Galileo

by Ann McMan

  “They change the laws.” Julia shrugged. “Call an environmental menace a ‘classic,’ and presto: it becomes exempt from all compliance with clean air regulations.”

  “You ought to be in Congress.”

  “No thank you. Talk about T-shirts I never want to wear again.”

  Dan slowly backed down Evan’s driveway. It wasn’t much of a trip. The car was already a third of the way out before he engaged the gears.

  Evan and Julia stayed in the yard and watched the big hunk of silver steel crawl along Ring Road like an armadillo. When it disappeared over a hill, Julia turned to Evan.

  “What, exactly, is this job you and Ben Rush are doing tomorrow?”

  “You really don’t want to know.” Evan said.

  “Is it dangerous?”

  Evan thought about how to answer. “Not if we don’t get caught.”

  “Evan . . .”

  “Honey? Let’s not go there, okay?”

  Julia folded her arms. “I agree with you. Let’s not. I watched you tonight. You tried to hide it, but I saw how much your shoulder was hurting. You could barely pick up that scrub bucket Stevie and Tim left on the porch.”

  “That was my fault. I grabbed it with the wrong hand.” After she said the words, Evan realized what a mistake she’d made. Julia didn’t miss a trick.

  “See? I rest my case.”

  Me and my big mouth . . .

  “Baby, come on. I’ll take some Tylenol and it’ll be fine.”

  “You’re not taking Tylenol,” Julia corrected her. “You’ve been drinking.”

  “Okay then, I’ll take some Advil.”

  “You’re probably destroying your liver.”

  That comment surprised Evan. “I haven’t been drinking that much.”

  “Not the wine. The analgesics. You pop them like Tic Tacs. It needs to stop. We both know there’s a remedy for this. You’re just too scared or too stubborn to take care of it.”

  “I promised you I would,” Evan insisted.

  “When?”

  “When did I promise?”

  “No.” Julia said with trace of exasperation. “When are you going to take care of it?”

  “After Christmas?”

  Julia seemed to consider that offer.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll stop haranguing you under one condition.”

  “And that is?”

  “You make an actual appointment for the surgery. No arguments. At this rate, you’ll be lucky to get a date within the next six months.”

  Evan beamed at her.

  She loved it when a plan came together . . .

  Chapter Nine

  “Shaken On Camac” was Mark Atwood’s personal gold mine. The upscale bar and private club was located on a quiet, cobblestone side street in Philly’s Gayborhood. Mark had opened the club six years ago, and it didn’t take long for the place to stake out a top-five listing on websites like Yelp and TravelGay.

  Tim was surprised at how willing Mark was to meet with him. He didn’t even ask what Tim wanted to talk with him about.

  “Sure,” he said. “It’d be great to see you. Why don’t you come by on Sunday evening? We open at five, and there’s not much of a crowd until after eight. We should be able to talk without too much interruption.”

  Tim wondered if maybe he wasn’t the first guy from the old team to reach out to Mark for the same reason. After what had happened with Joey, he wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

  He figured the conversation with Mark would be binary: he’d either be open to discussing the time with Father Szymanski, or he wouldn’t. Tim recalled that Mark had been one of the coterie of boys who palled around pretty regularly with team captain, Brian Christensen. By itself, that fact didn’t mean anything. But Tim had more than an inkling that Mark had been one of the priest’s “favorites.” That had been remarkable, in part, because Mark was small in stature and not that accomplished as a player. He’d always been more of a team mascot than anything. From the outset, all the guys knew Mark was gay. But Father Szymanski always had a zero-tolerance policy for any razzing or name-calling.

  Tim fervently hoped Mark had escaped any of the abuse boys like Joey had endured—but he kind of doubted it. Still, he knew he’d need to tread carefully and not go too far with his queries if Mark showed any signs of furtiveness or distance from the topic.

  Thoughts about what happened to Joey would likely haunt him for the rest of his life.

  After Mass, he made another condolence visit to Mrs. Mazzetta, and sat with her for more than an hour. She wanted her son to have a Catholic funeral, and Tim consented to do the service. It was the least he could do. Joey’s faith might have lapsed, but at the tragic end of his too-short life, he’d been determined to speak out and make things right. Tim wanted to honor that—for Joey and for his grieving mother.

  Tim’s second call to request a meeting date with Brian Christensen didn’t go as smoothly as his first conversation with Mark Atwood.

  “Why?” Brian asked him, without preamble.

  Tim was nonplussed, but concocted a response he hoped sounded reasonable. He didn’t want to go into everything in a phone call.

  “I’m reaching out to a few of the guys from the team. It’s been a long time, and I thought it would be nice to reconnect.” He left it at that.

  “You’re a priest now, right? At St. Rita’s?”

  “Yes,” Tim said. “I never strayed too far from home base.”

  “Okay. Sure,” Brian said. “When do you wanna connect? I’m in Gloucester City now.”

  “I know. I heard you have a pretty successful car dealership there.”

  “I do okay,” Brian said. “You in the market for something different?”

  Yeah, but I won’t find it on a car lot,Tim thought.

  “I wish. This is just a social call.”

  “Too bad.” It sounded like Brian was in his car, driving someplace. Tim could hear a car horn and some other traffic noises. “I sometimes do bookwork at the dealership on Sunday afternoons. Do you wanna come over and meet me there this weekend? Maybe I can tempt you with a new ride?”

  “You never know.” Tim knew that leading Brian on, even in this offhand way, was dishonest, but he did it anyway. “What’s a good time?”

  “Any time after noon. How about 1:30? Does that give you time to get over here after Mass?”

  “That should be just fine. Thanks for being willing to get together.”

  “Do you need directions?” Brian asked. “It’s just off the Whitman Bridge on Black Horse Pike. Crescent Chevrolet.”

  “Great. I’ll use GPS.”

  “Okay. See you on Sunday. Hey,” Brian added. “Bring your title and insurance papers with you. Like you said, you never know. Right?”

  “Right,” Tim said, without much conviction.

  There were a ton of things Tim had no clue about, but buying a new car wasn’t one of them.

  But there he was anyway, pulling into the big lot full of shiny new and “gently used” cars at Brian’s dealership. Tim noticed that all of the recent snow had been cleared from the lot. That wasn’t unusual. They would either dump it on some vacant lot or put it in the river.

  His visit with Brian was early enough in the afternoon that he’d have plenty of time to get to Mark’s club by five, when the place opened. Depending on how long his talk with Brian lasted, he might even have a couple of hours to kill before heading to the Gayborhood.

  Maybe he could stop by Twisted Tail and get a WhistlePig? After this visit, he’d probably need one.

  Brian must’ve seen him drive up and park. He walked out of the big, plate-glass enclosed showroom to greet him.

  Tim recognized him right away. He looked exactly like an older version of his younger self—still blond, still trim, still . . . slick. Just like the salesman he’d always been. He was chewing gum, too. That hadn’t changed, either.

  Tim climbed out of his embarrassingly beat-up Subaru to greet him. He cursed
himself for not even stopping at Sheetz on his way over to run the damn thing through a car wash.

  He’d chosen to wear his collar today. He thought it might add some gravitas to their conversation.

  “Hi there, Brian.” Tim extended his hand. “It’s good to see you after so many years.”

  Brian shook hands with him. Tim was surprised that his handshake was so . . . lame. He thought that seemed odd for a car salesman.

  “How’ve you been?” Tim asked.

  Brian indicated the impressive inventory of cars and trucks on his lot. “Great, as you can see.”

  Tim always found it remarkable when people equated how they were with what they did.

  “Are the wife and kids doing well?” Tim asked.

  “Fine.” Brian didn’t elaborate. “Normally, I have the kids on Sundays, but they’re in Florida this week with their mom. Disney World.”

  “School out for the holidays?” Tim asked.

  “Yeah. It seems to get earlier every year.” Brian led them toward the showroom. “Let’s go inside and sit down. It’s freezing out here. We can look at cars later, if you’re game.”

  “Sure.” Tim followed him inside, past a haphazard array of brilliantly colored muscle cars. Most of them had their hoods up to show off their impressive engines. He tried to avoid looking at the sticker prices. He knew the information would just depress him. There were “no money down” and “bad credit, no problem” posters all over the place.

  That depressed him, too.

  He resolved to give his Subaru a bath on the way back to town.

  Brian ushered Tim into a glass-walled office. It had a couple of shelves lined with trophies. Most of them commemorated sales milestones, but some of them recognized victories by athletic teams. Softball. Soccer. Lacrosse. There were a couple of plaques with Big Ten logos on them, too. He didn’t see any basketball trophies.

  “These are impressive.” Tim pointed them out. “Does your dealership sponsor all these teams?”

  “Yeah.” Brian took a seat behind his big desk. “We do patronage for a quite a few of the Rutgers teams.”

  “That’s a great thing to do for the community.”

  “It’s good for business, too.” He gestured at a leather chair that looked like it had been taken out of a car. It had “Camaro” stamped in cursive writing on its headrest. “Have a seat.”

  Tim sat down. The chair was surprisingly comfortable. He ran his hands over the soft leather on the armrests. It was a saddle brown color, and had bright orange stitching.

  “Like that?” Brian asked. “It’s an exact replica of the seats in that car right there.” He pointed at one of the flashy cars they’d walked past en route to his office. It was electric blue in color.

  “It’s pretty . . . plush,” Tim observed. “I’d be afraid I’d fall asleep if I tried to drive sitting in one of these.”

  “Yeah,” Brian said. “They’re pretty sweet.”

  Brian had some framed photos on a credenza behind his desk. They were mostly pictures of him, posing with beefy, uniformed athletes or buxom, pretty girls holding Crescent Chevrolet banners. Tim didn’t see any photos of younger kids who’d be the right age to belong to Brian and his . . . what? Estranged wife? Ex-wife?

  He found that omission sad.

  “So.” Brian cut to the chase. “You came all the way over here to reminisce about the good old days at St. Rita’s?”

  “Kind of,” Tim said. “Mostly.”

  Brian leaned back in his impressive chair. “I figured you’d want to hit me up for some kind of donation. I get those mailings from the parish all the time.”

  Tim nodded sadly. “They are pretty relentless.”

  “You think? I haven’t set foot in that place for at least twenty years.”

  “Why is that?”

  Brian shrugged. “No reason to go back.”

  “You had a lot of friends there, though. All the guys on the team? Father Szymanski?”

  Tim noticed the shift in Brian’s expression. The change was slight, but certain. All of the fine lines around his mouth tightened.

  “We haven’t kept in touch,” he said.

  “That’s too bad. I guess you know Father Szymanski is a bishop now? He left St. Rita’s a few years after you graduated.”

  “Like I said, I don’t keep in touch.” Brian’s tone had changed, too. It was noticeably colder. “Why are you asking me about him?”

  “Who?”

  “Szymanski.”

  Tim didn’t answer his question. “I saw Joey Mazzetta last week,” he said instead.

  Brian got to his feet. “Okay. We’re done here.”

  “Why?” Tim stared up at him.

  “Give me a break. It’s obvious why you’re here. And I’m not talking. Not to you, and not to anybody else—so don’t waste your time.”

  Tim got belatedly to his feet. “I’m sorry I upset you, Brian.”

  “I’m not upset. Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t give a damn about any of that. Not Szymanski. Not any of it. So save your breath.”

  “I’m still sorry.” Tim turned around and left the office.

  He was halfway across the showroom when Brian called out to him.

  “Let me know if you change your mind about a car.”

  Tim kept walking and didn’t look back.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Maya wasn’t surprised when the number for Crescent Chevrolet displayed on the iPhone screen.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Brian Christensen.”

  “So I see. What can I do for you, Brian?”

  “You told me to call if anyone came asking questions about Szymanski,” he said.

  “Yes, I did. Is that why I have the pleasure of hearing from you on this gray Sunday?”

  “Somebody just left here.”

  “Did that somebody have a name?”

  “Tim Donovan. Father Tim Donovan. He’s a priest at St. Rita’s. And he was on the basketball team there when I was. He went to school there, too.”

  “I gathered,” Maya observed. “Is there any other reason I should care about this?”

  “He wanted to talk.”

  “What about?”

  “What the fuck do you think he wanted to talk about?” Brian was losing patience.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe he just stopped by? The Eagles game isn’t on until four.”

  “Yeah . . . nobody ‘stops by’ fucking Gloucester City. He called and asked to meet with me. When he got here, he started asking questions—about Szymanski, and some other guys on the team. He wondered if I knew that Szymanski was a bishop now.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t tell him anything—and I made it clear I wouldn’t. I threw his ass out.”

  “Oh. That’s very smooth, Brian.”

  “What do you mean?” Brian was becoming more agitated. His voice had gone up at least half an octave. “Isn’t that what you said you wanted? Isn’t that what you said you were paying me for?”

  “I don’t recall suggesting you do anything other than call me. But your little exercise of initiative will be certain to create more problems than it solves.”

  “I don’t know why you’d say that.”

  “Don’t you?” Maya tsked. “Allow me to clarify matters. Your ill-advised attempt to manage the situation has probably confirmed, rather than allayed, any suspicions Father Donovan had about your involvement with the regrettable former priest. Careless missteps like this are expensive, Brian.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Brian’s voice was now tinged with alarm.

  “I honestly can’t say what it means . . . for you. I can assure you that my client won’t be happy with this news.”

  “I’m not giving the fucking money back.”

  “There might be other remedies.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  Maya laughed. “Not at all.”

  “Look . . . I kept my mouth shut. I did what
you asked. I won’t say anything about what that bastard did to me or the other guys. I earned this money.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Brian. I’m not your enemy.”

  “So, what am I supposed to do?”

  “Now you want my advice?” She asked. “I don’t know what actual good it will do you. You don’t have the best track record when it comes to following it.”

  “Yes,” he snarled. “I want your goddamn advice.”

  “It’s simple. Stay off the phone.”

  She hung up on him.

  Stupid jock. Now Zucchetto would have a fucking brain hemorrhage and ruin his ridiculous hat.

  This job was growing too many tentacles. It was becoming impossible to wrangle them all.

  She walked over to the desk, opened a browser on her silver laptop, and quickly typed a query into the search field.

  Father Tim Donovan, St. Margherita Parish, Philadelphia.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Evan met Ben at Ping’s apartment so the three of them could discuss logistics for their extracurricular outing later that night. Ben explained that Ping had done a bit of advance work, hacking into the servers at the law firm, and had come up with some useful information that she thought should change their approach to their fact-gathering mission.

  When Evan got there, she was surprised to see Phyllis and Desiree, who had stopped by after church to have lunch with Ping. They were both dressed to the nines. Evan was impressed by how grown-up Desiree looked in makeup and fancy clothes. She was used to seeing her in skinny jeans and loud T-shirts emblazoned with political slogans. Today she just looked . . . chic—like she could be a model in an H&M ad.

  Desiree had turned into quite a looker. Stevie had great taste.

  It bothered her that she felt irrationally pleased about that . . . It was messed up.

  Desiree gave Evan a warm hug. It lasted longer than the friendly hugs they normally exchanged when they saw each other, so Evan suspected that Stevie had wasted no time filling Des in on her accidental “outing” at dinner the other night.

  “It’s so good to see you,” Des gushed. “Stevie said you were doing great.”

  “Did she?” Evan teased. “Well, as you know, that girl is just full of surprises.”