Pagan Babies (23 page)

"Shut the door and come over here. I won't hurt you."

He could hear the girls down the hall as he pushed the door closed. He started toward Mary Pat and she said, "Do you have a cigarette?"

He raised both hands to touch his T-shirt. "Not on me."

"Look in the top drawer of the dresser, the one close to you. There should be a pack in there."

He opened the drawer, felt around among panty hose and brought out a pack of Marlboro. "There's an ashtray in there, too."

"And there should be a lighter, a pink Bic. Bring everything."

He handed her the cigarettes and lighter and placed the ashtray on the table. "I didn't know you smoked."

"You thought I made casseroles and cookies and went to PTA meetings. Fran thinks all I do is vacuum the kitchen floor."

"Do you?"

"Not more than twice a day."

"Does it need it?"

She smiled at him. "Does it matter? Sit down, Terry. Would you like a cigarette?" He shook his head and she lit one with the pink Bic. She said, "You never know what to say to me, do you?"

"We talk."

"Not really. How was Africa?"

"It wasn't too bad."

"See what I mean? You spent five years in Rwanda and it wasn't too bad. What wasn't, the food, the incidence of disease? Did you like living there?"

"I was comfortable."

"Did you drink much?"

"No more than I did before."

"Were you bored?"

"Sometimes."

"No more than you ever were at home, uh? When aren't you bored, Terry?"

"Does Fran know you smoke?"

"Of course he does. I hide it from the girls."

"What if they come in?"

"The door's closed. They know they have to knock first, see if it's okay." She drew on the cigarette. "I'm gonna knock on your door, Terry, and ask you a question. I hope you'll be honest with me."

He was going to wait, but then said, "There's never been anything between Fran and Debbie, if that's what you're worried about."

"Oh, for God's sake, I know that. Fran's conscience would drive him crazy. Terry, he's president of the Dads' Club at school. He's the youngest member of the Knights of Columbus in the Archdiocese of Detroit. His buddies are like veterans left over from some war long past, even the uniforms look ancient."

"He's got the admiral's hat, and the sword? He never mentioned it to me."

Mary Pat drew on her cigarette. She waited.

"All right, what's the question. You want to know if Debbie and I slept in your bed?"

"I knew someone did as soon as I walked in the room. But even before that, seeing little Debbie at the top of the stairs, and all that cheerful chatter--"

"I'm not good at that," Terry said.

"No, you never were. But there's more to it," Mary Pat said. "Sleeping in my bed with a woman is one thing . . . Did you change the sheets?"

"Not yet."

"But a priest sleeping in the bed with a woman--you could never admit to that, not with all your years of Catholic schools, the idea would be shocking, scandalous." She drew on her cigarette and said, "You're stuck, Terry. You have to tell me the truth."

"I have."

"Nothing but the truth, so help you God. You're not a priest, are you?"

He shook his head. "No."

And remembered Debbie asking if he felt better now, and he did. But then saw where this was going, Mary Pat saying, "It's still a sin, I suppose, but not as serious as breaking a vow? You have to remember I was a good Presbyterian before I met Fran and became a convert. And the way they're relaxing the rules, I'm not sure what's a sin and what isn't anymore. Debbie of course knows you're not a priest."

"She guessed the same as you did."

"Terry, I didn't guess, I know you. You're not selfless enough, or that security-minded or devoted to your mother."

"You told the girls I was Fr. Terry."

"Maybe for a moment I believed it. Then Debbie appeared, little sleepyhead trying to look innocent."

"Fran believes it."

"He wants to more than anything. Then he doesn't have to worry about you ending up in jail. But deep down? I'm not so sure." She said, "I loved little Debbie calling you Father. 'I'm taking Father to visit parishes so he can make his mission appeal, for the little orphans.' The bed still warm. You and the Deb are hot for each other?"

"That's where we are right now, yeah."

"You did do it in my bed."

"Only once."

"Five years in Africa, you come back--"

"Maybe twice."

"Terry . . . ?"

"Another time where you're sitting." He believed he saw Mary Pat move her butt on the love seat, squirm, just a little. "Once in the library, the other times at her apartment, and that's all."

"I admire your restraint," Mary Pat said. "Tell me, if you're not a priest, what are you?"

"I guess I'm back to whatever I was."

"Terry, don't act dumb, okay, or innocent--'back to whatever I was'-- you're a crook, admit it. You're gonna put on your Roman collar and con parishes into giving you money. Isn't that what you are, Terry, a con man?"

"That was the original idea," he said, serious, telling his sister-in-law of all people what she wanted to know and looking at it himself, hearing himself. He said, "But now we have a benefactor," Terry smiling just a little, seeing Tony Amilia sitting at that table in his warm-up jacket. Mary Pat might think that was funny, too, if he told her. And maybe not. She wasn't smiling.

She said, "We. Debbie's in it with you?"

"She's helping out."

"Con one person now, this benefactor, instead of a bunch of people sitting in church?"

He didn't have to answer that one. The girls were banging on the bedroom door, calling their mom. Mary Pat said, "Let them in, will you?" stubbing out her cigarette, then waving her hand in the smoke rising from the ashtray.

Terry walked over and opened the door and the girls looked up at him, hesitant. He started back to his chair and now they came in, Jane saying, "We can't find our backpacks."

"They're right there," Mary Pat said. "Uncle Terry brought them up for you." She said, "Girls, come here for a minute." They came over to their mother's side of the table, the six-year-old, Katy, pressing close to her and Mary Pat brushed the girl's hair from her forehead. "Tell Uncle Terry what you want to be when you grow up." She had to be coaxed. "Tell him, honey, he'd like to know."

"I want to be a saint," Katy said.

"Like the one you're named after," Terry said, "Saint Catherine?"

"Which Saint Catherine?"

He had to think. "Saint Catherine of Siena?"

"She's okay. She was a mystic and could see guardian angels. My favorite is Saint Catherine of Alexandria, virgin and martyr. They put her on a spiked wheel, only it broke? So they cut her head off."

Mary Pat said, "Katy loves martyrs."

Terry said, "You know what they did to Saint Agatha?"

"Is she the one, they cut off her boobs and threw her in a burning fire?"

"Hot coals," Terry said.

Katy was edging around the table toward him. "Do you know any more?"

"How about Saint Sebastian?"

"He was stuck with arrows."

"Katy's into saints," Mary Pat said. "She picked it up from Jane who got most of them off the Internet--they're little cyber Catholics--but now Jane's into serious tennis, USTA competition, ten-and-under age group. She started last year when she was seven, lost her first couple of matches and hasn't lost since. Jane's now regional champ," Mary Pat said, touching Jane now, fooling with her hair. "Aren't you, sweetheart?"

She said to Terry, "You know who I want to play? Serena Williams, she won the Open."

"Isn't she a lot older than you are?"

"Yeah, but when I'm her age? She'll only be like twenty-four or -five." She turned to her mom then. "How come you said he's Uncle Terry instead of Father?"

"I thought he became a priest," Mary Pat said, "but he really didn't. He was kidding."

Jane said, "Oh," and walked away from them. Katy caught up with her and Jane said, "You're not suppose to call him Father anymore," and Katy said, "I know." Mary Pat waited until they'd picked up their backpacks and were out of the room.

"You see how easy it is? No big deal. Uncle Terry isn't a priest. Okay. They think you're just a good guy who knows something about saints. Nothing wrong with that." She said, "Do you realize this is the first time we've talked?"

"Mary Pat, you could've been a good prosecuting attorney."

"I could've been good at a lot of things. I chose to marry your brother and have children and be a homemaker, and that's what I am. If you want to be a crook, Terry, that's up to you. I won't pry anymore or get in your way. I just want to ask you one more question. Maybe two."

"Go ahead."

"Does she really like the way I've done the house?"

"Debbie? She loves it. It reminds her of the home she grew up in. What's the other question?"

"Will she stick by you, Terry, if you fuck up?"

Chapter
23.

THE MUTT CAME IN AT NOON.
He stuck his head in Randy's office, said, "It's all set for tonight," and started away.

"Wait a minute--Mutt? What's all set?"

The Mutt appeared in the doorway again. "I'm gonna do both of 'em tonight. Mr. Moraco first."

"Where?"

"I don't know yet. I'm waiting to find out where to meet him. You know, so he can gimme the gun and my money."

Randy was standing at the desk in his shirt sleeves, dark shirt, light-colored tie. He sat down. "You don't have a gun?"

"I guess I didn't tell you. Mr. Moraco's giving me twenty-five to do the priest and he'll furnish the gun. That's the deal. So I'll have me one by then."

Randy said, "To do Vincent."

"Yeah, once he gives it to me."

Randy took his time. "You're gonna use the gun Vincent gives you to do Vincent."

"I may as well, huh?" And said, "Well, I'll see you" as he started out.

"Wait."

The man's simplicity was overwhelming: this little Hoosier, bless his heart, standing there with his muscles and scar tissue waiting now to be dismissed, hat in hand--Randy was thinking--if he had a hat.

Randy said to him, "Mutt? Be careful."

Midafternoon Johnny Pajonny was waiting for him at the bar. The Mutt had called saying he wanted to talk to him. Johnny asked what about, and the Mutt said, "You know. Remember what you mentioned the other night?" He wouldn't say more than that on account of the phone might be bugged. It was pitiful the way this guy's mind worked. Johnny assumed it was about the whoers. After the Mutt had fixed him up with Angie, Johnny said he'd be interested in trying some of the other girls. He had a deal going: he'd told Angie he was a mob guy and expected the usual mob discount on the three hundred she ordinarily got, so he only had to pay her a bill and a half--There he was now, the Mutt coming out from the back of the restaurant, but then the bartender said something to him as he was going past and the Mutt went back to the other end of the bar and picked up the phone. After a minute he was waving to the bartender--he needed a pen. Now he was writing something down--back at the end where the waiters got their drink orders filled.

Johnny was pretty sure Angie liked him and didn't mind the discount. She was so good it was quick anyway. He could always go back; but why not try another one of the whoers and go for the mob discount? That's what he thought this was about.

The Mutt walked up to him and said, "I'm gonna take you up on your offer."

Johnny hadn't offered him anything, so he wasn't sure what the guy meant. He said, "Yeah . . . ?"

"You offered to drive for me."

Johnny said, "Lemme get a drink," and ordered a vodka tonic, giving himself time to readjust his mind, switch from thinking about whoers to contract hits, and talk to a guy Johnny believed might never've even fired a gun before outside of a single-shot .22 down on the farm, shooting squirrels and chipmunks. He would accept the Mutt having shanked some con in the yard, and maybe, just maybe, he might've shot a guy in a bar fight as they tussled. But a real contract? Look at the guy. It didn't seem likely.

"You're saying to me you have a contract to make a hit and you want me to drive the car."

"Two," the Mutt said.

"Two what?"

"I got two contracts, both for tonight."

Johnny got his drink and took a good sip. "You have a car?"

"Don't the driver supply the car?"

"You think I'm gonna drive mine? No, the way it's done, the hitter supplies the car. Otherwise it doubles the risk for the driver. First, for boosting a car, and second, I could go down as an accessory. No, I'm sorry, I can't help you."