Greasing the Piñata (12 page)
Priest sat in the last pew and bided his time.
About a dozen of the faithful were taking the body of Christ into their mouths, Father Connolly placing the wafers on tongues with fastidious care and exaggerated gestures designed to impress the entire congregation. It reminded Priest of the time when he was fifteen and he bathed the wafers at his local church in LSD. That was a sermon to be remembered.
Connolly blathered on for another ten minutes before cutting loose his flock. Mothers and children, fathers and friends passed Priest on their way to the front door, never realizing there was a wolf in their midst. A handful stayed behind, people waiting their turn for the confessional. Priest remained in the back row while the other parishioners stood or sat a respectful distance away from the twin booths.
It was another thirty minutes before Priest stepped up to the confessional. He stood for a moment outside the priest’s side of the booth, then looked around the church, checking to be sure he and Father Connolly were alone before slipping into the parishioner’s side.
Priest leaned back against the wall and sighed, head tilted toward the checkered screen. He could discern movement and shadows, but Father Connolly’s face was all but invisible.
“I have sinned, Father.”
“God forgives you.”
“I sincerely doubt it.”
Connolly’s reply was soft but insistent. “God’s mercy is infinite.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“It is a very serious matter.” Connolly tried to sound stern but compassionate. “I am merely a vessel for God. Pretend you are speaking to Him, and your sins will be forgiven.”
“Just like that?”
Connolly hesitated. “You must be genuinely sorry and resolve to make amends.”
“There’s always a catch, isn’t there?”
Connolly took a deep breath. “You came here for a reason—you must be looking for some kind of absolution.”
“Actually, I just wanted an audience.” Priest leaned closer to the screen and lowered his voice. “I’m trying out some new material.”
“What?” Connolly’s voice was sharp.
“Is the Seal of the Confessional something you consider sacred?”
A long moment passed before Connolly replied. Clearly he was weighing his options, but he took the question seriously.
“Yes, it is a priest’s most sacred trust. Whatever is said—”
“Good, because you know what happens to a priest that violates that trust?”
“Well, there is censure, even excommunic—”
“No, no, no.” Priest’s voice echoed around the booth, the sound revealing how claustrophobic the space could feel. “Would you like me to tell you what
will
happen, or would you rather use your imagination?”
Sudden movement on the other side of the screen, followed by the rattle of a door handle. Priest listened to the sound for several seconds before saying anything.
“It’s locked from the outside.”
The rattling stopped. Priest could sense Connolly shifting on his seat, his breathing more audible now. “What…what do you want?”
“I want you to listen to me, Father. Do you think you can do that? I want you to listen very closely.”
Priest didn’t wait for an answer to begin his narrative. After a few minutes he saw the shadow of Connolly’s head tilt forward as if in prayer, and not long after that he heard the muffled sobs of a brave man losing his faith one word at a time.
“I loved my father.”
Back inside the mud-covered tent, Cape was thankful for the subdued lighting. A single candle sputtered on a crate that sat between them. Rebecca obviously didn’t feel the need to put anything on, and their outdoor embrace had dislodged more clumps of earth from her body. Cape knew that maintaining eye contact was going to put his unyielding professionalism to the test.
“No, that’s not right.” Rebecca took a deep breath. “
Worshipped
is more like it. All through school I bragged to my friends what a great man he was, how he was going to change the world. Their fathers might be doctors or lawyers, but mine was a city official.”
“So what happened?”
“I got caught smoking pot at the end of my sophomore year.”
“You and every other teenager in San Francisco.”
“Yeah, but I got my picture in the paper.”
Cape shrugged. “Embarrassing—but big deal.”
“When your Dad is about to make a move from the city council to the state senate, you’d be amazed what a big deal it is. So I got shipped to boarding school to start a new life.”
“With a new name—your mother’s maiden name?”
Rebecca nodded. “Lowry—I wasn’t good enough to be a
Dobbins
anymore.”
“That’s a bit harsh.”
“My mother insisted they just wanted me to grow up somewhere away from politics, out from under Dad’s shadow. They had seen too many other politicians’ kids get blinded by the glare of publicity. This was my chance to have a normal life.”
“OK,” said Cape, thinking that it didn’t sound OK at all.
“But I didn’t want a normal life. I wanted a life with my
fath
—with my family.”
“So you didn’t have any contact with your parents?”
“Oh no, I saw my Mom every month. She was wonderful. Told me that my father sent his love, but that it was better for me if we didn’t see each other.”
“Better how?”
“I refused to even talk about him.” In the dark of the earthen tent, Rebecca hugged herself. “I know that hurt her deeply, but I never forgave him for sending me away.”
Cape waited, watching her expression change in the shifting candlelight.
“One month my Mom didn’t show up. A week later I got a call from my brother, telling me she was in the hospital.”
“Why?”
“Ovarian cancer,” said Rebecca. “She died two months later.”
Cape listened to the sound of his own breathing.
“Dad and I didn’t speak at the funeral. There was really nothing left to say.”
“And your brother?”
Rebecca hesitated. “Danny got away with things.”
“Such as?”
“Drinking. Smoking pot. You name it—all the things I wasn’t allowed to do.”
“That’s quite a double-standard.”
“He was the first-born son,” said Rebecca without rancor. “And I was…I was just a girl. Even the press has different standards for the daughter of a public figure. The boys get to run wild.”
“But you stayed in touch.”
“It wasn’t Danny’s fault my Dad played favorites.” Rebecca paused. “But I think Danny took advantage, maybe even rebelled on my behalf.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was always pushing the limits. I think maybe he got into something illegal.”
“Why?”
“Danny never gave me details, but he was always talking about money—he’d say something big was coming down the road—bullshit like that. I never paid any attention. Danny was a big drunk-dialer, calling me after he went drinking with friends.”
“But you don’t know what he was into, who he worked for, any of it.”
Rebecca shook her head. “That’s why I wrote to my Dad. I should have just picked up the phone, but I didn’t…I wasn’t ready for the conversation.”
Something that had been gnawing at the back of Cape’s skull finally broke through.
“When did you send the letter?”
“The week before-last.”
“The week before he disappeared.” Saying it aloud, Cape couldn’t believe he hadn’t focused on it earlier.
“I never heard back from him.” Rebecca frowned as the candle sputtered. It was down to the last inch of life. “He had already gone looking for Danny.”
“How do you know?”
“I guess I don’t.” Only Rebecca’s left eye remained visible, her body a dark contour against the indigo wall of the tent.
The candle hissed in protest as the flame was extinguished by the pool of wax. Nobody moved to light another.
Cape didn’t mind. He was getting used to being in the dark.
Joey DeLuca hated lawyers.
Most lawyers, anyway. Not public defenders, they were alright. And the expensive criminal lawyers who defended Joey from time to time, they didn’t suck either. The lawyer that helped Joey through his divorce—she was OK, too—at least until he hit on her and the bitch turned on him.
But corporate lawyers were the worst. If you have to be a lawyer, have enough self-respect to work in a courtroom. Get your hands dirty. Don’t go to law school for three years just to work in some random company with casual Fridays. A lawyer who wears a fucking polo shirt to work just because it’s Friday has got no self-respect.
Joey was big on respect, even though he was only a bag man. Couldn’t stand that expression, though—
bag man
. Showed a lack of respect for a very important job. He hated being called a bag man more than anything, even lawyers. If the Feds swooped in, he took the fall. A noble sacrifice for the good of the family. A role like that deserved a title, a little dignity.
Joey liked to think of himself as a courier.
Courier
—like a French diplomat.
A turn-of-the-century gentleman, only without the fag clothes.
Business cards, that’s what he needed. Nobody dissed a guy with business cards.
Joey DeLuca
Professional Courier
As he rode the elevator to the 34th floor of the Delta Energy building, Joey made a mental note to order the cards as soon as he got home.
As a twenty-something personal assistant ushered Joey into the corner office, he looked past the huge desk at the view of the bay. You could see the congestion along the Embarcadero and Bay Bridge, rush hour taillights moving like red corpuscles toward the heart of the city. It was a view you could stare at forever and never get bored.
And that’s exactly what the lawyer was doing, big leather chair turned away from the desk. His back to the door, totally oblivious to anyone coming up behind him. Unbelievable.
As the assistant left the room she pulled the door shut, making enough noise for the lawyer to swivel around in Joey’s direction. His round face was unperturbed, gray hair falling across a pale forehead above gold-rimmed glasses. Watery blue eyes. On one wrist a Rolex, on the other a gold bracelet. A red and white polo shirt, the tensile strength of the fabric tested by a gut that spilled precariously over his belt.
Looking at the man’s shirt Joey wrinkled his brow as he realized what day it was. Casual-fucking-Friday here at Delta Energy. He was about to say something when the lawyer called out in greeting.
“Ah, the bag man!”
Joey’s jaw clenched. “How you doing,” he managed in his best courier voice. A few years ago Joey would turn a nimrod like this into cat food, but not anymore. After eleven guys got nailed in a high-profile RICO operation a few years back, the mantra of the mob was
low profile
. No more Gotti-style nights on the town with two girls on your arm. No more box seats at the Giants games. Stick to the private clubs, the family restaurants. Keep your head down and mouth shut.
And the key to it all was sitting in front of Joey. Corporate lawyers, working for big companies interested in diversifying their portfolios, hedging their risk. Joey’s employers provided investment opportunities, and in exchange their own money came back to them with interest, clean as a virgin’s snatch.
“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” The lawyer was breathless, like this was some kind of game.
Joey wanted to scream but instead pulled a folded piece of paper from his right jacket pocket.
The lawyer scanned the list greedily. To a casual observer it would be gibberish, a series of letters in the left margin with numbers running across in rows, each spaced at regular intervals. No names, only acronyms, and no dollar signs or decimal points. When he looked up, his face was covered with a bright sheen of sweat.
“Looks like we had a good month.”
Joey shrugged. “I guess so.”
“My turn.” The lawyer proffered a plain brown envelope, his right hand leaving a sweat stain on the paper. These face-to-face meetings didn’t seem necessary—they could have arranged a drop or sent an encrypted email—but Joey was beginning to think this was almost sexual for the guy, a cheap thrill he could tell his wife about later.
I got to talk shit to the mob today.
“Thanks. Mind if I use the men’s before I head out?” Joey didn’t wait for an answer and the lawyer didn’t stop him. The guy was probably going to beat off as soon as Joey left his office.
Joey checked the stalls before washing the lawyer’s sweat off his hands. Then he locked himself into the handicap stall and dropped his pants. Taking the envelope from his jacket pocket and a roll of athletic tape from his pants pocket, he carefully bent the envelope under his crotch and secured it. There were some places even the toughest cops wouldn’t look during a frisk.
When he was sure he could move without dislodging the tape from his thighs, Joey pulled up his pants and walked calmly to the elevator, pressing the button for the garage.
The garage was half full of cars but no one seemed to be around. The attendant’s booth was down one level, out of sight and earshot from where Joey had parked his black BMW. He thumbed the key and heard the soft click of the door locks just before he noticed the shadowy figure standing on the far side of the hood.
“How punctual you are, Joseph.”
Joey reflexively started reaching for his piece but stopped when he caught a glimpse of silver in the darkness. Nothing got you killed faster than reaching when the other guy already had his gun drawn. Joey extended both hands from his sides, squaring off to face the voice.
“Who the hell are you?”
The silver flashed again and Joey flinched involuntarily. “I doubt Hell has anything to do with it.” The figure moved, coming around the back of the car. Joey saw the white hair first, then a gaunt face with a high forehead. Eyebrows like the old wizard in that Disney movie, the one where Mickey fucks up and makes all the broomsticks flood the castle.
Below the cruel mouth and tapered chin Joey noticed the priest’s collar, the silver crucifix reflecting the fluorescent light from the ceiling back into Joey’s eyes. By the time he connected the dots and realized it wasn’t a gun, it was too late. Priest was standing directly in front of him, looking meaningfully at the left side of Joey’s jacket.
“Firearms are
soooo
barbaric.” Priest stroked the length of the crucifix absently as he took a step closer. Joey would have to take a step back if he wanted to draw. He wouldn’t call himself religious but he went to mass and wasn’t in any hurry to gun down a priest.
“The fuck are you?”
Priest smiled. “How rude of me. I work for your employers, Joseph.”
“Frank?”
Priest shook his head. “The men who pay Frank pay me.”
Joey concentrated on breathing through his mouth. The man in front of him oozed malevolence like an open sore, and Joey could smell his breath. He tried to give Priest a look, the classic hardcase stare, but he couldn’t hold it.
“I work for Frank.”
“Such loyalty,” said Priest, “is to be rewarded. But something has come up, Joseph. Actually, something has floated to the surface, and it could be connected back to your precious boss, Frank.”
Joey resisted the urge to cry for help out. He listened intently, hoping for the sound of a passing car.
“So I’m here to make sure nothing ties us to this unsavory business.” Priest leaned forward, his mouth opening slightly, just enough for Joey to see the points of his teeth. “I’m sure you can appreciate that, being a
bag man
.”
The words sucked him in, and Joey looked at Priest, now standing as close as a lover. He stared directly into those lifeless gray eyes and found he couldn’t look away. Joey felt vertigo take hold, his world turning gray, until he glimpsed a flash of silver in the corner of his eye and felt the knife enter his chest.
He looked down and saw the top of the crucifix buried to the hilt just below his ribcage, Priest holding the bottom loosely in his left hand, a silver scabbard for a three-inch blade. Just long enough to penetrate the heart, if you got close enough to the victim.
As Joey’s heart seized and his vision blurred, his last thought was how much he hated that expression,
bag man
. It really pissed him off when someone called him that.
