Vigilante Angels Trilogy

by Billy DeCarlo

  “Listen, Mos. Something I didn’t tell you. I think I’m figuring it out now. Maybe I didn’t want to think about it all these years. That priest, he was in our parish way back. My kid, Bobby, was an altar boy right around that time...”

  He stopped, as pieces of possibilities swirled and formed themselves together in his addled mind. He wished he hadn’t smoked; he was getting emotional at the theory that was presenting itself. He began to cry as he forced more words out.

  “My boy, Bobby. He’s a good kid. Not quite like me in a lot of ways, but he’s my boy, you know?”

  Moses carefully stabbed the remains of the joint into an ashtray and saved it in the tin box. “He’s a good kid, you got that right. Cherish that. I never got to have any kids. That’s why I took to mentoring that crew outside. Those are my kids, and they’re alright.”

  “Right,” Tommy continued. “But the thing is, he’s never had any girlfriends, no interest. That’s kind of strange, right? Gets pissed if I push him on it. Maybe I’ve been in denial about the obvious. These are different times, right? But, you see, I’m wondering now, he was around that priest, maybe...”

  Moses interrupted. “Hold on now. Whether anything happened with that priest or not, he didn’t make your kid gay. You’re jumping to a lot of conclusions there, Chief. Go easy. You got to talk to your boy.”

  Tommy scowled. It was too much for him. He wiped the moisture away from his eyes with a sleeve. “Well if that happened, the priest has got to pay. Either way, there’s a lot of parents right now, and kids, whose lives were ruined because of that son of a bitch. I’m going to put it together, Mos. If you aren’t ready for this, I can pull it off. He’s got to pay. I ain’t got much to live for, and it would feel damn good.”

  “Talk to your boy first. That’s what’s important now. If something happened, it could break the case open if he’ll talk about it. If he’s traumatized, he might need help. Those are the priorities. On the other side, if you come up with something, come back to me with it. But this old black man is running out of gas soon. I got an appointment this afternoon with the doc.”

  Tommy lay down on the couch. “I hear you, Mos. I’ll talk to my boy. I can’t go home yet, though. Things are all fucked up with this revelation about Margie and my old buddy. I can’t get past it. I’m so down over all this, Mos. I’m so tired. You mind if I stretch out here and crash for a while?”

  “No worries at all, my brother from another mother. Make yourself comfortable. Go use the bedroom if you want.”

  Within minutes, Tommy was snoring. Moses covered him with a blanket and pulled up a chair to the window to look out over his world.

  17 An Option

  Moses and Tommy sat in the oncology waiting room. Other patients, and their younger friends and family members, sat passing the time while waiting for their names to be called. The young were consumed by electronics; the old read books and magazines. Some sat staring into space. It was a sea of bandannas, ball caps, and flower hats perched upon chemo-ravaged heads. Some wore paper masks over their noses and mouths.

  An aura of sadness permeated the room. Most looked like they were already dead, or wished they were. The faded, beaten condition of the patients contrasted with their bright, healthy loved ones. Their hushed silence yielded to sounds from the other rooms: muffled discussions, the beeping of medical equipment, soft crying.

  The young shepherding out the old. And sometimes the reverse, Tommy thought.

  Moses leaned over and whispered, “To hell with this cancer. I’m about to die from depression in here.”

  “How you feeling, brother? That was horrible, seeing you go through that this morning. You can’t be living alone; you need help. Listen, how about I move in for a while and help you out? I’m on the outs with the old lady anyway.”

  Moses stared at him for a moment before responding. “I’m fine. Doc’ll fix me up with some shit to take care of that. Your ass belongs home with your old lady, Tommy. Make that right. She’s been by your side a long time. I wish I had my old lady back every day, my friend. And I don’t need your ass snoring on my damn couch at night.”

  Tommy laughed. “Bullshit. You’re afraid I’ll catch your black ass jerking off to Diana Ross pictures.” His voice had risen, and now many of the faces in the waiting room turned to them. Some smiled, but most frowned.

  “As soon as I’m done in here, I got to take my friend down to the mental ward for his own appointment,” Moses said to the group. They all turned back and went about their own dreary business.

  A nurse walked in. “Taylor,” she announced. “Moses Taylor.”

  Moses and Tommy rose at once. “Where the hell you going?” Moses asked.

  “I’m moral support. I’m not staying out here; the place is full of sick people.”

  “You’re a mean mofo, Mr. Borata. Come on, I guess. I can’t shake you.”

  They followed the nurse down the hall and into a doctor’s office. They sat, and she went through the routine of checking Moses’ vitals and recording them on the computer.

  “Why do you have to wear that mask? You can’t catch what we have,” Tommy asked her.

  “I understand that, sir. I’m a medical professional. I have to wear the mask to prevent Mr. Taylor from getting sicker. He has a compromised immune system, and we all carry germs. I work around a lot of sick people if you didn’t notice.”

  “Oh, okay,” Tommy said, embarrassed.

  “Doc will be in soon,” she said as she left the room abruptly.

  “Hell of a bedside manner,” Tommy remarked.

  Moses grunted. “You got to stop pissing people off, especially when I’m the one they’re working on."

  Tommy sighed. "Yeah, I get it, but it's frustrating. They sit your ass in the waiting room for an hour, then they bring you in here and damn if you don’t wait in here for another hour. And not a thing to do in here, except look at your ugly ass.”

  "I'm the pretty one; you're the ugly bastard. Old as dirt, too."

  After a while, they heard the shuffling of papers outside the door and a quick exchange of notes between the doctor and nurse.

  The doctor entered and looked between Tommy and Moses. Moses introduced them.

  “How are you doing, Mr. Taylor?” she asked.

  “I’m fine, I guess, for a dying guy.”

  “Bullshit,” Tommy interjected. “He’s sick as hell. Vomiting and explosive diarrhea this morning.”

  Moses glared at him.

  The doctor didn’t comment. She flipped through images on her computer screen. The two men waited silently, watching her. Finally, she turned to face them.

  “Mr. Taylor, as you can probably guess, this isn’t good news. Would you like your friend to wait outside?”

  “He stays. Let’s have it.”

  “Your cancer is spreading. At this point, we’re out of options, other than to continue with even more aggressive chemotherapy...”

  Moses cut her off. “Not an option. No more chemo.”

  “Okay then. You will begin to decline rather quickly. I would suggest either home care or hospice. You’ll soon get to the point where caring for yourself is not possible.”

  “I’m going to do it,” Tommy burst in. He wiped his eyes with the palm of his hand. “I’ll take care of him. I did it today.”

  “He’s going to need professional care, Mr. Borata. I understand you’re a vet, Moses. Many of my patients who are veterans go to the VA hospital. They get the respect they deserve and are well cared-for there. And thank you for your service.”

  “How long?” Moses asked. “How long before it’s so bad I can’t keep up?”

  The doctor maintained her professional demeanor. “Probably weeks, at best. Perhaps sooner.”

  The men rose and left the room. On the way down the hall, Moses stopped in front of the men’s room. “I got to go. It might be a while, Tommy, and I got to make a few calls from the lobby. Meet me at Wyla’s. Go ahead and warm me up a seat, and I’ll s
ee you there.”

  Tommy embraced his friend. “Okay, my brother. You sure?”

  “Unless you want to come in and wipe my ass, cracker. Shove off and let me take care of my business. Set me up with a shot and a beer.”

  Tommy wandered the halls in thought, trying to find his way back to the hospital exit. He found himself shuffling slowly, his problems both above and below the surface of his psyche gnawing away at his mind and spirit. So many problems; so much sadness in this world...

  He passed by a doorway and heard a murmuring adult voice, and then that of a child. He stopped and looked at the sign above the door. Chapel. The door was open just a crack, and he discreetly peered in.

  MOSES WALKED THROUGH the hospital lobby. His legs could only manage a slow pace, but his mind raced with every step, trying to process his mortality.

  He entered the men’s room and thought about his options as he stood at the urinal. He finished and stood in front of the sink and mirror, taking stock of himself. He still had his intimidating height, but now he looked downright scary. The lost weight caused his previously form-fit clothing to hang from him. His face was gaunt, his eyes jaundiced, his crown a patchy silver-gray minefield of stubble.

  The door opened, and a thin, well-dressed man entered with a small boy. The man looked at Moses and then guided the boy back out of the door. “Let’s wait,” he said.

  “But, Dad, I gotta go,” the boy said as the door swung closed behind them.

  “Fuck you, buddy,” Moses said aloud, although they were gone.

  It sucks to be a monster.

  As he re-entered the lobby, the multi-colored stuffed animals and bright flowers in the window of the hospital gift shop caught his eye. He opened the door and wandered in.

  He browsed through the aisles, considering items to bring back to brighten his apartment. The fragrance of the flowers and light music coming from unseen speakers helped his mood a little. As he picked up items and inspected them, checking the price tags on the base of each, he began to feel like he was being watched.

  He gazed over the top of the aisle’s shelving and noticed the cashier peering at him suspiciously. Her overly pink, excessively made-up face twisted into a dour expression of disapproval, the wasted lipstick on her mouth painting an inverted smile. He ignored her and continued his search, moving into the furthest aisle away from her.

  He looked through a selection of thick, soft socks, thinking about the threadbare ones he’d been wearing since his beloved Angie had passed. He glanced again toward the register and noticed that the woman wasn’t there. Turning to walk further down the aisle, he almost tripped on her, as she crouched at a lower shelf, pretending to inventory its items, with her eyes still fixed on him.

  “Excuse me,” Moses said, as he made his way around her to the greeting card aisle.

  He reviewed several friendship cards, hoping to find something to thank Tommy for helping him through his ordeal. He read a few, chuckling at the light-hearted limericks and verses.

  “Sir, can I help you?”

  He turned, and she was there at the head of the aisle, hands on hips.

  “No, I’m just browsing,” he responded bluntly. Don’t be intimidated. Don’t be shooed away.

  One card in particular caught his fancy, and he placed it atop the shelf. He read several more.

  “Are you going to buy something, sir?” she asked.

  He’d forgotten about her, lost in the mirth presented by the simple cards. “Yes, I’m going to buy this goddamn card and get the hell out of this store,” he angrily responded.

  He moved to the register and waited while the woman rang up his purchase with methodical, mechanical efficiency. The smell of her dank perfume was making him nauseous, overwhelming even the nearby floral displays. It’s as ugly as her soul.

  He dug through his pants, pulling out some bills and change, and paid her, grabbing the card from the counter and heading for the door.

  “You forgot your receipt,” she called after him.

  “Stuff it, lady.”

  He placed the card in his jacket pocket and sat on a couch in the lobby waiting area. He leaned back and closed his eyes, alternately considering his options and replaying the good and bad scenes and events of his life. Too much hate in the world. Too many hateful people. Too much evil. I’m not going down slow. He thought about all of the times he had experienced the same thing, throughout his life, and had witnessed his loved ones endure it.

  He snapped awake as he was rudely shaken by the shoulder. He’d fallen asleep, and for a moment was unsure where he was.

  “You’ve got to move along. We don’t allow loitering here. Find another place to hang out, buddy.”

  He turned to find a hospital security guard standing behind him. He saw the cashier staring out of the gift shop window behind the guard. When he caught her gaze, she quickly ducked away from the window. He turned his attention to the guard.

  “What, you think I’m some homeless guy hanging out here to keep warm?” he asked.

  The short, elderly, white-haired guard tried to give him a hardened look. “C’mon buddy. We deal with it all the time. You folks figure this is a warm, safe joint, but we can’t have you taking up all the furniture.”

  Moses looked around the lobby. He pointed to a woman dozing on a nearby chair. “What about her? She’s homeless too, right?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Why, because she’s not black?” Moses demanded.

  “Look, do you have business here or not, pal?”

  “I damn sure do. My business is that I’m dying, I just got out of my appointment in oncology. And you better watch how you talk to people, buddy, or you’re gonna be in the dying business yourself.”

  With that, he rose and leered down at the guard, who now appeared to be intimidated. The guard reached for his shoulder intercom.

  “Save it,” Moses said, as he headed for the exit.

  It’s always been the same. All these years since I was a little boy. My parents, their parents, ain’t a damn thing changed in all these years.

  THE PRIEST PLACED HIS hand on the child’s shoulder and rubbed it. It was always his first move to break the physical barrier, and it had served him well.

  He evoked his most soothing tone, cupping and lifting the small boy’s chin in order to force eye contact, engaging trust. “I’m sorry about your father, young man. I understand that he won’t be with us much longer. I know it’s difficult for someone your age to comprehend, but often this is simply God’s will. Your parents asked me to talk to you in order to help you understand this.”

  The boy slapped the priest’s hand away from his face. The priest took the opportunity to let it land on the boy’s knee and continued his massage.

  “My dad is good! He never hurt anyone. He went to church every week. How could God want my dad dead?” the boy demanded.

  “These are things we are not permitted to ask, my son. God has a plan for all of us, both in this world and after. I believe he needs your dad in Heaven with him.”

  The boy had his head down again, sniffling. “Who’s going to do things with me? My mom doesn’t give a crap about me. She’s always away for work.”

  The priest moved closer and placed his arm around him. “Do you like the woods, the outdoors? Camping?”

  The boy kept his head down, but his voice perked up. “Yeah, my dad and I used to go camping...before he got sick.”

  Bingo, the priest thought. “Wonderful. I’ll talk to your mom about getting you into the Scouts. They do a lot of cool things and a lot of camping. I used to be a Scoutmaster, and sometimes I still help out.”

  The boy looked up. “Really?”

  The priest, sensing his opening, hugged the boy even tighter. “Absolutely. If they don’t have a trip soon, maybe you and I can go together, just to get back into practice. And I’ll let your mom know that you can hang out with me when she’s away if she doesn’t have anyone to watch you.”

  �
�There’s just my grandma, but she’s kind of old and doesn’t hear good. She can’t do anything.”

  The priest thought he saw a shadow through the opaque window in the hospital chapel door and lowered his voice just in case. “Good, good. I can’t take the place of your dad, but I’ll be like a big brother. We’ll be best buddies, and we’ll have the best time...”

  He was interrupted by an angry-looking older man bursting through the door. “You!” he shouted.

  Startled, the boy rose and left hurriedly through the open door.

  Shit. He knows. The priest started to ask how he could help, but the man was on him in an instant, grabbing a fistful of his tunic, popping off the dog collar and yanking him to his feet.

  “What are you doing here?” the man demanded. “You’re supposed to be away from kids, Tarat.” They were face to face, until the man reached back with his foot to close the door and then threw the priest back into the couch.

  “Calm down please, sir,” the priest requested. “And it’s Goodman, Father Goodman.” He motioned to the nameplate on his desk.

  The man stood menacingly over him, confusion mingling with the rage in his expression. “What? No. You’re Tarat. I know you, you son of a bitch. You fucking pervert...”

  The priest’s mind raced, trying to find a solution. I always find a solution. The man was familiar to him, and finally, he was able to reconcile the face with a name.

  “Mr...Borata, correct?”

  “Never mind who I am. Answer my question, motherfucker.”

  The priest smiled at him, confident now. “A simple name change is all. One has a right to a certain amount of privacy, especially an innocent man.”

  “Innocent my ass...”

  “Now, now, Mr. Borata. That’s no way to talk to a man of God.”

  “Man of God? Bullshit. You’re no man of God.”

  “There is no God, Mr. Borata. It’s just a job like yours was. You can’t say you were a very good cop, now can you?”