The Black Kabuki

By Emile Sissac, Jr

It's late summer in San Diego, California.
And Forrest Greenley is at it again.
Only this time, he's wiser, more cynical and a lot less patient these days under the sun.

The San Diego fictional private eye is given the charge of finding the daughter of an ex-Marine.
The young and talented college student is mysteriously kidnapped for a handsome but odd bribe by her captors.
“The Black Kabuki” begins with a visit from Pastor Conyers, a new-found friend from an earlier case involving one of the parson's gatherers.
A favor performed for the giant man-of-the-cloth leads Forrest toward a tragic end during the finality of the case's investigation. Along the adventurous journey, Forrest is led in the world of classy nightclubs, African-American dance history,
and concealed murderers who lead double lives.

In a world where everybody is catching a little hell these days,“The Black Kabuki” is a hard-boiled novel for those who like to be reminded of the good things in life, the endurance of a struggling culture and the fate of those assuming they can get away with just about anything.

Book 2 of "The Cracks & Crevices Series"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emile Sissac, Jr
• Release date: Dec 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311023667

Emile Sissac, Jr

Most of my motivation to write detective fiction derived from reading the books of great crime novelists, such as Ishmael Reed, Gar Anthony Haywood, Chester Himes, Phillip Kerr, Gary Phillips, Mike Phillips, John Ridley, Iceberg Slim, Valerie Wilson Wesley and, of course, the legendary Walter Mosley. I am currently working on the next Forrest Greenley Mystery novel.

Book preview

The Black Kabuki

A Forrest Greenley Mystery™

Book # 2 of

The Cracks & Crevices Series©

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Emile Sissac Jr.

All rights reserved worldwide.

Cover Design by Emile Sissac Jr.

Span's Cafe™ & Club Waterz™ are trademarks

of Forrest Greenley Mysteries™.

Discover other titles by Emile Sissac Jr.

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Smashwords Edition - License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table Of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Dedicated to my nephew

Demetrius...

A Great Philosopher in the making,

fine-tuning a sharp mind for

a long life of hope,

prosperity and

peace.

Hang in there son!

We're coming to get you!!!

Special thanks to

Chester Arthur Burnett,

better known as

Howlin' Wolf,

for all of the inspirational songs

you've given us over a lifetime.

Your music still lives on,

telling the tales of a

modern man's blues.

1910-1976

R. I. P. My Spiritual Friend

For all of the dog walkers in San Diego,

who love to relieve their best friends

in neighborhoods populated by

mothers with baby strollers,

senior citizens with walking canes,

and hard-working small business owners.

...You know who you are...

One question:

Have you no shame?

"Writin' is fightin'."

Ishmael Reed

Chapter 1

Monday―9:00 A. M.

For some reason, I couldn't get Howlin' Wolf's Killing Floor from out of my head this morning. It might have been the rhythmic twang of Hubert Sumlin's addictive blues guitar. Or maybe it was the thumping rumble of Willie Dixon’s bass that had me imitating the scratchy voice of the blues singer from White Station, Mississippi.

But it was blues singing in a good way, I guess. For there wasn't much for me to be melancholy about on another Monday morning in sunny southern California. It was a little past nine o'clock and I was finishing up repairs on the concrete walkway in front of my house. I was putting finishing touches on the surface of the walkway which led from the front porch to the city's sidewalk.

It was my gorgeous wife's latest injury that prioritized the need for immediate repairs this past weekend, seeing that she was now walking around with a cane and all. Tariah Nash's mishap happened about a week ago, when she, in a mad rush to meet a famous local celebrity at the beauty salon she owned, fell and broke her right ankle. The injury slowed her down a bit; but there wasn't much that could keep this female dynamo down for very long.

I paid a friend of a friend of a friend of my neighbor Hector Montalvo to take a jack hammer and break up the small walkway. I did the rest by breaking the big pieces of concrete into smaller ones with a sledgehammer, and hauled them into the back of one of my company's pick-up trucks. Physical work could still put its good spell on me, and even at fifty years of age, the fulfillment of hard labor kept me in shape as well as in good spirits. As I hauled the rubble back and forth from front lawn to truck, I laughed at those times in my younger years. Times when I nearly caught a hernia trying to impress the ladies by displaying carelessly how strong and manly I was. Now that I didn't have to prove a damn thing to anybody, I often thanked The Creator for watching over me in my foolish abandon.

Forrest, the goddess who treated me like a god beckoned.

I stopped what I was doing and turned toward her. I was on my knees, having finished the last swipe with a trowel when I noticed that Tariah's hair was blossomed into wild curly locks that stretched to her shoulders. Just below a pastel yellow blouse were black poplin pants smothering her voluptuous lower physique, and copper feet sun-baked evenly under strapped leather sandals. There was no need for make-up on this woman, born and raised in Oklahoma, whose full face epitomized natural beauty and hardly needed those sort of artificialities.

'Sup baby? I offered, resting on my haunches.

Miss Nash took her time to carefully close the screen door behind her, holding the walking cane in one hand, and a tall glass of her famous iced tea in the other. She surveyed the near-finished cemented work, producing a crooked frown before that corny smile of hers appeared.

Just look at all this hard work you're doing out here, sweetie! she said animatedly.

I stood up, placed the trowel to the side and walked toward the front porch, wiping my gritty brow.

I'm thinkin' that iced tea is for me.

Well, I guess you was thinking right, huh? she grinned again, handing the drink over. And just look at you! All messy and sweaty and stuff!...U-h!

Mm-hmm, I mumbled with a side-eyed look, downing the thirst-quenching refreshment in gulps.

"Gettin' me kinda heated there, mister. Just makes me wanna come over there and jump all over you...Umph-umph-umph!"

Watch it sexy! I pointed with a finger and a smirk. Do you know what a sweaty, hardworkin' man like me can do to a woman like you 'bout now?

Huh! she brushed off with another artful smile. "Always talking about what you gonna do."

Suddenly, our lustful innuendos were interrupted when a maroon-colored Cadillac Esplanade rolled and parked crisply along the curb in front of us. Had I not known the driver, I might have guessed him to be a lost stranger, someone looking for address information. Maybe he might have been a businessman who got word of the good work I do. Or maybe he was an unexpected troublemaker of some sort, here to interrupt our peaceful lives or worse.

But the seven-foot, three-hundred pound, walnut-colored giant that exited the sport-utility vehicle was none other than Pastor Paul Conyers of the Armored Faith Congress. Donned in a black Stetson, aviator sunglasses, a white cotton short-sleeved shirt and blue jean overalls above large brown work boots, the parson resembled the most unusual specimen of an urban farmer with the perfect goatee. I'd never seen a man with feet as large as those of Conyers, often reminded of the known fact that giants roamed frequently throughout all parts of the Earth when I saw him. Pastor Conyers had to have been the last, living descendant of those that roamed California at some earlier time.

With a trademark stoic countenance, he circled the front of his vehicle and courteously greeted Tariah with a nod of his bald head while lifting the headgear.

'Mornin' ma'am, his voice thundered.

'Morning, Pastor. How are you today?

Fine, sister. As always, another beautiful day from our Heavenly Father, I'm always busy, and that's not a bad thing these days.

I'd have to say that I agree.

Then he turned to me.

Brother Forrest, he gave with a wide smile of teeth and a hearty handshake.

Pastor. How've you been?

Just as I told your wife. Busy. Or is she your girlfriend?

My wife.

Seems like she's one helluva woman. Some of our ladies are indeed that, brother. We just have to keep reminding them. But I don't make assumptions. I've been doing fine, and there's been a whole lot that has happened for the A. F. C. since we last met.

That's good news. What's it been? Eight months now?

About eight months. I've got more things tying me down these days than I could ever have imagined when I started that place. But long-term plans come with a lot of the unexpected. As the saying goes, unto whom much is given, much is expected. If I'm not mistaken, I do believe that proverb is African in origin, too, brother.

So what exactly are you doin' nowadays?

Well, after a long drawn-out battle with the city, we were finally successful in acquiring some land to start an urban garden project. I've got another project almost completed. I'll share the details with you soon. Trying to keep my private interests separate from the public. You know how it goes.

...Okay, I nodded.

It's something I've always wanted to do. Took a lot out of me, brother. But my lawyer's a good man, and the new council representative of our district isn't such a bad person after all, especially after I got a chance to meet and talk with her. Quite a sexy little thing, as a matter of fact. She's breathing fresh air and new life into the district with her efforts. But the reward for all of the hard work was worth it in my judgment. I'm often reminded that productive people go through these things, especially when the adversary sees that we're real serious about our good intentions to do the will of The Almighty.

Hear, hear, I agreed with the giant's long-winded intro. There once was a time when I'd seen myself jumping through the same hurdles as I tried get my real estate business off the ground. Conyers sounded excited about the good reports he shared with us. His enthusiasm was amplified by his barrel-sized voice and rapid speech patterns. The giant threw out words that seemed to resonate like fugacious sound waves.

But that's not what I came here for, brother Forrest. There's something else that I wanted to talk to you about. That is, if I'm not encroaching on your duties here.

For a man like you, it's never an intrusion. I was just finishing up anyway.

Good. I think I'm going to need your special services again. I have another member who may need your help. I've done about all that I can do. So, this issue seems like something you're better at handling than me.

We might as well talk about it over a quick breakfast. You got time? I glanced at Tariah before seeing her go back into the house. This concrete work has got me hungry anyway.

Pastor Conyers gave the freshly finished walkway an inspecting glance.

Great job with the cement work.

Thank you.

"I'm always amazed at the things I continue to learn about you, brother Forrest. But since I did miss breakfast this morning, I guess we could take care of that."

We shook hands and headed up the driveway.

I'll fix up something I think you'll really like.

As we talked, there was something that caught my eye beyond Conyer's shoulders.

The casualness of a man walking his dog was not anything surprising in this area. People in the neighborhood walked their pets at all hours of the day. But as for this particular pair, I'd been watching them for at least three weeks now.

And for good reason.

Uh, give me a moment, pastor.

The target in my eyes was a man in a dingy tee-shirt and shorts and his mixed-breed canine friend. They were about to cross the street when I began walking back toward the sidewalk down my driveway. I'd been watching them perform the same ritual for about a week now: he'd drive up and park his car near the end of the block, dial up a number on his smartphone, retrieve his dog from his pick-up, and laugh gleefully as the mutt relieved itself up and down the sidewalks in front of homes. After about a half-hour's tour through my neighborhood, the duo would drive away. I could never pin anything on the strangers, until I'd actually seen this disrespectful act committed three days in a row.

Excuse me, sir?

The surprised look on his face upon my approach him spoke volumes. He stopped, heeled his dog and stood on the edge of the curb near my house.

Yeah?

You live around here?

He hunched his shoulders as if confused.

Why does it matter? Who the hell are you?

Don't worry about who the hell I am.

The guy showed a bit of nervousness and took a quick look around him.

You got a problem, buddy?

Sort of. You see, I live on this block. I own that house right over there, I motioned with my head. You mind if I ask you a question?

Wide-eyed now, he took another quick look around, showing obvious suspicion about my unexpected advance.

Is there something wrong?

"There might be. I just wanted to ask you. In your neighborhood, where you live, do you let your dog shit all over the sidewalks in front of your house?"

Excuse me? He displayed another befuddled expression. I don't understand why you're asking me this. You want to identify yourself?

"Sure. Like I said, I'm just a homeowner. A businessman. A property tax payer. Someone who's probably just like you. Not that I expect you to actually give a fuck about any of those facts. But I'm also someone who just wanna live right, live in peace. Probably just like you."

Look, buddy, he shifted his body more nervously, tightening the the dog's leash as the mutt let out a complimentary growl and gave a stale face. "As long as this dog is on a leash and not bothering anybody, I can walk my dog anywhere I want. So given that fact, I don't know who the fuck you are or what the fuck you're talking about―"

Oh, come on now. Sure you do! I've been watching you for the past three days, man! I seen what you've been doin'.

So now you're harassing me?

Harassing you? No, I'm just letting you know that there are ordinances that prohibit you from doing what I've seen you do in this neighborhood. According to the county's code, there is an ordinance that requires you to clean up after your mutt when he relieves himself, and put it to a suitable container. What that means is, unless your canine friend here is a seeing eye dog or a service dog, you're supposed to pick that shit up.

Forrest... I heard Tariah call over my shoulder.

So, I'll assume you're a smart man. You're not dumb, are you? I don;t think so. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Can you imagine what it's like at night, when it's dark and you can't see the fresh dog turds that people like you leave on the sidewalk? Can you imagine what it feels like, trying to relax in your own home, only to find out that you've got some dog shit under your shoe?

The stranger began looking me up and down as if I was crazy.

I don't know; maybe I was a bit crazy at the moment. But I might have had a reason this time.

Maybe I was tired of being mistreated and disrespected by people like him. A white man who thought that he could let his dog defecate all over the sidewalks frequented by people whom he might have considered less than him. I knew racism when I seen it, even in its most subtle forms. I'd suffered a lot of bad things in my life. But people who did evil, pure intentional evil, were becoming less tolerable these days.

Defeated and speechless, the stranger took another glance at me, Pastor Conyers and Tariah Nash before letting out an insulted gasp, returning to his car with his hairy friend. To top things off, he stuck his left arm out of the window, gave us the middle finger, and spun off in his pick-up.

(Back To Top)

Chapter 2

Monday―10:00 A. M.

The founder and owner of the Armored Faith Congress sat with me under the cool breeze of the ceiling fan in the kitchen. I made a quick brunch of smoked turkey breast and Swiss cheese sandwiches, spicy tomato soup, a quickly prepared garden salad with blue cheese dressing, and of course, Tariah's delightful iced tea.

The last time we crossed paths was at a housewarming for the blue-haired retired librarian Maybella Honore. She was also was a member of his religious institution, and someone who turned from being a client of chance into a newfound friend who loved books as much as I do. As a victim of a planned burglary carried out through calculated deception, the elderly woman's home had been set afire by an hired arsonist, just after a personal safe was stolen while she was being hospitalized. I just happen to be there the night of that disaster, carrying out an errand in which I nearly lost my life. At the case's end, the investigation revealed that the mastermind who had engineered the entire set-up was Conyer's sultry church's secretary. And even though she was indeed a beautiful plus-size woman, she was also as lethal as snake venom.

The gentle giant's institution was one of the most unusual places I'd seen in a place like San Diego. It didn't exactly fit into the character of California's second largest city, and neither did Conyer's unorthodox interpretation of the Good Book. On a weekly basis were held what were called gatherings every Saturday morning. What made the Armored Faith Congress so unique was its even more unconventional members, known by the fond term gatherers among themselves, whose beliefs and practices could easily profile the small establishment as cult-like by the uninformed. I learned that the gatherers came from all walks of life and all parts of the city. They were a peculiar people who questioned many assumptions about religion. Who knows? Maybe they were ahead of their time and only reflected the changing dynamics in how people practiced their faith.

We ate mostly in silence; Conyers' large hand reached over several times for a sandwich from the serving tray. I lost count and didn't mind; after all, big men come with big appetites. Before he began his intro for my next client, he downed a glassful of tea and heaved:

D-e-l-i-c-i-o-u-s meal you've prepared here, Greenley!

Thank you, I said with all modesty.

You sure can cook your ass off, he added on, now re-energized by the brunch. Your wife must love the hell out of you.

We manage.

You know what's funny, brother?

What's that?

I woke up yesterday morning and got a call from this member. Hadn't heard from him or seen him in a long time.

Conyers sucked his teeth with toothpick. A tint of thin anger painted across the reflection on his mind.

"This brother called me at six o'clock in the morning. Now, mind you: I never received a phone call like that from anyone at the A. F. C. for as long as I can remember."

Hmm.

Yeah. And I knew there was something kind of unusual happening to this brother, so I quickly bit my tongue and heard him out.

What did he tell you?

He asked me if I could help him find his daughter.

...Oh...

"Did you hear what I just said?...No 'How you been doing, Pastor Conyers...or 'I know it's been a long time since we've been out to the church'...Just straight out of the blue. 'Hey...can you help me find my daughter?' As if I'd only seen him the day before."

My head stiffened in wonder. It was all I could do before I picked up another sandwich and listened more.

...Our people, brother. Sometimes, we need to be reminded to respect each other more.

I agree.

"So then I asked, 'What do you mean by finding her?' He tells me that she's been missing for