Pagan Babies

by Elmore Leonard

  “Hot coals,” Terry said.

  Katy was edging around the table toward him. “Do you know any more?”

  “How about Saint Sebastian?”

  “He was stuck with arrows.”

  “Katy’s into saints,” Mary Pat said. “She picked it up from Jane who got most of them off the Internet—they’re little cyber Catholics—but now Jane’s into serious tennis, USTA competition, ten-and-under age group. She started last year when she was seven, lost her first couple of matches and hasn’t lost since. Jane’s now regional champ,” Mary Pat said, touching Jane now, fooling with her hair. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

  She said to Terry, “You know who I want to play? Serena Williams, she won the Open.”

  “Isn’t she a lot older than you are?”

  “Yeah, but when I’m her age? She’ll only be like twenty-four or -five.” She turned to her mom then. “How come you said he’s Uncle Terry instead of Father?”

  “I thought he became a priest,” Mary Pat said, “but he really didn’t. He was kidding.”

  Jane said, “Oh,” and walked away from them. Katy caught up with her and Jane said, “You’re not suppose to call him Father anymore,” and Katy said, “I know.” Mary Pat waited until they’d picked up their backpacks and were out of the room.

  “You see how easy it is? No big deal. Uncle Terry isn’t a priest. Okay. They think you’re just a good guy who knows something about saints. Nothing wrong with that.” She said, “Do you realize this is the first time we’ve talked?”

  “Mary Pat, you could’ve been a good prosecuting attorney.”

  “I could’ve been good at a lot of things. I chose to marry your brother and have children and be a homemaker, and that’s what I am. If you want to be a crook, Terry, that’s up to you. I won’t pry anymore or get in your way. I just want to ask you one more question. Maybe two.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Does she really like the way I’ve done the house?”

  “Debbie? She loves it. It reminds her of the home she grew up in. What’s the other question?”

  “Will she stick by you, Terry, if you fuck up?”

  23

  * * *

  THE MUTT CAME IN AT NOON. He stuck his head in Randy’s office, said, “It’s all set for tonight,” and started away.

  “Wait a minute—Mutt? What’s all set?”

  The Mutt appeared in the doorway again. “I’m gonna do both of ’em tonight. Mr. Moraco first.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m waiting to find out where to meet him. You know, so he can gimme the gun and my money.”

  Randy was standing at the desk in his shirt sleeves, dark shirt, light-colored tie. He sat down. “You don’t have a gun?”

  “I guess I didn’t tell you. Mr. Moraco’s giving me twenty-five to do the priest and he’ll furnish the gun. That’s the deal. So I’ll have me one by then.”

  Randy said, “To do Vincent.”

  “Yeah, once he gives it to me.”

  Randy took his time. “You’re gonna use the gun Vincent gives you to do Vincent.”

  “I may as well, huh?” And said, “Well, I’ll see you” as he started out.

  “Wait.”

  The man’s simplicity was overwhelming: this little Hoosier, bless his heart, standing there with his muscles and scar tissue waiting now to be dismissed, hat in hand—Randy was thinking—if he had a hat.

  Randy said to him, “Mutt? Be careful.”

  Midafternoon Johnny Pajonny was waiting for him at the bar. The Mutt had called saying he wanted to talk to him. Johnny asked what about, and the Mutt said, “You know. Remember what you mentioned the other night?” He wouldn’t say more than that on account of the phone might be bugged. It was pitiful the way this guy’s mind worked. Johnny assumed it was about the whoers. After the Mutt had fixed him up with Angie, Johnny said he’d be interested in trying some of the other girls. He had a deal going: he’d told Angie he was a mob guy and expected the usual mob discount on the three hundred she ordinarily got, so he only had to pay her a bill and a half—

  There he was now, the Mutt coming out from the back of the restaurant, but then the bartender said something to him as he was going past and the Mutt went back to the other end of the bar and picked up the phone. After a minute he was waving to the bartender—he needed a pen. Now he was writing something down—back at the end where the waiters got their drink orders filled.

  Johnny was pretty sure Angie liked him and didn’t mind the discount. She was so good it was quick anyway. He could always go back; but why not try another one of the whoers and go for the mob discount? That’s what he thought this was about.

  The Mutt walked up to him and said, “I’m gonna take you up on your offer.”

  Johnny hadn’t offered him anything, so he wasn’t sure what the guy meant. He said, “Yeah . . . ?”

  “You offered to drive for me.”

  Johnny said, “Lemme get a drink,” and ordered a vodka tonic, giving himself time to readjust his mind, switch from thinking about whoers to contract hits, and talk to a guy Johnny believed might never’ve even fired a gun before outside of a single-shot .22 down on the farm, shooting squirrels and chipmunks. He would accept the Mutt having shanked some con in the yard, and maybe, just maybe, he might’ve shot a guy in a bar fight as they tussled. But a real contract? Look at the guy. It didn’t seem likely.

  “You’re saying to me you have a contract to make a hit and you want me to drive the car.”

  “Two,” the Mutt said.

  “Two what?”

  “I got two contracts, both for tonight.”

  Johnny got his drink and took a good sip. “You have a car?”

  “Don’t the driver supply the car?”

  “You think I’m gonna drive mine? No, the way it’s done, the hitter supplies the car. Otherwise it doubles the risk for the driver. First, for boosting a car, and second, I could go down as an accessory. No, I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

  “All right, I’ll get a car,” the Mutt said.

  Now Johnny hesitated. “Say you do, where you want to go?”

  The Mutt took a cocktail napkin from his shirt pocket, unfolded it and looked at his handwriting. “Franklin Street between St. Aubin and Dubois. You know where that’s at?”

  “Yeah, but there ain’t nothing there, it’s all warehouses and old empty buildings. Let’s see, outside of some bars, the Soup Kitchen’s close by there.”

  “He said that, the Soup Kitchen was on a corner down there, not too far.”

  “What’s the guy gonna be doing, sitting in his car waiting for you?” It didn’t make sense.

  But the Mutt said, “I guess.”

  “What time?”

  “Eight o’clock. He said sharp.”

  “The guy that gave you the contract.”

  “Yeah. You want to drive me?”

  Johnny gave himself more time saying, “It depends on what you’re paying.”

  “Well, I’m not sure, tell you the truth.”

  This guy had no idea what he was doing. Still, it didn’t sound like he was making it up, so Johnny pried some more. He said, “You want to negotiate driver pay based on what you’re getting? That’s one way it’s done.”

  “They’re paying twenty-five each—”

  “That’s right, you got two contracts.”

  “Twenty-five hunnert for one, twenty-five thousand for the other.”

  Johnny said, “Uh-huh.” This guy was pure idiot. Get him to explain that. But then thought, No, don’t. Ask him . . . Johnny said, “You get half down?”

  “The twenty-five hunnert I’m getting up ahead, the whole thing. But I haven’t got none of the other one, the big one.”

  Johnny said, “Mutt, the way it works, the only way it works, you get half down or you don’t do the job. Otherwise you could get fucked over real good. You know what I mean? No, the first rule of this kind of business, Mutt, you gotta get half d
own.”

  The Mutt said, “Okay then.”

  Johnny took time to light a cigarette and sip his vodka tonic. “All right, here’s the deal. I come by here . . . No, I better not. Lemme think . . . Where you have to go for the other one?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Mutt, I hate to say it, but you don’t sound like you know shit what you’re doing.”

  “I need to find out where to go, that’s all.”

  Jesus Christ. Johnny took another sip of his drink. “I’ll tell you what, you get hold of a car and come by the MGM Grand—you know where it’s at?”

  Mutt squinted, like he was trying to picture the place.

  “The gambling casino, Mutt, you can’t fuckin miss it, over by the Lodge freeway? That’ll be your test, to find it. You pull up to the main entrance there at half past seven with five grand in your hand, slide over, you got yourself a driver.”

  “I’ll be there,” the Mutt said.

  The guy was an idiot, but so what? He’d have the five or he wouldn’t.

  * * *

  Randy looked up from his desk to see the Mutt back again, the Mutt saying he forgot to mention he was supposed to get half the money down on the contract and could he have it now. But not sounding convinced that he should, still hat in hand.

  “You want to make sure you’re paid,” Randy said. “I can understand that, but you’re a little late for it to do you any good today.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The banks are closed. You won’t be able to deposit the check until tomorrow anyway. Why not wait and get the full amount, twenty five big ones paid to the order of Searcy J. Bragg, Jr.”

  “I also forgot to tell you,” the Mutt said, “I want it in cash, twelve thousand and five hunnert dollars.”

  “Well, now, that’s not possible.”

  “Cash, or no deal.”

  Randy stood up and pulled the pockets out of his pants. He saw the Mutt grin and told him, “You have me at a disadvantage. Where’m I supposed to get it if the banks close at four?”

  “You lock your door,” the Mutt said, “it’s a woman or it’s money business.”

  “And what’s that, a Hoosierism?”

  “Heidi or some woman’s in here with you or you’re getting money out of the secret place you keep it. You pay my wages in cash, you pay Mr. Moraco his end in cash, and you said when you gimme the job, you said cash or check.”

  Yes, he did say that; but Randy’s plan from the beginning was to give the Mutt a check and stop payment on it as soon as the Mutt took off. Since it was hardly something he could explain, Randy said, “All right, I’ll give you your check.”

  “I want cash.”

  “I can write you a check, Mutt, for the entire amount, right now.”

  “Cash or no deal.”

  Randy took his time. “Has Vincent paid you?”

  “For the priest? Tonight he’s gonna.”

  “How much?”

  “I told you before, twenty-five.”

  “Really? I know you said he’s getting you a gun—”

  “You don’t believe me,” the Mutt said, “call him up. Pay me first, it’ll be the last time you ever hear his voice. And never again have to watch him eat.”

  It gave Randy a picture of Vincent Moraco, a dinner napkin tucked in his collar, head lowered over his free lunch, and it was enough to get Randy to change his mind, stop his quibbling. He said to the Mutt, “You’re right, you’re doing me an enormous favor and should have your money whatever way you want it. I have to confess, Mutt, at times I tend to lose sight of main objectives and become niggardly over details.”

  The Mutt said, “You do?”

  The machete was still in the kitchen, where Johnny had been playing with it.

  Mary Pat asked Terry why he’d brought it home and he told her it was a reminder. She said she wouldn’t think he would have to be reminded of an experience so horrifying, all those poor people murdered. He said he found the machete in the church, the place where it was used, and it brought back to him parts of the scene in detail that were like—what do you call it—tableaux, hideous moments caught in stop-motion, silent, without the screams, the din of voices. She didn’t ask about the details, so he kept them to himself. He told the little girls the knife was used to cut sugarcane and hack stalks of bananas from the trees.

  And he’d left the canvas bag of photos in the kitchen.

  When they were ready to look at the pictures he placed them on the butcher-block table, displaying all of them except a stack bound with green rubber bands he dropped back in the bag. The girls climbed up on stools to have a look, got interested, knelt on the stools to get closer, over the photos, and began asking questions. What’s he doing? Looking for scraps of charcoal so he can sell it or make a fire. Why? So he can have something to eat, roast an ear of corn. Why doesn’t his mom do it? He doesn’t have a mom, he’s an orphan. What’s an orphan? You know, Mom told us. I forget what one is. A kid who doesn’t have a mom or dad. They let him play with fire? He’s not playing, he knows what he’s doing. Rwanda, you grow up in a hurry or you don’t make it. The ones here’re at the orphanage, playing some kind of game. What’s he doing? That’s a girl. How do you know? She’s wearing a dress. It doesn’t look like a dress. How come they don’t have any hair? They shave it off so they won’t get, like, bugs in their hair. What kind of bugs? Any kind, Africa, I never saw so many bugs in my life. On the wall, they look like wallpaper designs moving. He looked over at Mary Pat, at the sink rinsing lettuce. What’s he doing? That’s a garbage dump and he’s looking for food, anything he can eat, even if it’s, well, a little rotten. Won’t he get sick? Probably, if not from that from something else. Why doesn’t he go to the store? He’s poor, he doesn’t have any money. Why doesn’t his mom go? He doesn’t have one. I explained that, these kids’re orphans. Why? I just told you, they don’t have parents. Why not? Oh. The parents died, so most of the kids don’t have a place to live. Mom said that’s why you came home, to get money from people for the little orphans.

  He looked over at Mary Pat again, Mary Pat looking back at him this time. She said, “Why don’t one of you girls get the atlas? Show Uncle Terry where he lives?”

  Katy wanted to get it so they let her, and while they were waiting the phone rang, the one on the wall by the sink. Mary Pat got it and turned to Terry.

  “Your fund-raising partner.”

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Showing my pictures to the girls.”

  “Does Mary Pat know?”

  “Everything. I mean every thing.”

  “What’d she say? . . . Oh, you can’t talk, can you? Listen, Ed Bernacki called, we’re going to see Tony. And guess where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “His house. You remember Ed told me no one gets in his house except family and goombas? We’re going to his house. Oh, and you’re being picked up.”

  “You’re coming by? When?”

  “No, they’re sending a car for you, seven-thirty.”

  “Why?”

  “Ed says we’re seeing him, I don’t ask questions.”

  “Are you being picked up?”

  “Yes, we both are.”

  “Then why don’t we go together?”

  “Maybe we are, but the way Ed said it, it sounded like we’re being picked up separately.”

  “Why can’t you get picked up and then you come over and pick me up?”

  “Maybe that’s what’ll happen.”

  “Can you check with Ed, tell him we want to go together?”

  “What’re you worried about, you nitwit, he’s giving us the money.”

  The girls, head-to-head over the atlas open on the counter, were looking for Rwanda, Katy saying, “Mom showed us where it is.” Jane saying, “It’s hard to find. It’s suppose to be right here . . . somewhere.”

  “It’s hard to find,” Terry said, “even when you know where it is. You see Lake Victoria? Rwanda’s a
half inch or so to the left. The one that’s mostly green, and it is, the whole country’s like a big vegetable garden.”

  “Aren’t there any wild animals?”

  “There isn’t room for them, it’s almost all farmland, except here in this corner where the gorillas live, up in the mountains.”

  “We saw gorillas in a movie. A lady was talking to them. She said you have to be real quiet or the gorillas get mad, like they think you might hurt them.”

  “That’s the way gorillas are,” Terry said, “you have to be careful around them.” He looked up to see Mary Pat on the other side of the table, watching him. He said to her, “We’re meeting our benefactor later on this evening. Anthony Amilia. You know who he is?”

  She hesitated before saying, “Of course I do,” turned to the sink again to gather the lettuce in a dishtowel and carry it to the refrigerator. When she looked at him again, all she said was, “Does Fran know?”

  “He left, I haven’t had a chance to talk to him.”

  “Will you call him?”

  “If you want me to. I was hoping he’d be home before I left.”

  “Terry, Fran and I don’t keep secrets from one another. I called him after we talked this morning.”

  “You ratted me out, huh?” She didn’t smile and he said, “You know I would’ve told him the whole story. The only reason I haven’t, Fran was still talking to the prosecutor about me, even after I got home. I felt he couldn’t in conscience do that unless he believed I was a priest.”

  She said, “Being deceitful doesn’t bother you?”

  “Not too much, no. You think I should’ve gone to prison instead of Rwanda?”

  “I have no idea,” Mary Pat said, “what you did in Rwanda, besides take pictures of kids.”

  “I thought I did okay,” Terry said, “considering. I said Mass once in a while, always Christmas and Easter. I heard Confession every week. I asked my housekeeper one time if she thought I was doing any good. She said I could do better.”

  For a moment there Mary Pat looked as though she might be in shock, speechless. He knew, though, it wouldn’t last.