by Paul Bishop
“Bless you, my son,” I say, pontifically, tipping the black porkpie. I’ve always wanted to say that to an older man. It has such a nice ring to it.
Priests have had the brunt of it the last few years, not that they haven’t brought it upon themselves. I hope this ecumenical collar and black suit don’t bring the wrath of God down upon me, or the wrath of the Vincinti family—by the way, I use “family” in the worst sense of the word—whose driveway I’m wandering down carrying nothing more than my thick black briefcase embossed with a cross. A nice touch, if I do say so.
It’s amazing what one can pick up in a pawn shop. I was told by the pawnbroker that the black leather case was formerly owned by a cemetery plot salesman who thought the embossing lent a certain trustworthy ambiance to his efforts. I hope it does so for mine.
The briefcase is the least of the impediments of the outfit. Anyone who’d wear a black suit, black shirt, and white choker collar in August in Louisiana must be a few beads short on his rosary. Maybe that’s what pushed the boys in black over the edge.
Then again, maybe what drove many members of the clergy to violating their vows, and too many of us laymen to equate “priest” with “pedophile,” is this damn plastic-lined collar, tight, stiff, unforgiving, and unrelenting—like I must be for the next half hour, until I can happily get shed of it. Of course, having to swear to celibacy was likely far more responsible. Somehow the plastic choker reminds me of the white flea collar I force upon my ten-pound seal point Siamese, Futa. His is embossed Repels Fleas, mine is figuratively embossed, Repels Mafioso No-Neck Goombahs.
If I’m lucky and everything goes perfectly, it’ll only be a half hour in and out. Twenty minutes is my limit, not that I expect to keep to it. But lofty goals seem appropriate at the moment.
This could be my last half-hour on Earth if I’m not so lucky, and I may face judgment for my terrestrial sins far faster than contemplated.
Thirty minutes could be worth over a quarter million, so the risk is well worth it.
One year and two months ago, one point five million was what the rap of the Los Angeles Superior Court judge’s gavel confirmed as bail for Vinny. And I’m now in the mix for three hundred thousand gross, or twenty-percent, thanks to a half-hour negotiating with my good friend and number one client, L.A. bail bondsman Sol Goldman. My expenses will be in the neighborhood of fifty grand, a major risk for this middle-income bounty hunter. Two planes await me at the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport; one to transport Vinny back to L.A., another to transport me to Nashville, where I’ll connect with a commercial flight to Atlanta—and hopefully, another fat check to be collected from Sol’s partner. It’s common practice for bondsmen to partner up on huge bails.
St. Tammany Parish, where I’ve been for the last two days, is one of the classy areas of southern Louisiana, just north of decadent New Orleans. Moss hanging from giant live oaks, perfectly manicured lawns rolling down to Lake Pontchartrain, where the normal contingency of alligators and water moccasins are forbidden to roam. Not that they pay much attention. Here, the predators and varmints mostly live inside the stately old antebellum mansions.
Particularly in the column-fronted ivy-covered walls of the one I’m approaching at the moment.
Gambling brought a lot of good things to the Mississippi River state, and it also brought a few bad. The Vincinti family being head and shoulders above—or should I say below—that norm.
But I’m only interested in a nephew, Vinny; a bad boy of whom the family must want to be shed. If what Sol Goldman overheard in the hallway outside the courtroom is true, Vinny is lucky that old godfather Vincinti, known to associates as Fat Guido the Hammer, didn’t ventilate Vinny’s three-grand Armani suit right there. It seems Vinny was running his own operation in L.A.; the families are not organizations who encourage individual initiative. Had it not been for Vinny being a blood relative, he’d be wearing concrete boots in the bottom of the lake.
Sol’s been known to exaggerate when he wants me to take a contract.
The front doors are carved from a log large enough to shame California’s redwoods; tall and wide enough so that Shaq-attack could dribble through without ducking or turning sideways. The bell button is half the size of my palm, backlit and surrounded by a sconce that looks to be solid gold. High up under the eaves flanking the door, I hear the hum of a small servo and glance up into the single, bulbous, appraising eye of a video camera. I left my van half a block away, outside the high wrought iron gates of the compound, and I have already been scanned by a least three cameras as well as patted down by an apologetic gate guard. The old secondhand balloon-tire bike, purchased for forty bucks, added to my innocuous appearance. How could a priest on a bicycle be a threat? And I’ve shaved, my cheeks now smooth as a baby’s lower ones.
The bell does a few notes of Beethoven’s Fifth.
Yes, the riverboat gambling biz, a good chunk of the cocaine trade, and the majority of the numbers running in Louisiana’s ghettos have done well by the former New Jersey family.
The door creaks open slowly.
It’s Bela Lugosi, with brooding deep-set ebony eyes flanking a bent avocado nose, only thicker through the shoulders and neck—if you can call an appendage that begins at cauliflower earlobes, bulging with muscle and sloping almost to shoulder point, merely a neck. And speaking of bulges, the bulge under his butler’s jacket is surely a Mac 10 or something that chatters with equal speed and fatality.
He speaks slowly and deliberately in New Jersey-ese as he surveys me slowly from black-felt porkpie to gleaming wingtips. “Good…uh…morning, sir. Are youse…uh… expected?”
“No, my son. However, I’m from St. Joseph’s. There are things regarding the ceremony I must discuss with Mr. Vincinti.”
“Father or…uh…junior?” he asks.
I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion this guy’s not a Rhodes Scholar. Then again, maybe he is—ninety miles of bad road, so a roads’ scholar, where he was run over by a semi several times.
“Vinny Vincinti.” I don’t use his street name, Vinny Slick.
“He’s da nephew.” Hopefully, the tone of voice and look on No-Neck’s face reflects the family’s disdain for Vinny.
“Aww,” I say sagely.
“Do youse…uh…mind, padre?” he asks, reaching out with both hands.
“Mind?” I ask, as if I don’t know what he means.
“I need…uh…to pat youse down. Mr. Vincinti…senior…has had some threats…uh…corporate problems…and we’s careful at da moment.”
“Aww, corporate problems. The gentleman at the gate….”
“Sorry, padre, but it’s da rule.”
I set the briefcase down on the polished marble and turn around; he pats away. He goes all the way to the ankles, not bashful about familiarity, then comes up with the briefcase; snapping it open on an entry side table by the time I get turned around.
“Mr. Vincinti is in the corporate world?” I ask, seemingly clueless. He ignores me while he does a thorough job, running corncob-size fingers through the briefcase.
It’s full of papers, a medium-size Bible, my newly acquired rosary beads, and a can of Off, the mosquito haters’ best friend.
He avoids the Bible as if it would spew out green stuff like a spinning-head Linda Blair in The Exorcist—the reaction I’d hoped for, since I’ve desecrated it by cutting out room for my little Ruger .380. I’ll give a dozen Bibles to the homeless shelter when I’m back home to repent. Rather, he picks up the can of mosquito repellent and eyes it carefully.
“Mosquitoes bother youse?” he asks.
“I’m allergic to the little fellows, God bless them.”
He smiles for the first time, showing a gold tooth. “God’s wrath even for youse.”
“Yes, my son—a small bump in the road of life. If all was roses and robins, we’d have no benchmark by which to judge their beauty.” I like that. Maybe I missed my calling. “So,” speaking of lowlife bugs, I�
��m thinking, “Mr. Vincinti?”
“Youse wait here, padre. Tony,” he shouts into what appears to be a living room.
As he walks down the hall, another no-neck appears and leans against the door jamb. He folds his arms and watches me closely.
“Good morning, my son,” I say.
He nods and continues to glare. I can hear a college football game on the TV in the background. I guess he’s pissed, probably has a C-note on the game. I’ve picked Saturday for my mission as it’s the day the Vincintis are most likely in residence.
I smile and glance at my iPhone, deciding to ignore No-Neck Two. I’m inside, Vinny, hopefully, is on his way, and I’ve only used eleven minutes. God bless.
But the fellow who walks into the hallway down which No-Neck has disappeared is not Vinny Vincinti. He’s much older, much fatter, yet far more ominous.
Guido Vincinti himself.
The good news is, as he approaches, his look is benevolent, and when he comes face to face, I feel like he’s going to bend, take my hand, and kiss my ring.
Jesus, I think as I glance at my hand, I haven’t removed my Marine Corps ring. I guess I can claim I was a chaplain. The M60 I carried sent plenty of Iraqis to heaven—or elsewhere—so I guess I did some priestly good.
“Father…” he says. His fat cheeks and wattled throat quivers as he speaks, but his eyes are penetrating—ice picks poised over your chest.
“MacCarthy. Father MacCarthy, and you’re?”
“Guido Vincinti, father. Where’s Father Pierucci?”
“Preparing for tonight’s mass. He asked me….”
“Of course. Can I offer you a drink, Father?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, which doesn’t surprise me as this man is not accustomed to waiting for approval from anyone. Instead, he turns and heads down the hall.
I snatch up my briefcase and follow.
Before he reaches the end of the hall, he speaks over his shoulder. “You shoot pool, Father?”
“Not as a habit,” I reply, and he looks at me, or into me, with an icy glance. To my surprise, his speech is much more refined than his employees’. This old boy probably was a Rhodes Scholar or, at least, could have been had he not been busy busting kneecaps and plunging ice picks into ear canals.
“Vinny is in what we call the Saloon.”
I too look over my shoulder, to see both no-necks following.
I track Guido into a spacious room with a bar seating a dozen, a pool table, a flat screen TV as big as a picture window, and Vinny Vincinti shooting a game of eight-ball by himself.
The no-necks take up positions flanking the doorway out.
“Vinny,” Guido snaps. “Pay goddamn attention. This is Father…
“McCartney,” I say, then bite my tongue when I realize I’ve suddenly changed my name. Sometimes it doesn’t pay, being a Beatle’s fan.
“I thought you said MacCarthy?” He again poises the proverbial ice pick over my heart.
“McCartney,” I correct convincingly, “Sorry, I bit my tongue and am mumbling a little. Father Ian McCartney.”
He eyes me carefully but turns back to Vinny. “Put down the goddamn stick and come say hello to the Father. He’s here to talk about the wedding.” He turns to me. “Pardon my blaspheme.”
I give him a condemning look, as a priest should. Vinny, concentrating on the four-ball off the cushion into a corner pocket, glances up. Then he goes back to lining up the shot. Guido, with the quickness of a cobra, snatches up the cue ball and shakes it at Vinny, his knuckles so white I think for a moment he’s going to powder it.
His tone is so low I can barely hear him. “You want this up your skinny ass, Vinny?”
Vinny blanches and cuts his eyes down. “Sorry, Uncle Guido.”
“To the Father. Apologize to the Father.”
Vinny sets the pool cue aside, walks over, and demurely extends a hand, glancing at his uncle apologetically as he does so. “Sorry, Father McCartney. I’m pleased to meet you, but I went over all this stuff with Father Pierucci.”
“Just a few more details,” I say.
“A priest as a bloody wedding director.” He laughs and glances at his uncle, whose glare would melt lead.
“Sorry, Unc… I didn’t mean…”
I clear my throat, then my tone is condescending. “The church will have a substantial role, will it not? Even though I understand your vows will be here on the grounds?”
Vinny actually blushes. “Of course, Father. But shouldn’t Angela be here?”
Guido snarls, “Just sit down with the Father and give him what he needs.”
“Yes, sir.” He turns to me. “You want to sit at the bar, Father?”
“That’s fine, my son.”
Guido fits himself behind the bar and pours three glasses half-full of Black Bush, one of the fine Irish Whiskeys. “In honor of you, Father McCartney,” he says, passing a glass to me.
“Are you going to stay, Mr. Vincinti?” I ask.
He shrugs.
So I press it. “Some of this will be very personal, sir. Only between God and Vinny here.”
“And you, of course, Father MacCarthy?” he asks, but I won’t trip up again.
“McCartney,” I say, smiling.
“Sorry, McCartney.”
He turns to Vinny. “I’ll be in my study. Come get me when you’re through. I’d like to walk the Father out to his car.”
“Bicycle,” I correct. “Exercise, you know.”
He smiles and pats his generous stomach. “No, actually, I wouldn’t.” Then he laughs and walks out, waving the two no-necks to follow.
Now I can get on with the business at hand.
We talk for fifteen minutes, going over vows and flowers and more, and I’d presumed right—Vinny is quickly bored and eager to be rid of me, so I stand.
“Thank you for your time, son. I’m sorry to be in a bit of a rush.”
“No problem, Father. Should I call Uncle Guido to walk you out?”
“Don’t bother him, but I’d prefer you did so. We can talk on the way.”
“Fine, let’s go.” He seems eager to send me on my way and not so eager to be reamed by his uncle.
We stroll casually out through the big doors, then to the gate. When passing through, the gate guard leans out of his little gatehouse window and says goodbye with a smile and nod. Vinny is six feet ahead of me, and I lean close to the guard. “Mr. Vincinti wants to see you.”
The man blanches as if he’s in trouble, and in seconds is out his little door and on his way to the house.
“What’s up?” Vinny asks, watching the guard trot away.
“I forgot to give you something,” I say, and walk far enough to the side of the gate where I can’t be seen from the house and prop my briefcase on the seat of my bike.
He comes close, curious. Pulling out the can of bug spray, a label I made myself on my printer and am rather proud of, I hit Vinny between his squinty eyes with a shot of mace.
He yells and goes to his knees. I crack him a good right on the cheekbone, and he goes to his back. Leaving the bike and briefcase, I jerk him to his feet, and with him yelling like a cat with his tail slammed in the door, shove an arm up behind him. We move the fifty yards to my van.
His head is obviously swimming less as we reach the sliding door, so I give him another right hook to the side of his noggin and bounce his head off the van’s doorjamb. I’m trying not to mark him up. He’s goofy again as I shove him hard, and he goes to his back.
Bounty hunters, bail enforcement officers, have eyebolts in the back of their vans, and I cuff his wrist to one and stretch out his ankle to another.
As I fire up my van, nicely remodeled and tricked out with a supercharged 6.2 Hemi, I smile as two guards run through the gate and stand looking up and down the road. I’ve had Alex, my two-hundred-seventy-pound employee, drive it all the way out from L.A.
Then the pair of guards’ searching eyes center on me as the van roars to l
ife.
I’ll be long gone by the time they can get to Guido’s eight-car garage.
I flip a U-turn and burn rubber as I head for the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport. Satchmo is an old favorite of mine. I’ve made arrangements to stow the van in one of those rent-a-garage units, and the pilot of Vinny’s ride should be waiting there with Alex, my helper. After Vinny is checked into the L.A. lockup, Alex will fly back with the pilot and drive my van back to Santa Barbara.
As we near the airport, Vinny yells, “I got two or three grand in my wallet. It’s yours, you turn me loose.”
“Thanks, Vinny. It’s mine anyway if I wanted to be as lowlife a thief as you. Fact is, you’re worth way more to me.”
“You’re going to hell for impersonating a priest.”
“Doubt it, as it’s already crowded with Vincintis. Now shut up. No confession required.”
Split Decision
Eric Beetner
Eric Beetner has noir flowing through his veins instead of blood. He is a modern master of the art form where bad choices lead to worse choices, which lead to things inevitably getting far worse—and far more deadly. I first met Eric on the set of the ABC reality show Take the Money and Run. I was the dubious on-screen talent, while Eric was the genius editor behind the scenes. He was much more important to the success of the series, since all I had to do was show up and look pretty. While filming the first episode, I realized I’d recently read a cool novel, One Too Many Blows To the Head, by some guy named Eric Beetner. Once confronted, Eric confessed to his sins of authorship and a beautiful friendship was born. Since then, Eric has written a baker’s gaggle of novels on the cutting edge of modern noir. He has the knack of making you care deeply about desperate characters facing impossible decisions, forcing you to hold your breath as you turn pages long past your bedtime. Some of the toughest noir novels are set in the world of boxing—Fat City, The Professional, The Leather Pushers. Noir and boxing are perfect matches. Split Decision is Eric’s homage to these boxing noirs, and it punches as hard as any of them.
