The Safe Of Old Lies

By Emile Sissac, Jr

When the world is trying to recover from the worst recession since the Great Depression, some people resort to developing a propensity to do strange things for strange reasons. Rationality and common sense goes out of the window. Worst yet, the most base level of our complex humanity brings out the monster we try hard to hide.

It’s a hot July summer full of frugal fatigue, anxiety about the future and extra-long days of worry. News from around the world, as well as your own neighborhood, never seems to get better.

Enter Forrest Greenley: husband, small businessman and private investigator, who has not had a good cash flow in nearly nine months now. Were it not for odd-end jobs and support from his wife Tariah, he wouldn't know where such challenging times would lead him. But no matter how bad things get, the San Diego private eye always strives to do the right thing.

“The Safe of Old Lies” begins with the resurfacing of an old friend not seen in years, who introduces Forrest to a new client in desperate need of his investigative services. A retired librarian’s personal safe is burglarized while she's away from home. As Forrest reluctantly delves into the new case, he finds out that this is only the beginning of woes for the blue-haired elderly woman. While she is hospitalized, her house is mysteriously set on fire; a philanthropic barber is found murdered inside of his own apartment; and an auctioneer’s shady business operations finally reveals the prime perpetrator behind these deadly events, someone whom Forrest least suspects to leave such clueless trails.

“The Safe of Old Lies” is a good read for anyone who loves a cocktail of calculated deception, predictive dreams, and the lines we’ll sometimes cross to take desperate measures in desperate times.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emile Sissac, Jr
• Release date: Mar 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301478132

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 Safe of Old Lies

A Forrest Greenley Mystery

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Emile Sissac Jr.

Cover Design by Emile Sissac Jr.

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedicated to a personal hero of mine,

Mr. Jesse Binga,

businessman, banker and risk-taker,

1865-1950

A fearless entrepreneur whose bottomless faith

and timeless 'can do' spirit are still the Source of Life.

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

Chapter 1

Lie:

(noun) a false statement made with deliberate intent to deceive;

an intentional untruth;

a falsehood.

(Synonyms): aspersion; deceit; evasion; fabrication;

guile; hyperbole; invention; libel; mendacity;

obloquy; perjury; revilement;

slander; tale; vilification;

a whopper.

Monday - July 9 - 3:00 P.M.

Dammit Forrest!

Tariah’s rant was the first signal.

How many times have I got to tell you about leaving your funky-ass socks all over the house?

It was time to get out of the house.

Sorry, Tee.

Go somewhere. Anywhere.

That sorry shit ain’t gonna cut it, she spitted. I’m sick and tired of picking up after you! I know you hear me!

I pulled my head from the drafting table, stretched my back and turned to look at the woman who resembled my wife.

I was gonna do some laundry earlier. But we ran out of detergent, I offered over my shoulder.

So you just throw your shit all over the damn floor?!

Like all men, I wasn’t perfect. Tariah Nash had every right to be heated about my carelessness. It was just past three o'clock in the afternoon . I spent the entire morning finishing details of a special door design for an old dilapidated house.

The mad lady of the Greenley residence shrugged her shoulders hopelessly, giving that Duh! look when I just didn’t get it. But when she did that, I knew she was really angry with me. Still, even in the ‘nth level of her annoyance, I found her beautiful.

I exited the garage that was my personal studio and followed her through the house's back door. With clasped hands, I smiled when she turned back at me.

I’m heading out to the supermarket right now. You want anything?

She shifted and leaned against the kitchen counter and thought for a moment.

Yeah. You can get some more garbage bags. Brussels sprouts for tonight’s dinner. And ice cream.

You got a particular flavor in mind? You know I don’t eat ice cream.

Since when?

Since the last time I ate it. Almost blew me a new asshole. I’m probably becoming lactose intolerant.

That put a big smile on her face.

Well, forget the ice cream. Get me a pint of lemon sorbet instead.

Is that it?

No, get a bag of cherries and some fresh pecans too. I've got a new smoothie I want to try out.

I searched for my car keys and kissed her on the forehead before leaving. I always did that when I knew I was on her last nerve.

I’m sorry, baby. I’ll try to be more mindful.

(Back to Top)

Chapter 2

"You lie!"

Rep. Joe Wilson (R)-South Carolina,

remark in an partisan outburst

during President Barack Obama’s address

to a joint session of the United States Congress,

September 9, 2009.

Monday - July 9 - 3:30 PM

It had been over nine months now since any money had come my way.

Not only that, the increasing difficulty of being a player in the real estate business these days was becoming more of a sport of tenacity than genuine enterprise. I was doing everything I could muster to hold on to my hard-won properties. After all, this was a major source of my income, and with it came a hard lesson. If we were going to make it, we would have to diversify our investments or tighten our budget. After long talks, arguments and redemptive lovemaking, Tariah and I came to terms with our new financial reality.

I began taking various odd jobs as a side hustle, just to keep some sort of cash coming in, with a bit here and a bit there. Luckily, Tariah was still able to hold down her beauty salon, where she still had a large enough clientele that needed her on a regular basis. She did a damn good job of stifling her impatience with me. After all, what woman wants a man hanging around who couldn’t bring home the bacon? I considered myself pretty lucky, and that wasn't solely due to her kindness. But I also knew there was always someone more worse off than us. There were a lot of people living out of their cars in America's Finest City.

On the other side of the world, there were civil wars as well as drug wars still going on. Many people still found themselves jobless, no matter how much effort went into trying to stay above water. The dirty little secret nobody told was that there we wouldn't be any jobs coming back for these type of people, at least not as easily as they had laways known. The globe was spinning faster than most of us could keep up, and everyone was doing whatever came to mind to survive. Bank robberies were at record levels; home foreclosures at were at historical levels; and an increasing number of municipal governments were going bankrupt. it is truly the survival of the fittest out here. You had to live by your wits.

By now, I had sold a Japanese sports car and replaced it with something more economical. I lost about fifty percent of what I originally paid for it. But we were still able to eat pretty well, wipe out a few nagging past-due bills and periodically catch our breath. Watching money trickle in was no joke, even when you were working twice as hard. But then I got stuck into an even stickier situation. It was an opportunity of a lifetime that I just couldn't pass up.

One day, I stopped inside of an auto parts store to buy some new windshield wiper blades for Tariah's SUV. It was there that I met a stranger, and through some small talk, the man told me of how he once owned a carpeting business that had eventually bottomed out. We talked about the usual stuff that most men thought was important: sports, political bullshit and how fucked up things really were in our present state of affairs in California. He had a tendency to quickly veer off and blame the president for all of the bad things that were happening to him. But each time, I countered by bringing up something else. Eventually, he admitted that he was down on his luck, and made me an offer I couldn't refuse.

Really...

The conversation led to an proposal to buy his car.

I wanna get some cash as soon as I can, man, the dusty hair guy told me. I gotta get back to West Virginia. It's time that I got the hell out of San Diego. Cost of living's too high. I've already lost my home. My wife's gone. Taken the kids back up to Portland with her. I've got nowhere else to go.

So what do you plan to do?

He flicked his cigarette away tiredly and swung his head toward me.

Can I show you something?

He lead me through an empty office building next door to the auto parts store, and stopped inside of a dusty service dock in the back of the building. Along the way were piles of various rolls of plastic-wrapped colored carpet, office desks, chairs and storage boxes stacked against the walls of several rooms.

But what grasped my attention was sat before us in the dark, subtly-lit dock.

It was perhaps the baddest and meanest car I had ever seen in my forty-eight years on this planet.

...Tryin' to get rid of it before I leave here...

You're selling this? I asked excitedly with a thumping heartbeat.

Ain't no fuckin' way I'ma drive this bad boy cross-country.

It was a car I always liked, ever since my high school days. It was an all-black '87 Buick Regal Grand National. The last true muscle car built by General Motors.

It had a 231-cubic inch turbocharged and intercooled V-6 iron block engine with sequential electronic fuel-injection that pumped out 245 horsepower through a torquey TurboHydramatic 200 four-speed automatic transmission and rear-wheel drive. I gave it a once-over, inspecting the blacked-out trim of the headlights, front grille, bumpers and taillights. Everything was there, the emblematic interior trim package, original fifteen-inch wheels, badges, and just as flawless as I'd seen them in the pages of an automobile magazine over twenty-six years.

Damn! I said with amazement. Are you kidding me? You're actually trying to sell this bad boy?

Original parts. It's got about fifteen thousand miles. Only things that've been replaced were the dual exhaust system and the fuel pump. Other than that, I've kept it up pretty good. Didn't drive it as much until the last few months I've been living in it. But, shit, it still runs like brand new.

So...How much you asking for?

Hmm. Mark the ex-carpet man rubbed his scraggly chin and stared at the cement floor. Well...I didn't want to just give it away. But hell, I'm in such a bind right now. How about eighty-five hundred?

I had anticipated a higher price in the range of fourteen to fifteen grand. But this was a steal. I'd have more than enough money left over to feed our frugal budget. But like a little child whose eyes were blinded in the candy store, all I could let out were three last words.

I'll take it.

I drove around, taking a longer route through the Oak Park neighborhood where I lived, to see if anything unusual might catch my eye. As I swung the Buick into the parking lot at the supermarket, I went back over the small shopping list inside my head.

Forrest!

A familiar voice called my name.

Forrest! Over here!

The larger-than-life Carlos Troutman jogged animatedly towards me as I locked the door. I hadn't seen him in quite a while. He smiled appreciatively and shook my hand with a bear claw’s grip.

’Sup man?

Nothing much, Carlos, I nodded. What's going on with you?

For some reason, he seemed excited about being with me. We hadn’t talked in over two years. Carlos Troutman is what I call an occasional acquaintance, even though we had known each other for over fifteen years. He worked as a ‘pay-as-you-go’ auto mechanic for most of the time I'd known him. Now, Carlos was superb at his craft, but that wasn’t the only skill he’d use on his customers. The last time we met, it ended with an argument over the amount of money he had charged for some engine stalling work that needed fixing on Tariah’s SUV. I felt that he was taking advantage of me with such exorbitant charges. However, he explained his justification for such as the necessary costs of running a small shop from his garage.

You understand what I'm workin' with, man? I remember him asking me the last time. I got overhead, parts, labor, shipping and handling too...

But there's only you working in this garage every time I come here.

Well the UPS guy has to drop off the parts here, he said with a devilish face. Those were the last words I remember before storming out of his garage. Had I stayed, things would have gotten a lot uglier.

But I let it go. I learned that you can never run out of people who would need favors one day.

Even from those who screwed you over.

The rotund mechanic had a bald, cinnamon head that was always gleamed a like waxed floor. His body’s contour was big and round and tall in its own way. He had small, sleepy eyes that were spaced just a bit apart and angled upwards to his ears. Carlos could immediately pass for an alien, unscathed, if we were ever invaded by extraterrestrials.

You didn’t hear me callin’ you?

No, I said dishonestly.

W-h-e-e-e-w shit! he uttered behind a teethy grin. Sweet ass Regal you got here!

Thanks.

Is this a GNX?

Naw. It's a Grand National.

Where'd you get this?! he asked, giving the car a walking inspection from all angles. This is sick!

Some guy down in Chula Vista. Needed some quick cash.

Looks real clean. Must've kept it up real nice.

Where in the hell you been for the past two years?

Here, he grinned. You know I ain't going nowhere, man. It's sunny ninety-percent of the time. No snow. I ain't goin' nowhere, Forrest. This here is home for me. He pointed a pudgy finger at me. By the way. Your phone workin'?

What do you mean, ‘working’? Of course it's working.

"I mean, is it workin' workin'?"

He grinned with a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth for emphasis. I then remembered the amount of time that had grew between us and the few changes I made since then.

You might have my older number. I got a new one recently.

Oh...okay, he chuckled, narrowing his large, rodent-like eyes. That explains everything then.

Yeah. I still have your number, though.

I thought you might have moved out San Diego. Just up and got the fuck outta here.

Lot of that going on these days. But, no.

I been tryin’ to call you since last night.

You okay?

Oh, I’m alright, he thumbed at his soiled gray shirt. It ain’t me. It’s a church member. Just wanna to know if you can speak with her.

"A church member? You? You go to church?"

I do now.

I spilled a guffaw from deep inside that I couldn’t hold back.

Com’ on, man, he brushed off with a grin. Some of us do change over time.

So, what’s the deal with this church friend of yours?

She’s one of the elderly members at my church. A mother. Mother Honore is what we call her. Nice lady though. Called me Saturday night. Said they had to take her to the hospital earlier in the morning.

What's wrong with her?

She's got breathing problems, man. Something’s wrong with her lungs. Don't know exactly, but he’s been really sick for a few months now and couldn't come to church that often. I guess it got pretty bad this past weekend. But anyway, she called me and told me that she needs someone to help her with this little special little problem she's got.

"A little special problem? Can you be more specific?"

Let’s put it this way. It’s something I or anyone else can't help her with.

I leaned against the Buick, folded my arms and waited for a good explanation.

And?

The mechanic hobbled closer toward