“He shot himself?”
“Plus two more 20 yards away from the crash site.”
“That flew out of the wreck?”
“That’s the enigma in the machine. Nobody’s sayin’ how they got there or even telling if they’re from the same gun. They gotta do some ballistics and despite the fact the research guys have some of the best technology in the world, Security says they don’t have the horses to figure it out.” He paused. “I think it’s crap. I think there’s some real strange stuff gonna come down about that crash and it ain’t shaping up to be complimentary to RCC. Listen, I gotta run, Ter. I’ll see you at mass tomorrow.”
“You were invit…”
“Later, buddy.”
“Carter, wait. One quick Q?”
“Make it very.”
“Three words or phrases I gotta pin down. First is watchak.”
“Spelling?”
“W-A-T-C-H-A-K.”
“Blank. Next.”
“Stop Iscariot.”
“As in Senor J. Iscariot?”
“Yeah. Same spelling.”
“Blank. Next.”
“Purloined letter?”
“Short story by E.A. Poe. Logline is you always miss what’s starin’ you right in the face. Am I excused now?”
“Thanks.”
Samson hung up then moved to his desk, picking up a small address book and opening it to the back where he kept a list of numbers labeled with oblique symbols. He started to dial but clicked the phone off, deciding he really didn’t want to talk to her or find out why she’d called. Maybe later. He just wanted to get over to the mansion.
Leaving the den, he lifted the package from Zen and halfway up the stairs pulled the opaque plastic away.
The short black robe didn’t belong to him. But he knew its owner.
Chapter Eighteen
Samson arrived at the rear door of the mansion and was patted down. As he entered the reception area, Rosalita stared.
“Look,” he said before she could get in a dig. “The Pope said to dress casual so I dressed casual.”
To his surprise, she only motioned for him to have a seat, pressing the console. “Secretary Samson is here, Holiness.”
In 30 seconds, Peter responded. “Clarence will be up in just a minute.”
Up? From where? Although he guessed there was a basement beneath the upper three floors of the mansion, in the many times he’d visited the house he’d never been off the main level. It was like the set of a television show seen only from the viewer’s point of view: while one assumed there was a fourth wall, and could be an upstairs and a downstairs, it was only perceived, not actually experienced.
Clarence stepped in and gestured. They walked down a corridor toward the back of the mansion, a corridor he’d never seen. Toward the end of it, the bodyguard stopped in front of a large bookcase, turned and asked, “You ready for this?”
Samson chuckled. “Wait a second. You’re not about to pull a secret lever to make this thing swing around to reveal a secret door?”
“It real hip, Terry. Wait’ll you see.” He reached to one of the books and rested his index finger atop it as Samson squinted to read the title. White Moon, Red Dragon. Clarence gave it a tug, it slid forward at a 45 degree angle, a whirring noise began and just like in the movies, it parted down the center, revealing the hidden door. The guard opened it and his guest looked down a dozen stairs that led to another door. They made their way to the barrier, muffled music playing beyond it. Clarence reached to a control panel, purposefully blocking the view of the code he entered.
“Bet you can’t guess in your whole lifetime what the code is.”
“Four aces?”
“My man! Four aces!”
As the door skated sideways he was startled by a creaking noise behind him so turned, watching the bookcase slide back into place. The stairway filled with music—Springsteen’s “I’m On Fire” to be exact. Peter’s favorite performer just a shade ahead of The Beatles. Both acts carried a special significance in his life, a story he loved to tell and Samson always liked to hear. Two stories, really. Two of the many not many had heard, ones that made him feel privileged whenever his mentor shared them.
Clarence eased down a few steps and stopped. Samson followed. Then the guard flicked a switch on the wall and the second door slid closed. They hopped down the remaining steps, Clarence halting as they reached the end of a smaller corridor. “Now you just wait here for about as long as it takes you to count to 15. Then you walk in like you one of the regulars.”
“Regulars what?”
“You just walk in like you one of the regulars.”
As Clarence rounded the corner, Samson counted as fast as he could, repeated the sequence, then repeated it again.
“Come on, little brother!”
The spacious room was something out of an adolescent’s dream: a personal pool hall. A gorgeous Wurlitzer jukebox rested on a side wall, bubbles and lights swirling within. A small bar and four stools sat against the near wall. In the center were three, nine foot tables, triplets except that the one to the left was a cushion version rather than a pocket version. Leaning against the table in the middle were the only two customers: the black guy dressed in tan slacks, a white shirt, black tie and a shoulder holster; the white guy in gray jeans, a black Nautica shirt (always his favorite and odds-on a gift from Mary Beth) with the sleeves rolled up (as they always were when he was engaged in serious business). The surprise on Samson’s face must have been apparent. The regulars laughed, pounding the butts of their cue sticks onto the floor.
“This is great!” Samson marveled as he walked across. “You come here often?”
“Lately, yeah. Don’t get out much anymore, do I Clarence?”
“Not like before,” he agreed. “Not like before.”
Peter moved to the bar then around it, Samson and Clarence following.
“This is really something, Sir. Has it always been here?”
“Most of it. A.K. had it put in for Nick when the place was constructed. He was a hell of a pool player. Want something to drink?”
A.K. Archie Knight. Watchak. Watch Archie Knight?
“What’s on the menu?”
“Coke or Coors Light.”
“What are you drinking?”
“The regulars don’t usually have a Coors until after five. Clarence?”
“I’ll have a Coke.”
“Me, too,” Samson put in.
The owner leaned down, lifted three small bottles from beneath the bar then opened them on a device anchored to the side. “To Cardinal Castro,” he said, raising his and taking a sip. The other two responded in kind.
“Pope Nicholas played pool?”
“Yeah, Nick was great,” Peter nodded. “Is the Great. During Vatican III we must have played two or three times a week that entire year. It was the one thing that seemed to get his mind off everything else. We’d start maybe nine or ten most nights, play until one-two in the morning.” He paused. “He taught me everything I know.”
“And taught you well,” Clarence said.
“Judging from the tab, I’d say so.”
“The tab?” Samson asked.
“Yeah, Terry,” Clarence explained as he walked to the center of the room, lifting his cue to the string of markers hanging over the middle table, tapping them out in fives. “Looks like the Pontiff is into me for, let’s see. Fifty million dollars.”
“Fifty million dollars?” Samson wheezed, taking a gulp.
“That’s right,” Peter replied. “We play for a million bucks a game.” He hesitated. “If you’re going to shoot serious sticks, you should shoot serious sticks.”
Samson watched as the regulars finished the game in progress. Three shots later the eight ball drop into a side pocket, Clarence’s debt growing to $51,000,000. The loser returned to the bar and handed over his stick. Samson refused. “I’ll take one that has a little more luck.”
Picking up his bottle,
he went to the cue rack and pulled down an 18, rolling it across the third table to make certain it was straight.
“Looks like we got a hustler here, Holiness,” the guard said.
“Come on, Fatman,” Peter admonished. “Informal down here.”
“Okay, Eddie.”
Samson just stared.
“But what we gonna call Terry, Eddie?” Clarence wondered aloud.
“What was Eddie’s manager’s name?”
“Charlie.”
“And what was Fats’ manager’s name?”
“Think it was Burt.”
“Right,” Peter agreed, looking at Samson. “Who do you want to be? Charlie or Burt?”
“Is one better than… you lost me on this one, Sir,” he fibbed. He’d seen the flick dozens of times. Owned two versions of it.
“The movie. The Hustler. Ever seen it?”
“I might have.”
“Charlie or Burt?”
“I’ll be Burt.”
Peter went to the rack, lifted a can of talc and then sprinkled a small amount at the juncture of the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Samson copied the gesture and they stepped back to the center table.
“So what game do you play, friend?” Peter asked, Clarence shaking his head as he turned away.
“You name it, I play it,” Samson grinned. “Straight, Five-Nine, Stripes and Solids…”
“We call that Eight-Ball here,” Peter interrupted.
“Friend,” Clarence put in.
“Or Rotation.”
“We call that Chicago here.”
“Your table,” Samson offered, already enjoying the match yet to begin. “Your rules.”
“Do you like to play pool, Burt?” Peter asked as he chalked his black cue. “Do you like to play pool for money? Big money?”
“Sure, Eddie. How big?”
“How about if we play a game of Eight-Ball for a million dollars.”
“I don’t have a million dollars with me.”
“Your credit’s good.”
“Okay.”
“Rack ’em,” Peter ordered as he returned to the bar and sat next to Clarence. “And in case you’re getting hungry, the beefs’ll be delivered after they clear security.”
“Who’s the taster today?” the guard asked solemnly.
“I think… Cardinal Valenti?”
The pair exchanged a laugh.
As Samson collected the balls from the pockets, he glanced at Peter and Clarence who were talking in whispers. He wondered how often the two of them played together, what other secrets about the Pope the bodyguard knew. If Castro had ever shot in the subterranean hall. Of course he had. But what was the Pontiff doing playing pool while that best friend lay in state at Holy Name? Was he blocking out the reality of Castro’s death? Was billiards what it had been for Nicholas - a distraction to get his mind off everything else? Of course it was. If it was good enough for Peter’s idol during Vatican III, it must be the tonic to get him through this mourning period. He’d have enough tomorrow with the service and the Council meeting. So maybe it wasn’t curious that he’d spend a few hours on a Tuesday afternoon in a hidden billiard room beneath a mansion at Sanctuary Creek.
Stranger things could happen. Stranger things have happened. To me.
Samson grinned.
“What?” Peter asked, nudging the cue ball back and forth with his stick.
“I was just thinking how strange it is, you know, playing pool with the Pope in a secret pool hall. This is the second secret room I’ve found out about today.”
“Really?” Peter responded. “What else have you heard about the mysterious cubicles of the Creek?”
“This one’s a little crazier than… I was talking to the… Mrs. Zitzer this morning and you would not believe the story she told me.”
“Try me.”
“She told me that she found another secret room that appears then disappears under the Cathedral.”
“Poor soul,” Peter replied, positioning the cue ball and bending over.
“And then she said she saw Juan down there, hearing Cardinal Linhart’s confession.”
Peter placed the butt of his cue on the floor then wrapped his hands around it, resting his weight. “She what?”
“I told you.”
He looked to Clarence then returned his attention. “She what?”
“I just said.”
“What else did she… hearing what?”
“Cardinal Linhart’s confession.”
“Confession?”
“She said she wasn’t sure it was a confession. Just that they were whispering.”
“Was anyone else there?”
“Where?”
“In this room she saw them in?”
“I don’t think so.”
“With her?”
“When?”
“When she saw them.”
“I don’t think so.”
“When she told you?”
“No, Sir. We were alone. What’s the big deal, anyway? She’s just a crazy old lady.”
“Yes, that may be true.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring Juan up when…”
“Maybe she can see spirits we can’t,” Peter said. “Seeing is one thing…”
“And believing quite another,” Samson finished.
“Where’d you hear that?” Peter asked as he leaned again, lining the break shot. “Sounds pretty wise to me.”
“From a guy I know, Eddie,” Samson smiled. “A guy named Pete.”
The Pope sunk the eight ball to end the first game while three of Samson’s remained on the table. Clarence and Samson then played, Clarence losing another million which Peter recommended be transferred to the string above the billiard table, wiping out Samson’s debt in the process. Samson and Peter were about to begin the third game when Rosalita’s voice surfaced through the jukebox to announce lunch had arrived. Clarence went to fetch it, the other two spending the break examining the titles of the 45s in the Wurlitzer. As he expected, probably a third of the 100 discs were by Springsteen or The Beatles. A smorgasbord of music filled out the roster, nary a song by Angelique Caulfield to be seen or heard. Peter had a story for every title Samson pointed out, every one bringing a smile as he related them.
I don’t know if you’re listening, Sir. I haven’t seen The Man this relaxed in months. Please keep those tunes coming.
When Clarence returned, the three sat at the bar and ate, fresh Cokes for everyone. But before anyone finished, Peter said, “I’ve got a meeting to get to pretty soon, Burt. What do you say? One more game?”
“For how much?”
“A million.”
“Let’s make it two million.”
Peter thought then said, “Rack `em.”
Samson gathered the balls and began to drop them into the black wooden triangle, wondering if he ought to let Peter win again or play the game the way he could. He’d played since childhood, his siblings letting him tag along when they went to the pool hall on Saturday mornings, the only time kids were allowed in. At least kids his age. He recalled vividly the coolness of the place, the darkness, the smells of beer and cigarettes and sweat. He remembered well the posters on the walls of half-naked women, the tunes on the juke, the taunts back and forth between players.
He knew he could beat Peter. The Pope wasn’t bad but he was better.
“How about if we play for something real?” he asked as he set the rack on a hook next to the cues. “That Eddie Felson, I hear he can shoot the eyes off them balls when he wants to,” he concluded, paraphrasing a line from The Hustler.
“Wait a second,” Peter protested. “I thought you said you couldn’t remember seeing it.”
Clarence hooted. “I told you we got a hustler here, Boss.”
“No, Sir. I said I might have seen it.”
“Who played Eddie’s girlfriend?”
“You mean Eddie’s girl?”
“Yeah, Eddie’s girl.”
“Piper Laurie.”
“Okay, wise guy. What was the name of the place where…”
“Ames, Mister,” Samson completed.
“What’d Eddie drink?” Clarence called as he stepped to join them. “Tell me that one, little brother.”
Samson thought a second. “J.T.S. Brown, Preach,” he chuckled. “No glass, no ice.”
“You in trouble, Boss.”
“Nah. Sometimes Burt knows his history. But he also has a way of getting in over his head.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Samson asked, perturbed to be criticized in front of Clarence. Deciding it might be fun to clean the Pontiff’s clock.
“Just an observation. So what do you want to play for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Might be some positions opening up in the Party in the near future. Seeing that you’re about to relinquish your Cabinet post, perhaps I could consider you for a new job.”
Samson nodded. “Okay. What if I lose?”
“You accompany Mary Beth to dinner tonight. Black tie.”
“You’ve got yourself a… black tie? Where?”
“Here. Having a few folks over.”
“I’d be happy to. But I don’t need to beat you to do that.”
“That’s a different tune than you were singing in the not too distant past.”
“That was before.”
“Things have changed, eh?”
“Do we have to talk about it…?” Samson said, glancing at Clarence.
“Fats knows a lot, Burt. Don’t you, Fats?”
“That’s right, Boss.”
“Which brings to mind an interesting point,” Peter said as he lined for the break. “Why’d you pick Burt? He sold Eddie out.”
“Charlie was a wimp. Small time Charlie. All he wanted was…”
“Six tables and a rule book on the side,” Peter finished for him. “You getting ambitious?”
“Maybe.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to teach you a lesson in humility, Mr. Secretary.”
The cue ball smashed into the pyramid at Samson’s end of the table, the other 15 rolling wildly around on the light gray felt, the deuce dropping into a corner pocket, the 13 inching toward a side pocket, finally falling just when it looked to have run out of juice.
“My choice,” Peter stated as he began to pace casually around the table. “Did you find out anything about Silver Piece?”
Sanctuary Creek Page 21
