by Baxter Clare
“Just ice, Joe Louis. He’s not so bad.”
“Skinhead best not be gettin’ in my face again. That’s all I gotta say.”
“What else? Anyone doing any actual police work or ya’ll just hanging out playing kindergarten?”
“We’re working,” Lewis huffed. She filled Frank in as she absently registered the street. There were faces she’d become familiar with, regulars catching the bus, the old man walking his Airedale, another old man with an obese poodle, a dark woman her age that limped by every day around noon.
Even Frank had her routine. She checked the graves in the morning, then returned to the Nova, content to take in the neighborhood and drink coffee. When she tired of that, she spent the obligatory time on her journal, visited the bathroom and walked around the cemetery. She dawdled, reading names until lunch. If it was nice she ate in the cemetery, and if not, she’d eat in the car and listen to news. After lunch, she’d pour her last cup of coffee and read. She usually nodded off a few times, jerking herself awake. Then it was time for another walk around the cemetery, bemused by both her dreams and the quality of light as the winter sun descended.
It went that way Thursday and Friday, with Frank’s second Saturday at the cemetery fast becoming as fruitless as her first. Warm in the heavy wool coat she’d borrowed from Annie, Frank admired a sculpture of the Virgin Mary holding her crucified son in her lap. The Mary looked so pained and the Jesus so dead. Frank was amazed that stone could be so vivid. She studied the epitaphs of the family beneath the monument, deciding she didn’t want to be buried. Who would visit and why waste the space?
Wondering if she could arrange for her ashes to be put in a dumpster, she eyed a man hurrying by on her right. He was about six feet tall, weighed around one-seventy, maybe black or Latino. She couldn’t tell from the way he was hunched into his jacket. He wore John Lennon glasses and seemed to know where he was going. In one gloved hand he clutched a grocery sack. Yellow chrysanthemums poked from the edge.
Frank followed discretely.
Her heart jumped when he stopped at her father’s grave. The man searched the ground. He looked behind the headstones and at the surrounding markers, then knelt and crossed himself. He appeared to pray for a moment. Done with that, he took the flowers from the sack and propped them against the carved letters Francis S. Franco. Then he took a glass candle from the bag. Stuffing the empty sack into his jacket he fished in a trouser pocket. He struck a match and lit the candle. Arranging it at the base of the flowers, he bowed his head.
Frank edged closer. She drank him down like whiskey. Kinky short hair flecked with gray above a furrowed, walnut-colored face. The skin under his chin bunched under his bent head and she put him in his mid-fifties. He wore black trousers over black lace-ups. The pants and shoes were worn but clean. The down jacket was navy-colored, no brand.
He stood but didn’t leave, his gaze rarely straying from her father’s headstone. Frank watched, making herself crazy with the possibilities. Could he be the perp? Maybe. Frank tried to see him almost forty years younger. Couldn’t. Maybe her father’s illegitimate child? Maybe a half brother from somewhere? Maybe he’d been bisexual and this was his old lover. Hell, after Annie’s bombshell Frank was ready to accept anything.
The man looked toward her. Frank checked the monument at her feet, crossing herself like she’d seen Annie do. From the edge of her vision she watched him do the same thing then hurry toward the gate. Frank went after him, keeping half a block between them. He stopped at a bus stop and Frank ducked into a grocery. She watched from there, getting a couple dollars worth of change. Five minutes later a bus pulled up and Frank got on behind him.
The bus zigzagged north through Brooklyn. When the man got off Frank did too. She maintained her half-block trail. He seemed oblivious to her. Various people greeted him as he walked. A few times he stopped for a brief talk. Frank strained to hear but couldn’t. She twisted and turned with him until he abruptly crossed the street and entered one of half a dozen entrances into a large brick building. Frank crossed too. Reading a sign on the door listing Rectory Hours, she paused.
A young Hispanic woman came out and lit a cigarette. She quickly puffed half of it and as she stubbed it out against the building Frank approached her.
“Excuse me. Who was that man that just walked in to the rectory? Tall guy, glasses, dark coat.”
“You mean Father Cammayo?”
Frank hid her surprise. “Is that who that was? I lived here a long time ago. I thought I recognized him but I didn’t want to go up and say hello to a total stranger.”
Flashing a nervous smile the woman nodded, then returned inside.
Frank walked around the corner and dialed Annie, but she didn’t answer. Frank told her voice mail, “It’s Frank. I got him. Call me.” She pressed end and read the name scrolled above a large set of wooden doors.
Our Lady Queen of Angels.
She climbed the steps to the doors. She pulled a large iron handle and the door gave easily. But she dropped her hand, letting the door close in a whisper of incense. Above her, three stained glass windows stretched to the sky. One panel looked like Mary ascending to Heaven in the company of angels. The second was a mournful, El Greco-style Christ and a third appeared to be Adam and Eve. While grappling with the significance of the triptych her phone went off. It spooked her and she checked the number, relieved.
“Hey,” she told Annie. “I got him.”
“So I heard. Where are you?”
“Brooklyn. Williamsburg, I think. I’m at a church.” Frank tilted her head back. “Our Lady Queen of Angels. On Eighth Street.”
“Is that where he’s at?”
“Yeah. He’s a fuckin’ priest.”
“Hey, hey. Watch your mouth. A priest? How do you know? Did you talk to him?”
“No. He went into the rectory and a minute later a woman came out. I asked who the man was that just went in and she says, ‘You mean Father Cammayo?’ A priest. Go figure. When can you talk to him?”
“I just got outta the pool. I was on my way to Mom’s but I guess I’ll come over there instead. What’s the address?”
“Uh …” Frank looked around. “Corner of Eighth and Havemeyer. The rectory’s around the back. I’m gonna keep an eye on it, see if he comes out again. How long you think it’ll take you to get here?”
“I dunno.” Annie sighed. “Gimme a half-hour.”
“All right. There’s a pizza joint across the street. I’ll be waiting in there.”
Frank ordered a slice and picked at it, too excited to eat. She scoured her memory for a priest. Her father was raised Catholic but except for an occasional Christmas Mass she’d never seen him inside a church, and certainly never with a priest. Although her mother dabbled in practically every known dogma, cult and creed, the woman was adamantly opposed to Christianity in all guises, a backlash from her rigid Lutheran upbringing.
Frank would have liked to talk to her mother. She wished she could be here now to share the excitement. Frank reflexively thought to order a beer. Realizing she couldn’t, she concentrated instead beyond the window, one eye on the rectory door, the other searching for Annie.
CHAPTER 35
After an agony of time, Annie finally appeared. They made a quick plan inside the restaurant, and Annie ordered, “You just be quiet, okay? Let me do all the talkin’.”
Frank nodded, impatient to get started.
Glancing at the cold pizza, Annie asked, “You gonna finish that?”
Frank pushed the plate toward her.
“This father, he look old enough to have known your pops?”
“Maybe. I put him in his mid-fifties.”
“Any way your pops coulda known him?”
“I been racking my brain, but I’m comin’ up blank. He didn’t go to church except for a Mass now and then, but my mother made such a stink I doubt it was worth it. She hated the Catholic Church. Said it was the second largest corporation in the world and it got
that way by burning women at the stake and keeping the rest barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen. Sorry, but she was no fan of Catholicism. My father wasn’t much of a fan either, from what I remember. I think he just went outta guilt. He always looked sad in church. I asked him once, why he was sad. We were at a Christmas Mass and he just said ‘Hush.’ He was quiet all the way home. I never asked again.”
“Your pops, what sorta temper did he have?”
“Temper? Hardly any. He was an easy-going guy. Had to be to live with my mother. She was the one with the temper.”
“Didn’t get into fights?”
“No. Twice I saw him swing at someone and both times it was because the other guy pushed him.”
“What do you mean pushed him?”
“I mean got in his face.”
“Your pops knew how to fight?”
“He knew some moves.”
“Where’d he learn ‘em?”
“Look, why are we talkin’ about this when Cammayo’s across the street?”
“Humor me. Where’d he learn to fight?”
“Christ, I don’t know. His friends. The street. His brother. How the hell should I know?”
“What streets?”
“Chicago.”
“He grew up in Chicago?”
“Where are you goin’ with this?”
Dusting pizza flour from her hands, Annie said, “Guys learn to fight interestin’ places. Prison, the army, boarding schools. Just trying to figure where your pops was comin’ from.”
“You couldna asked me earlier? Before we had a potential witness waiting across the street?”
Annie stood and leaned over the table. “You didn’t tell me earlier your pops was George Foreman.”
Frank followed her outside. “He wasn’t George Foreman, for Christ’s sake. He just knew how to defend himself.”
Crossing the street Annie asked, “He ever swing at a man of God?”
“Why would he? He wasn’t a loose cannon. I told you. Twice I saw him fight. Both times it was in a bar.”
“And the night he got shot.”
“How do you know that?”
“It was in your statement. You said he swung at the perp and that’s when he got shot.”
“Yeah. So three times. And each time he was defending himself. End of story. Jesus, Annie. He wasn’t some loony vigilante.”
“Awright, I’m just askin’.”
Opening the door to the rectory, Annie was all silken politeness to the woman behind the desk.
“Hi,” she said, displaying her ID. “My name’s Detective Silvester. NYPD Homicide. I hate to bother him on Saturday afternoon, but we need to speak with Father Cammayo. Where might we find him?”
The woman looked back and forth between Annie and Frank. “Um, he’s not here. He left just a couple minutes ago.”
Frank glared at Annie and held back a curse. Unruffled, Annie continued, “Oh, that’s too bad. See, we need to talk to him as soon as possible. We believe he might have some very important information about a parishioner we’re looking for. This is a very time-sensitive matter—we’re talkin’ lives hangin’ in the balance—and I’m sure you wouldn’t normally do this but we need to ask you for Father Cammayo’s address and phone number. It’d be a huge help.”
The woman bit her lip. “Could I see your ID again?”
Placing her shield and ID on the woman’s desk, Annie assured, “Absolutely, miss. You’re right to ask. Copy the numbers for your records. CYA.”
“What?”
“Cover yourself.”
Having written Annie’s information on a slip of paper the woman consulted a printout. She wrote Cammayo’s information on a pink memo slip, handing paper, badge and ID back to Annie.
“You’re a doll. Let me ask you one more thing. What’s his schedule for the weekend?”
The woman checked another list. “Father Cammayo has the eight a.m. and the five p.m. masses tomorrow.”
Annie extended her hand. “Thanks, Miss … ?”
The woman took Annie’s hand. “Mrs. Perez.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Perez. You’ve been a tremendous help.”
Outside the rectory Annie warned, “Don’t even say it.”
Frank’s jaw bones bunched.
“Hey, thirty-six years, right? What’s another couple hours? Come on.” Annie unlocked the passenger side. “We’ll find him. Where’s the Nova?”
“Canarsie. I followed him on the bus. Where we going?”
“East Flatbush.” After passing through a couple lights on Broadway. Annie posited, “Best case scenario, the priest is your junkie. Turned to God after he killed your pops. After all these years of carryin’ this horrible burden he wants to come clean. Confesses everything.”
Frank muttered, “Aren’t you the fuckin’ dreamer?” A few blocks later she groaned, “Christ. You’re probably right. My dad was having an affair, only with a Catholic priest.”
Annie wagged a pointed nail. “I doubt it. Don’t believe everythin’ you hear, huh? Sure there’s bad priests, but there’s a lotta good ones, too. All in all, more good than bad. It’s a cryin’ shame the way the rotten ones undermine the good work of their brothers. I hate all these scandals. And I hate the priests that commit these abuses—don’t get me wrong—but what good does it do to tro’ the bat’ watuh out widda baby, huh?”
“I’m just sayin’ I’m ready for anything.”
“Well, it probably ain’t gonna be nothin’ like that. Just relax. Don’t get ya knickers in a twist.”
“They been in a twist thirty-six years. Why untangle ‘em now?”
Annie ignored her, scanning building numbers. “Figures he’s in a church. They got so many churches in Brooklyn they call it the borough of churches. This is it.” Slipping her NYPD plate on the dash she double-parked. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” Frank said, not ready at all.
CHAPTER 36
Pedaling up the street on a bicycle a lean black man glided to a stop in front of the building Frank and Annie were watching.
Frank said, “That’s him.”
“The guy on the bike?”
“Yep.”
“Let’s go.” Just as he hoisted his bicycle onto his shoulder, Annie called, “Father Cammayo?”
He turned to look. “Yes?”
She waved her ID, introducing herself. “May we talk to you for a moment?”
“What about?”
Annie smiled warmly. “Could we go inside, Father? It’s kinda chilly out here.”
Cammayo held the lobby door open. Silently he led the women up three flights of stairs.
His apartment was small and clean. A black man in his late thirties-early forties looked up from the couch.
“Al, these are homicide detectives. They’d like to talk with me.”
“Oh.” The man put down the paper he’d been reading. “I’ll leave you alone.”
He retreated down the hall and entered a room. Leaning his bike against the wall, Cammayo asked, “What’s this all about?”
“Father,” Annie replied, “what is your relationship to Francis Franco?”
The priest froze. His gaze shifted between the detectives, stopping on Frank. “You were at the cemetery this morning.”
She nodded.
“What concern is this to the police?” he asked. His English was correct and formal, like an immigrant’s, Frank thought.
Annie smiled. “How do you know Francis Franco?”
“Am I under investigation for something?”
“Not at this point, no.”
“Not at this point,” he repeated. “Meaning I may be at a future time?”
“It’s possible,” Annie parried.
“May I ask for what?”
Annie thought about it, suddenly blurting, “For his murder.”
Cammayo’s firm gaze weakened. It wandered from the couch, to the floor, around the room.
Annie pressed, “How do you know him, Father?”
>
He flapped a lifeless hand. “I don’t. I never knew him.”
“So tell me why thirty-six years later you’re bringing flowers to his grave.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
The father gave the women his back. “When I was a young man I lived near where he was killed. The morning after he died I heard some neighbors talking. I found a paper and read about it. There wasn’t much, just a paragraph that said he’d died in a mugging. I went to the spot where he was killed. There was still blood on the sidewalk. The paper said his little girl had been with him.”
Frank was impassive under Annie’s quick glance.
“My father was killed too. When I was six years old. I barely remember him. I felt sorry for the little girl but I suppose I felt sorrier for me. I think it was on the sidewalk that morning, standing there, that I knew I was going to be a priest.” He faced them, clarifying, “For less than pure motives, mind you. I decided to join the church that I may never again be attached to corporal flesh. Neither wife, nor child, nor lover. I was done with entanglements. I wanted only to attach myself to God, who I knew would never desert me. And that is why I visit that man’s grave even after all these years, lb pay homage. To remember where I came from. To fortify my will when I feel weak. I talk to God. It’s quiet there. Peaceful. I get ideas for sermons when I’m there.” He shrugged. “It’s not a crime, is it?”
“Not at all,” Annie allowed. “How often do you visit?”
“Every few weeks, time permitting.”
“And you’ve been doing this thirty-six years?”
“Off and on. It’s more convenient now that I live closer to the cemetery.”
“Father, forgive me, but thirty-six years is a long time. I remember the day I decided to be a cop, believe me. I was at Brooklyn College sitting out under a tree studying for a final when two cars crashed in front of me. I went over to help but within seconds, whoop-whoop-whoop, here come the police. They call an ambulance, get the drivers separated, calm ‘em down, get all the details sorted out, and as I’m watching these guys I know right then and there this is what I want to do with my life. I want to be the one that people call on in an emergency. I want to be that first responder, right? Let me tell you, I remember that moment vividly, but the thing is, Father, I don’t go back to that street in Brooklyn every couple weeks and leave flowers, you know what I mean?”
