by D Keith Mano
“ Who killed her? And Rita and Tanya and Bubbles?”
“ I dimno—uh. U h.”
And a light went on.
The Gaucho was standing just inside Bert’s door. He had a
gun in his hand. It frisked me. The barrel snout went from my
groin, across my stomach and heart, to my skull.
“ Hey, Mike. W hat’s this bad behavior, huh? You kicked shit
outa my man here.”
“ Put the gun down and I ’ll kick shit out of you, to o .”
“ We never got off on the right foot. I give you money. I
promise you help. I ’m a gentleman ten times over. And still you
got this big boner for me. W hat’s the problem, amigo? I do my
thing, you do your thing. Why can’t you show respect?”
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“ Show respect? Like blowing my car to bits while I was in
it?”
“ That, for me—believe what I say—for me that was a practical joke. You should laugh at a practical joke. ”
“ I don’t laugh.”
“ Mike, listen. This is big business I ’m in. I got people on
the payroll, I got mouths t’feed. Get up, Leonard, you big faggot.” Leonard started to rise. His face was huge, fat and red—
except where the bridgework had been. That part of his face had
collapsed. “ We’re gonna go now. Gotta get my man here fixed
up.”
“ You had them killed, didn’t you?”
“ Mike, man, I ’m not like that. You got me wrong. I don’t
kill women and I don’t kill priests. Lucky for you. Even the cops
don’t think I did it. ”
“ It had t’be you. Who else? For God’s sake, who else?”
‘ ‘What about you, Mike? Look what you did here. Look what
you did t’Leonard. You’re a very angry man. You’d kill your
own mother, I think.”
SUNDAY, JULY 31
And how, you might ask, was my spiritual life in those days?
Furtive is a good word. Deceitful is even better. My prayers—I
continued to pray almost out of spite—were rather petulant in
fact. Part of me was punishing God. Part of me was frightened
almost to inertia. You understand that a priestly vocation brings
with it habits, good and bad, that are comfortable. I had lost
those bearings. I missed, most of all, the repressive standards,
the Thou-shalt-nots. A vista of freedom—the kind that any
Christian layman knows—opened in front of me. It was nauseating. Too damn possible. I developed a spiritual agoraphobia.
I think that’s why I came to make my home, perversely, in The
Car. I didn’t join the devil. I claimed sanctuary with him, so to
speak.
Most of the time, mind you, certainly from Berry’s murder
forward, I expected to die momentarily. My bones felt fragile.
My stomach ate itself. I knew, of course, that I wasn’t that bad—
I wasn’t Dr. Mengele or Stalin, whoever. But my sinfulness was
dramatic enough: it seemed to be pointing out, emphasizing,
some natural law. My lost vocation and my troubled sexuality
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and the murders and The Car seemed all one continuous phenomenon. And, to some degree, in retrospect, you could say they were.
I suppose—I had long supposed—that my sexuality and my
spirituality were conjoined. That I prayed from the groin, so to
speak. This is true, in a fashion, of all people. Biological life-
energy foments even the so-called higher self. But, with me,
that paradox was accelerated. After all, I had been driven to the
priesthood, rightly or wrongly, by an act of sexual excess. But
sublimation is a tricky business. And lust, like water in a leaky
basement, will find its way through, never mind how well
patched the surface may be. There were transformations taking
place. No matter how decent my intentions might once have
been, the mixture of holy and profane had become volatile. It
excited all the molecules around me.
I was subject to unsavory dreams. Most often, in some guise,
I found myself confronted by the Saviour’s nakedness—the sensuality one resists in some of the lusher old paintings of the Crucifixion. Jesus The Man: before Whom, most often, we avert
our eyes. These were intertwined with dream memories of my
own father’s nakedness—I had seen him stripped once and the
child-me was fascinated by his genital size. Most of all, I guess,
I wanted to denude myself—of the lies and justifications and the
endless, repetitive layers of motive and countermotive. I wanted
to be, well, made bare. Instead, I dreamed that the Virgin Mary
was on stage auditioning for me. It was too horrid. I awoke.
And awoke. And awoke.
Plunk was celebrating on July 31st at a church in Rego Park—
I had ascertained that much even before Joe told me about Manning’s suicide. By then, I presume, deprived of any Christian environment, I was trying to endow Plunk with the authority
and personhood of THE CHURCH. It was an honor, I ’m sure,
that he would far rather have been spared. But I had no confessor. And I wanted my perilous spiritual condition to be lifted from the abstract and made real. I wanted it on the record, one
might say.
Plunk, I must admit, wasn’t pleased to see me at the altar
rail. He recoiled—I had jarred him out of a mellow meditational
haze and that’s always annoying. Plunk probably saw or smelled
my confusion at once. He didn’t want to mess with it on a hot
Sunday morning. But afterward, out of professional civility or
something; he gave me an audience.
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“ Get in my car. You’ve got ten minutes. You’re not gonna
screw up my golf game, too.”
Plunk had a BMW, and he was an appalling driver. Worse,
he had Grand Prix pretensions. He triple-shifted, got himself in
the wrong gears with great flair, and even went through a red
light. In retrospect, I suppose, he might’ve been apprehensive
about what I was going to lay on him. I said,
“ I apologize for the trouble I ’ve caused you. I lied. I used
the pulpit you so kindly afforded me t’work out my own personal
drama. I embarrassed—”
“ Oh, shut up,” Plunk said. “ First of all you—you could
never embarrass me. Nor am I even surprised. A priest in a
topless bar—you’re nothing more than the absurd but logical
result of my church’s outreach to permissiveness and extremism.
In fact, I ’ve been expecting someone like you for some tim e.”
He downshifted. “ What will you do now?”
“ Do?”
“ Will you continue working in the fleshpots?”
“ Yes. For a while. My thinking is—I hope it isn’t just a rationalization—I think the thing hasta be finished. I have t’get to the end of it.”
“ Maybe.”
“ It’s been hell. I ’m not enjoying myself. But I ’m hoping
t’find a meaning somewhere. Perhaps when the murderer is
caught—”
“ You aren’t that murderer, I take it.”
“ No. Except as we all are.”
“ What happened to your knuckles?”
“ I beat someone up last night.”
“ Oh. The seminaries really turn them out these days.” He
accelerated to 50 mph in a school zone.
“ I wanted t’talk about Augustus Manning.”
“ Don’t,” he said. “ You know nothing about Gus on the one
hand. On the other you know more than I care t ’hear. I can do
this much for you at least—I can absolve you of all blame in that
matter. Gus was looking t’find an occasion for death. A moment. You needn’t flatter yourself. You were the setting, not the cause.”
“ Good. I ’m glad of that.”
“ I understand that Gus approached you. I understand that he
felt your case was a political opportunity. That you still had a
place in the clergy here. I don’t share that view—I want you
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t’know that. I think we’re all lucky t ’be well shet of you, as my
West Virginia relatives would say.”
“ Thanks. I didn’t wanna be St. Joan fighting for Episcopal
nudity. ’ ’
“ We are a troubled church.” He sighed. “ I think—I hope—
you’re under the Diocese of Omaha still. Let Bishop Watts cope
with it. That’ll ruin his lunch.”
“ Okay.”
“ Look—I have no measure of your sincerity—”
“ I ’m not fully repentant yet, if that’s what you mean. I ’m
feeling sorry for myself—”
“ Yes, well. What I mean t ’say is—I mean t ’say that it’s possible, not likely but possible, that you will be a better man for this. A better Christian. But it will take enormous alertness on
your part. You must never drop your guard again. You’ve pushed
it to the edge. God can and will forgive anything—but there
comes a time when the soul itself closes off. Keep open. Keep
open, that is, unless you’re an utter con man and wasting my
afternoon.”
“ I ’m shaky. I don’t know how much strength I have. My faith
is in jeopardy. I can feel it. ”
“ Take notes,” he said. “ Just in case the Lord, Whose wisdom is beyond me, provides some useful occupation for you.”
“ I ’m writing it out.”
“ Well, what else can I do for you?”
“ I—” I thought for a moment. “ Would it be presumptuous
if I asked for your blessing?”
‘ ‘It certainly would be. In a year maybe. Come by in a year. ’ ’
“ I w ill.”
“ I ’m gonna have a wicked slice off the tee all day, I know it.
I ’ll forget t ’keep my head dow n.”
“ I ’m sorry,” I said.
“ I ’m responsible for my own golf swing, thank you. Don’t
take too many burdens on yourself. ’ ’
“ Pray for m e,” I said.
“ That’s what I do for a living,” Plunk said. “ And a lot of
thanks I get. ’ ’
We continued to pull them in—even on a Sunday night.
Average-looking dancers were taking down $350 a gig. Connie
pleaded with me for just one set—she was working behind the
bar—and made $125 in a half hour. We had installed a red velvet
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rope outside: and there were lines from 7 p.m. to at least 2 or 3
a.m. I couldn’t keep my shelves stocked. For the first time in
Smoking Car history—as a favor to Norm, who had invited three
movie producers over—we had to reserve a table.
I had borrowed a king-size sleeping bag from Bert. My apartment was still being staked out. And, after my experience with Leonard and the Gaucho, I knew that Bert’s address was in the
public domain as well. I felt badly about that (Leonard had bled
on some valuable first-edition Trek fanzines). And, anyhow, I
belonged at The Car. I was waiting the demon out.
Weintraub came by, poked a finger at my sternum, told me
to “ shaddap” and left. Carol Carter of ABC News gave me a
copy of her book, Witness to New York: “ For Mike, with love.
I hope we work together some day. ’ ’ Lars-Erik did an oil portrait
of me: it sold for $600. Around midnight Colavecchia and Daniels stopped off.
“ Went t’see Leonard,” said Daniels. He looked at my fists.
“ Leonard tells us you’re the one who turned him into street
pizza. What a mess. Leonard says you’re definitely a homicidal
type.”
“ He was trespassing.”
“ Aren’t you supposta fotgive trespassers?”
“ I sinned, I ’m sorry. When’re you guys gonna produce the
murderer?”
“ When you confess.”
“ Confession isn’t required in the Episcopal church.”
“ Mike,” said Colavecchia, “ you can tell Weintraub—we’ll
probably arrest you Wednesday or Thursday. We’ve broken your
girlfriend’s flimsy alibi. We’ve got someone who says Kay Lyons
was someplace else. We might arrest Ms. Lyons, too—if you
make things difficult.”
“ Do your worst,” I said. I felt they were bluffing, but I was
uneasy, nonetheless. Kay was vulnerable: guilty, in fact. She
had committed peijury. These men, I knew, didn’t have much
sense of humor left.
“ Your other girlfriend—Ottomanelli, remember her? The
Gaucho says, for a line of coke she used t’let him fuck her up
the ass. For a priest you have nice friends.”
“ Mike,” said Colavecchia, “ you do drugs?”
“ No,” I said.
“ Maybe you better start.”
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At 4:30 a.m ., I let Bert and Connie out. Then I checked the
kitchen, each men’s room stall and the damned women’s room.
Empty. I spread Bert’s sleeping bag on the stage. Then I went
behind the bar and made myself a stiff Tom Collins. I was so
tired I had pins and needles in my feet. Probably I was forgetting
to breathe. I sat for about ten minutes on a bar stool, letting the
alcohol take effect.
Someone began knocking on the front door.
I ignored it: we were often subjected to harassment of one
kind or another.
Then a female voice called out. It was Kay.
“ Good m orning,” she said when I let her in. “ I brought you
some sustenance.” Kay had bagels and cream cheese and,
though it was moonlit outside, she wore a light plastic raincoat.
I brought her some white wine. We sat together at a table near
the stage. Kay seemed, not nervous, but nerved—small talk and
superfluous gestures. I guessed that the past week had gotten to
her. It had gotten to me.
“ Kay,” I said, after a moment, “ Colavecchia and Daniels
were in tonight. They’re gonna maybe arrest me sometime this
week.”
“ They can’t—”
“ Wait. That’s the good news. They said—I don’t believe
them—but they said you might be arrested, too. Apparently
they’ve got a witness. Someone who says you weren’t at my
apartment the night Berry died.”
“ Who?” Kay asked: panic tightened her pupils.
‘ ‘I don’t know. ’ ’
“ One of the kids? But they’re too young.”
“ Kay—I ’m sick about this. I do so regret getting you involved
in it.” But she was distant: thoughtful. “ Are you all right?”
“ W ell,” she said after a mom
ent. “ If they’re gonna arrest
me, there’s no time t’waste. Is there?”
“ How d ’you mean?”
“ O h,” said Kay with a coy hand-flip. “ It’s time I gave you
a present.”
Kay got up and, as if in a trance, walked over to the jukebox.
She had heels on: that surprised me. I noticed it because her
gait seemed self-conscious. She was sending different call letters out. Then Kay pressed several buttons on the machine and turned to me.
“ Make the disco lights go on,” she said.
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‘ ‘I just turned them off, ’ ’ I said. “ I ’m tired of loud music and
glare.”
“ Make the lights go on,” she said.
I went behind the bar and flicked the main switch. Tina TUmer
was singing—she wanted to be my private dancer. It’s a song
that can make drunken topless girls cry. Then I looked up.
Kay was on stage. She waited for a certain musical rhythm,
as a surfer might wait for a wave. Her head was down: her hands
were buried in her long blond hair. She had taken off the raincoat—she wore a T-shirt and a black Apache dancer’s skirt. Her skin was very white. I wanted to stop her. It wasn’t necessary,
it was the thing I needed least just then. Or so I thought. But
you do not reject such gifts of love.
Kay.
She didn’t move badly. But she wasn’t there yet. She was
dancing inside herself. Her eyes did not engage mine. Yet she,
we both understood it, Kay was auditioning for me. And part
of me, the auctioneer, judged her as flesh. Kay’s legs were wonderful, a hit heavy in the thigh, where heaviness is prized, and very long. There was a lovely definition line from sternum to
navel. And, as she lifted the T-shirt off, I saw the upthrust of
her breasts.
You must understand, to appreciate her courage, that we did
not really know each other naked. Our love-making, such as it
was, had been done in dark or narrow places. I had never seen
her upright and nude. I didn’t know the special slung sweetness
of her breasts: the perfect U’s they made. She had an outrageous
red silk burlesque bra on. Her nipples—so pink they were
white—crushed themselves like children’s noses against a store
window. I wanted her.
But still, even after the Apache skirt dropped, she hadn’t acknowledged me, her audience. Kay wasn’t ready to get that naked yet. She wore a high-cut black G-string, with gold lettering on it. And there was a birthmark—in the shape of an hourglass—above her left buttock. I stepped forward. I was at the foot of the stage. Kay danced, as if trying to drive her inner self
