by Dijorn Moss
“Sure,” I say. I need to establish that I’m not a straitlaced preacher so that Knott will be comfortable to tell me what’s going on. That shouldn’t be too hard.
“This single malt would be the death of me . . . if my four ex-wives don’t kill me first,” Knott says before he lets out a big laugh.
Only an egocentric nonbeliever would find being divorced multiple times amusing.
“So help me fill in the blanks.” Knott hands me my drink. “You go to college at San Francisco State and get a degree in sociology. You attend seminary and work in ministry for a local church, and then you drop off the face of the earth until about five years ago.”
Someone has done their homework. So have I. “So what’s your question?”
“I guess the question is, what do you do, Minister Dungy?”
A person doesn’t fly a G-5 jet to pick up someone just to find out what they do for a living. Randall Knott knows; he just wants me to tell him.
“I specialize in fixing church problems, in particular, problems that the church may be having with its leaders.”
My job description really piqued Knott’s interest. “So, you’re in the public relations business?”
“More like private relations. I handle matters that churches and certain organizations would not want to see become public.”
“Interesting. That’s very interesting. I need someone like you on my payroll.”
That’s all Knott said before he returns back to the bar to fix himself another drink. I’m still working on my first drink and a way to uncover why Randall Knott is using the church convention to acquire property.
“So why are you not with the rest of them at the conference?”
“Because even though they need me, that don’t mean that they like me.” Knott flashes a smile similar to the one that he flashed on the cover of Forbes.
“I know about that all too well. I have my detractors all over, including right here in the Bahamas,” Knott says.
“You mean Demetrius?” I’m not one to beat around the bush.
Knott takes a sip of his drink, and then points his glass at me as if I just guessed the correct answer.
“Exactly. He’s a strange guy to figure out. I offer him a fortune to acquire some land, and he turned it down.”
“Some people care more about their family’s legacy than money. Maybe you haven’t studied your opponent enough.”
“Oh, that’s a load. When someone tells me that they’re not selling because of their family legacy, to me, that translates to I want more money.”
I guess one of the requisites for being a self-appointed master of the universe is the mentality that money solves everything. Knott has this idea that there isn’t anything of value that he couldn’t put a dollar sign to and purchase.
“You may be right, but I don’t believe I’m here to settle Bahamian property disputes because I’m not qualified to do so.”
Knott starts to laugh, and then he finishes his drink.
“Listen, I’m having a get-together at my hotel on the island where you currently stay. I would love for you to attend. I’ll send a boat to pick you up around eight o’clock.”
That was exactly what I need, a peek behind the current.
“I would love to be there, but there is just one small matter to discuss and forgive me for assuming, but I have a pilot friend who was arrested for something he didn’t commit.”
Knott is not at all surprised by my declaration. There is no doubt in my mind that Knott is the one that made the call.
“Well, that’s unfortunate. I’ll tell you what. I’ll make some calls and see what I can do.”
He didn’t admit to being the one who set Donny Moses up; of course, he wouldn’t, but as I left Mr. Knott’s home, I’m sure that this matter will be resolved by the time I get back to the island.
Chapter Nineteen
I arrive at the police station expecting that the process of getting Donny Moses released would be seamless since it was Knott who put him there in the first place. Imagine my surprise when I arrive at the front desk and see that no one is here. A bell sits in front of me, so I start to ring it, and I keep ringing it until a police officer comes running out of the back room and snatches the bell from me.
“What you banging on me bell like that for?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that no one was here,” I say.
“Of course someone is here. What do you think? We leave the prisoners here by themselves?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Who done hammered up all my bread, man?” The officer holds up a plate with only the crumbs on it. He then turns around before he sets his sights back on me. “Was it you?”
“No,” I say while being thrown off by his question.
He stares at me for a long minute. “What do you want?”
“I’m here to pick up Donny Moses. He’s supposed to be released.”
The man starts rummaging through papers looking for something I don’t know what.
“Daniel,” he calls out to the back.
There is some rumbling in the background and soon a man twice the size of the officer appears with his shirt not tucked in. He sizes me up.
“What does he want?” he says.
“Hey, man, did you yam up all me bread?” the short officer asks.
“What do you keep accusing me for?” the tall officer says.
“Because I saw you last time when you did it. Do I go around and eat your food?”
“No.”
“Then why don’t you respect me?”
“What you jamming me up for? I said I didn’t do it,” the tall officer states.
“Gentlemen, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if one of you can get Donny for me and we can be on our way.”
“We don’t take orders from you. You can pick him up after lunch,” the officer replied.
“When’s lunch?”
“Now!” the men say in unison.
Two hours later I am standing outside of the police station when Donny Moses walks out. He is not happy to see me, but at least he’s free and today’s incident is all behind him.
“Did you have anything to do with this?” he asks.
“Donny, listen, there are no easy answers,” I say.
Donny holds up his hands and stops me. I can see in his eyes that he’s trying to keep his anger at bay. I have to be delicate with my words.
“I’ve never spent a night in jail before, never—not until I had you as a client. In one week, my life has gone to hell, and I have you to thank for it.”
Donny starts walking down the steps toward me. His fists are clenched, and his body language tells me I need to get out of the way. But I stand firm, and I pray that he will listen to reason.
“Hey, Donny, I’m sorry about this whole incident.”
Donny walks up to me and plants his fist square in my jaw. I drop to one knee from the impact.
“Don’t come anywhere near me or my business ever again! Do you understand?”
I give a head nod in agreement. I’m trying to shake off the sting of Donny’s punch, but it’s clear that I will be feeling the aftermath of that punch long after he has left. Donny keeps walking. I want to follow him and talk with him, but I’m afraid he will give me another stern warning.
Chapter Twenty
From the police station I went to Sammy’s house. I figure he is the only Moses that will speak to me at this point. I don’t know what I expect to come from this conversation, all I know is that I hope to clear the air and make something right, naïve as that may be, but it is the truth.
“I got some fresh trout I just finished cooking.” Sammy opens the door for me.
I go inside the house and, as usual, Sammy has not bothered to clean. Newspapers and fishing gear cluttered all over the place, but the one place that is clean is his kitchen table. There are only two chairs, which confirms that Sammy doesn’t get much company.
“Have a seat, Doc.” Sammy points to one of the chairs.
I take a seat, and soon, Sammy places a plate of fresh fried fish in front of me. It smells good, and I’m sure it’s delicious.
“So I hear you made a big stink of things,” he says.
“That’s a mild way of putting it.” I take a bite into my fish. This meal is the highlight of my day.
“I want to thank you for getting my boy out.”
“He shouldn’t have been there to begin with, but your son already thanked me with his fist.”
“He holds grudges. I tried to tell him that the longer he holds on to something, the heavier the weight.”
I’m not someone who cries a lot. In fact, aside from my mother’s funeral, I can count the number of times I’ve cried, but at this moment, I feel every emotion except for the tears.
“I know that look. I know that look very well, and I can tell, you will get through it.”
“I pray that I will, but this is beyond me.”
“Nothing is beyond God. I don’t know what trouble you’re in, but I know that if you keep pressing, you’ll get through. It won’t be easy, and it may take a huge sacrifice on your part, but you’ll get through it.”
“How can you be so sure?” I ask.
“Because one thing that I know to be true is that few men make their mistake going toward God. Their mistakes occur when they try to go away from Him.”
Sammy is a flawed man, but so I am, sitting in his small kitchen eating fish. I felt a sense of hope that I could weather this storm. Maybe I can still turn things around.
For about an hour, Sammy and I play cards and share stories until we heard a weird sound coming from the side of his house.
“What’s going on?” I say.
Sammy and I get up and walk over to the window. We see Donny Moses with a baseball bat in his hands, and he’s taking swings at Sammy’s boat.
“Lord have mercy!” Sammy runs outside, and I follow.
By the time we get to the side of the house where the boat is, Donny has already done a number on the boat. The windshields are broken, and the front end has also been damaged.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Son, what are you doing?”
“Seven years! Seven years! FAA inspections, maintenance, customs, and flying prima donnas around. Seven years—and my business is ruined all because of you,” Donny points at Sammy, then he points at me, “and him. What am I supposed to do now?”
Donny takes a few more whacks at the boat, and though it pains Sammy to watch his life’s work get destroyed, he didn’t want to feel the wrath of his son. I didn’t want to incur Donny’s wrath either, but I couldn’t let this father-and-son relationship become even more strained. As Donny picked up the bat to swing once again, I dart right in front of the boat.
“Enough,” I say.
Anyone who claims that the eyes are not the window to a man’s soul is a liar. I look into Donny’s eyes and see rage that has built up to the point where he could take my head off at any moment’s notice without hesitation.
“I’m sorry. Lord knows I didn’t want any of this to happen. I’m trying to do the Lord’s will.”
Donny starts to chuckle, then his chuckle turns into a full-blown hysterical laugh.
“I don’t know whose will you’re doing, but it’s not the Lord’s.”
“You’re probably right, but what you’re doing isn’t God’s will either.”
I take a look at Sammy. His mouth is shut, and he is not uttering a word. I don’t know if it’s because of his son or the boat. I look back at Donny. He has now dropped his baseball stance, but the bat is still secure in his hands.
“You are father and son, and there is no logical reason why you two should be at odds with each other.”
“Don’t try to turn this around. This is about you and me.”
“If it was just about you and me, then you wouldn’t be here. You’ve held anger toward your father for years, and this is your opportunity to let the anger out.”
My words cause Donny to drop his bat. At least I don’t have to worry about my head being taken off, but I still had Donny’s wrath to consider.
“I carried a whole lot of anger for my father and most of it was justified. But when he died, something happened. It doesn’t take away all the hurt and pain of what my father caused, but when he died, it also took away the chance for a moment. I just wanted a moment when he and I were not enemies, but could actually be friends and maybe even father and son.”
For the first time, father and son made eye contact. Thank God for small miracles.
“Let me be clear, this beef between you and me has nothing to do with the money you squandered. It has everything to do with you never wanting to take responsibility for your actions,” Donny says.
“Me?” Sammy has a legitimate look of shock plastered over his face.
“Yes, you. Even now, you still don’t take responsibility for what happened between you and Mom.”
Donny mentioning his mother turns an otherwise easygoing Sammy furious. Sammy takes off his baseball cap and rubs his head. I guess he’s trying to figure out how to respond to his son’s claim.
“You know, for a smart man, you have a short memory. The day I left, do you remember that?” Sammy says.
“Of course, I remember. I was thirteen. How could I forget?”
“I took you to the park, remember? We tossed the football around, and then afterward, we sat on the bleachers and talked.”
“I remember all of this. What’s the point?” Donny asks.
“I don’t regret marrying your mother. If not for her, there would be no you. I bring up that moment, because even on one of the worst days of my life, I still wouldn’t have traded it away. Playing football with you still made my life worth living.”
Donny puts his head down and wipes his face. He doesn’t want to show emotions in front of his father.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to say it until now,” Sammy says.
“Don’t miss your moment,” I tell Donny.
These two have a lot to talk about, and they don’t need me there as they hash things out. I start to walk away.
“Where are you going? This isn’t over,” Donny says.
“You’re right, it’s not. I got to make things right first.”
I keep walking because in a few hours I have a party to attend and tycoon to bring down.
Chapter Twenty-one
When I packed for this trip, I packed a light jacket because the nights on the island are warm. Tonight, I need a suit, and since the only suit I have is the one I bought earlier, I decide to wear it again. Tonight, I will uncover the reason why Pastor Cole was murdered . . . one way or another. Randall Knott perceives me to be a man of value, and I must keep up that appearance.
A sleek boat splits the waves wide open as it jets toward the dock. It’s not easy to spot this boat in the cloak of night. As the boat approaches, nerves start to build up in the pit of my stomach. I don’t know what I will have to do tonight, but I pray that the Lord will see me through an otherwise impossible situation.
The boat pulls into the dock, and I realize that there is no turning back now.
“Minister Nicodemus Dungy?” the Haitian driver asks.
“Yes. I’m Minister Dungy.”
“Mr. Knott is expecting your company. Right this way, sir.”
After a little hesitation, I finally decide to step onto the boat. I won’t find out anything staying home.
“Compliments of Mr. Knott.” The driver points to a bottle of champagne and caviar.
I’m not a fan of either, but as we cruise along the ocean, it’s hard to imagine a better way to enjoy the evening. Of course, for me, it’s Victory. She would have loved being in the boat headed to a black tie affair.
We cruise along in utter blackness for fifteen minutes until I start to see a light. The closer we travel toward it, the brighter the light gets. It can serve as a beacon to any vessel lost at sea. A f
ew minutes more of travel and the structure starts to take shape. This must be our destination because the building is a mansion with Greek pillars, which is signature Randall Knott. It’s clear Randall has more money than he knows what to do with it. The man owns two mansions on the same island, one at the top of the hill and one at the bottom. I guess he chose to ditch the traditional Christmas lighting in exchange for regular bright lights.
The boat pulls into the port, and there is a cute Haitian girl waiting for me with a clipboard.
“Name?” she asks.
“Nicodemus Dungy.” I flash her my passport.
The young lady scans her clipboard until she arrives at my name. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Dungy.”
“Thank you very much.”
I walk up the dock toward the house. I could have sworn I was walking into heaven with how bright the house is and how vibrant the music is. As I enter the home, to the left is a banquet-size dining room, and to the right is a dance floor with a twelve-piece band. It must be an unwritten rule that if you are rich, then you must have two winding staircases in your home.
I wasn’t hungry, so I walk over to the ballroom and watch as the couples danced. They were doing the Viennese Waltz which reminds me of my mother, the dance instructor. I used to think that the dance was boring; I didn’t realize how graceful the dance truly is and the need to be graceful.
“Want to dance, handsome?”
I turn around. To my surprise there stands Maggie Fuller. She hails from Texas and was the wife of the former governor. Fuller is an heiress to the oil tycoon James Fuller. Even with her divorce, Fuller is still very much influential in the political world. If a candidate wanted to win the middle-aged white women’s vote, they would need both Maggie’s money and influence.
“It would be an honor.” I take Ms. Fuller by the hand, and we begin to waltz.
“First time I’m seeing you at one of these events,” she says.
“First I was invited to one.”
“Well, I know this much, you’re not a politician,” Ms. Fuller says before I spin her around.
“What gave me away?”