Try Dying

by James Scott Bell

“Mind if I?”

  “Not at all.” The idea of a cigar-smoking priest wasn’t entirely off my beam, but it was still a bit of a paradigm jab.

  I finally took off my shades.

  “Ouch,” Father Bob said.

  “Disgruntled client,” I said. “It’s always about the bill.”

  He laughed and lit up. He blew a plume of smoke and said, “A pleasure of the flesh God doesn’t frown upon, I’m certain.”

  “Isn’t self-denial part of this whole thing?”

  “Sure, and I obey, though I sometimes wonder.”

  “Wonder what?”

  He took another puff and said, “You know the joke, don’t you? About the Pope going to heaven and getting shown to the Catholic section?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “He sees all these priests walking around with sour looks on their faces. And he grabs one and says, ‘Hey, you’re in heaven. It’s beautiful here. Why does everybody look so upset?’ And the priest grabs the Pope by the shoulders and says, ‘The word was celebrate!’”

  I couldn’t help smiling. It felt good.

  Father Bob said, “A few years ago, I was named in a lawsuit by a man who claimed I had molested him repeatedly when he was an altar boy. I knew the name. David Townsend. Davey back then, a kid I tried to help. He was a troubled boy. I guess maybe I tried too hard with him.”

  “Too hard?”

  “He was white.” The priest stopped for a moment and looked at me. “I guess I was trying to prove myself, to everybody, show ’em a black priest could be the savior of a white kid, and not always the other way around.”

  I nodded and thought maybe I understood. Back then, it was probably a different scene. Or maybe not so different.

  “So when the lawsuit comes down, the diocese is extra gun-shy. The priest scandals were hitting, and last thing they needed was a racial element in all of this. I told them I was innocent, and they were very understanding and deferential, and would I mind talking to Dr. Kendra Mackee.”

  “Did you know who she was?”

  “I’d heard the name. She had a lot of these cases a few years ago. She was helping a lot of adults remember the terrible things priests did to them as kids.”

  “You think it was all a witch hunt?”

  He shook his head. “Sadly, it wasn’t. But it was inevitable some of the good ones would get caught up.”

  “And you’re one of the good ones?”

  “You think I’m being less than candid with you?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not a jury.”

  “Well, the archdiocese didn’t want this thing anywhere near a jury. So they brought in Mackee, right down there in the cardinal’s office, and they let her at me, with all her reports and sweet voice. She could be your little sister, with pigtails and cute little face, and a stiletto behind her back.”

  “Did you contest what she said?”

  “I told them I was innocent.”

  “And they didn’t buy it.”

  “They weren’t even shopping.”

  “Why didn’t you fight it?”

  “Regardless of everything, I love the church. I thought that fighting it would just inflict more hurt on her. I thought it was the will of God.”

  “I don’t think it’s the will of anybody that the wrong guy gets it.”

  “Tell that to Jesus.” He took a sip of lemonade, thinking. “Some time after that I talked to Davey again. I wasn’t supposed to, but I had to look him in the eye. I had to ask him. You know what? He looked scared. I tried to get him to come clean. Not for me, but for him. For his soul. He said something then, a name, it sounded like Lorimar.”

  “Lorimar? Who is that?”

  “He didn’t tell me and I never followed it up, but I felt like that was his confession. That’s all he said to me. He never changed his story.”

  “So your superiors, or whatever you call them, gave you the boot?”

  “They agreed to a big payout to Davey, but that wasn’t the stiletto.”

  “What was it then?”

  “She had a condition attached. To keep this from going further, she insisted that I be removed from my parish. She said that looking into my eyes, knowing I was innocent. It was nothing but an act of unadulterated cruelty.”

  “Are you sure she wasn’t just doing what she thought was best? Maybe she really believes you did it, believes what her patient told her.” As I, without saying so, also believed.

  The priest shook his head, which seemed weighted with care now. “You’re talking about someone who manufactured a memory. And she’s doing the same thing in your case. Which is why I called you. I called you to warn you. I’m not concerned about what happens to me now. But I can’t let her harm others.”

  I nodded. “Thanks for your time. If I need to talk to you more, maybe take a statement, I’ll let you know.”

  He smiled, but with resignation, as if he thought it a brush-off. “I hope you come back anyway. I don’t often get a chance to share lemonade with folks.”

  Just before I got in my car I heard my name called. Sister Mary was coming my way, carrying something.

  “I wanted to give you this,” she said. She placed the item in my hands. It was an official St. Monica’s fruitcake in a blue and gold tin. There was a rendition of a saintly woman on the front, with light emanations.

  “I note she is not eating,” I said.

  “Pardon?”

  “The lady on the tin.”

  “Saint Monica.”

  “Not eating. Doesn’t she endorse your fruitcake?”

  “The whole heavenly host does, Mr. Buchanan. And you’ll never know why unless you try it. Have a pleasant drive.”

  The drive was only okay. The fruitcake was still fruitcake. I broke a little off and munched it as I headed back to the Westside. Yes, it was better than the bricks Aunt Betty used to send. But it was still fruitcake, and I suppose not even a saint of God can overcome that minor snag.

  28

  AT THE OFFICE I had a couriered package waiting for me. I thought it might be something from Walbert’s office, but found instead that it came from Channing Westerbrook.

  It was a copy of the police report on the Bonilla murder-suicide. Channing had placed a sticky note on top and written Deal! on it. She was nothing if not pushy. She was going to go far.

  The report was not much at all. Some handwritten notes describing, in broad terms, the physical aspects of the scene. I couldn’t bring myself to read it all in detail. But when it got to some of the follow-up, the report listed a name to contact, someone called Tomás Estrada. There was a phone number after the name, and the notation, Acquaintance of Subject Bonilla.

  Nice work, Miss Westerbrook.

  I called and left another message for Detective Fernández, asking if I could see him again. A few little things had happened since the last time.

  Al poked his head in. “Dude.”

  “Don’t you knock anymore?”

  He came in, all smiles. “Where you been?”

  “What’re you so happy about?”

  “I’m away from home. Got the world on a string . . .” He did that in his Sinatra voice, which wasn’t bad.

  “You want to get within twenty feet of me,” I said, “wipe that smirk off your face.”

  “Love you, man. Really, what’s going on? You been out.”

  “I went to see a priest.”

  “About your face?”

  “Hilarious.”

  “To confess your sins? You could have just told me.”

  “You’d be a lousy priest.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’m not celibate. Which would surprise my wife.”

  I shook my head. “Why don’t you get some counseling?”

  “Hey, my wife and I were happy for twenty years.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yep. And then we met.” He slapped his leg. “Thank you! I’ll be here all week!”

  “Get out.”

  He made a bouncing m
otion with his hand. “How about a little half court? We got some guys at the club—”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on! We need six. It’ll do you good. You need some good, my friend.”

  Sometimes in life we do stupid things, like play basketball with a puffy face. Quién es más macho?

  “All right,” I said. “But only if you don’t cheat.”

  “Me?”

  “It’s been known to happen.”

  Al grinned.

  “Listen,” I said, “we need to find a guy named David Townsend, a client of Mackee’s who made a claim against this priest.”

  I gave Al the whole account. Then he said, “You told McDonough about this guy?”

  “Not yet. I want to talk to Townsend first and find something good. Maybe then McDonough will think I’m the fair-haired one again.”

  “You are, dude. But can you still make a jump shot under pressure?”

  29

  WE PLAYED THREE on three at Al’s club. He’d rounded up a couple of other lawyers, one of whom I recognized from a firm we’d once teamed with on some asbestos litigation. Another was apparently a friend of Al’s from the club. The fifth guy, the biggest one—six-five at least, and thick across the front—was in Info Management for Sun America. Bruce was his name. Bruise was his game.

  There’s a wide variety of roundball species. You have your ex-jocks trying to relive their days of glory. You have guys out for fun, and guys out for blood. The worst are the trial lawyers, who are competitive enough in court. They see a pickup game as another federal case, one to be settled by superior physical prowess.

  Then you have those who play with a certain detached humor. That was me. I played because it was a good way to keep in shape, but I never took these games seriously. I would talk a lot of good-natured smack, just to keep things loose.

  Some are the opposite of this. They find no fun in the game—at least their faces don’t show it—and when they hear a little trash talk they take it personally.

  Such a one was Bruce the IM. And he was the one who ended up guarding me in the first three-on-three. And wanted to show me, from the very start, who the Big Dog was.

  The first time I touched the ball, at the top of the key, Bruce tugged up his shorts and assumed the squat position of the serious defender; practically chest to chest with me. He was saying You are not going to score once, girl.

  This annoyed me more than anything else. You don’t get this intense in a half court game, unless there’s some money on the line.

  So, instead of passing, I decided to take it to the hole. I could tell I was quicker than the guy, and if he was going to play me this close I’d make him pay.

  I gave him the rocker step, one of my best moves, had him back on his heels, and cut right. A lane opened in the key and I made for the hoop. Bruce recovered enough to dog me from the side, but he was a step behind. He wouldn’t catch me. It’d be an easy layup.

  Only when I went up a huge paw came down across my wrist and knocked the ball to the floor, where it bounced up and was nabbed by one of Bruce’s teammates.

  I waited for the call. The code of half court demands that you call a foul when you commit one.

  Bruce said nothing. Instead, he hustled out to the free-throw line for the offensive set.

  “Whoa!” I said. “Foul.”

  Everybody stopped moving. When the word “foul” is uttered, play ceases and the offended party—in this case, me—gets the ball back.

  But Bruce put on a disgusted look and cried, “No way!”

  “You got my arm, man.”

  “All ball! No way!”

  “I’m calling a foul,” I said. “Our ball.”

  “No way, man.”

  This was not cool. You don’t make a big deal about a call on the first play of the game. And it was his fault. A deaf man could have heard the slap.

  “I called a foul, now gimme the ball.”

  “No way.”

  Did this guy know any other words? He looked at me, daring me to come at him.

  Of all the types of baller, Bruce represented the worst—the guy who’s never wrong and won’t back down. I was ready to knuckle his face, which was not a normal thing for me, not in a game of half court.

  Al, who was on my team, stepped between us. “Dudes! This ain’t Lakers– Heat! Let’s just play.” To Bruce he said, “Your ball.”

  That did not please me, but I let it go. I knew now the game was going to get physical, and any civility I had left fell to the floor like a glob of sweat. I didn’t care.

  The game moved along without incident for a few baskets. Then Al fired up a fifteen footer and I blocked out Bruce, ready to go for the rebound.

  The ball hit the rim and bounced to the side. I went up and Bruce the Jerk went over my back, grabbed the ball, and sent me sprawling to the floor.

  No call again.

  I jumped up ready to spit in his face. “No way! I’m calling that.”

  “Oh jeez.” Bruce threw his hands in the air.

  “Over the back, man. Play ball, why don’t you?”

  “What I’m doin’. Can’t take it?”

  I laughed out loud. “You are a piece of work.”

  “Play the game.”

  “Our ball,” I said. “I’m callin’ it.” I motioned to one of Bruce’s slack-jawed teammates, who held the ball, and motioned for it.

  He tossed it to me.

  “Un-freaking-believable,” Bruce muttered.

  If I’d had a shotgun then, I would have taken his knees out. Instead, I was this close to just walking out. I didn’t need this.

  “Let’s go, buddy,” Al said lightly. Smilin’ Al. He should run for office.

  Bruce got that little boy pout face on him, only stretched across his grown man’s puss. There’s nothing more grotesque than that. And when it’s directed at you, it’s a challenge as obvious as a slap.

  So the second I got the ball I drove to the board.

  Bruce was all over me. But I was ready. I put my shoulder down and pushed up and out with all the force my legs could muster.

  My left shoulder caught Bruce in the chest. Only he had decided that he was going to do everything he could to stop me. We collided in the air like 747s in the same airspace.

  My teeth rattled as Bruce’s arm whacked me in the face. I went sprawling to the floor.

  My eyes crossed with pain. Blood seeped from my nose. Again.

  I heard Al yelling at Bruce, really ripping him, as he ran under the basket. I covered my face with my hand. Al grabbed a towel from under the basket and threw it to me, then faced Bruce again, who was just standing there with his hands on his hips.

  “That’s it,” Al said. “Game over.”

  Not quite. I got to my feet and, still holding the towel on my face, started for Bruce. As I did, I had one of those moments when you step outside yourself and watch yourself about to do something that shocks you.

  Even with one hand, I wanted to smash his face in. This wasn’t one of those anger reflexes everyone feels. It wasn’t like being cut off on the freeway. What I wanted to do was inflict real and permanent damage.

  I’ve played a lot of ball, and know that the most dangerous weapon on the court is the elbow. Once I got a tooth knocked out by a guy six-eight who didn’t like the way I was guarding him. An elbow to the face can really foul you up.

  I wanted to elbow Bruce’s face and give his nose a concave shape. I wanted to foul him up good.

  Luckily, Al and the others got between us. After a lot of shouting, Bruce left the gym.

  “I guess we win by forfeit,” Al joked.

  “I’d rather win by ripping his pancreas out,” I said.

  “Think it’s broken?”

  “I don’t know. It hurts is all I know.”

  “You were really ready to go after him.”

  “So?”

  “That’s not like you.”

  “It’s not?”

  “Usually
it’s your rapier-like wit you use.”

  “I guess I’m not finding much funny these days.”

  30

  AFTER A SHOWER, having cleaned off blood and rage, I got dressed and met Al in the parking lot. We got to his Escalade and he leaned against it. “You hanging in there?”

  “Hanging.”

  “Think about her?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “I was there when you met her, remember?”

  “Of course.”

  “I wish I’d known her better.”

  “Me, too.” Memories started flashing on the screen, full color. “You know, I have this theory that you can get to know a lot about a person by their favorite Twilight Zone episode.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s yours?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Yes you do,” I said. “Everybody has a favorite Zone. Come on.”

  “Well, what’s that one where the guy is walking in Europe and he comes to a monastery? There’s all these guys with beards?”

  “Yeah. That’s ‘The Howling Man’.” These hermits have Satan in a cell, and he can’t get out because a special staff is barring the door. But the guy who comes in listens to him and gets convinced he’s just a poor prisoner.”

  “Right. And lets him out. And then he turns into the devil right before his eyes.”

  “That’s it. The poor guy tells the head hermit, Sorry, I didn’t recognize him. And the hermit says, That’s man’s weakness and Satan’s strength.”

  Laughing, Al said, “You really do know your Zones. So what was Jacqueline’s?”

  “The one she loved was about this good-hearted street peddler who sells ties and jewelry and knickknacks out of his valise. Everybody in the neighborhood loves him, especially this one little girl. Well, Mr. Death has these appointments he’s got to keep, and one of them is for this pitchman. He convinces Mr. Death to let him make one more try at a sale. See, he’s always felt he had one great pitch in him, one for the angels he calls it. That’s the title, I think. ‘One for the Angels.’”

  “What happens?”

  “Mr. Death says, ‘OK, I won’t take you until after your next pitch.’ So the peddler pulls a fast one. He tells Death, ‘I’m not going to do any more pitches. We made a deal. I get to live.’ Death, seeing that he got hoodwinked, he tells the peddler he’s going to take another life in his place, and arranges, through the power he has, to have the little girl hit by a car.”