She started the car, but then sat back with her cigarette, the grocery bag on the seat next to her.
“He thinks I took off with it, uh?”
“Didn’t you?”
“Let me tell you,” Terry said, “how it worked on a run to Kentucky. We’d come back with a load, drop it off, and return the U-Haul. The next day we’d go to an office downtown in the Penobscot Building and the woman there, Mrs. Moraco, would pay us. Count out hundred-dollar bills without saying a word, mostly old bills, and we’d put the money in athletic bags we’d brought along.”
“You know who the buyer was?”
“I didn’t ask. Anyway, the first couple of times we made the run, no problem,” Terry said. “The time we’re talking about, only Johnny and I made the trip. Dickie wasn’t feeling good and stayed home. But when I say home I mean Johnny’s house in Hamtramck. Dickie lived with Johnny, his wife Regina and their three kids—two little boys swore all the time, did whatever they wanted, and a fifteen-year-old girl, Mercy, who was studying hard to become a hooker.”
Debbie said, “Mercy?”
“Regina’s born again.”
“Don’t tell me,” Debbie said, “this is about Mercy and Uncle Dickie.”
“Yeah, but which one needed protection? Dickie said Mercy was always showing off her young body—and it was all there, believe me. I stopped by to pick Johnny up one time, Mercy comes out to the car in a little sunsuit. The way she leaned on the windowsill showing herself, I thought she was gonna ask if I wanted to have a good time. What Regina wanted was Dickie out of the house, but Johnny wouldn’t hear of it. He said if Dickie wasn’t around he wouldn’t have anybody to talk to. They watched sports on TV together and argued.”
“At the wake,” Debbie said, smoking her cigarette, “he asked me to go have a drink with him.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“I met him at the Cadieux Café, looking for Johnny Pajonny material. The name alone. So then what happened?”
She’d zing him and Terry would have to remind himself this nice-looking girl was not only an entertainer, she’d done time. And smoked a lot. He pressed the button to lower his window halfway.
“Regina comes home from working a checkout counter at Farmer Jack’s and finds Mercy and Dickie in the bathroom together.” Terry paused. “You had a drink with Johnny at the Cadieux? That’s a popular spot.”
“He wanted to go to a motel.”
“Yeah . . . ?”
“I told him I was a nun.”
It hung there, Terry not sure if she was kidding, had actually said that.
“I handled it, Terry. Okay? So Regina finds Mercy and Dickie in the shower.”
“They were in the bathroom with the door closed.”
“The shower running?”
“I don’t know if they were doing anything or not. I wasn’t around to hear. But what happened, Regina called the cops. They arrive and find Dickie trying to stash about a hundred cartons of cigarettes under his bed, ones Dickie sold on the side. Johnny and I are on the way home, his cell phone rings and it’s Regina. She says the cops are there on account of Dickie molesting Mercy, his own niece, but doesn’t mention the cops finding the cigarettes; that’s not her problem. We get to Detroit, Johnny wants to go right home. He’s as upset as Regina ’cause now he’s afraid Dickie’ll have to move out. I told him I wasn’t going near the house with cops there. I dropped him off at a bar on his street, Lili’s, it’s just off Joseph Campau, and went on to the warehouse, dropped the load, and returned the truck. Later on I called the house. Regina tells me Johnny and Dickie are in the Wayne County jail and people from Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms are going through the house as we speak. See, at that time no one knew if it would be taken state or federal. So the next day I collected from Mrs. Moraco—”
Debbie stopped him. “Did you tell her?”
“I told her she better close the office for a while, and left town.”
“You had a passport?”
“I told you, I’d already made plans to leave, go to Africa. But that doesn’t mean I planned to skip.”
She shrugged, maybe not caring one way or the other. “So the Pajonnys were brought in and they gave it up.”
“They gave me up. The prosecutor worked on them a few days and offered a plea deal. They said I hired them; I was the one always delivered the load and collected the money. They knew better than to give ’em Mrs. Moraco. But then once I was involved Fran got on it and talked to the prosecutor. Fran said there must be some mistake, as I was an ordained Catholic priest at a mission in Rwanda. By now a few weeks had passed. I’m over there and the genocide’s going on, hundreds of thousands of people being killed and I’m in the middle of it. Did the state really want to indict me? Fran says I’m in the clear, but still have to talk to an assistant prosecutor, Gerald Padilla, downtown at the Frank Murphy, what they call Recorders Court; it’s all criminal. I have to get a black suit and a collar and shine my shoes.”
“Why don’t you have a suit?”
“When I left, I gave it to a man less fortunate than myself. There’s always a need for clothing over there.”
She said, “Terry?”
“What?”
“Bullshit.”
He watched the glow of her cigarette as she drew on it and blew the smoke out in a slow stream, directly into his face. Terry closed his eyes. He didn’t wave his hand at the smoke, he closed his eyes and opened them again, knowing what was coming.
She said, “You’re not a priest, are you?”
He heard himself say, “No, I’m not,” sitting there in the dark.
“Were you ever a priest?”
“No.”
“Or in a seminary in California or anywhere else?”
He felt the interrogation winding down.
“No.”
She said, “Don’t you feel better now?”
They were on their way again following taillights, Terry with a sense of relief, because he’d wanted to tell her even while they were in the restaurant talking and knew he would sooner or later. But not with Fran around. Fran needed to believe he was a priest. Debbie didn’t want to believe it—he could tell—so he was himself with her most of the time, even talking about Confession when Fran was away from the table. That part was easy because it was true, and he almost told her then, tired of acting a part. After that he was open, giving her a chance to have a funny feeling about him, suspicious, and if she had the nerve she’d ask the question. And she did.
In the dark he offered a little more.
“You’re the only person who knows.”
“You haven’t told Fran?”
“Not while he’s talking to the prosecutor.”
“No one during all that time in Africa?”
“No one.”
“Not even your one-armed housekeeper?”
Look at that—she’d picked up on Chantelle.
“Not even her.”
“She lived with you?”
“Almost the whole time I was there.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Miss Rwanda, if they ever have a pageant.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
Debbie asked it looking straight ahead.
“If you’re wondering about AIDS it was never a threat.”
“Why would I worry about AIDS?”
“I said ‘If you were wondering.’ ”
Debbie dropped her cigarette out the window.
“She believed you were a priest?”
“It didn’t matter to her.”
“Why’ve you told me and no one else?”
“I wanted to.”
“Yeah, but why me?”
“Because we think alike,” Terry said.
She glanced at him saying, “I felt that right away.”
“And when I explain how it happened,” Terry said, “you’ll think it’s funny and see it as a skit.”
They came to an intersection, the light green, and D
ebbie turned right onto Big Beaver. Now they were passing low rolling hills on the left, a heavy cover of trees lining the other side of the road and Terry said, “Shouldn’t we have turned the other way?”
“I thought we’d go to my place,” Debbie said. “Okay?”
Terry picked up the party store bag and felt packs of cigarettes inside and a bottle with a familiar shape, four sides to it rather than perfectly round, like most fifths of whiskey.
“Red or black?”
“Red.”
“You knew what I’d say before you went in the store.”
“Yeah, but I had to set it up.”
“You have some kind of scheme working and you want my blessing. Is that it?”
She said, “Terry, you’re too good to be true.”
11
* * *
DEBBIE USED THE PHONE IN the kitchen to call Fran. She could see Terry in the living room by the glass door to the balcony, looking out at the grounds in the dark. She saw him turn to say, “All that space and no crops growing. You could have an acre of corn out there.”
“It’s a three-par golf course,” Debbie said, “nine holes,” as Fran came on the line. She spoke to him less than a minute, unhurried, but anxious to have the call out of the way. Terry came in the kitchen as she hung up.
“What’d he say?”
“He said, ‘Oh . . . ?’ I told him I’d drop you off after we have a drink, or you could stay if you want. Fran said, ‘You sure you have room?’ ”
“Who doesn’t he trust, you or me?”
“Well, since he thinks you’re celibate, and he knows I haven’t scored or been scored on in quite some time . . . I imagine he sees me seducing you. Or trying to.”
“Wishing he was here instead of me.”
She said, “I won’t comment on that. Fran and I are strictly business. You want to know how we got together?”
“He told me he used to see you around Circuit Court, you’d be testifying for other lawyers.”
“Yeah, and I always thought he was a decent guy. What happened, I saw a skycap out at Metro drop a suitcase on a woman’s foot and I brought her to Fran. He sued Northwest at a time when everyone in Detroit hated the airline. They settled and we’ve been friends ever since.”
“What do you do,” Terry said, “show people how to limp?”
“How to limp convincingly,” Debbie said, making drinks now, a tray of ice on the counter with the Johnnie Walker and a fifth of Absolut. “But we’re still on you. Tell me why, when you were in California, your mom thought you were in a seminary.”
“Because all my life she was after me to become a priest. What I couldn’t understand, why me and not Fran?”
“You have that sort of haunted look,” Debbie said, “like Saint Francis. Haunted or maybe shifty. She probably worked on Fran but you didn’t notice.”
They were both sipping their drinks now.
“Listen, if you had my mother praying for you, I’m not kidding, you could be a Carmelite nun, like my sister. She was on me even after I quit school, U of D, and went to work for my dad painting houses. I quit that and started selling insurance.”
“That sounds like Fran’s idea.”
“It was, and I hated it.”
“You hadn’t found your true calling yet, smuggling.”
“I ran out of friends who might buy a policy and moved to Los Angeles. My mother put holy cards in her letters, prayers to Saint Anthony to help me find myself. Saint Jude, the patron saint of hopeless cases. What I did, I told her, ‘You win, I’m going in the seminary,’ and had stationery printed up that said across the top, ‘The Missionaries of St. Dismas Novitiate.’ ”
Debbie said, “Wasn’t he one of the guys crucified with Christ?”
“Known as the good thief.”
“What were you, kind of a smart-ass?”
“I thought I was a genius. I used it whenever I wrote to Mom. I’d sign the letters, ‘Yours in Christ, Terry.’ ”
“This is while you were living with the girl?”
“Part of the time. Jill Silver, she was from around here originally, that’s how we came to be introduced. I think she was in a high school production of Fiddler on the Roof and decided she wanted to be a movie star.”
“She make it?”
Terry finished his drink. “Not till she had breast implants,” as he poured himself another. “Though it could’ve been a coincidence. I told her small ones were more stylish. Jill comes home from an audition at the studio and goes, ‘Well, smartie, guess what? My new rack got me the part.’ So maybe it did. Within a month she’s living with the director.”
“Tits,” Debbie said, “can make a difference. I’m thinking of getting just a lift.”
“For what?”
“My self-esteem, what else?”
“The movie Jill was in, she played a flight attendant who’s hooked on ‘ludes. Pops one in the lavatory and spills coffee all over the passengers. The other flight attendant was the star, but I can’t think of her name.”
“What were you doing at the time?”
“Insurance, the only thing where I had any experience. But as a claims adjuster. Out there it was mostly fires and mud slides.”
“No personal injury?”
“Some.”
“Could you tell when they were faking it?”
“Only if they got nervous and offered me a piece of the action.”
“Would you take it?”
“If I felt sorry for the guy.”
“Compassion,” Debbie said, “influencing your report. Even though you were helping the guy commit fraud.”
“You have to look at it more as a tip than a bribe,” Terry said. “The lawsuit pays off, the guy gives you a tip. It’s like when you win big playing blackjack. You tip the dealer, even though he hasn’t done anything to help you.”
“You see it as a gray area,” Debbie said.
“Exactly. I called Fran one time with a gray-area situation, see what he thought about it. He wouldn’t even discuss it. You know what I mean? Fran doesn’t like to go on record.”
“He’s a gray area himself,” Debbie said. “If the injury isn’t one hundred percent legit, don’t tell him. And you know he won’t ask. So he knew you weren’t in a seminary.”
“Just my mother.”
“But Fran believes you’re a priest.”
“Because of Uncle Tibor. He told my mom I got ordained.”
“He lied for you?”
“That part gets tricky.”
“Wait. First you came back from L.A.”
“The low point of my life,” Terry said. “I was working for my dad again. I was drinking—I mean more than I usually did. I didn’t have any money to speak of. No direction. I was in Lili’s one night to hear a band, I think it was the Zombie Surfers, and the Pajonny brothers walked in.”
“Your old buddies.”
“I wouldn’t say we were buddies. We played football together in high school. Had some fights—they used to pick on Fran because he had a girl’s name.”
“I was thinking in the restaurant,” Debbie said, “you should have that name. Didn’t I say you remind me of Saint Francis?”
“You mean, what you think he looked like? If I’d been named Francis I’d be dead or punch-drunk by now, all the fights I’d get into. You know what’s the worst thing about a fistfight? How long it takes your hands to heal.”
“Okay,” Debbie said, “and now you’re in the cigarette business. You make a few runs and take off for Rwanda with the thirty thousand. Or maybe more.”
“You want to know if I’ve got any money?”
“That’s what Johnny’s wondering,” Debbie said. “I wouldn’t want to owe him ten grand and not have it.”
“I’ll talk to Johnny. Don’t worry about it.”
She wondered if it would be that simple, but decided to move on. “Let’s get back to Uncle Tibor. He told your mom you were a priest—”
“You know why I wen
t there? Outside of who’s gonna look for me in Rwanda? I liked Tibor. I knew him all my life, from when he used to stay with us, and I wanted to do something for him. Paint his house, cut the grass, whatever’d make him happy. I get over there he says, ‘I don’t need a painter, I need you on the altar saying Mass, or you’re no good to me.’ ”
Debbie said, “Your mom’d told him you’d gone to a seminary.”
“That’s right, and I didn’t tell him I hadn’t. But I knew the liturgy anyway, from being an altar boy.”
“You were just a little short on theology.”
“When would I use it? Most of the people only spoke Kinyarwanda and some French. Tibor’s idea was to get me ordained right away. He was eighty years old, had a bad heart, a couple of bypasses already, he felt he wasn’t gonna be around too much longer. He said he’d work it out with a bishop friend of his to get me ordained. I thought, well, the bishop can say the words over me, but that won’t in conscience make me a priest, will it? If I don’t want to be one? You understand what I mean? I go through the motions—who knows I’m not a priest?”
“Another gray area.”
“But before it’s arranged, Tibor has a heart attack and I take him to the hospital in Kigali, the capital. I said to him, ‘Uncle Tibor, just in case, why don’t you write to Marguerite’—that’s my mother—‘while you still can, and tell her I’m finally a priest? The news coming from you would make her even happier. Write the letter and I’ll mail it after I’m ordained.’ ”
“He wrote the letter,” Debbie said.
“Yes, he did.”
“And died?”
“Not right away.”
“But you mailed the letter right away.”
“So I wouldn’t lose it.”
“You went all the way to Rwanda and stayed five years,” Debbie said, “to get your mother off your back.”
“She’s not why I stayed.”
Debbie opened a cupboard and brought out a box of crackers. “You know what it looks like? You were waiting for her to die so you could come home.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Debbie brought a wedge of Brie out of the refrigerator.
“You came, but not in time for the funeral.”
Pagan Babies Page 7
