me as predicted by Pastor Robinson.

“God bless you. I'm Sister Deborah. That was an awesome sermon,” Sister Deborah says.

“Thank you very much, Sister Deborah. I had to let the Holy Spirit have its way.”

“I see; tell me, Minister Dungy, are you going back to Southern California anytime soon?”

“No, not anytime soon.”

Sister Deborah's face lights up at my statement. Sister Deborah is a caramel-complexioned beauty with full lips and more curves than a race track.

“Well then, I might have to have you over for dinner.”

And Pastor Robinson is right; Sister Deborah buys it hook, line and sinker. I, on the other hand, will get more than what I bargain for.

After Bible Study I am on an emotional high. I feel like for the first time in a long time I have made a connection with the people. I don't get the dirty feeling I get when I work behind the scenes. Tonight I feel like a real minister of the Gospel. I celebrate tonight by picking up some Chinese takeout and going back to my hotel room.

I have a pack of cigarettes that I have not opened yet. I even have a bottle of Crown Royal that has not been touched in the last few days. I decide to wet my taste buds with a lime-flavored soda that I bought along with the Chinese food. I am halfway through my sweet and sour chicken when the phone rings. I think it is Spider, who I am going to meet up with later, but lo and behold it is Sister Deborah.

I have given her the cell phone number to my disposable phone. Hardly anyone has my real phone number, outside of my clients, my few friends, and closest family members. When I am done with a job I want every piece of evidence that I was in town to be able to fit in a trash bag, and a cell phone is one of them.

It is 11:47
P.M.
Something tells me that Sister Deborah is not calling for prayer.

“Hello, Sister Deborah. How are you?”

“Terrible. I made too much red velvet cake and I have no one to share it with. I was thinking that I could drop it off to you at your hotel?”

Something tells me that she is offering more than just a piece of cake. “That's really thoughtful, Sister Deborah, but my hotel room is a mess.”

For one, I don't let anyone except for my client know where I stay. For two, I need to get to Sister Deborah's apartment to see if there is evidence of an affair between her and First Gentleman Tony Robinson. I also need to see if Tony has been by her house recently.

“Well, you can come over if you like.”

“Well, I wouldn't want to inconvenience you,” I say.

“The pleasure would be all mines.”

Too easy.
“Okay, I'll see you in a bit.”

 

 

When I arrive at Sister Deborah's house she opens the door in a royal blue nightgown that reveals neither too much nor too little.

“I'm sorry, I fell asleep. I didn't think you were going to show up.”

It only took me twenty minutes from the time she called to arrive to her house.

“I could come back tomorrow if you like.” I pivot to act like I am going to leave, and she stops me gently with her hands.

“Don't be silly; come on in.”

She leads me in and I do not put up much of a resistance. I enter her living room, which is fit for a Realtor to show. For a woman like Sister Deborah, who is known for entertaining company, white furniture and white carpet without a spot or blemish is impressive. As promised, she has some red velvet cake on the clear glass coffee table along with something extra. There is an open bottle of Moscato next to two wine glasses. One of the glasses has ruby red lipstick on it and is half full. The other glass has not been touched.

“I have a nice Moscato to wash down the cake with.”

I am not a big wine drinker. Something about alcohol with fruit flavor cheapens the experience for me. “No, thank you, but I would like to go ahead and have a piece of your delicious cake.”

I sit down at a safe distance and observe the living room, in search of clues. “This is a really nice place you have.”

“Thank you. I've mastered the art of finding the best deal; unfortunately, most of my furniture was purchased at a yard sale. There were a lot of yard sales after the bubble burst on the dot-com companies.”

Desperate times bring forth desperate measures and desperate times also bring forth desperate people.

“I have a nice office and a wonderful bedroom as a result.”

I need to dictate the flow of the conversation. “I would love to get a tour.”

“Well, come on.” Sister Deborah gets up and takes me by the hand. I follow her to the back of the house, where her office is located. I make sure to take mental photographs of everything, and notice something different about the office carpet from the living room. While the living room carpet is spotless, this carpet has a little bit of a scuff mark. I can tell that the scuff mark is a boot print.

Sister Deborah doesn't have to worry about entertaining company in her office, so she probably overlooked the mark or doesn't realize it is there. But I notice that the mark is about the size of a twelve shoe, which means that the guy has a big foot and is at least six feet tall. He may be over 200 pounds. This is all speculation, but the prospect that the boot runs the same size as Tony Robinson's foot is a good step in the right direction; no pun intended. In the midst of the photos I notice that there are no pictures of a husband or children, just family and pictures of church events. One picture involves Sister Deborah with First Gentleman Tony Robinson. The picture is innocent enough, but I am not here to play nice. I am here to kick up dust.

“So are you and first gentleman really close?” I ask.

“No more than normal.”

“Where is he? I haven't seen him.”

“I don't know.” Sister Deborah shrugs her shoulders and takes the picture from me. Sister Deborah places the picture back on her desk.

I scan the room and don't see any other evidence, which means I need to check out her other rooms and need to fast-track this tour. “Any idea why he would just up and disappear?” I ask.

“There are lots of reasons for a man to up and leave his wife, but the best person to ask questions of would be his wife.”

Sister Deborah's tone indicates that she is envious of Pastor Robinson and Tony Robinson's marriage. How does that saying go? “Always a bride . . .” Anyway, Sister Deborah is starting to show her true colors. I need to dig a little more, but still I need to be careful.

“What about you? Was marriage ever in the picture?” I ask.

“Of course, but if a man isn't coming correct, then why should I settle? I have exquisite taste and I'm not ashamed of it.”

Sister Deborah gives me a look so seductive that it comes with its own gravitational pull. Sister Deborah shifts her body so that I can get a good look at her silhouette. I may be a man of God, but I am still a man and a man with needs. For the most part my work keeps me busy and active enough to the point where I don't have to worry about those needs. Sister Deborah's body reminds me of those needs, and I am in a vulnerable state.

I pretend to look at my watch. “Well, look at the time. I got to go.”

“No!” Sister Deborah takes me by the hand. “Please stay. There is something I wanted you to see.”

She leads me into her bedroom and her eggshell white carpet is replaced with royal blue, but there is an imprint almost identical to that on the office carpet, which makes a deep impact.

I am now certain that the individual is a man and he weighs over 200 pounds. The scent in the room is stronger. That means that the individual was here earlier and Sister Deborah probably wants to cover up the masculine scent. This may be conjecture or speculation but Sister Deborah really does have a large appetite. The question is, who is the guy she just dined on?

“Must you fulfill every movie stereotype?” I'm referring to the fact that I'm in a parked car; on the passenger side of Spider's Chevy Impala. Spider also has an assortment of donuts in his car. I grab a chocolate doughnut with sprinkles and finish it in three bites. With the tinted windows, I am certain that no one will spot me, especially Sister Deborah, who I am certain will not speak to me after I left her place to avoid being caught up in my own personal drama. I have many vices, but promiscuity is not one of them. Have I had a slipup here and there? Yes. I'm not proud of what I have done, but I have learned that single acts can be devastating, but a bad habit is guaranteed to be destructive. From my experience I have witnessed great men fall from high pedestals on account of a relationship. Sex, drugs, and alcohol is a recipe for destruction and I draw the line with my drinking problem and cigarette addiction.

“This is pointless. I don't know why we're even here.” I adjust my seat for more comfort. I rub the back of my head out of frustration. This case is really starting to get away from me.

“We're here because you think the pastor's husband is tapping the church whore.”

“That's right.”

“It would be easier if he was a fugitive.” Spider checks his rearview window.

“How so?”

“Because most people don't want to harbor a fugitive because they don't want to go to jail; but hiding a guy from his wife, people are little bit more inclined to help a brother out.”

“Since when did you become a romantic?” I ask.

“Never. Since when did you become a cynic?”

“When I started working in ministry.”

“I don't know many preachers who would sit in a parked car outside of someone's house. They mostly do their work from pulpits.”

“This is where the real work begins . . . I feel like this was not exactly what I was called to do, but this was what I was meant to do. What about you?”

“You mean was I always meant to be a bounty hunter?” Spider puts his head back and chuckles. “I don't know. I've always known I was meant to be a protector of some kind. Just like how you were meant to help people.”

“I don't know about that,” I say.

I am certain the list of careers I have ruined exceeds the number of careers I helped. It is rare when I feel like I am a minister. It is not until moments like last night that I feel like I am a true minister of the Gospel.

“You still think our guy might've been murdered?” I ask.

“I don't know. I think I was just being paranoid. Then again, maybe I'm just losing my touch. Maybe it's time for me to do something else.”

“I hear you, but I don't think there's anything else guys like us could do. I mean, you could do something else, but I don't think anything else would make you feel alive. This is it, this is your thing!”

Spider chuckles to himself, and though I'm not a mind reader, I know why he laughs. Spider knows that I am right. There's a fine line between what we can do and what we're meant to do. Spider understands that line and he also understands where he stands in the grand scheme of things.

“So I guess its God's will for me to spend my life looking down dark alleys and corners for criminals.”

“Someone has to have the courage to do it,” I say.

That is the last thing I say to Spider before we spend the next ten minutes in complete silence. I drift off to sleep until Spider gives me a tap on my shoulder. I open my eyes and I see a dark figure creep up the driveway of Sister Deborah's house.

“Here we go,” I say.

I can't make out the image until the figure steps into the light outside of Sister Deborah's front door. The guy is around my age with a salt-and-pepper goatee and hair as black as coal. Tony Robinson is light skinned, which means that I have not found the first gentleman. This guy is yet another one of Sister Deborah's suitors.

“Let's go, Spider; he's not coming home.”

Spider does not hesitate to turn on the engine of his Impala and pull away. The Impala disappears in the night as we leave Sister Deborah's house.

“That was a waste,” I say.

“Not really, because we now have an idea of where the husband might've been. I'll follow up later at this spot and see if he comes by.”

Spider drops me off at the hotel and I go into my room with every intention of smoking a cigarette with a glass of Crown Royal. I first go over to the TV and turn it on. I last left the TV on the news.

“Breaking news; we now take it out to Laura Cruz,” a male newscaster says.

“Thank you, Jim,” the on-the-scene reporter says. “I'm on the corner of Ridgemount Avenue and Jefferson Boulevard. Police have just discovered in a Dumpster a body that was rolled up in carpet.”

I shake my head at the sight. Some people can be complete monsters. A closer inspection and I realize that this murder occurred in a familiar area. My heart forgets to beat at the sight of the news. Where the police have found the body is in the exact same neighborhood where Sister Deborah lives. If Sister Deborah and Tony Robinson were having an affair, then that leaves me to wonder about the identity of the victim.