The Guardian

by Konvitz, Jeffrey;

  “Yes,” Ben replied. “The story belongs in a detective magazine.”

  Wausau smiled facetiously. “Or in a bill of particulars before a grand jury.”

  Nobody moved. No one said anything for several minutes.

  Then Wausau stood and walked to the door.

  “I want you all to think about what I’ve just said. Especially you, Mr. Burdett! Then we’ll talk again.”

  He smiled, donned his hat, and left.

  18

  The room focused into his field of vision like a time lapse after a dissolve in an old thirties movie. It was small, maybe fifteen feet square, its white ceiling and walls eroded and dotted by swatches of brown. He was lying on an old mattress surrounded by a rusted iron bed frame. The dresser to his right, stationed beneath a cracked, imitation Chippendale mirror, had lost its knobs. In the corner was a chair submerged under dresses, bras, and soiled undergarments. Overhead burned a solitary white bulb. The only window was boarded with slats.

  He wet his lips and tried to place himself. He remembered something…yes, the holocaust in the hall…Franchino falling out the window…the pain…blackness … but nothing else. How had he gotten here? And where was here?

  He pulled himself up on his elbows. The placed reeked of perfume. It nauseated him. He wet his fingertips with saliva and wiped the grit from his eyes. He heard something, someone moving about in another room.

  “You stay right in bed, you hear!”

  The voice was female and heavily inflected.

  “Where am I? Father McGuire called weakly.

  “Where are you?” You’re in a room and in a bed.”

  He pulled the tattered bedspread off his body; he was covered with bruises.

  “Can I speak to you?” he asked.

  “Of course. What kinda nigga do you think I am? But you hold on for a minute, Father. I got to clean the rest of your clothes and take the tea off the stove, and then I’ll be in faster than you can kick a horsefly in the ass.”

  McGuire lay back into a stack of silk-covered pillows. On the floor next to the bed were several newspapers and a plastic cylinder shaped like a man’s penis.

  Seconds later a tall, moderately attractive black woman, about thirty, dressed in a white nightgown, walked into the bedroom, carrying his clothes over her arms and a tray of tea and crackers in her hands. “Well, don’t you look a sight, Father? I tried to clean you up, you know, get all the grime off you, but it weren’t easy. I wouldn’t even want to guess at what you’ve been up to. No, sir.”

  “What am I doing here, my child?”

  The woman laughed. “Child. Shit! I ain’t never been no child. And if by some chance I was, I don’t remember it now. You know?”

  “Did someone bring me here?”

  “Shit no…and don’t take no offense at my language. I’ll try to keep it clean, but you know, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

  McGuire relaxed. He felt secure with this woman. Though she was heavily made up and had a jagged scar running from her upper lip to the base of her eye, there was something in her manner that was reassuring.

  “Now, to answer your question,” she said, as she placed the tray on the bedspread and laid his clothes over the iron posts. “You found this place all by yourself. You see, I was returning home after a night in the streets, and there you was, flat on your face, lying on the stoop, not looking very happy. Shit no. Now, I don’t know how you got here, but that ain’t none of my business. And, of course, I wasn’t going to leave you. So I called my friend Jose, the best damn pimp in Manhattan, who came right over, and we hauled your holy ass up the steps and put you into the bed.” She stopped, took a cigarette from the nightgown, lit it with an expensive-looking lighter, and puffed deeply. “You know, Father, you’re the first priest I ever did have in my apartment. In fact, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen one up close in any way or place. You dig?”

  “Of course,” McGuire said, rolling into a more comfortable position. “But God is with you.”

  The woman laughed, baring a mouth of stains and cavities. “Father, if God is with me, he’s done seen one hell of a show. I bet he’s done turned blue in the face… that’s assuming he’s got a face and ain’t just some cloud in the air.”

  McGuire smiled. “Where are we?”

  “Oh, Second Avenue and One twenty one Street. In Spanish Harlem.”

  McGuire tried to sit up.

  “Now, you be careful, Father. And before you go asking, I’ll tell you that my name is Florence. Now, I know you ain’t too interested, but I also got to tell you that I’m a prostitute and the best one there is. You just ask any of them jiving pimps and they’ll tell you about old Florence’s ass. You bet! But I ain’t looking for no trick from you. God would really bend my ass, if I even had thoughts like that.”

  “I’m sure you don’t, my child. And I’m sure that God has a warm spot in his heart for you and will forgive you your sins.”

  “Amen.” She broke up laughing, one of those high pitched, gospel-sounding chortles that can pierce eardrums. “And hallelujah.”

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Oh, about ten in the morning,” she replied. “Now, you have some of this tea. It will make you feel better. If you don’t like the smell of smoke, I’ll put out the weed.”

  “I don’t mind the smoke,” McGuire said. He reached for one of the cups, which, strangely, were made of expensive china. They were probably one of Florence’s indulgences and he quickly complimented her.

  “Well, now, I appreciate that, Father. I do got good taste, though I got to admit that the dishes belong to my ex-boyfriend.”

  “Ex?”

  “Well, I guess so. He got his hairy ass locked in the joint for twenty years for dealing dope. But he had taste, too. He ripped them cups off this rich broad on Fifth Avenue. And don’t go thinking it was a whitey, ’cause it weren’t. It was a rich old nigger woman, who made her money owning land.”

  “God has a lot of forgiving to do around her,” McGuire said with an amused laugh.

  Florence nodded and sipped the tea.

  “If it’s only ten o’clock,” McGuire observed, stretching his legs, “I couldn’t have slept very long.”

  “Are you crazy, man? This ain’t ten o’clock the morning after. You’ve been out for two days. I done shucked me a lot of bread in the time you been getting the Z’s. And it ain’t been easy. If any of my regular customers find out old Florence’s been keeping a priest in her bed, it would ruin my business.”

  McGuire’s eyes were wide open. “Two days?”

  “You heard me. And it weren’t no peaceful two days. You should have heard yourself. Moaning and groaning and talking in your sleep.”

  He grabbed her hand and lifted his head. “What was I talking about?”

  “I’m not sure. But it scared me awful. You were sweating and cussing and talking about the devil and some guys named Franchino and Chazen. You kept telling the air that the devil was among us…which I’m sure he is… and that he was killing a lot of people…which I’m sure he does. But it was the way you said it. And the way you screamed that he was trying to get you next. Now, I don’t want no devil to get you, ’cause you look like a good man, but I specially don’t want him to do it when you’re in my bed and I ain’t too far away. I’m gonna meet him sooner or later, but I want it to be as later as I can make it!”

  “I’m sure God will see to it that you will achieve salvation.”

  “After I repent?”

  “Yes, my child.”

  “That’s all well and good, Father. But I don’t got no time to repent. I hardly got time to stop and take a shit.” She covered her mouth, embarrassed.

  McGuire laughed. “The salt of the earth never killed anyone.” He tried to get up again; his legs were wobbly. “You’re going to have to help
me, my child. I must get back to the Archdiocese.”

  “You should rest another day. You’re not well yet.”

  “I’ve got to get back, no matter what,” McGuire protested.

  “Well, of course, sure I’ll help you. But it won’t look too good if your friends see me lugging your ass all over the place.”

  “You let me worry about that, Florence. There are many of them that would be blessed if they possessed as much goodness as you seem to possess.”

  “Oh, Father, if that ain’t the darnedest thing I ever did hear. Me? Goodness? Wait till I tell them other pussies on the street.”

  “Please help me dress and get a taxi.”

  Florence nodded.

  He touched her cheek gently. “When this is all over, I will say a prayer for you.”

  “A prayer? Father, that’s well and good. But I never did know no prayer that put food in the mouth.”

  He reached for his pants and started to put them on. “I suppose you’re right,” he said.

  “You bet your ass I am.”

  He stopped and stared. Thank God she’d found him and sheltered him and nursed him. He owed her much. He dug into his pants, removed a twenty-dollar bill, folded it, and placed it in her hand.

  He nodded.

  And she nodded back.

  Father McGuire stepped onto the curb and watched Florence’s smile fade with the retreat of the taxi. He’d never met anyone quite like her, a street philosopher, brimming with aphorisms culled from the gutter, surprisingly sophisticated in her perception of the world, the real world rather than the pristine surroundings of ecclesiastical consciousness.

  “Take care of yourself, Father” had been her last words.

  He’d promised her that he would; hopefully they’d meet again. At worst he’d pray for her, asking Christ to forgive her for her sins.

  Immediately before him was the entrance to the seminary rectory.

  He walked through the door, climbing onto a staircase that led to the third-floor dormitory.

  What would happen now he asked himself? Whom should he contact? And why hadn’t Franchino revealed the identity of Chazen before his death? He prayed for Franchino’s salvation, yet he cursed him for his discretion!

  Reaching the third landing, he walked down a long colorless corridor. His cell was near the fire door, about fifty feet away. The dormitory was deserted; the only sound of life was footsteps on the floor above.

  He entered his room.

  Three men were waiting for him, two seated on the bed, one in the desk chair. He’d never seen them before.

  “Father McGuire?” Father Tepper asked, rising from the desk chair, after identifying himself.

  “Yes,” McGuire answered, puzzled.

  “May Monsignor Franchino rest in peace.”

  McGuire nodded.

  Father Tepper stepped forward; he was slim, about forty, black-haired, pink-skinned. “We have been asked to bring you.”

  McGuire glanced at the two men on the bed. “To where?” he asked with growing uncertainty.

  Tepper walked to the door and opened it.

  “What is this about?” McGuire asked.

  “I’m sorry, but we cannot tell you,” Tepper replied.

  McGuire looked squarely at all three men, one at a time, then stepped into the hall.

  After climbing into a limousine at the rectory, Father McGuire and three other men traveled downtown on the East Side Highway, crossing the East River on the Brooklyn Bridge. From there, the car slipped onto the side streets for a convoluted journey through slum neighborhoods along the waterfront. Past the nub of Manhattan, it turned east, crossing a predominantly black neighborhood and finally pulling to a stop in front of an old Gothic church.

  In silence they left the car.

  Slowly following his escorts, McGuire looked toward the corner, hoping to catch a glimpse of the street sign. But it was too dark. He scanned the residential neighborhood. There were several people walking; all were white. They were probably in south Brooklyn, near Flatbush, though he couldn’t be certain.

  Father Tepper opened the front door of the church and led them through the hallway.

  Heading toward a staircase at the end of the corridor, McGuire glanced inside the chapel. It was empty and the lights were muted, giving ascendance to the burning candles near the confessionals.

  They descended three flights of stairs into a sub-basement, stopping in front of a large oak door. Tepper opened it and motioned them inside. They entered an anteroom with ten rows of pews set before a second door. Two candles on a shoulder-height candelabra provided illumination. A man was seated in the first pew. McGuire looked down at him; it was Biroc.

  Tepper opened the second door and ushered McGuire into a small chapel. The other two priests remained outside.

  Inside the chapel, a bare room made of cinder blocks, another priest, whose head was shielded by a hood, stood alone. A simple crucifix hung on the wall. On the altar was a coffin. The body inside was raised. McGuire gasped, as he approached, realizing that the body was Franchino’s. Below the coffin was a second altar. On it were two books, one open, one closed.

  The hooded priest led McGuire to the books. He pointed to a page and whispered.

  The direction given, McGuire started to read out loud, his lips quivering as part of his attention focused on the dead man’s face. The readings, consisting of Latin prayers for forgiveness, oaths of fealty to Christ, and chants for the dead, continued for more than an hour, until he’d reached the last page of the open book. Then, closing the book, he turned toward Tepper and the hooded priest, who’d been standing in the rear.

  “God help you, my son,” the hooded man said. “Your trial is about to begin.”

  McGuire crossed himself. The hooded priest escorted Tepper out of the room and shut the door.

  McGuire flinched as he heard the door shut. Then he was alone, alone with the corpse of Monsignor Franchino, alone to face an unknown ordeal for which the protection of the Almighty had been invoked.

  19

  “Now, Faye,” Ralph Jenkins said vehemently, “all I want is some sugar.”

  “That’s no problem,” Faye said. She popped tow pieces of toast, well done, out of the hopper. “But I won’t have you racing in here without staying for coffee.”

  Jenkins shrugged.

  Ben lifted his head out of the New York Times and smiled. “Don’t look at me, Ralph. She’s the boss. Argue with her.”

  “Now, come on! You take your coffee with half a teaspoon of sugar, right?”

  Jenkins dropped into one of the chairs. “Yes. And light cream.”

  Faye opened the refrigerator. “I wish I could convince you to use an artificial sweetener. Too much sugar is bad for your teeth. And it feeds the bacteria in the body.”

  “Yes, I know. But I’d rather pollute myself with natural products than an amalgam of chemicals produced in a laboratory.”

  Shaking her head, she poured the coffee, pulled four boiled eggs form a pot on the stove, and placed them in egg cups on the table. That done, she removed her apron and straightened the chamois skirt that tightly hugged her waist and the white taffeta blouse that billowed like a jib sail about her broad shoulders and small breasts. She looked rested. She’d taken the day off from work, after the discovery of Franchino’s body, and after sitting in the apartment listening to Ben bang at the typewriter for six hours during the afternoon and then another two at night, seemed eager to get back to her job.

  She left the room, returned moments later with the baby, placed him in his high chair, then offered one of the eggs to Jenkins…he refused, too much cholesterol…and poured herself a cup of coffee, black.

  “Everything fine at work?” Jenkins asked.

  Faye nodded and smiled. Behind her, bright unfiltered sunlight burst through the
open kitchen window.

  “I’ve been assigned to an interesting project,” she said, turning toward Jenkins. “A television campaign for a pleasure-boat manufacture.”

  Jenkins listened attentively, lifting the coffee cup to his lips.

  Faye looked at Ben. “I may do some traveling for the client, honey.”

  “Oh? Ben mumbled, his attention still focused on the paper.

  “Their offices are in San Diego.”

  “That’s great.”

  Faye pulled down the corner of the newspaper. “Are you with us?”

  Ben peered over the top. “Sure. I hear everything you say. I’m just reading some…”

  “Well, you can read it later,” she snapped. “Ralph is here. A guest. And all you’ve been doing is crumpling pages and ignoring us. You’re being rude.”

  Ben looked up. “All right. What do you want me to do, honey? Sing and dance?”

  “Very funny.”

  Uncomfortable, Jenkins started to rise. “Listen, why don’t I talk to you later?”

  “Ralph, sit down. We’re only kidding. Come on. We’ll talk and make Faye happy.”

  Faye leered at him. “Sometimes you make me so angry.”

  “I’m just kidding.” He pointed through the kitchen doorway toward the typing table near the living-room window and the stacks of white sheets piled to the side. “And I’m trying to keep my mind off that.”

  “Why?” Jenkins asked.

  “I’m starting to hate it. Every time I get a plot line going, an inconsistency pops up, and I either have to reroute the narrative or tear up the pages and start over again. Ralph, this may be my first and only novel.”

  Jenkins nodded sympathetically.

  Ben looked back into the newspaper, forcing himself to maintain as pleasant an attitude as possible. The only reality that mattered was the whereabouts of Father McGuire. He’d started searching for him as soon as the police had left, the morning of Franchino’s death, but he’d not been about to find a trace. McGuire’s office at the seminary was locked, and the seminary janitor had told him that he’d not seen McGuire in days. The manager of the seminary’s rectory had advised the same. No McGuire. No messages. No contact. He’d placed several calls to the Archdiocese, but the people he spoke to had either never head of McGuire or, if they had, could not locate him. Certainly, McGuire knew about Franchino’s death. Most likely, he’d be involved in the contingencies. And he’d eventually appear. But would it be soon enough?