“You might have doubts, Mr. Foley, but Steve Connolly is convinced that this Fleming person is the guilty one. And so am I. On the other hand, I have Steve’s word that he had nothing to do with either of those incidents.”
“Third,” I continued, “Steve Connolly’s word is worth about as much to me as yours is. Which is to say I wouldn’t bet the cost of a cold fart on it.”
Just what that meant even I couldn’t have explained, but it did earn me another love tap from Goldilocks, and a sad sigh from an increasingly gloomy Gus. The thing is, you have to keep these people’s attention if you want them to remember you.
“Maybe, though,” I added, once I’d regained my breath, “maybe that’s because we haven’t really gotten to know each other yet.”
“Steve would not lie to me. He is well known in his community, a precinct captain. He has friends, neighbors, people he has helped. Little people, if you will, people who cannot tolerate the abuse of an innocent child by a cowardly pervert.”
“Little people who want to score points with Steve Connolly because he’s got one foot in City Hall and one on your side of the street. People who don’t give a damn whether Lammy did it or not.”
“Lammy? Ah, Lambert Fleming.”
“Yeah, Lambert Fleming for chrissake. Did you forget him? That’s what this is about, remember? It’s about getting Steve Connolly to lay off him. The court’ll decide whether he messed with that little girl, and what should be done about it if he did. That’s why I’m sitting here talking to you, for God’s sake.”
“No. You’re sitting here because I put you here.” The world-weary tone had dropped away, and Apprezziano’s voice was cold and harsh. “You made a threat today, a foolish threat. Connolly did not order, or even suggest, that anyone harm that animal you call your client.”
“You have only Steve’s word—”
“That’s enough for me. What’s enough for you is what I tell you now. I’ve made it known that I disapprove of these incidents with your client. Eventually he will be found guilty and sent to prison. I’m confident he’ll receive punishment enough there, even for his unspeakable behavior.”
“Oh? And what if he didn’t do it? What if he’s found not guilty?”
“That’s absurd.” He paused. “But I won’t be responsible for anything that happens if he’s cut loose. In the meantime, though, until the trial’s over, no one will bother this animal. I promise that. I guarantee it.”
Bingo! How foolish could my threat have been, after all.
Apprezziano must have seen the satisfied look on my face. “Don’t bother to congratulate yourself, Malachai.” He still didn’t get it right. “You are entirely disposable. You know that.”
As though on a prearranged signal, Goldilocks opened the car door and climbed out.
“We’re all disposable, Gus,” I said, not moving. “In the end we all slide down the same cold chute.”
He stared straight ahead. “The difference,” he said, “is that I have the power to choose the time for you to slide, and the place. But no matter, just believe what I said. No more threats or harm to your client. And in the meantime…” He hesitated, seemed to switch gears. “Now get out of the car, I’m through with you.”
I got out of the car, digging into my pocket for my own car keys while Goldilocks took my place. He slammed the door without even a good-bye.
The Caddy’s motor roared and its rear tires whined, spinning in the slush. Then it was gone, coating me from head to foot with a spray of cold, salt-gray water. And with all the noise, they probably didn’t even hear the squealing scrape as I dug my key into the shiny black paint and held it there, letting the moving car draw its own long gash into its side.
Stepping off the curb, I waded to my own car and sat behind the wheel for a minute. I believed Gus Apprezziano when he said Lammy would be let alone. So why didn’t I believe him when he said he was through with me?
CHAPTER
7
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I went to church.
The last time I’d been to church was over a year ago, when I’d sat through Mass twice in one day, a Sunday, in the heart of the city’s west side ghetto. The priest that time, Kevin Cunningham, had two mothers and both of them had hired me, for different reasons. Dealing with his demons—both internal and external—grew into a full-time job for both of us. It was a job he hadn’t given up on, either, the last I heard.
But this time was different. This was Our Lady of Ravenna, just a few blocks from Lammy’s place, at seven o’clock on a Wednesday morning. Ten after seven, actually. I was late, but that was intentional. The sun wasn’t up yet, and it was very cold. A wide expanse of concrete steps, swept clean of snow, led up from the sidewalk to three sets of double doors.
The bruised ribs from my encounter with Gus Apprezziano and his golden-haired lackey had been more than enough to keep me awake to worry about whether Gus had something else in store for me. Then, about two in the morning, not long after the pills had finally shut down the pain and I’d fallen asleep, a woman had called. She gave lots of instructions and one of them was that only the set of church doors on the left would be unlocked. I tried the others first. She’d been right.
Inside, a dimly lit vestibule ran almost the width of the church, and there were three more sets of double doors—tall, dark-stained oak doors that swung both in and out and had brass kickplates near the floor and windows with crosses etched into the glass about head-high.
I peered through the window of the left door of the center set. Row upon row of dark wooden pews marched precisely down either side of a wide center aisle, and there were narrower aisles along the side walls. The only brightly lighted area was up around the altar, about fifty yards away, where a white-robed priest stood off to the side of the altar at a reading stand. As I watched, he raised a large book high in the air in a ceremonial gesture, set it back on the stand, then turned and walked toward the altar.
Once he wasn’t looking directly my way, I pushed open the door, the one I’d been told didn’t squeak, and stepped silently inside. None of the dozen or so worshipers, all huddled up near the altar, turned to look.
Above my head was a twelve-foot-high ceiling that extended out only a few paces and kept the area just inside the doors in deep shadow. Beyond that, the ceiling arched up from the side walls to a center peak that must have been fifty feet high. Down the side aisle on my right, built into the wall just barely beyond the shadow of the lower ceiling, was what I was looking for—a small booth with two doorways, each one covered by a purple velvet drape.
The far-off priest, facing his little congregation across the altar, droned on in a voice barely audible despite the stillness of the huge church. He gave no sign that he saw me as I walked across to my right and stood against the wall in the shadows. I inhaled the ancient aromas of burning tapers, dust, and furniture polish—and suddenly thought of the vulgar jokes we used to make whenever the principal at Saint Robert’s would speak of the “odor of sanctity.” In a few minutes, all but one of the people in the pews stood and walked up toward the altar to take communion.
Now or never.
Stepping forward out of the shadows, I moved quickly along the wall to the booth, and ducked behind the heavy curtain of the first doorway. It was pitch-dark inside, but using my hands I found a built-in cushioned bench seat. I sat down, facing the curtain I’d just slipped through, and ordered my breath to slow down. I hoped the woman would know I was there.
I hoped even more that no one else saw me go inside that booth, because I was in no mood to hear anyone’s actual confession.
Once my eyes adjusted to the dark, I opened the little sliding door next to my right ear and sat there waiting. When the Mass ended, I heard what must have been the heels of the priest clicking across the marble floor into the distance. A far-off door closed. I heard people walking down the center aisle, then heard them push through the doors on their way out of the church. Meanwhile, from up in front came t
he sound of several voices mumbling in unison. The rosary had begun, just as the woman on the phone had said it would.
I strained my ears, but that’s all I heard.
Suddenly I felt a presence, very close by. Only a feeling, not a sound, and I decided it was my imagination. That’s why I jumped so high at the sibilant whisper just inches from my right ear. “This is Rosa,” she hissed, identifying herself as had been agreed.
“Malachy.”
“I must be gone before the rosary is over. I must not be seen.”
“Me too.”
“I am trusting you.” Her words were precise, her accent first-generation Italian. “You have sworn you will never speak of this conversation.”
Actually, I hadn’t sworn anything at all. “What is it?” I asked. “What do you have to say?”
“I wish to avoid a great injustice.”
“What do you mean?”
“This boy, this Lambert. I know him for many years. And his mother. They are … backward, perhaps. But this evil thing. I do not believe he did it.”
“Then why did Trish—”
“My grandchild was afraid. They asked her so many questions. I was there, but I could do nothing. She did not mean to say what she said.”
“She told you she was lying?”
“She will not speak to me of what happened. But I have taken care of this child almost from the day she was born. I know her. She wishes to tell the truth, but cannot. She is too afraid.”
“Then it’s you who’ll have to come forward. Tell the judge.”
“I will not.” She paused, and I heard her soft breathing, scented with toothpaste and garlic. “Because I am afraid, too. Not for myself. I am old enough to be familiar with suffering, ready even to die. But I am afraid for Trish. My son-in-law, he loves her in his way, but—” She stopped. “Steven Connolly is … he is not a man prepared to be a father. With her mother gone to God already, the child needs me. If something happens to me I fear for her.”
“Let me talk to Trish, then. I need to find out who it was.”
“No.”
“Jesus, Rosa, you—”
“This is a holy place.” A new, harsh tone, threatening to rise above a whisper. “Do not take the sacred name in vain.”
“Sorry.”
“There is no need to ask Trish.” Her voice dropped again. Barely audible. “I know who it was who attacked the child.”
“You just said she won’t talk to you about it. How do you know who did it?”
“I know it in my heart. Trish was fine when I left her at her Uncle Dominic’s on my way to bingo. Later, when I found her at home, she was crying. Steven, my son-in-law, was to pick her up and bring her home. Trish said her cousin went to her room to talk on the phone and when her father was late she was bored and decided to walk home. But she would never do such a thing. She is very bright, and a good child. She would not have left her uncle’s house without a reason.”
“Are you telling me…”
“In my heart I know it was not this Lambert. It was … it must have been Dominic who did this. The child’s uncle. The husband of my other daughter, Tina.”
“You’ve got to tell Steve.”
“Steven and Dominic have become close over the years. Even so, he would kill Dominic if he knew the truth. But if I even hint that it was not this Lambert, Steven becomes enraged. His mind is made up. He cannot accept something different. He is a man unable to look deeply into anything. He has filled his soul with hatred for that boy, and his mind will never change now, no matter what. This man, Steven, I warned my poor daughter not to marry him. He drank too much even then. He is a man of cruelty and violence, which gets worse as he gets older. He is Irish—not one of us—but he is so much like Dominic, it is as though they were brothers—brothers in evil.”
“But if you won’t speak out, why are you telling me all this?”
“I must protect my grandchild. But I do not wish to be responsible, before God, that something terrible happens to an innocent one. So, as I must protect Trish, you must protect this Lambert.”
“But that means he has to beat the charge. You know that. If he goes to jail, they’ll kill him in there, or worse.”
“I understand. But even to win the case will not be enough. Steven is nearly insane with anger at this Lambert. I have learned that my brother Gustavo will prevent him from acting until—”
“Gustavo? Your brother? You mean—”
“Gustavo Apprezziano. He brings me shame, but he is my brother. He will hold Steven back until the court case is over. But then…”
“Then what?”
“Then, if this Lambert is not convicted, Steven Connolly will kill him—or worse, as you say.”
“Jesus Christ, I—”
“Quiet!”
“Sorry, it’s a holy—”
“No. Listen.” She paused. “The rosary is almost over. I must go now or my friends will see me.”
“Wait. There’s something else I need to know.” But she was gone.
A moment later, the praying from the front of the church had stopped. I could hear people moving down the center aisle, pushing through the doors. Footsteps were even coming down the side aisle. As soon as I was sure they were all gone, I’d—
The rustle of clothing—soft, but unmistakably coming through the grate beside my ear. Then harsh, labored breathing.
My own breath froze in my chest.
“Benedite mi, Padre.” The voice of another woman, probably older than Rosa.
“Please, I…”
“Padre, parli Italiano?”
“Uh … Si, si,” I lied, hoping to keep her where she was.
“Ah, buono. Ho peccato, Padre.”
I stood up, still not daring to breathe.
“Sono passati due mesi dalla mia ultima confes—”
I slipped silently through the curtain and out of Our Lady of Ravenna.
Driving away, I passed four women in black, headed home from Mass. Women walking carefully, avoiding the slippery spots, gesturing, shaking their heads. One of them may have been Rosa. There was no way to tell.
Too bad, because there was a question remaining, something I needed to know. Who had told Rosa who I was, and that I was helping Lammy? If I was guessing right, it was the woman who’d called during the night and set up my meeting with Rosa, a woman whose voice had a hard veneer of bitterness and cynicism that couldn’t cover up its underlying soft southern drawl.
And, while I was at it, I’d guess that the woman—whoever she was—had a fondness for black leather boots and crossword puzzles.
CHAPTER
8
I DROVE AWAY FROM the neighborhood, learning yet again why I hate being out on the streets at that time of the morning. For one thing, whether you’re headed into or out of the city, rush hour is there, both ways. Worse than that, though, I usually end up comparing myself with all those other drivers—people who have real jobs. Chastising myself, consoling myself, finally questioning my choices … again.
Who do you think you are, I ask, with no paycheck, no health benefits, no retirement plan?
True, I answer, but also no mortgage payments, no tuition bills, no—
Uh-huh, sure. And no family life, either. And no routine to keep you sane.
So I headed for Western Avenue, recalling the times I’ve had regular employment. There’s a lot to be said for not having to think, every day, about what time to get up, when to leave home, where to go. At Western, I slowed when the light turned yellow, then gunned into a left turn just after it went red. Horns blared. The sun was barely up and people seemed mad as hell already, as though they couldn’t wait to get to their real jobs and complain about the traffic.
One block north on Western, I threw a hard right and fishtailed on a patch of ice onto a residential street. It hadn’t been plowed, but it was one-way and previous cars had dug ruts in the snow, which was now frozen firm. I pounded hard on the accelerator. The Cavalier’s rear tire
s wanted to slither side to side, but couldn’t because of the ruts, so they finally grabbed hold and sent me forward. One more block and another hard right. A few more blocks, a few more turns, another questionable lurch through an intersection, and pretty soon I was on Ashland Avenue, headed north again.
Yes, there’s something comfortable about routine. But there’s consolation, too, in knowing you can still shake off a car that’s tailing you, without making it obvious you even know it’s there. On the other hand, maybe those two goons in the dark blue Ford that wasn’t behind me any more just weren’t that good. Or maybe they weren’t trying all that hard by the time I’d spotted them, which was a couple of blocks from the church. After all, I hadn’t noticed any blue Ford when I left the coach house an hour and a half earlier.
And certainly the coach house must have been where they started to follow me. Because no one could have known I’d be at Our Lady of Ravenna for seven o’clock Mass. Could they?
* * *
I DON’T KNOW WHERE Dr. Sato lives, but at eight-thirty in the morning he was there at his dojo, smoking a cigarette in his glass-walled office in the corner, on the second floor over the cleaners on Central Street in Evanston. A few of his other students were there, too. After I bowed and stepped onto the mat that nearly covered the entire floor of the huge, bare room, I waited for Dr. Sato to stab out his cigarette and walk barefoot across the mat to me.
“Good morning, sensei,” I said.
“Good morning, Malachy.” Another one who never got the last syllable wrong.
After a ritual exchange of greetings, I told him about my bruised ribs, courtesy of Goldilocks and his brass knuckles.
I could swear Dr. Sato stifled a grin then, but maybe he was just trying to look sympathetic. He always smiled a lot, anyway. “Ah, well then,” he said, “let me watch you stretch out.”
I did the best I could, but it hurt like hell to move.
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