Agnes Among the Gargoyles

by Patrick Flynn

  She slides the picture out of the frame and discovers, behind it, an envelope with her name on it.

  "Now what do you make of this?" she says.

  She reads the letter within and then, wearing a troubled expression, gives it to Bezel.

  Bezel reads:

  If you are reading this, dear sister, then we must assume I am dead. You are going through my things, delighted at finding the photograph you have always coveted. No doubt I am not yet cold in my grave. I write this in English in case it is not you who finds it.

  Bezel reads on. The Frenchman writes about the disposition of his property. He mentions several hidden bankbooks, and a life insurance policy.

  "It's his will," says Bezel.

  "It's more than that, Jackie."

  I have never thought of myself as someone destined to die of natural causes. If there is any question about my death, you must assume that I was killed. I am serious about this. More than likely I was done in by a man named John Bezel. He and I have a relationship of long standing. Bezel, an ex-boxer, is known by all who frequent the Blarney Castle. Marguerite, go to the police. Tell them about Bezel. He has killed before. A long time ago he did in the girl he was to marry. He was never brought to trial for that one.

  Marguerite takes back the letter. "Do you know this man, Bezel?"

  "Yes. Everybody does."

  "Is he—could my brother be right?"

  "It's very possible."

  "Well," she says thoughtfully, "then I must go to the police."

  "He's not the sort you want to be alone in a basement with, no."

  She studies the letter. She looks up when she hears a noise coming from upstairs.

  "What's the matter?" says Bezel.

  "The telephone," she says, but she doesn't say exactly what seems strange to her: that it is working when he said it wasn't, or that she can barely hear it. Perhaps she hadn't noticed her host's closing the cellar door.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  When the Palace of Versailles finally opens to the public, there are no protests from the followers of Reverend Lenten Gunn. Wegeman tells the Reverend, "I know your people don't gamble, but they're welcome whenever they like. The Palace of Versailles isn't just a bunch of dice tables, you know. We've got something for everyone. We've got gracious dining, buffet or sit-down. We've got great shows, too. Sandy Baron is already booked, and he's funny like hell. We've also got Robert Klein and Leslie Uggams, and she's just the most charming colored woman—hey, Rev, where's your sense of humor? Your people can even use the health club."

  Very soon large groups of the Reverend's congregation begin appearing in the Palace of Versailles. The men wear dark suits and hangdog expressions. The women are fierce-eyed virtuous things in matching dresses and shoes and big hats with little lace veils. Both sexes are armed with bibles. They have lunch at the buffet and stroll through the lobby and wander around the swimming pool. Some even stand goggle-eyed in the casino. "I predict a few converts to the sporting life, Syker," cackles the Great Man.

  The Palace of Versailles must show them a good time, because more and more start showing up. The hotel is filled with people clutching bibles.

  "The novelty'll wear off soon," says the Great Man.

  He takes steps to make sure it does. The hotel stops comping checks for Reverend Gunn's flock. When that has no effect, minimums are posted in all the restaurants.

  "These holy rollers can nurse an iced tea for an hour," the Great Man fumes. "They suck the straw, but the liquid doesn't get any lower. Maybe it's a miracle. That would be just my luck." Health club privileges are revoked. Security guards are instructed to ask anyone holding a bible for his or her room key, and to remind those who cannot produce one that non-guests without an escort are allowed only on the Promenade Level.

  "And we'll take all the frigging chairs out of the lobby, that's for shit sure," Wegeman tells an aide.

  Nothing seems to work. The Reverend's people just won't go away. They don't bother anyone. They just stand there, holding their bibles.

  Wegeman confronts Reverend Gunn. "What the hell's going on?"

  "What are you talking about, Weege?"

  "Weege my ass. Tell your people the party's over. My business is going down the shitter."

  The Reverend is about to conduct services. Two ex-nurses help him into his vestments. "I'm sure you exaggerate."

  Wegeman adjusts his legs on the wheelchair's footrests. He feeds peanuts to Duck. "My casino is a den of thieves. You're trying to turn it into a house of prayer."

  "If my congregation chooses to bask in the splendor of your hotel, you should feel flattered."

  The Reverend's smug tone is more than the Great Man can endure. He crashes into Reverend Gunn with his wheelchair, pinning him against the wall.

  He nearly breaks the Reverend's legs. The ex-nurses grab Wegeman's arms and hold two scalpels to his throat.

  The Rollicking Rev tries to recover his dignity. "I'm going to forget this has happened."

  "I wouldn't, if I were you."

  "Please locomote Mr. Wegeman out of here," the Reverend commands.

  "We're playing hardball," says the Great Man.

  The very next afternoon, with bible-clutchers outnumbering gamblers three to one, and several of the croupiers reduced to polishing the brass work, Wegeman enters the casino in front of two uniformed police officers. He leads the officers to three women from Lenten Gunn's church. The women wear pastel dresses. One woman's hat is adorned with cherries.

  "These girls have been loitering on the premises all day," says the Great Man briskly. "I want them arrested for solicitation."

  The older cop looks from Wegeman to the women. "You're joking, right, Mr. Wegeman?"

  "Don't be fooled by their outfits. They're appealing to a particularly loathsome fetish."

  The cop says, "Ladies, you're not soliciting, are you?"

  Wegeman is apoplectic. "That's why this city is on its knees! The police have become the first line of defense for the criminals."

  No arrests are made. The mayor reminds Wegeman that the police are not his personal storm troopers.

  Wegeman has a sit down with some wiseguys and broken-noses. They give him the bad news. Even though he's offering better odds than Atlantic City and Vegas, the high rollers are staying put.

  One of the hoods sums up the Palace of Versailles's problem: "The boys feel that a holy nigger looking at you is unlucky."

  Reverend Gunn's people are now arriving by chartered bus.

  Wegeman tries to prevent them from entering the hotel, but Reverend Gunn shows up with a cadre of ACLU lawyers, and that's the end of that. The State Gaming Commission threatens to pull the Palace of Versailles's gambling license for discriminatory practices. Feeling harassed from every side, Wegeman tries this: he declares the Palace of Versailles closed, then reopens it under the name Club Versailles. "Now my hotel is a private club," he says, "and believe me, membership cards will be checked."

  "I got the idea from Soweto," he tells Tollivetti in an interview.

  The Great Man appears to be self-destructing.

  His daughter issues a statement. "Such casual acceptance of the racist policies of South Africa is proof positive of the extent of my father's injuries. He is a physical and emotional cripple. I beseech Reverend Gunn's parishioners to be understanding."

  "She should butt out," says her father.

  The first croupiers, bell captains, and courtesy girls are laid off.

  The Great Man is half-insane with fury. He schedules a strategy meeting with his executive staff and operations people. Tony Ho is there too. Tony is Clark Ho's brother. He is a menacing presence who seems to enjoy poking himself with a Swiss Army knife. Possessing the vague title of security consultant, he has the Great Man's ear whenever he wants. He looks exactly like his architect brother with the addition of a pencil moustache and an enormous compelling scar that crosses his bullet head like a ridge of mountains.

  The Great Man hea
rs one devastating report after another, each piece of bad news delivered with a catch in the voice and an avoidance of the Great Man's eye. Non-existent cash flow. Notes coming due. Total negative amortization. The hotel kitchens have been put on notice by the meat and shellfish purveyors that all deliveries are C.O.D. only. Sinatra and Newton have shelved plans to build their own casinos in Coney Island.

  The Great Man seems to shrink in his wheelchair. "Mr. Ho?"

  Tony Ho slips his knife into his boot. "We can take out Gunn and all his people in twenty-five minutes, tops."

  "It may come to that," says Wegeman. Something on the far side of the table catches his attention. "Syker, what are you doing over there?"

  "Needlepoint."

  "Fantastic. That's an aggressive approach to solving our problems."

  "Needlepoint would help you," says Syker, squinting to execute a tricky stitch. "It would help you relax. For your information, I'm making you a sampler for your office."

  The Great Man opens his mouth to speak, but nothing emerges.

  Syker holds up his half-completed needlework for everyone to read. "It's a quote from the first patriarch, Bodhidharma."

  THE WAY IS NEAR, BUT MEN SEEK IT AFAR

  THE WAY IS THE COURAGE TO CHANGE WHAT CAN BE CHANGED

  THE WAY IS THE SERENITY TO ACCEPT WHAT I CANNOT CHANGE

  THE WAY IS THE SAMPRAJNAT SAMADHI TO KNOW THE DIFFERENCE

  "This meeting has been a total failure," announces Wegeman. "I should have known that big salaries are no guarantee of big ideas. These are desperate times within the palace walls. I think perhaps a new approach is called for."

  Everyone stands to leave except Tony Ho, who brushes and grooms Duck the monkey. The departing attorneys and accountants and executives are startled to find the Great Man's outer office filled with puzzled-looking chambermaids. The maids are shown into the office. She slides into the still-warm Persian leather armchairs. They are given tea and coffee and Evian. Each is furnished with a legal pad and two sharpened pencils.

  "Think of this as your suggestion box," Wegeman tells the women. "We're faced with wrack and ruin, ladies. Your asses are on the line. I need you to tell me what to do about Reverend Gunn. If we don't come up with a great idea fast the Palace of Versailles will wind up as just one more burned-out pit in the ground of Coney Island."

  He waits while the assistant manager for housekeeping translates his remarks into Spanish and French Creole.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  "I'm sure it's a lovely place," says Bezel.

  He is referring to the village of Wycherly, a suburb of Boston, home to Dr. and Mrs. Robert Bora, who both wear glasses and trousers the color of oatmeal. Mrs. Bora is Jackie's daughter Anne. Jackie has died of a massive stroke. The Blarney Castle is about to close. Anne sorts through papers while Dr. Bora lectures Bezel on the merits of Wycherly. He speaks highly of the school system and the sewers. He is mystified by his late father-in-law's steadfast refusal to sell the Blarney Castle and move there.

  "Daddy wouldn't have been happy," says Anne. "Sewers weren't his thing."

  Dr. Bora draws his finger through the dust that has accumulated on one of the banquettes. "I'm not so sure about that."

  "I remember happy times here," says Anne. "I remember before Daddy bought the place, when he was just tending bar. And I remember you, John."

  "Do you really?" says Bezel.

  "I remember you took me to the ice show and then to Arturo's for a shrimp cocktail, and from then on I was always crying for shrimp cocktails."

  "Your father wasn't too happy about that," says Bezel.

  "What a different world," says the doctor. "Imagine letting your child go out alone with one of your bar customers. Talk about asking for trouble."

  "It is a different world," Anne agrees. "A sadder one."

  The doctor draws himself a noisy seltzer.

  Anne won't let him spoil her memories. "I remember at the ice show you bought me one of those little flashlights on a string."

  Bezel has been a great help to the Boras. He has helped them to liquidate Jackie's business. A restaurant supply house bought some of the equipment. He hired a team of Dominicans who speak no English to cart the rest of the stuff out to a junkyard in New Jersey.

  The Dominicans arrive and begin work at once. They are polite to the point of servility; with banquettes on their backs they wait patiently for Anne or the doctor to step out of the way.

  Anne contemplates the boxes of memorabilia, the photos and scorecards and fight programs. "It seems a shame to put this stuff in an attic and forget about it."

  "We could just forget about it," suggests Dr. Bora.

  "I have an idea," says Bezel.

  He telephone's Barnett's Saloon. He talks to Gary, his old boss. "I know you're always nosing about antique shops looking for this stuff," says Bezel. "I've got four big boxes of the real animal: playbills, ticket stubs, drawings...."Gary has to check with his general manager, but he thinks it's a great idea.

  Bezel presses his advantage, telling Gary that Jackie's things must be inventoried and displayed together and labeled. Gary says that it sounds okay to him; he'll run it by the GM.

  "Like a loan to a museum," Bezel tells the Boras.

  Soon the Boras are gone. Bezel will finish up with the Dominicans. When they have everything loaded onto the truck, Bezel motions to their leader, who is the easiest to communicate with. His English is as bad as that of the others, but he seems to have a stronger command of sign language.

  The crew follows Bezel down into the cellar. Bezel unlocks a storage alcove. Inside is an old meat freezer with a padlocked door.

  "Okay?" says Bezel. "Broken. No good. Junk."

  The Dominicans shoulder the load. They bring it outside, heave it cheerfully onto the truck, then sit down on it. Bezel pays them, tipping generously. They drive off to deposit the load in New Jersey. Where they're going isn't technically a spot for dumping at all but just a place where people dump things. The gulls will peck away at the freezer door in frustration.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  "You know what the strangest thing is?" Agnes says to Sarah. "I still like Father Clarence. I feel I understand him, sort of."

  Sarah rolls her eyes and winces. "You're like that women who married Ted Bundy.

  "I get the shakes when I think of what he did to Barbara, and the way he shot Tommy. But I don't know...."

  "He's a monster. Ivan was right."

  "You're right. Ivan's right. I should just hate him. That's what's called for."

  That Matthew Clarence was adopted from the Spengler Foundling Home in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, was a dark secret in his family. Not even Ivan knew. He came out of Spengler at the age of six, his foundling days long past and permanent damage already done by an attendant named Vivian Lee DeShields, who spouted scripture and threatened to cut off his penis.

  "That will do it to you," says Tommy.

  Tommy is decorated by the mayor. His father, the cop of all cops, cries openly when Tommy hobbles up on his crutches to accept his ribbons and clusters for valor. After the ceremony, while waiting for Tommy, Agnes finds herself standing next to Tollivetti. The reporter devours a Gyro. Onions hang out of his mouth like the viscera of some prey; he tucks them in daintily.

  "You seem to turn up everywhere," Agnes comments.

  "You should talk," says the reporter. "You know what I should have done? I should have moved in with you right after then Wegeman shooting. Is there a story you haven't been involved with since then?"

  "I've had a run of bad luck," says Agnes.

  Tollivetti crumples his napkin. "Or caused some for everybody else, I don't know which. You'll enjoy this. I've got Clarence's military records. He apparently made quite a few trips to an allergist at one of the base hospitals. He was prone to food reactions, particularly from Paprika—whenever he ate it, he had a violent reaction, and I don't mean he broke out in a rash on his chest. I mean, literally, a violent reaction.
About the time of the first Minotaur slaying, his cook, Edith Criswell, was given as a gift a large jar of imported hot Paprika, which she began to use, even though he had specifically mentioned that he was allergic to it. So years from now, when you come across the phrase the Paprika defense, think of me, would you? Oh, shit, look at the time! I'm late! See ya!"

  The reporter runs at full steam down Seventh Avenue, disappearing in a forest of fast-food wagon umbrellas.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  It is very important that Agnes track down the first Mrs. Travertine. The task is not proving easy. The only thing Agnes knows about her is her name: Bea. Agnes's lawyer tells her that of the mysterious Bea cannot be found, then Hannah will never see those disputed benefits. The money will pile up in an escrow account, untouched by anyone and eventually returned to the general funding pool.