Killing Orders (17 page)

When the waiters removed the dessert plates, including Phil’s uneaten profiteroles, the room quieted so that his was the only voice that carried. “That’s what they really mean by a physiological map,” he said earnestly. A ripple of laughter made him blush and break off in midsentence. It also drew the head table’s attention to him.

Mrs. Paciorek had been too busy entertaining Archbishop O’Faolin to look at her children during dinner. Since eating had been well under way when we arrived, she probably never noticed Phil and me at all. Now his exposition and the laughter made her turn slightly so that she could identify the source. She saw him, then me. She froze, her well-bred mask slipping slightly. She glanced sharply at Cecelia, who made a helpless gesture.

Mrs. Paciorek nudged Archbishop O’Faolin and whispered to him. He, too, turned to stare at our table, which was only fifteen feet or so away. Then he whispered back to Mrs. Paciorek, who nodded firmly. Instructions to get the Swiss Guard to throw me out?

Phil was furiously stirring cream into his coffee. He was also still young enough to mind very much being laughed at. Under the noise of scraping chairs, as people rose for Cardinal Farber’s post-dinner benediction, I patted his arm comfortingly and said, “Remember: The only real social sin is to care what other people think of you.”

Farber gave a brisk blessing for the meal we had just enjoyed, and went on to talk about how the Kingdom of Heaven could only be tended on earth with the help of earthly things, that God had given us an earthly creation to care for, and that the work of the temporal church could only be carried out with material goods. He felt especially blessed in being the archbishop of Chicago, not just the world’s largest archdiocese but also the most generous and loving. He was gratified at the response Chicago had made to the urgent needs of the Vatican, and here to thank us in person was the Most Reverend Xavier O’Faolin, archbishop of Ciudad Isabella and head of the Vatican Finance Committee.

Well pleased with his praise, the crowd clapped enthusiastically. O’Faolin stepped to the podium at a raised stand in front of the room, commended his words to God in Latin, and began to speak. Once again the Spanish accent was so thick as to be nearly incomprehensible. People strained to listen, then squirmed, and finally began murmured private conversations.

Phil shook his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him tonight,” he said. “The old boy usually speaks perfect English. Mother must have knocked him off balance.”

I wondered again at the whispered exchange between her and O’Faolin. Since it was impossible to follow the Panamanian archbishop I let my mind wander. Applause roused me from a doze, and I shook my head to try to wake up again completely.

Phil commented sarcastically on my sleeping, then said, “Now comes the fun part. You go around the reception detecting to see if you can find your mysterious caller, and I’ll watch.”

“Great. Maybe you can incorporate it into an article on search-and-sort routines in the brain.”

As we got up to follow the throng into the George IV Salon, Mrs. Paciorek pushed herself against the tide of traffic and came up to us. “What are you doing here?” she demanded of me abruptly.

Phil pulled my hand through his arm. “She’s my dinner date, Mother. I didn’t think I could face the Plattens and Carrutherses without some moral support.”

She stood fulminating, her color changed dangerously, but she had the sense to know she couldn’t order me out of the hotel. At last she turned to Cecelia and Morris. “Try to keep her away from Archbishop Farber. He doesn’t need to be insulted,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Phil made a sour face. “Sorry about that, V.1. Want me to stay at your side? I don’t want anyone else to be rude to you.”

I was amused and touched. “Not necessary, my friend. If they’re too rude, I’ll break their necks or something and you can patch them up and come out looking like a hero.”

Phil went to get me a brandy, while I started counterclockwise around the room, stopping at small knots of people, introducing myself, chatting enough to get everyone to say a few words, and moving on. About halfway up the left side, I ran into Father Pelly with Cecelia and some strangers.

“Father Pelly! Nice to see you.”

He smiled austerely. “Miss Warshawski. I hardly thought of you as a supporter of the archdiocese.”

I grinned appreciatively. “You thought correctly. Young Phil Paciorek brought me. How about yourself? I hardly thought the priory could afford this type of entertainment.”

“We can’t. Xavier O’Faolin invited me—we used to work together, and I was his secretary when he was sent to the Vatican ten years ago.”

“And you keep in close touch. That’s nice. He visit the priory while he’s in town?” I asked idly.

“Actually, he’ll stay with us for three days before he flies back to Rome.”

“That’s nice,” I repeated. Faced with Cecelia’s withering glare, I moved on. Phil caught up with me as I was nearing the knot around O’Faolin.

“Nothing like an evening with the old gang to make you feel you’re in kindergarten,” he said. “Every third person remembers when I broke the windows at the church with my catapult.”

He introduced me to various people as I slowly worked my way up to O’Faolin. Someone was shaking hands with him and leaving just as I reached the group, so Phil and I were able to slip in next to him.

“Archbishop, this is Ms. Warshawski. Perhaps you remember her from my sister’s funeral.”

The great man favored me with a stately nod. He wore his episcopal purple shirt under a black suit of exquisite wool. His eyes were green, from his Irish father. I hadn’t noticed them before. “Perhaps the archbishop would prefer to converse in Italian,” I said, addressing him formally in that language.

“You speak Italian?” Like his English, his Italian accent was tinged with Spanish, but not so distortingly. Something about his voice sounded familiar. I wondered if he’d been on television or radio while he was in Chicago and asked him that.

“NBC was good enough to do a small interview. People think of the Vatican as a very wealthy organization, so it is hard for us to bring our story of poverty and begging to the people. They were kind enough to help.”

I nodded. Chicago’s NBC station gave a lot of support to Catholic figures and causes. “Yes. The Vatican finances have been much in the papers here. Particularly after the unfortunate death of Signor Calvi last summer.” Was it my imagination, or did he flinch a bit? “Has .your work with the Vatican Finance Committee involved you at all with the Banco Ambrosiano?”

“Signor Calvi was a most loyal Catholic. Unfortunately, his ardor caused him to overstep the bounds of propriety.” He had switched back to his heavily accented English. Although I made one or two more attempts at conversation, the interview was clearly over.

Phil and I moved off to sit on a small couch. I needed to rest my feet before tackling the other side of the room. “What was that about Calvi and the Banco Ambrosiano?” he asked. “My Spanish is just good enough that I could follow some of the Italian . . . You must have miffed him, though, for his English to go bad again like that.”

“Possibly. He certainly didn’t want to talk about Ambrosiano.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. I gathered my wits for an assault on the rest. of the party. Suddenly, behind me, I heard the Voice again. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Addington. His Holiness will be joining me in prayer for all of you generous Chicago Catholics.”

I leaped to my feet, spilling brandy down the front of the new crimson dress.

Phil stood up in alarm. “What is it, Vic?”

“That’s the man who’s been calling me. Who is that?”

“Who?”

“Didn’t you hear someone just promising the pope’s prayers? Who said that?”

Phil was bewildered. “That was Archbishop O’Faolin. Has he been calling you?”

“Never mind. No wonder you were so surprised by his accent, though.” The voice of a man whose English has been carefully taught to avoid an accent. Irish or Spanish or both. I rejoined the group around the archbishop.

He stopped in midsentence when he saw me.

“Never mind,” I said. “You don’t have to put the thick Spanish back on again. I know who you are. What I don’t understand is your connection with the
Mafia.”

I found I was shaking so badly I could hardly stand. This was the man who wanted to blind me. I had just enough control not to jump him on the spot.

“You’re confusing me with someone else, young woman.” O’Faolin spoke coldly, but in his normal voice. The rest of the group around him stood like Stonehenge. Mrs. Paciorek swooped up from nowhere.

“Dear Archbishop,” she said. “Cardinal Farber is ready to leave.”

“Ah, yes. I’ll come at once. I must thank him for his most generous hospitality.”

As he got ready to leave I said coldly, “Just remember, Archbishop: No one is lucky forever.”

Phil helped me back to the couch. “Vic, what’s wrong? What has O’Faolin done to you? Surely you don’t know him?”

I shook my head. “I thought I did. He’s probably right, though. I must be confusing him with someone else.” I knew I wasn’t, though. You do not forget the voice of someone who wants to pour acid in your eyes.

Phil offered to drive me home, to get more brandy, to do anything and everything. I smiled at him gratefully. “I’m okay. Just, with the fire at my place and everything, I haven’t had much sleep. I’ll sit here for a while and then drive back to my apartment.” Or whatever the Bellerophon was.

Phil sat next to me. He held my hand and talked about general things. He was a very likable young man. I pondered again how Mrs. Paciorek could have produced three such attractive children as Agnes, Phil, and Barbara. “Cecelia’s your mother’s only success,” I said abruptly.

He smiled. “You only see Mother at her worst. She’s a fine person in a lot of ways. All the good she does, for example. She inherited that huge Savage fortune, and instead of turning into a Gloria Vanderbilt or Barbara Post, she’s used it almost exclusively for charity. She set up trusts for us kids, enough to keep us from want—mine paid my medical-school tuition, for example. But most of it goes to different charities. Especially to the Church.”

“Corpus Christi, perhaps?”

He looked at me sharply. “How do you know about that?”

“Oh,” I said vaguely. “Even members of secret societies talk. Your mother must be pretty active in it.”

He shook his head. “We’re not supposed to talk about it. She explained it to each of us when we turned twenty-one, so we’d know why there wasn’t going to be much of an estate to inherit. Barbara doesn’t know yet. We don’t even discuss it among ourselves, although Cecelia’s a member.”

“But you’re not?”

He smiled ruefully. “I’m not like Agnes—haven’t lost my faith and turned my back on the Church. It’s just, with Mother so active, I’ve had too much opportunity to see the venality of the organization. It doesn’t surprise me—after all, priests and bishops are human, and they get their share of temptation. But I don’t want them managing my money for me.”

“Yes, I can see that. Someone like O’Faolin, for example, getting a chance to play ducks and drakes with the faithful’s money. Is he part of Corpus Christi?”

Phil shrugged.

“But Father Pelly is,” I said with calm certainty.

“Yeah, Pelly’s a good guy. He’s hot-tempered, but he’s a fanatic like Mother. I don’t think anyone could accuse him of working for his own self-interest.”

The room was starting to shimmer in front of me. Too much knowledge, rage, and fatigue made me feel as if I might faint.

With Farber’s and O’Faolin’s departure the room was thinning rapidly of people. I got up. “I need to get home.”

Phil reiterated his willingness to drive me. “You don’t look in any shape to be on the road, Vic . . . I see too many head and neck injuries in the Emergency Room—let me drive you.”

I declined firmly. “The air will wake me up. I always wear my seat belt, and I’m a careful driver.” I had too much to sort out. I needed to be alone.

Phil retrieved my boots and coat for me and helped me into them with anxious courtesy. He walked me to the entrance of the lot where I was parked and insisted on paying the ticket. I was touched by his good manners and didn’t try to override him. “Do me a favor,” he said, as I turned to go into the garage. “Call me when you get in. I’m catching a train to the South Side—should be at my place in an hour. I’d just like to know you got home safely.”

“Sure, Phil,” I called, and turned in to the garage.

The Omega was parked on the third level. I rode the elevator up, keeping a cautious eye out for prowlers. Elevators are nasty places at night.

As I bent to unlock the car door, someone grabbed my arm. I whirled and kicked as hard as I could. My booted foot rammed his shin and he gave a yelp of pain and fell back.

“You’re covered, Warshawski. Don’t try to fight.” The voice came from the shadows beyond my car. Light glinted on metal. I remembered in dismay that the farts in the Skokie police had my gun. But a fight is no time for regrets.

“Okay, I’m covered,” I agreed levelly. I let my Magli pumps slide to the ground and judged distances. He’d have a hard time killing me in the dark, but he could probably hit me.

“I could have killed you as you unlocked your car,” the man with the gun pointed out, as if reading my thoughts. He had a heavy, gravelly voice. “I’m not here to shoot you. Don Pasquale wants to talk to you. My partner will forgive you for kicking him—he shouldn’t have tried to grab you. We were told you were a good street fighter.”

“Thank you,” I said gravely. “My car or yours?”

“Ours. We’re going to blindfold you for the drive.”

I picked up my shoes and let the man take me to a Cadillac limousine waiting on the far side of the floor with its motor running. There was no point in fighting. They wrapped a large black silk scarf around my eyes. I felt like Julius Schmeese waiting for the firing squad.

Gravel Voice sat in the back with me, his gun held lightly against my side. “You can put that away,” I told him tiredly. “I’m not going to jump you.”