by David Mark
It was a grim surprise when Claudio received his instructions that night in 1981. A hit had been authorized. Sal was informing. He had to go. Claudio had earned his reputation by doing as he was told, and though he felt a flicker of distaste at killing a man he thought of as a friend, he didn’t say a word of protest. He built the device himself. Didn’t say any kind of Hail Mary or apology as he flicked the switch and blew Salvatore Pugliesca’s body into strips of meat. The cops found parts of him six houses away. They didn’t speak much about the mute. Tony Blank—that was his name. The Dummy to everybody else. Tony was collateral damage—merely “an associate” of the deceased. Claudio expected there to be questions asked about the extra corpse on his ledger, but not long after Sal’s death, the Philly Mob was once more engulfed in one of the power struggles that erupted every few years. Claudio was kept busy, staying alive and stopping hearts. He was never asked a single question about how the poor dumb bastard had ended up caught in the blast. Claudio wouldn’t have had an answer even if he had been interrogated. He simply didn’t know that Tony was there. Sal had driven into the driveway of his Philadelphia home. He had climbed out of the car and approached his door. He paused on the step to find his keys. His shoulders sagged for a moment, as if he had just remembered something he couldn’t be bothered to do. And then Claudio flicked the switch and Sal disappeared in a cloud of red and gray.
Claudio should have driven away. There was no doubting that his target was dead. But then he heard the noise. Even above the sound of falling timbers and crackling flame, he heard something rhythmic and unfathomable.
He stepped over what was left of Sal Pugliesca. And he saw the Dummy, laid out beneath wood and brick. Tony was pinned by his left hand. There was a dark stain spreading across his chest. Blood was dripping into his wide eyes from a wound to his skull. And in his hand, he held a cleaver, its blade already gory with his own blood. As Sal watched, Tony hacked down again at the spot just above his left elbow. His lips moved not in pain but in silent prayer. Claudio stood still until he heard the sirens. Then he walked away. He put his memory of Sal in the little box in his head and kept it shut. He had done his job and nobody ever criticized him for it. Claudio closes his eyes before the snow makes him feel too morose. It is not that he regrets Sal’s death. But he is feeling unsettled. He has been troubled ever since that almighty clusterfuck upstate.
And now he is having to confront his memory of the Glowworm.
That’s what they called him, back in the day. Claudio used to see him around at bars and restaurants where the different crews hung out. He was always on his way to or from somewhere; always carrying books and sweating, whatever the weather. He wore big round glasses that made his eyes look twice the size. He was around Claudio’s age. Big round head and already balding. Stuttered when he talked and always looked like he was about to cry. Good at the books, though, that’s what everybody said. He wasn’t to be picked on. Did something important for our friends in the city. Leave him alone . . .
How many years ago had it been? Sometime after Sal’s death. Maybe ’82? Claudio had attended a baptism in the city. Half the mobsters from New York and Philly were there. Flashbulbs and champagne, squeezed cheeks, kissed lips, and endless billfolds stuffed in a silk purse. The Glowworm was there, though Claudio had to stare for an age before he realized who he was looking at. He was unrecognizable from the stumbling, fat-faced fuck who used to cook the books for the city Mob. This man had poise. He had self-belief. He wore a white gown and held the silver chalice as if it really did contain the blood of Christ. He looked radiant. Self-assured.
Claudio saw little of him after that day. Sometimes they would pass on the court steps or they would both be present at the same wedding or funeral, but over the years, Claudio gradually became more of a background figure. He was no street hustler or stickup artist. He was a killer and that was what he got paid to do. He gave the Glowworm little or no thought. And then this morning, he saw his big fat face staring out at him from a computer screen. A Scottish cop was looking into his background, the same Scottish cop who was piecing together what went wrong out at Cairo. Claudio is a clever man. He is already a few steps ahead. He is also a realist. He knows that whatever service Molony performs for his New York associates is valuable. Molony cannot be harmed without the action being cleared from on high. Clicking his tongue, Claudio closes the blinds and looks around him. He checks his watch. Wherever Molony is, he should be home soon. Claudio is not completely sure how he will proceed. For the fifth time in an hour, he tries to call the number currently being used by Giuliano Pagano back in Philly. Old habits are threatening his resolve. He wants to call Pagano and have him sanction his actions. But he knows Pagano is too much of a pussy to move without New York’s say-so, and he doubts Pugliesca would be pleased to learn that Claudio knows so much. Bored, twitching a little, Claudio walks through to Molony’s bedroom. He has removed his shoes and makes no sound as he crosses the floor. He has already been through the lawyer’s possessions and found little of interest. The Glowworm’s clothes are all ordered from the same online supplier. Most still carry labels that show they have not been worn. There is no laundry hamper. His drawers are neatly kept. Packets of unopened socks in one drawer, pristine vests and T-shirts in another. Claudio wonders if Molony has the obsessive condition that he has read about. Perhaps he can’t bring himself to wear the same thing twice. On impulse, he enters the en suite bathroom and opens the shelves next to the wooden medicine cabinet. It is stacked with bars of soap like bricks in a wall.
Claudio returns to the bedroom. He examines the books on Molony’s bedside table. There is a hardback with the word “Unsolved” emblazoned down the spine that Claudio recognizes. It covers dozens of cases from the past fifty years where justice was never served. Claudio has briefly flicked through the book himself, leafing through the speculation and conclusions like a professor examining a teenager’s essay. The book shares space on the bedside table with a ceramic flask in which a single yellow rose has been placed. It gives off no scent but looks fresh. Claudio opens the bedside drawer. There are pillboxes inside, their lids showing pictures of noted churches and cathedrals from around the world. Claudio opens one of the ornate little boxes at random. The pills inside are loose. Pink. They are the size of .22 bullets and look damn hard to swallow. Claudio puts them back.
At length, he sits down upon the bed and just as quickly stands up again, rubbing the seat of his trousers. Carefully, he pulls back the thick red-and-gold throw that covers the sheets. The sheets of Molony’s bed are stained brown, red, and rust by dried blood. It looks as though somebody has been split open and left to bleed out. The coppery tang fills Claudio’s nostrils but he does not recoil. He considers the sheets as if he were a forensics expert. The blood is not all fresh. And the sheets themselves are yellowed with age. They are mildewed at the edges, and in places the cotton has become so threadbare that Claudio can see the stains upon the mattress beneath. He can also see the needles. They stick up through the mattress like the quills of a porcupine, each tip silver and gleaming and flecked with blood.
Hunkering down, Claudio looks under the bed. The floor is spotless. Where does the man keep his shoes? His pornography? This place feels false, somehow. It feels like a veneer that caps a rotten tooth. It contains no true traces of the person that Claudio saw so many years ago with his face turned toward the heavens as if witnessing the Rapture. Where is his cross? His Bible? Claudio returns to the living room and considers the art on the walls. He is drawn to the blueprint of the church. It is a classy piece of work, drawn with fine black ink on pale blue paper. There is no name on the drawing and he has no way of knowing whether it is a recent build or the plans for something centuries old. The sketch occupies the prime location on the walls. Claudio leans forward and examines the smudges around the edges of the gold frame. He is a man familiar with the patina of blood. He sees the faintest traces of discoloration on the glass around
the bottom edges, where a man would place his hands to lift the image off the wall.
Claudio does so now. He lifts the whole frame from the hook and places it behind the sofa. Set in the wall behind is a small metal grille, a latticework in wrought iron that reminds him of the old confessional booths. There is a small brass handle on one side and hinges on the other. Claudio pulls the handle and the door slides open without a sound.
The object within is a little larger than a shoebox. Claudio retrieves it and moves into the kitchen, where there is a marble-topped preparation area in the center of the wooden floor. Claudio places the case down upon its cold, hard surface. It is a small suitcase, bound in a soft brown leather and with two buckles at the front. Grimy, rust-colored fingermarks pattern the sides, the handle, and the straps.
Claudio remembers these devices. Had one himself when he was a young man.
He opens it up and looks at the Super8 Sound Recorder, all black and silver and strangely futuristic despite being a relic of the past.
He settles his hands upon the counter. Breathes deep. Presses play. The voice that emerges is flat and monotonous, the words emerging from a throat and mouth that sound pained and dry. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have allowed the devil to seduce me on occasions when I was unable to stop myself from touching my skin in a way that would displease the Lord. I have harbored many impure thoughts. I have thought disrespectfully about the man who calls himself my father. I am grateful for his kindness and yet when he speaks to me I feel a great rage inside me—a hunger for something I can’t describe. I have imagined myself stealing into his room at night and smashing his brains in with a hammer—perhaps driving a nail into his skull as if it were the wrists or feet of our Lord. I do sincerely repent . . . Shush, please, no more . . . I repent of these sins and ask for the strength to not repeat such offenses. Forgive me, Father, for my actions in making this confession. The girl I took had kind eyes and spoke gently to me. Please allow her torture to cease. She suffers and screams and cries and her skin has begun to repel me with its odor. Father, please intercede with our Lord and pray for her agonies to cease so she may rest with Jesus and her sinful flesh can be consumed by this sacred earth. Bless me, Father. Amen.”
The recording is interrupted midway by the sound of a female voice cracking and breaking around a scream.
Claudio feels a lump in his throat. There is something so animal about the noise, so primal. A plea for mercy that requires no words.
He is so engrossed in the sounds that it takes him a moment to register the smell. The air has changed hue, taken on a milky, rotten foulness.
He turns just in time to see him. The Glowworm.
He’s wearing his white robes and his face shines with the radiance that unnerved Claudio so many years ago.
Before Claudio can move, the Glowworm thrusts his hand into the black urn beneath his left arm. His face impassive, his eyes unblinking, he pulls free a handful of ash and flings it in Claudio’s face like confetti.
As Claudio raises his hands to his face he realizes too late he has left himself exposed.
The urn smashes into the side of Claudio’s head and as he crumples to the floor he only has time to notice that the man has bare feet and pleasant, pink toes, before the blackness closes around him like a mouth and swallows him down.
PART
FOUR
1976: FORGIVENESS—THE SACRAMENT OF PENANCE
White sheets and yellow light, smooth green floors and the smell of antiseptic, tears dripping onto black cloth and rust-colored bandages . . .
“I’m sorry, my friend. Please, Peter. Peter, listen to me. This is all my fault. This was not what I wanted. I am so very sorry. Forgive me . . .”
The figure in the hospital bed smiles up at him, all jowls and sweat. There is a waxiness to his skin that puts Father Whelan in mind of church candles.
“I had to remove temptation,” says Peter Molony. “You told me we could atone through pain. This is my penance.”
There are tears in Father Whelan’s eyes. He had not meant for any of this to happen, but knows that the road beneath his feet is chiseled with the best of intentions. It was just a chat between friends, a drink between priest and parishioner. They had history. They had known each other for some time. Something existed between them that was not friendship, but meant they enjoyed each other’s company and each understood a little of the other. Perhaps each saw in the other what they themselves could have been.
“I forgave you,” says Father Whelan. “God forgave you your transgressions. This was not necessary.”
“The pain cleanses me. I learned that long ago.”
Father Whelan wipes the heel of his hand across his eyes.
“You nearly died,” he says. “Blood loss. They said you had been hurting yourself for some time.”
“That was for everyday sin. Something greater was needed to demonstrate my repentance for my baser nature.”
“We were getting somewhere,” says Father Whelan, anger in his voice and tears in his eyes. “You were doing so much better. You didn’t have to do this. They will send you away. I will do what I can to set you free but you could end up in places so much worse than the hell you thought you were living.”
“I couldn’t risk sinning again, Father.”
“You would have been a good priest five hundred years ago,” mutters Father Whelan angrily. “Your Bible and mine are different books. You wanted human contact, Peter. That I can forgive. That the devil leads you in the direction of young men . . . you are to be pitied and prayed for, not shunned and scorned. You would not have given in to temptation. You have me. You have my prayers. I told you to read your Bible. You pushed and pushed until I spoke of penance leading to absolution. How good deeds and sincere repentance could wipe away the past. Your mind is ill. You have already missed out on that which you truly desired . . .”
“I would have been a poor priest,” says Molony. He looks different without his glasses. “You know that. My mind is different. My needs are different.”
“I had made arrangements,” says Father Whelan, voice full of frustration. “A future. A use for a man with your skills. Please, Peter, do not give up hope. When you are well, there is so much to look forward to.”
The man in the bed smiles up, serene and perfect. He does not look like a man who nearly died.
“I have faith in you,” says Father Whelan, kneeling by the bed and taking the man’s hand in his own. “I know you will live the right life. I absolve you of all sin, my son.”
“I could yet sin again.”
“You will not. And even if temptation struck, your sacrifice absolves you. You cannot sin again. The gates of heaven will never be closed to you. Please, just try and get well.”
Father Whelan finds himself too overcome to remain by the bedside. He pulls himself up, tears dripping onto his black sweater. He leaves without looking further at the man who castrated himself to atone for his desires.
He does not see the look of perfect happiness that passes over the man’s face as he feels the fires of hell cool at his back, and the glory of paradise welcome him inside.
Peter Molony suddenly feels the grace of God.
He has a true chance to repent.
A true chance to atone.
A chance to save sinners like himself.
TWENTY-FIVE
There’s still no answer from Roisin’s phone. It’s a little after one a.m. in Ireland but he knows she will be desperate to hear what he has learned. McAvoy has been trying her number throughout the long cab ride from the Village, growing steadily more anxious with each failed call. He’s been in the yellow taxi for almost an hour, watching as the snow flurries turned into the blizzard that now assaults the glass. The roads have grown steadily quieter the farther they’ve gotten from Manhattan, and as they enter the area known locally as Little Odessa, McAvoy f
inds himself looking out on a neighborhood that seems somehow more Soviet than the area after which it was originally named.
“Brighton Beach?” the cabdriver had asked incredulously as McAvoy had hailed him on the corner of Delancey and Essex. “You going for a swim?”
McAvoy promised a generous tip. He’s repeated the pledge each time the driver has threatened to turn back in the face of the snowstorm. McAvoy fed him some lies about needing to reach a family member in trouble and the cabdriver has, through sheer bloody-mindedness, managed to get them near their destination. The vehicle is idling by the curb, snow turning to mush beneath the wheels and steam rising from the hood. The meter says that he owes $76, but McAvoy hands over two fifties and tells the driver to keep the change.
“How you getting back?” asks the driver as McAvoy opens the door and disentangles himself. The tails of his coat are whipped by the breeze, and as the snowflakes sting his skin, they feel more like needles than angel wings.
“I’ll hail a cab,” says McAvoy.
The driver considers him. He’s a young guy. Maybe not yet thirty. He’s got some Hispanic in him and has done some wonderfully geometric things with his facial hair.
