Love Her Madly (11 page)

I waited.

“Miss Rice, I see myself as having been assigned an important mission, one completely unexpected but certainly fulfilling a long-held wish. In recent days, God has called upon me to demonstrate the strength of a morality that lies within the teaching of the Church, a morality swept to the side, out of sight, by many. My issue has to do with the Church's stand on the death penalty. We are strongly, very strongly, opposed. We are opposed to the taking of life, any life, all life, whether it is the life of an innocent, such as an unborn child, or the guilty, such as a murderer incarcerated. Upon my investiture as cardinal, God bestowed upon me a clear duty to see that Catholics understand that in condoning the death penalty they commit an act of accessory to murder. And so I have been meditating over the past few days while in this lovely place.”

He looked into my eyes. But of course I had nothing to say. Not yet, anyway.

“Miss Rice, I need you to be my messenger.”

“Not to God, I hope.”

He laughed. “I have plenty of messengers for that purpose. No, to Rona Leigh Glueck.”

I didn't understand.

“You have been speaking with her, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to ask her something on my behalf. I want you to ask her if she will agree to my acting as her spiritual counselor. I need you to explain to her that I am doing this not out of personal humility, I am ashamed to say, but rather at the command of the Lord.”

I got it. “You need a bully pulpit, Eminence. In addition to the pulpit on Fifth Avenue.”

“Exactly so. It seems an ideal way to remind Catholics that they must join those who are just now realizing it is wrong to support—even to show enthusiasm for—the death penalty. Catholics are required by doctrine to be in strong opposition rather than act as rooters. Catholics should not be the last to give voice to the truth that executing killers does not deter killing but adds to it, an unpopular opinion, which until recently seemed inviolate. Catholics should have been the first to voice this truth, but if they are the last … well, I'm sure you know what Jesus said about the strength the last might find in their laxity.”

He looked up to the Lord and then to me. “And also, I admit to curiosity. Miss Glueck says she has found Jesus. What those words mean to me is that she has done penance and Jesus has forgiven her. To Catholics, it is Jesus who finds
us,
not vice versa. The sentiment is the same, though.

“I want to examine what is required for God to bless a killer with His forgiveness. If that is what has happened, it would be an enormous privilege to ease this woman's journey from this life to the next. And if she didn't, as she puts it, find Jesus—if it is all an act of self-preservation—perhaps she will allow me to help her let Jesus find her as she faces the state's retribution.

“Finally, Miss Rice, so that you understand my strongest attraction to this mission, I am simply continuing the Lord's directive to visit the infirm and the imprisoned, which I do regularly in my own parish.”

He slipped his hands comfortably into the folds of the brown homespun. He was through.

I said, “Your Eminence, I will be happy to give your request to Rona Leigh, along with your reasons. I assume that's why you told me what they were. You want her to understand them.”

“Yes. Again, I am grateful for your clear-sightedness. And since you are so clear-sighted, I know you will wonder why I did not choose to say all this to you on the telephone. It is my lack of humility. I thought you would perhaps be more successful in your own mission as well as mine if you permitted me to personally bestow upon you the blessings of Jesus Christ our Lord so that you may succeed in your own efforts.”

He took his hands out of the folds. He put his right hand on my head and blessed me: Father, Son, and Holy Ghost called into action yet again in the space of a very short time. And then he said, “Go in peace,” and offered me his ring. I kissed it, and when I lifted my head, he said, “I have complete faith that you will find the necessary path to pave my way and your own as well.”

That meant he was giving me permission to carry out whatever manipulating I'd have to do in order for him to use Rona Leigh to his own purposes. Realizing that, lights began to flash in my head.

“Your Eminence, if Rona Leigh agrees to your request, would you give me the opportunity to tell the governor of your plan? Before
you
let anyone know about it? If he hears it from me rather than from an aide reading the news to him from the morning headlines, I will have the advantage I am looking for in convincing him that Rona Leigh's case should be reexamined.”

It was hard to tell what went on behind Beltrán Cardinal María de la Cruz y García's eyes. They were pitch. He asked me, “What is the advantage you hope for?”

“His agreeing to grant me a meeting with him.”

“A meeting on Rona Leigh Glueck's behalf?”

“Yes.”

He smiled. The black eyes twinkled. “We both know the weight a face-to-face appeal provides. Once, I said to you that I hoped I could do a favor for you as you had done for me. I believe I can grant you what you ask. We are on the same wave, are we not?”

“Wavelength.”

He laughed. “I acknowledge and appreciate the correction. I wish more people had the—now there is a better word than the one I was about to use—the
chutzpah
to correct some of my mangling of my second language.”

And then he stood, thanked me, and went off to preside at his niece's wedding.

Well.

I was ready for a drink. The bar at the hotel had been taken over by ballplayers. I let one of them buy me a margarita. I considered scouting them, but they'd all be off to the wedding shortly. As they knocked down their drinks, a few told me to come along, they'd find room for me, but crashing weddings was not appealing, so when they had to leave I went up to my room instead.

My view was the Rio Grande and the walking bridge to Nuevo Laredo. In the last light of evening, the border guards were changing shifts. The new ones were bringing fresh German shepherds out of their kennels. I watched as a dozen or so Mexicans on the other side shed their clothes, hung them on branches, and waded into the water. I waited for the whistles and bells and barking to start. But the border guards ignored them.

They were not crossing the border illegally, they were bathing after a day's work in the United States.

There were no fences, no barbed wire, no anything. In fact, beyond the hotel was a little playground on our side. There were probably so many illegal immigrants keeping La Posada and all the rest of Texas running that any effort to keep the Mexicans out was a show. The sun had set. I was bored.

I went outside to the plaza, bought a guava ice-cream cone, and sat on a bench with two maids from the hotel. The night was warm and humid. We watched the wedding party come out of the hotel entrance serenaded by a mariachi band, the little flower girls fireflies now, darting about in the glow from the hundreds of strands of lights hanging from the trees. The bride on her father's arm had on a Mexican wedding gown, flower-bedecked, flounced, and banded, her long mantilla no doubt passed down from Isabella herself. The mayor's tuxedo was impeccably tailored, elegant in contrast.

Her mother was the tallest woman there and wore black: a pants suit with flowing white lace collar and equally flowing cuffs dripping down from the bottom of her narrow sleeves. The lace covered her hands but not the gleam of her rings. Her heels were so high she towered. There was no question that if Beltrán de la Cruz's sister had been born a male child, the family could well have had two cardinals.

I always cry at weddings, relieved with my decision never to marry. Just the way I get misty-eyed when Delby brings her girls to the office on Bring-Your-Daughter-to-Work Day. They put their plastic barrettes in my hair. They keep me stocked in nail polish. I adore them. I also know I would no more consider lunching with children down in the day care center than going for a swim in the Potomac.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks and the ice cream off my chin with a Kleenex one of the maids passed along to me.

Much later that night when I woke up at 2
A.M
. and didn't have a tape of the news on me, I went back to the hotel bar. It was empty except for one of the ballplayers, who apparently hadn't been in the mood to dance till dawn. I took a stool.

He said, “Whatcha drinkin'?”

I said I'd have a Grey Goose on the rocks and one of whatever he was having.

He said, “You like to mix and match, darlin'?”

“It's a good way to get to know a stranger.”

He said to the bartender, “We'll have a C.C. Manhattan and two Grey Geese on the rocks.”

He wanted to get to know me too. He was depressed. He was on the fifteen-day disabled list. After we'd enjoyed some conversation, laughed, we went to my room.

Disabled, my eye.

*   *   *

I woke up the next morning happy to find the ballplayer was no longer in my bed. He'd left a note on my pillow, though.
Sometimes you get lucky and make a connection. Thanks.
He was right. On the road, once in a blue moon, the night turns out to be not so lonely.

Before I got myself back to Gatesville, I called Delby to see if anything of note had come in.

“Found a big development soon as I walked in the door.”

“Go ahead.”

“That dispatcher from the Houston cops made an anonymous call to us last night about three
A.M
. Must think we're ninnies. Told the office that the guy who called the Thirty-first Precinct twice on the night of the ax murders was the victim's husband. Name, Gary Scott. Owns a dive called the AstroBar in Houston. When the murders took place he only worked there. Then it was called Pee-Wee's. Think the dispatcher's got the guilts?”

“I wonder. Or maybe he likes stirring up shit.”

She said, “Or office politics. Needs to get even with someone. We'll never know, though. Thought you were coming back today.”

“I thought so too. Things have gotten interesting. I'm thinking I'll visit the scene of the crime: Houston.”

“Wondered when you would decide it was time. I'm smellin' progress. Good luck, boss.”

I got out my map. Three hours to Houston. I'd drive.

I opened my laptop and keyed in to Yahoo. Tried
ASTROBAR
. Nothing. Tried
PEE-WEE'S
. I got one response, an article in a Houston alternative weekly called
Badass Houston.
Three years ago
Badass Houston
hailed Pee-Wee's as serving the most dangerous food in all Houston—in all Texas, they'd bet. The food column read:

We doubted the ribs we ate at Pee-Wee's had been refrigerated before they were tossed on the grill. Tasted like wild boar, not that we've ever had wild boar. The charcoal grill was not vented to the outside, another reason we use the word “dangerous.” If the food doesn't kill you, the fumes will.

The food critic suggested going to the bathroom after dinner, sticking your finger down your throat, and throwing up. Then he added a disclaimer:

Be aware that the bathroom is the outside rear wall of the bar with a spigot that's two feet off the ground, unconnected to any water source.

He concluded by advising diners to drink their beer from the glasses rather than out of the bottles, even though the glasses were filthy.

We couldn't help but notice the rain of mouse droppings stuck to the beer caps.

Definitely time for a foray into the Houston demimonde. Time to torment the puppeteer. Maybe Delby's and my reactions were a combination of the dispatcher's motive. Maybe the dispatcher felt the way I did, had a need to shake up a guilty party who had avoided getting his hands dirty.

*   *   *

Front door to back, the AstroBar was maybe twenty feet long and not more than ten feet wide. There was the bar and the line of stools. One small table was jammed into a corner. A pair of unmatched chairs stacked one on the other were on top of the table. Line-dancing was out of the question in this Texas bar, and movie stars rode mechanical bulls elsewhere. I was actually hoping to see one in person, since I've always been fascinated by a twenty-year-old forensic mystery just recently solved—and by one of the geniuses I hired myself. Autopsies performed on Texas males from age eighteen and up have revealed a preponderance of healed and unhealed hairline fractures of the thumbs. That's what happens from hanging onto a mechanical bull for dear life.

Besides the new name, no charcoal grill.
Badass Houston
needed to update. Food, I observed, was limited to the yellow sludge that plops out of a heating machine onto a cardboard nest of tortilla chips. On second glance I was wrong about that. The machine was unplugged. Didn't work. Someone has to clean those contraptions now and again or they get gummed up. This one had been overloaded once too often. The cracked dried-up overflow of gunk, now orange, coated the outside of the machine as well as the surrounding counter space.

And
Badass Houston
never noted the supply of liquor behind the counter. The bottles lacked a single recognizable label. If I were drinking, I'd probably have been unable to resist Neck Oil American Whiskey. I did see vodka. The bottle's simple green label read Potato Vodka. Amid the liquor sat a radio. Forced to identify the music coming out of it, I'd try
easy country church.

The back wall of the bar was a tattered curtain. An otherworldly blue glow showed out through the rips and tears. A tanning bed had been installed in the bar's storage room, and someone was using it. Cowboys who aren't real cowboys, the ones who feel more at home in bars rather than where the deer and the antelope roam, pay a few dollars at places like the AstroBar so they can look like they'd just moseyed in from the range.