The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  One time his wife was racing their son, Robbie, to the hospital, the boy’s arm fractured while skateboarding, and she was pulled over. The officer was a cocky son of a bitch out to make his monthly quota and he wasn’t giving an inch, even after seeing the child’s pain. The ticket was for doing sixty in a thirty zone, the two-pointer, five-hundred-dollar kind. All the begging in the world wouldn’t change that cop’s mind; he didn’t even offer to help them to the hospital. Jeannie requested, then recommended, then demanded that Paul take care of it; bury the ticket, work some magic with his police brethren. But Busch would have nothing to do with it; even though the ticket would double their insurance rates, he flat out refused. “The law is the law,” he kept saying. Jeannie didn’t forgive him for two weeks, refused to have sex with him for a month. She told him, “You got laws? So do I.”

  Next to Busch’s desk sat Johnny Prefi. An unlit Marlboro hung from his mouth. His black spiky hair stood straight up—not from hair gel but from a four-week lack of soap and water. His sleeveless T-shirt read, Fuck you. Keep staring and I’ll kill you. Have a nice day.

  It was easy to understand why he was wearing handcuffs.

  “Johnny, seeing as how you’re an arsonist on parole, anything more than a barbecue is a parole violation,” Busch said.

  Johnny just stared back at Busch as if he didn’t comprehend the English language.

  “And torching a warehouse for someone is a little more than a seaside cookout.”

  “Hey, nobody got hurt,” Johnny said with a sincere snarl.

  “Hey, you’re missing the point. Fire—”

  “Scared of the flame, huh?” Johnny taunted him; he’d hit a nerve.

  “If I liked fire”—Busch was beyond pissed—“I would have been a fireman.” He went back to his paperwork.

  Johnny was thinking; a wicked little smile creased his face as he tilted up the unlit cigarette pinched between his lips. “Got a light?”

  Busch stared in disbelief.

  Captain Robert Delia, Busch’s by-the-book boss, interrupted before the big cop could explode. “Paulie, say hello to Dennis Thal. Thal’s gonna be tagging you.”

  Busch rose to greet a mildly handsome man of thirty. Light brown hair receding just a bit. Nice suit, firm handshake. Thal’s body language screamed arrogant enthusiasm—shoulders back, left hand in his pocket, head tilted just a bit to the side.

  “Glad to meet you.”

  “Glad to be here.” Thal’s voice was smooth, subtle, just above a hushed tone.

  “No offense,” Busch said to Thal as he turned to Delia. “But I don’t have time to play nursemaid, Captain.”

  Delia may have been half a foot shorter than Busch, but in his mind, the captain could crush this man under his boot and had no problem reestablishing the chain of command. “Listen to me, Paulie, Detective Thal’s got nine years under his belt. He’s on loan from State to help us cover our staff problems. They wanted him to work the rounds with our best but they are all on vacation so he’s stuck with you. Capisce?”

  Busch knew when to fight and when to stand down. He nodded.

  “In addition to his detective responsibilities, Paul here handles our parole program on behalf of the courts,” the captain continued.

  Busch looked at Thal, decided babysitting him was a discussion for another day, and took on a serious, Walter Cronkite air. “I’m sure the captain told you about our wonderful working environment. Some call it Oz—I call it Eden and all the parolees we deal with are one hundred percent reformed.”

  Delia grunted, turned to Thal, and led him away. “Let me show you your desk before he poisons you on the whole law enforcement profession.”

  “See you around,” Busch called out, not particularly liking his boss today.

  Thal turned and with a finger point and a wink said, “You will.”

  Busch turned away, and said quietly to no one in particular: “Dweeb.”

  Mary was the teacher you always wanted. In a blue train-engineer’s cap, she led a conga line of five-year-olds around the classroom, all rapping military style at the top of their little lungs.

  “When you ride our choo choo, one plus one is always two. Our engine makes a mighty roar, two plus two is always four. To the station we are never late, four plus four is always eight.”

  Her classroom was a superbly organized child’s dream, with lots of toys and learning stations. Since being hired two months ago to fill the position of a teacher who’d never returned from maternity leave, Mary had won not only the respect of her fellow teachers but the love and admiration of the children. They adored her.

  She was offered the kindergarten class, her favorite grade, young minds like unformed clay, young hearts still pure. Greenwich Country Day paid slightly better than Wilby but it was the allure of these five-year-olds that captured her. She had been teaching fifth grade, children on the verge of junior high; she loved them but felt she could contribute more if given the opportunity to provide a foundation early on. She couldn’t deny herself; their innocence was closer to her optimistic view of life.

  Quietly, the principal, Liz Harvey, her gray hair swept up in a bun, stepped into the room smiling at the shouting children. Instantly, the classroom fell silent. Liz handed a piece of paper to Mary. Mary glanced at it, her face hard to read.

  “Everything all right?” Liz put her hand on Mary’s shoulder.

  “Fine.” Mary smiled back, still looking at the message from her doctor.

  “Good news, I hope. This classroom has a way of enhancing one’s fertility.” Liz was already thinking about where she would find another replacement. This would make the fifth kindergarten teacher in three years to go out on maternity leave and find the joys of motherhood too compelling to return to work. “If your husband isn’t around I’d be happy to drive you.”

  “Don’t be silly. You sure you don’t mind covering for me?”

  “Not at all.”

  Michael stood behind the counter of Safe & Sound, smiling as he stared at a small handwritten note. It simply read: Hi, sexy. Mary had stuck it in the pocket of the blue sport jacket she wore the other night, the same jacket he was wearing now. She continually played this game with him, leaving notes and little presents in the pockets for Michael to find when he finally got the clothing back. It was a silly thing but he loved her all the more for it.

  “Did you hear what I said?” A gruff elderly man by the name of Rosenfield was chastising him as the man’s beautiful trophy bride stood several subservient steps behind him. “I just want it fixed.” Rosenfield’s slow-play security VCR sat on the counter for the second time in two weeks.

  “I’ll fix it.”

  The wife, unbeknownst to her husband, was seductively looking at Michael. Michael tried hard as hell not to notice but was sucked in. She was too gorgeous and her smile too bright. He subtly scratched his nose with his wedding-ring finger, in the hope she would get the message. But she simply smiled and raised her two-carat diamond in response.

  “My home’s security is crucial. The installation work was fine but this equipment…your choice of suppliers leaves something to be desired—” Rosenfield saw where Michael’s attention was focused. “You’re not even listening to me.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Rosenfield.” Michael snapped back to attention. “I said I’d make it right and I will.”

  “I want action, not words.” Rosenfield paused and finally softened. “I like you, Michael. But maybe you should consider another field.”

  “Nah, I like this one. I’m good at it.”

  Rosenfield didn’t seem to believe it. “Do you have any other skills?”

  “Nothing legal.” Michael grinned.

  “Nothing legal?” Rosenfield headed for the door, laughing. “I like that. I expect the VCR back by the weekend.” He hooked arms with his wife and continued out the door, chuckling. “Nothing legal.”

  His beautiful wife looked over her shoulder at Michael with a smile. Michael couldn’t help smiling b
ack; it was any man’s reaction to flirtation.

  Mary, still wearing the train-engineer’s cap, walked in the shop, brushing by the exiting Rosenfields.

  “Loyal customer?” she teased.

  “Huh? No, no. Disgruntled, maybe a little horny.”

  Mary wrapped her arms around him. “What if I said I was a disgruntled, horny customer?”

  “Then I’d have to check out your entire system,” Michael was choosing his words slowly, carefully, “strip it down, examine everything, use only the finest tools. But most important, make sure you’re completely satisfied when you leave so you become a repeat customer.”

  “Can I keep my hat on?”

  “We’ll see.” Michael kissed his wife deeply, completely seduced. Jealousy was obviously not a factor in their relationship. As the kiss dissolved, something occurred to him. He glanced at his watch. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

  Michael sped through the center of the city, white-knuckling the wheel. His mind was racing as fast as the car. Mary sat next to him, her hands folded calmly in her lap.

  “How could you hide this from me?”

  “I wasn’t hiding anything from you, Michael. I just didn’t want you to worry.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They want to see me about my tests.”

  “And that’s nothing? What kind of tests?”

  Mary could hear the fear in Michael’s voice as she stared out the window.

  “Mary, what kind?”

  She took a breath. “Ovarian.”

  Michael gripped the wheel even tighter as he struggled to breathe. He couldn’t turn his head toward her, afraid that doing so would somehow make this nightmare come true.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing, honey. Hey, it’s not like I’m dying—”

  “Did the doctor say that? I can’t believe you had these tests and didn’t tell me.”

  Mary remained calm, always the optimist; everything would be all right, she was certain of it, it was her mantra. “Hey, look at me.” She touched his face gently. “I’m not going anywhere, Michael. We’re just getting our lives back on track. If I’m not worried…”

  “I think we can treat it,” the doctor said.

  Michael kept rubbing Mary’s back, as much an effort to calm himself as to calm her. Dr. Rhineheart took on a fatherly tone. “We’re going to treat it. We’ve a very high success rate and your condition doesn’t seem to have spread beyond the ovaries.”

  They were sitting in a typical, sterile doctor’s office, oak desk, two guest chairs, a two-picture frame containing images of his middle-aged wife and two kids. Dr. Phillip Rhineheart, forty-five, balding and gray at the temples, stood leaning back on the front of his desk. He always found it too formal to sit behind it and discuss people’s lives as if they were just business. Michael and Mary St. Pierre were trying to be stoic for each other but Rhineheart saw through them. The doctor had seen it too many times: the hideous disease that eats away not only the human being but the human soul, wreaking havoc, infecting all the loved ones with a sheer sense of dread. “I know this is hard—”

  “What about children?” Mary’s voice was distant.

  Rhineheart shook his head. “Both ovaries are invaded.” He took a deep breath. “We’re going to have to remove them.” This was the worst part of his job and it had caused him many a sleepless night. “I’m sorry.”

  Mary placed her hand upon her husband’s as he continued to rub her shoulder. Both of them strained to avoid eye contact, for to look at each other would surely shatter what little composure they had remaining.

  “This treatment—how much does the—what does it…” Michael couldn’t finish the question.

  “You can relax about that. It’s covered by insurance.”

  “How much?” Michael pressed, afraid of the answer.

  “Mary’s cancer is in an advanced state. It could cost upward of two hundred fifty thousand, depending on the regime we prescribe. Relax. It’s nothing experimental. Insurance covers all the phases.” Rhineheart paused to emphasize his confidence. “And I assure you our cancer facility is the finest.”

  The small room was closing in on him. In all his life Michael had never felt more powerless, more inferior than right now. He felt like the reluctant executioner at the switch, powerless to save the life before him. “We don’t have insurance,” he said, as if decreeing a death sentence.

  This was happening too often, people living unprepared. Rhineheart was one of the few doctors who pressed for mandatory governmental coverage of all U.S. citizens, but that was just a dream. Not enough profit to make it “worthwhile.” He turned to Mary. “What about the school? They should have an excellent insurance program.”

  “I’ve only been there two months. It’s ninety days before you’re eligible,” Mary replied. The hope had slipped from her eyes.

  “I see.” Rhineheart exhaled slowly. He’d donate his services but the surgery costs, hospitalization, the radiation and chemo—the hospital wasn’t a charity. Medicine was a for-profit business, the hospital had budgets to meet, shareholders to satisfy. Medicine was no longer about the patient; rate of return was the goal of medical care. He suddenly hated his job.

  Finally, he stood up and said in a confident tone, “Well, I’ve got to get you started on some blood work, Mary, so we can design a treatment program. Michael, why don’t you speak to your bank? I’d be happy to help you with the paperwork—I’m sure you can work something out.”

  Michael sat there, stunned.

  Chapter 5

  Michael emerged from the brass revolving door into the First Bank of Byram Hills’ enormous rotunda and felt instantly dwarfed by its grand marble pillars and vast cavernous space. Businesspeople rushed by on all sides as he stood there in his only suit feeling way out of his element. He was five minutes late for his appointment and made to wait twice as long before the bank officer grimly gestured him into a chair.

  Kerry Seitz, a tight-jawed VP of the bank impeccably clad in a three-piece suit, scrutinized Michael’s file. Seitz’s face was impossible to read as he absorbed the material. Not a sound passed his lips for fifteen minutes as he picked through Michael’s life from various sources: credit agencies, DMV, the state and federal court systems. Michael felt like a child in the oversized chair, trying to fit in, trying not to look desperate.

  Finally, Seitz looked up. He ran his hand through his perfect hair and in the coldest tone Michael had ever heard said, “No. I’m sorry.”

  “What?”

  “We can’t help you.” Seitz tossed the application in his out-box.

  “You haven’t asked me a single question.”

  “I’ve read your application. We would need to secure the loan with an asset.” He had already put Michael’s request behind him, busying himself with another document.

  “My business is my asset,” Michael protested, seeing through to the man’s fearful stereotyping soul.

  “Your background”—the words came icily—“for lack of a better word, Mr. St. Pierre, makes this impossible.”

  “I know I’ve made some mistakes.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t have a problem when I opened my business account here.”

  “Holding your money and loaning you money are two entirely different things.”

  Michael jumped out of his chair, barely containing himself from flying across the desk at this man’s throat. “I’ll go to another bank.”

  “I’ll save you the time,” Seitz said, rising. The bank security guards were taking notice, edging closer. “Nobody is going to loan you a nickel. You’re a convicted felon with a worthless business and no credit history. You’re a risk that no one will take.”

  “You son of a bitch, my wife is dying!”

  “I’m sorry, but that is a burden you will have to shoulder on your own. Good day.” The guards arrived, flanking Michael. Without another word, he stormed out.

  An obscenely white room. It’s remark
able that in this day and age, with everyone running around talking about bedside manner, hospitals have stuck with antiseptic harsh white. All the studies about how blues and yellows relax the mind were apparently lost on the medical world. “Impersonal” was the operative word here, a cold approach to treatments, attitudes, and architectural design.

  Mary and Michael were eating one of those hospital meals: pot roast in watery brown gravy, soggy beans spilling into the mashed potatoes that were thicker than mortar, and a slice of pear of unidentifiable color. The meal was the obvious explanation for the assortment of chips and cookies strewn along the bed. Mary was propped up, tubes running in and out of her body from the most uncomfortable places. Michael had pulled up a chair, using her bed as a table.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m OK. How was work?”

  “Fine.” He hadn’t been to work in three days.

  He reached over, scooped up some mashed potatoes, and inhaled them. “These aren’t bad.” An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Michael looked at Mary lying there in that skimpy white hospital gown with the embarrassing slit up the back and realized he’d give his soul to trade places with her.