Pagan Babies

by Elmore Leonard

  Genoa stared at him.

  “A week from Sunday,” Terry said, “I’ll be at Star of the Sea, make an appeal for the mission. See if I can raise enough to feed my little orphans, hundreds of ’em, Vito, their moms and dads killed during the genocide. You see their little faces—it tears at your heart.”

  Vito Genoa finally spoke. He said, “You don’t get up right now, Father, I’m gonna drag you across the fuckin table.”

  It was in Terry’s mind that if the guy dragged him across the fuckin table it would mess up his brand-new suit and he’d have to get it cleaned and pressed. On the other hand, if the guy did drag him across the table, in front of a roomful of witnesses, he wouldn’t have to slip and fall to threaten Randy with a lawsuit. The opportunity was waiting for him. He would have to put aside the urge to get up and punch the guy in the mouth. He was the victim here.

  He said to Genoa, “Vito, you’d lay hands on a man who’s an ordained minister of your Church?”

  “I gave up going to church for Lent,” Vito said. “I won’t need to till it looks like I’m gonna die. Okay, then I’ll cash everything in at once, tell you all my sins and ask to be forgiven.”

  “That’s presumption, my son. And presumption itself is a sin. You can’t win, Vito.”

  “You either. Move.”

  Terry said, “I’m staying,” and waited to get dragged across the table.

  But what Vito did, he came around to Terry’s end of the banquette, put his hand on Terry’s shoulder and pinched that muscle between the neck and the shoulder blade, kept pressure on it, and the sudden pain, Christ, made his arm go limp. He tried to twist away, but the guy’s fingers were clamped on tight. Debbie was yelling, “Leave him alone,” trying to hold on to his arm as the guy took hold of the front of Terry’s suit and pulled him up out of the booth by his lapels. Now he was patting Terry on the shoulder, straightening the front of his suit, Vito saying, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  Terry had to agree, it wasn’t. It needed to be a lot worse and he needed witnesses. So he said to Vito, up close, eye to eye and in a low voice:

  “You pinch, huh? Why is that, Vito, ’cause you’re a fuckin guinea faggot with no balls?”

  Said it and got what he wanted, the body punch, Vito driving a fist into him with weight behind it and it rocked Terry, punched the air out of him, hunched him over to grab hold of his stomach—Debbie screaming now—and he couldn’t get his breath, couldn’t straighten until the guy brought up his knee to catch him in the chest, the guy’s thigh ironing his face and Terry went down, landed flat on his back and lay there gasping, trying to suck air into his lungs.

  He saw Debbie close to him pulling his collar off. It didn’t help. He saw Randy looking down at him and then away, Randy saying to somebody, “Tony’s gonna hear about this. Get him out of here.” Now a guy with a crew cut—it looked like the bouncer who told Johnny the hooker was his wife—had Terry’s coat open, his belt loosened, and was pulling on the waist of his pants, lifting Terry’s back from the floor, up and down, telling him to take short breaths, in and out. Telling him, “You took a shot, you know it?”

  They were in Randy’s office now in lamplight, Debbie helping Terry into the leather chair facing the desk, Randy watching.

  “I want to know what he said to Vito Genoa.”

  Debbie’s back was to him, hunched over Terry, touching his hair, his face, their voices low as Terry asked if Johnny had got into it. Debbie said no, he was still at the table. Terry said good, lying back to rest his head against the cushion. Debbie straightened. She took the chair beneath Soupy Sales and got out her cigarettes. Randy remained on his feet, restless. He turned to Debbie.

  “He said something that pissed Vito off.”

  Debbie said, “You mean it’s okay then to beat him up, a priest, a man of God—”

  “Just shut up. I want to know what he said.”

  “Ask him.”

  “Who is he? What’re you doing with a priest?”

  “He’s a very dear friend of mine.”

  “You never told me about any priests.”

  “What’re you talking about—I went to Catholic schools, didn’t I? I told you, he’s Fr. Terry Dunn, he’s a missionary from Africa.” She looked over at Terry and said, “Father, how’s your tummy? Does it still hurt?”

  Terry turned his head on the cushion. “Not too bad. But when I move, oh boy, it’s like somebody’s sticking a knife in my back. From the way I hit the floor. I don’t think I’ll be able to say Mass tomorrow.”

  Beautiful. Just right. Debbie wanted to kiss him but had to hang on to her anguished look. She said, “I think you should go to a hospital.”

  It hooked Randy. He turned to her saying, “Shit,” and moved about without going anywhere. He seemed to be thinking for a moment, plotting, and said, “Who’s the other guy?”

  “Father’s friend Johnny. They were altar boys together at Queen of Peace.” She looked at Terry again. “Randy wants to know what you said to that man.”

  Terry turned his head on the cushion. “I asked him what parish he was in. He didn’t say, but I thought maybe he was in Our Lady Star of the Sea.” Terry groaned and closed his eyes. “Oh, boy, I never had a pain like this before.”

  “He has to leave,” Randy said, turning to Debbie. “Where’s he staying?”

  “With his brother, in Bloomfield Hills.”

  “Oh? The brother must do pretty well.”

  “He does, he’s a personal injury lawyer.”

  Randy said, “Fuck!” turning away again.

  “Or,” Debbie said, “we can settle it right here.”

  She watched Randy put on a half-assed sly look, narrowing his eyes. “That’s why you took the booth, isn’t it? You set the whole thing up.”

  “Right,” Debbie said. “I found out a couple of gangsters had reserved the booth, so we took it with the idea of pissing them off and Fr. Dunn would be injured.” Beat. “I hope not seriously.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Randy said, “come on—when did you start hanging out with priests?”

  “While I was inside, Randy, I saw the light and was saved. You know who my boss is now, a Jewish carpenter.”

  Randy said it again, “Jesus Christ—”

  And Debbie came back with “My Lord and Savior.” She said, “Randy, did you know there was a well-known TV anchorman sitting at the bar? Carlo pointed him out to us. Bill Bonds with his wife. You must know him. Carlo said he was drinking Perrier and saw the whole thing. Of course, everyone in the place saw it if they weren’t blind. You want to settle or go to court?”

  Randy took his time. Debbie believed he was facing the fact of the situation now, a priest assaulted in his restaurant, and knew she was right when he said, “How much are we talking about?”

  She said, “Two-fifty.”

  “And you didn’t set this up.”

  “I swear, Randy, it was our Savior looking out for us.”

  “All right, if you want a carpenter for a lawyer, bring him to court.” Randy paused, getting that narrow look in his eyes again. “You said, ‘ . . . looking out for us,’ didn’t you? What does his falling down, maybe drunk—I don’t know—have to do with you?”

  “Fr. Dunn and I are going in together,” Debbie said. “The settlement includes the sixty-seven thousand you stole and said you’d pay back.”

  “When did I say I owed you anything?”

  “Randy, see if you can keep your mouth shut for a minute. I’m gonna tell you how you can give us two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, feel good about it, and be able to write the whole thing off.”

  Johnny stayed at the table trying to look innocent. Debbie’s idea. He was innocent. Shit, he didn’t do anything. Still, the two mob guys gave him the stare before they left. Now Johnny had to get the waitress over and ask when he was getting his dinner. She said oh, she thought he wanted to wait for the others. He didn’t like sitting here alone, people watching him, talking about what they had s
een, so he went over to the bar where the bouncer was hanging out: standing with his arm on the bar as he looked out over the room. Johnny took a stool next to him.

  “You see what happened?”

  “ ‘Course I did.”

  “Why’d you let him deck the priest? You’re the bouncer, aren’t you?”

  “I’m Mr. Agley’s bodyguard. One of those two fellas was here? He loaned me to Mr. Agley.”

  “You’re a mob guy, uh?”

  “I told you what I do.”

  The Mutt raised his hand to look at his watch and Johnny saw the tattoo on his knuckles, B-A-N-G.

  “You ink that tat yourself?”

  The Mutt raised his hand again. “This? No, I had it done. I was a fighter.”

  The tattoo was crude and ugly enough for Johnny to ask, “Your cellmate letter it?”

  “Guy in the yard. How’d you know?”

  “Takes one to know one,” Johnny said. “I did mine in fuckin Jackson, biggest walled prison in the U.S. Where’d you?”

  “Southern Ohio.”

  “For what?”

  “Killed a guy. Shot him.”

  “That what you are, a hit man?”

  “You could say, on the side.”

  “Yeah? You’ve whacked guys?”

  “Three so far. Was a truck driver, a convict and a Chaldean.”

  “You aren’t Italian, are you?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Or from around here. How’d you get hooked up with those guys?”

  “I had a letter from a important man—”

  “In the joint?”

  “Yeah, saying to hire me.”

  “What do they call you?”

  “Just Mutt, mostly.”

  Johnny believed it. This guy was dumb as a fuckin stump. He said, “I’m Johnny, I worked for ’em five years ago. Ran cigarettes up from Kentucky.”

  “Any money in that?”

  “There was at the time. You ever see the big boss, old Tony?”

  “I drove for him one time, but he don’t come in here.”

  “He’s got a piece of it, doesn’t he?”

  The Mutt shrugged.

  Johnny said, “I knew a guy at Jackson was a hit man. He got ten grand a pop.”

  “Shit, I get more ‘n that.”

  “You must be good at it. What kind of piece you like to use?”

  “Different ones.”

  “You say you took out a truck driver, a convict and one other guy?”

  “A Chaldean. Guy wouldn’t pay his street tax.”

  “You didn’t shoot the convict.”

  “No, I shanked him.”

  “So you only actually shot two guys.”

  “Yeah, but I got one coming up.”

  “Yeah? You need a driver?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “The hitter I knew at Jacktown always used a driver.” Johnny waved the barman over and said, “Lemme borrow your pen.”

  The Mutt said, “I was thinking of going to the guy’s house.”

  Johnny wrote his phone number on a cocktail napkin saying to the Mutt, “I wouldn’t. What if other people’re there, the guy’s wife? You want to pop her, too? You also got neighbors looking out the fuckin windows.” He handed the Mutt the cocktail napkin. “Here. Case you want to get in touch with me sometime.”

  The Mutt was looking at the phone number now. He said, “For what?”

  “Get together and tell stories,” Johnny said. “Didn’t you use to talk to cons in the yard, hear their stories, what they did, how they fucked up? There was a con at Jackson had pulled over a hundred armed robberies. He’d tell where it was, how much he scored, the times he fucked up, had close calls, scrapes he got into. We’d listen ’cause this guy was funny, he knew how to tell a story and would have us all laughing. Guys’d come up to him and say, ‘Hey, Roger, tell us about the time you robbed that Safeway store.’ They’d already heard it more’n once, but it didn’t matter, it was still funny.” Johnny was grinning now and it got the Mutt to grin a little, Johnny saying, “Like we’re out’n the fuckin yard, huh?”

  The Mutt said, “I do the next fella you can read the story in the newspaper.”

  “When do I look for it?”

  “Next couple of days or so.”

  “I was wondering,” Johnny said, “you ever get to make it with those whoers that come in?”

  18

  * * *

  “TONY AMILIA HAS PROSTATE CANCER,” Terry said, holding the newspaper open in front of him. “But they caught it early, so the odds are he won’t have surgery because of his age. By the time it would kill him he’d already be dead from something else. So if he’s convicted it won’t keep him out of prison.”

  “I’ll bet he walks,” Debbie said, “or gets probation and has to pay a fine. He was brought up ten years ago on practically the same allegations and got off.”

  They were in Fran’s library reading the combined Sunday edition of the News and Free Press. A special section summarized the trial, with sidebars that described the personal lives of the defendants and a brief history of organized crime in Detroit, going back to the Purple Gang in the 1920s.

  Debbie said, “Did you know they were a Jewish gang?”

  “I knew they weren’t Mafia.” He turned from the paper to look at Debbie on the other end of the sofa, newspaper sections on the cushion between them. “Where’d they get the name, the Purple Gang?”

  “They were described as ‘colorful,’ and some guy they’d leaned on said, yeah, purple, the color of rotten meat, and it caught on.” She looked at him to ask, “How’s your back?”

  “It really is a little stiff.”

  “I loved what you told Randy—like someone sticking a knife in your back.”

  “We had him going.”

  “But he’ll never come up with the two-fifty, and he knows we’d never score that much in court.”

  “He thought we should sue Vito Genoa.”

  “Yeah, go after a Mafia hit man.”

  “If that’s what he is,” Terry said. “In the movies they’re always sending to Detroit for a hit man, like they’re sitting around waiting for calls. Guy picks up the phone, ‘Hit man, can I help you?’ I just saw a mention of it.” Terry’s gaze scanned the spread he held open. “Here it is, three people found murdered and decapitated. The two accused hit men were brought here from San Diego. If we’re supposed to have all these hit men, why send away?” He lowered the paper to his lap. “Johnny was talking to that guy he thought was a bouncer? That’s Randy’s bodyguard, the one you were talking about they call the Mutt. He told Johnny he’s sort of a hit man, does it on the side. He says he’s killed three people and has a contract to do another one.”

  “Why would he tell Johnny that?”

  “That’s what Johnny said. You can tell a con inside, but not some guy comes up to you at the bar. He says the guy’s too stupid to be trusted with a contract. The only thing Johnny wanted was the phone number of that redhead he was talking to at the bar. Her name’s Angie.”

  “He get the number?”

  “Yeah, but he wouldn’t tell me.”

  Debbie didn’t bite, still looking at her section of the paper. They had spent the night in Fran and Mary Pat’s king-size bed, getting even more serious and sweaty than any of the times before, here or other places. She took offense when he said, “Honey, you could be a pro,” turning away from him saying, “Thanks a lot.” He tried to make peace telling her it didn’t come out right. “I meant it as a compliment.” She rolled back to him saying, “I’m better than any pro, Terry, I’m emotionally involved.” Being in bed with Debbie was an experience he could take with him and look at for as long as he lived. There was a tender moment, seeing her face in the soft light from the window, when he’d almost said he was in love with her.

  “What I’m thinking,” Terry said, “if the Mutt’s as stupid as Johnny says he is, and then you read the wiretap conversations, the two mob guys in the car . . .
?”

  “I haven’t come to that yet.”

  “Even their attorney refers to them as nitwits. He told the jury they learned to talk tough watching movies like The Godfather and Mean Streets.”

  “But they’re really nice guys.”

  “Yeah, they can’t help it if they’ve got this image from the movies and people are intimidated by it. There could be some truth to that, you listen to the tapes. The FBI bugged their car and you hear the two guys. They’re parked across Michigan Avenue from a party store that fronts a sports book. They refer to the owner of the place as a camel jockey, so he’s from the Mideast, maybe a Chaldean. They’re gonna shoot out the store window, so the guy must owe them money. But it’s raining and neither one of these enforcers wants to get out of the car. The one guy says, ‘Can’t you hit it from here?’ And the other guy says, ‘There’s too fuckin many people on the street. Look at ’em, walking around. Who the fuck says Detroit streets aren’t safe?’ They’re driving back to the east side and get lost. ‘Where the fuck’s Ninety-six? It’s suppose to be right here.’ There’s more of the tape, the same ones talking about what would happen if Tony Amilia got whacked. They sound like kids trying to act tough.”

  “Did they shoot out the window?”

  “Not that time. Some of the bookies, witnesses at the trial, said yeah, they’d get threatened but never worried about it too much. They said it’s not like you used to read about Gotti and the New York mob.”

  “They’re referred to as the ‘quiet mob,’ ” Debbie said. “Tony Amilia has never been convicted of a crime; he’s a family man, fifteen grandchildren; gives to charities, a major contributor to Boysville; minds his own business, Mayflower Linen Supply, and lives quietly in Grosse Pointe Park. I just saw a picture of his home.” Debbie turned through the pages of the section until she saw it again and handed the paper to Terry.

  “Windmill Point Drive,” Terry said, looking at it. “Houses used to be a million and up along there, right on the lake. They’re probably more now. It goes, up the shore, Grosse Pointe Park, Grosse Pointe, Grosse Pointe Farms and Grosse Pointe Woods off the lake, across the freeway from Harper Woods, where I grew up. Right below Harper Woods—give you a tour of the east side—is Copland, where a lot of white Detroit cops live. Fran says they’re talking about changing the rule and they won’t have to live inside the city limits anymore. Most of the mob guys, outside of Amilia, live north of the Pointes, up past St. Clair Shores in Clinton Township.”