“Because that's the reason I went into teaching...because if a couple of teachers hadn't helped me over the rough spots, I might be lying in some gutter in South Chicago with a needle sticking in my arm, wondering how I was going to score the next shot, how far I was going to stoop for a fix, or a bottle, or whatever. Because if I ever lose sight of what I consider the true role of a teacher, and it isn't all classroom crap, I can tell you that right now, then I need to go find something else to do, some other way to earn a living..."
Her voice seemed to rise with every word, the anger and passion no longer concealed. The priest had witnessed the temper before, had learned that the only way to handle it was to let it run its course. Cicely Manley was going to do what her moral standards dictated, whether the priest gave his blessing or not. That was a given.
He fixed a stern look on his face, biting the inside corner of his mouth to keep the smile away and got comfortable. He admired Cicely's heart, remembered when he had, long ago, jumped to the defense of the underdog each and every time a champion was needed. He also remembered the morning he awoke and realized that life could no longer be about charging windmills on horseback, forced into dual roles as educator and parish priest, and finally pragmatist. The load was torturous, the work days often running into each other without break. Mike had been forced to pass the role of champion on to a younger, more idealistic generation of Quixote's, the most recent being the young woman sitting before his desk at that moment.
"...and that's it because I know what's best, at least for that girl. She needs somebody to trust. She needs a friend, and damn it, I'm going to be that friend." It was over, and as the priest looked on, the air seemed to slowly exit the thin body, the red blush draining from her face.
As he looked across his desk at the latest in a long line of champions to grace the hallways of Sacred Heart, he remembered a Cervantes line explaining the Don Quixote legend, one of those quotes that had stayed with him since his first years in teaching: “Youngsters read it, grown men understand it, and old people applaud it."
Smiling, he made up his mind about Lisa Dennis, really, the only decisions there was.
"Go with it," he said simply. "Just don't get your feelings hurt during the rebuff. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have got to get to a meeting. I'm..." looking at his wristwatch "... about twenty minutes late. Bye." And he was gone, out the door, Cicely left sitting alone, wondering if all this had been necessary. But she had found out something about the girl, and at least had a place to start. There, you got what you wanted, she thought as she left the office. And he didn't fire you. Again.
3
The tune was classic Doobie Brothers, Black Water, the man not doing too bad a job with it. It was an old sound, maybe '74 or '75, he wasn't sure, sometimes the deejays remembered to give the information, most days they were probably smokin' whack and couldn't remember their own names. The guy had only to hear part of a song, just a line or two, then it was like something clicked inside his head and it would all come back to him; words, tune, artist. The whistler figured he had about five thousand songs catalogued away in his brain, ready if they ever brought back that old show Name That Tune, make enough so he wouldn't have to steal kids for a living.
Naw, fuck that, he chuckled. You are what you are...and this is what I am.
As he walked the downtown street, deserted but for a couple boozers looking for their vehicles so they could test their drunk-driving skills, the man's thoughts were on the little girl, cute thing that he had put in the empty apartment. The runaway was enjoying her first hot meal in days, ecstatic that she had made a new friend, the whistler like a favorite uncle to her, nothing like the abusive men she was accustomed to being around.
The thought made the man smile, the good ol' boy persona a vital part of his success, the girl going to bring a nice check. The phone booth was empty, as he knew it would be, phone booths a big part of the business. Phone booths, a decent car and patience, the tools of his trade. He was old school, all hard work and few of the new gadgets that drove the world. He pulled the door of the booth shut, deposited a quarter and listened to the other end ring...six...seven...eight...
“Yeah?" The flunky. A double-digit I. Q., no question about that.
"It’s Mel, let me talk to him," the whistler said in his soft, even tone.
“What," the familiar voice came on the line, trying to appear put-out at the late hour, the whistler able to pick up the tiny trace of excitement, the voice an octave higher than normal. For a long time he had thought the excitement in the buyer's voice had been sexual, nowadays thought it was more than that, maybe greed, maybe something else, some sickness the whistler didn’t want to know about. That wasn't his concern.
The less I know, the less guilty I am; the mantra was etched into his brain.
“It's me; I got one you're gonna love, a little girl," he said softly, knowing his words were an elixir for the buyer.
“Oh...good deal, we just had one of our models...uh...leave us, wanted to pursue other avenues. Where is she from?”
"Cleveland, got tired of all the snow they had this year, said she's gonna go to California. Found her sleepin' at the rest area...real cute, next door type, know what I mean," sweetening the pot, knowing his words had already had the desired effect on the buyer. The commerce of runaway children was a seller’s market, no question about that.
“How old?" All business now, the minds on both ends of the line looking to close the deal.
"Told me fifteen but there’s no way, more like twelve or thirteen, no older, twelve I’m guessing, little ol' thing, you know what I mean, tall and skinny."
He used to wake up nights with pangs of guilt, but had quickly discovered that if he were to succeed in this line of work one needed to be completely clinical and coldblooded. Just dealing a product, he would tell himself. Nothing more. No different than selling used cars or Bibles door to door. The concept was exactly the same, move the product and go on to the next one. Didn't matter a damn bit that he never saw any of the little shits again, better that way.
“Okay, let's see. How about 2:30 tomorrow, have a look see?"
“Yeah, okay, I'll be there."
And you’ll buy this one, no doubt in the whistler’s mind. Shit, he bought almost all of them, didn’t matter. Very few were rejected. The product was gold, and the look-see was purely show.
”Good. See you tomorrow." Sincere, always sincere at this point of the deal.
"Right." The whistler hung the phone up, opened the door and stepped back out onto the sidewalk, the cool breeze hitting him in the face and washing away the stale smell he had picked up in the booth, cigarettes, sweat, urine. Vomit.
What a town, he thought, shaking his head as he strolled down the street, back to the alley where he had parked his white Chevy, his work done for the night. What a town.
Golden Boy Page 25
