The Pressure of Darkness (10 page)

Burke shook his head. He walked south, toward the drably painted airport coffee shop. Over his shoulder: "When you're finished, we need to figure how you're covering the vig. So come join me for lunch."

Behind him, the retching grew louder.

Outside the next building, Burke dropped fifty cents into the vending machine for the
Daily News
, the San Fernando Valley's local paper. He slipped it under his arm and walked inside. The coffee shop had red plastic booths that squeaked. It also featured a busty waitress named Terri with teased blonde hair. Terri generally wore a short skirt and a see-through blouse, but at her age should have known better. Burke ordered a plain hamburger patty with no bun, fruit instead of fries, and a Diet Coke. He ignored Terri's flaccid attempts to flirt, flipped to the editorial section of the paper and then scanned the classifieds for something interesting.

"Is that how they contact you?"

Burke looked up, startled. He instinctively covered the paper with both hands. "What?"

Father Benny sat down heavily, grabbed Burke's ice water and downed it in three gulps. "Sorry, Jack. I've noticed that you always buy the same paper when you come here and always open it to the classifieds. Since I know you don't date, I thought maybe that's how they . . ."

Terri hovered to refill the glass. With the priest present, she was less blatantly seductive. "Can I get you something, Father?"

Benny nodded vigorously. "A club soda, dear. No, make that two."

Burke waited until the waitress was out of earshot. He glared at Benny, and the priest flinched. "There is no 'they,' Benny, especially not where someone else might hear us. Do you understand?"

"I just remembered that you're still on call for the government. That fellow Cary Ryan hires you sometimes—he's such a nice kid for a lapsed Catholic—and I thought maybe . . ." The look Burke gave him was withering. Benny fell silent. "Sorry."

He seemed so small, so puppy dog pathetic. Burke couldn't stay angry. "I'm confessing here, okay? So this stays between us. It's a simple system that uses different numbered letters in different messages each week. I don't see my code name, I don't call in."

"You haven't had to for a while, have you?"

"I haven't wanted to."

The plain hamburger patty arrived. Father Benny glanced at the food, cringed a bit and looked out the window. He followed an antique Piper Cub as it came in for a landing, engine grumbling like a nest of hornets trapped in an oil drum.

Burke ate efficiently, chewed methodically. He seldom took pleasure in eating. Father Benny rested his fingers on the plastic table, waiting. Finally Burke looked up. "You're two weeks late on the interest, Benny. You know what that means, right?"

Benny wiped his brow. A writhing twitch appeared under his right eye. "You got to hurt me a little, Jack. I understand."

Burke finished his patty and a few bites of the tomato. He sipped at his drink to let the small, chubby man worry for a bit. "I'll cover it. Again."

Benny frowned. "I don't want you to, Jack. Really."

"I'll cover it for another week, but that's it. You have got to come through with the two hundred next time, or I'll have to start telling the man."

Benny stuck out his chins. "I insist, Jack. If you need to break a couple of fingers or something, I'll say I caught them in the cockpit door."

Burke smiled, involuntarily. "Benny, you have no idea what you're talking about, do you? Trust me, that's the kind of pain you don't ever forget. It's not like the movies. So don't be an asshole." Benny eyed him disapprovingly and Burke finally grunted: "Excuse me, Lord."

Benny laughed then went solemn. "Do you have to do bad things to people very often?"

Burke sighed. "Most folks are smart enough to pay on time. Some of the rest, a threat or some property damage gets it done. Once in a while it gets rough. So far, I haven't had to hurt a civilian." Benny did not understand the reference. Burke continued. "That is someone who isn't a player, or a con, or muscle for somebody. If it gets rough, it's usually because the other guy is dirty anyway, so I don't mind all that much."

"And the money is good?"

"The money is very good."

Benny lowered his voice, at once gently familial and professionally concerned. "How is she doing these days?"

A ragged growling noise dialed up from just outside. The next plane distracted Benny and he watched it come in, wings wagging too much, brakes squealing like an amateur wrestled the stick. When he looked back he realized Burke had gone somewhere agonizing, that his question likely prompted the journey. "I'm sorry . . ."

"She's . . . the same," Burke said, finally. He faced down at the tablecloth. His voice was thick and held the faint, cloying whine of a wounded animal. "She's . . . sick. I visit whenever I can and we talk, but . . . I don't know how much longer I can go on."

Father Benny was rarely at a loss for words, but this time remained silent for a stretched moment. His mild eyes reddened. "I'm praying for you both."

Burke became angry at someone or something, but the dark look was quickly replaced by one of resignation. "I know you are, Benny. Thanks."

Benny examined the cracked plastic seat then got busy twirling a straw in his club soda. Grateful, Burke used the dead space to compose himself. Finally he finished his meal and moved the newspaper to one side.

"Benny?"

"Jack?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why the hell do you do it?"

Benny was clearly flustered. "Well, I know I'm no gambler, but the center needs money for everything from a new television set to a washing machine for the boys. I never get enough money for the parish . . ."

Burke cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Not that. I mean the flying. It's expensive, time consuming, kind of dangerous. Not to mention it flat-out scares the crap out of you."

Benny slumped. The question was legitimate. He wanted to supply a meaningful response. Jack Burke was a man he'd known for years, someone who had done him many favors. After a long pause, he squinted into the fading afternoon sunlight. "Jack, do you have faith?"

"Probably not," Burke replied, heavily. "It depends on what you mean by that. If you mean spiritual faith, the answer is sometimes yes and sometimes no."

"Exactly."

"Exactly what, Benny?"

Father Bennedetto spread his hands wide in an unmistakably Italian expression of enthusiasm. "So I began to ask myself, what if anything could strengthen my faith. Sustain it through what clerics call the 'long, dark night of the soul,' for example, the pressure of darkness. And I hit upon flying as a way to accomplish that."

"How so?"

"Because it scares me!" Benny chuckled and rolled his eyes, as if to say how obvious could a thing be? "And every time I took a flying lesson, logged some hours, the very moment I signed the papers to apply for my pilot's license, I was testing my faith and making it stronger." He leaned forward, elbows striking the table. Silverware clanged and slid sideways. "Have I told you how much I despise that rental helicopter outside, for example? That bucket of bolts, that twirling death trap?"

Burke was enjoying the performance. "But you qualified to fly it last month, right? Did you hurl during or after?"

"After, of course. And more than once."

"Then why?"

Benny scratched his chin thoughtfully. "A shrink named Victor Frankle once hypothesized that man needed three things to endure the vagaries of existence. They were meaning, purpose and value. I would add one additional thing to that recipe, and the word would be commitment."

"Not faith?"

"That's just another way of saying faith. And if I am committed to facing down my fears, if I remain resolute in my attempts to defy the darkness, it follows that then I should be most likely to feel fully alive, more alive than the others."

"While vomiting into the grass a few yards from your rented aircraft?"

"Precisely."

They shared a deep round of laughter that demonstrated both a keen empathy and the acceptance of differences. "Jack, I'll get you the money at the first of the week. Thanks for covering me again."

"Benny, you need to quit. You're not cut out for it."

"Hey, who thought the Rams could make a comeback like that this late in the season? I mean, damn! Excuse me, Lord."

Burke folded the newspaper into odd shapes, his mind wandering. He did not see the expression of concern carved into Father Benny's face that was both profound and pure. "Jack, you look so tired."

"I feel tired."

"Maybe you need a vacation."

"The medical expenses, remember?"

"Perhaps a week or so, if only to catch up on your sleep."

Jack Burke stared out at the sunset. The dark indentations beneath his reddened eyes seemed like the artful smudge marks worn by a younger man in a faraway war. He grunted, slid out of the red plastic booth. "I sleep, Father. Just not when I want to."

He reached down, grabbed one of the priest's fingers and bent it back slightly. Father Benny jumped. Burke released the digit, patted the hand.

"And Father?"

Wide-eyed. "Yes?"

"Stop gambling."

ELEVEN

"Where do they have him?"

"He is in the basement beneath the stables, as you requested, Buey."

"Have you softened him up?"

"Old Ortega has gone on at great length about what is to be done to him this morning,
Jefe
. I believe he is very motivated to share what he knows."

"One hopes. Help me with my boots, Ernesto."

"Certainly, Buey."

"Ouch, be careful! You have pinched my toes."

"Forgive me."

"Help me up."

"Yes."

"Let us go. It is a fine morning, no? That pair of starlings have once again nested just above the front door, near the warmth of the light."

"Again?"

"I think they like our humble home, Ernesto. I look forward to hearing the sounds the babies make when they beg to be fed."

"You have a softness of the heart which I find appealing, Buey."

"And you, my friend, are a romantic."

"Do you wish to ride today?"

"Yes, once we are done with the traitor below, I should like to ride. It is a wonderful way to clear the mind. Have them saddle the black."

"Consider it done."

"Perhaps you should come with me today. We could pack some wine and cheese and have our own special picnic."

"I would be honored,
Jefe
."

"Here we are. Where is the damned light switch?"

"Allow me, Buey. Would you like me to assist you down the stairs?"

"Yes, my knee is a bit sore this morning. So, Ortega. And how is our handsome young thief this morning? I see you have already gagged him. Did you perhaps start without us?"

"I was just telling the traitor some of the things you have ordered done to others of his kind and what he might expect today. He began to babble in a most unseemly manner, so I thought perhaps it would best to quiet him down a bit before your arrival."

"How thoughtful! Ernesto, do you not agree that this was very thoughtful?"

"I do. Uh . . . perhaps I should go prepare the lunch and the horses?"

"Why, Ernesto. If I did not know better I would assume you to be squeamish, eh, Ortega?
Ha!
That was my little joke."

"Buey, must I stay? You know these . . . events disturb me."

"And you feel faint at the sight of blood."

"
Jefe,
look at the young man kick and try to beg for mercy. And look, the very thought of the punishments to come has caused him to wet his pants."

"Perhaps you are two of a kind, Ernesto?"

"Buey! Please! I would never betray you!"

"Do not be silly, I know that, my darling one. I meant that our brave young thief has no stomach for the very thought of torture. He was courageous enough to steal cocaine from me, but is apparently not strong enough to sit in a chair and picture what is to come."

"I see."

"Yes, the mind is very powerful. Imagination can be a dangerous thing, do you not agree? The gringo Mark Twain once wrote, 'I am an old man who has survived many catastrophes, most of which never happened.' He had such a wonderful wit, Mr. Twain."

"I must read him someday."

"Yes, you must."

"
Jefe
. . . ?"

"Yes, Ortega, what is it?"

"Would you like me to begin now, perhaps with the fingernails?"

"Why look at the boy, Ortega. He is still trying to speak to me. Should we allow that, or wait until he has been . . . prepared a bit?"

"I await your order,
Jefe
."

"Ernesto?"

"I have no heart for this, Buey. You know that. I would let him speak. Perhaps there will be no need for the rest."

"Ortega, let me closer. I want to whisper to our young man. That's good, thank you. Now hear me, Rudy. I will only say this once. You will be tortured, do you understand? Talking will not save you from your punishment. But if you tell me everything, that is who helped you and where my drugs are and what you did with the money, I will have Ortega move rapidly to bring your life to a close, perhaps within hours. If you do not speak, I am prepared for this to take days, even weeks. Do we understand each other?"

"Should I remove the gag, Buey?"

"Yes, Ortega. Let him speak."

"PLEASE, BUEY, do not do this thing! I swear it was not my idea and I will tell you everything I know. Just allow me my life,
por favor
!"

"Now, now. Calm yourself. Show
machismo
for a change. Who put you up to stealing from me?"

"Garcia, it was Garcia."

"I see, and how much did he pay you?"

"Twenty thousand U.S. dollars, Buey. My sister is sick and I needed the money and I know I should have asked for a loan but I was afraid and he made it sound so easy that I . . ."

"Hush, or I will have the gag replaced."

"Please, I will be still, I am so frightened . . ."