The Iron Will of Shoeshine Cats

by Hesh Kestin

  Through the long evening, as the gangsters swapped stories and Del recited poems and food and drink were indulged in to an extent that could only be called biblical, I understood something that I had missed only hours before: I had fallen for Terri Cats not least because I loved her brother. I loved him more two days later, the last day of the mourning period, when the brothers Callinan reentered my life with a vengeance—not theirs, Shushan’s.

  10.

  This is not the way to Chinatown, I thought from the middle seat of the red Eldorado as Ira-Myra’s pointed it uptown. Maybe I had seen too many gangster movies, but when a certain kind of person takes another person for a ride and it is clear they are traveling in the wrong direction, it’s just as clear that something untoward may occur. I put this out of my mind. Why would Shushan want to knock me off? Hell, I didn’t know why Shushan did anything, though I did suspect there was a reason for everything he did do. But this clearly was not Chinatown. Shushan had been talking all day about getting a decent Chinese meal to close out the mourning period—it was the one thing we had not ordered in because, he said, Chinese places on the Upper East Side were, in his own word, “deracinated.” How he knew the word was at least as much a mystery as how he knew, a couple of decades before anyone else did, one Chinese cuisine from another, and how he knew enough to determine what was or was not deracinated within it. Seated to my right, Shushan had not said a word since we had entered the car. It was his first day out of the hotel room, his first shave, his first glance in a mirror. For that matter, though I’d gone for a stroll every day to pick up the papers, it was pretty much my first real outing as well. Having shared his mourning, I now shared his relief at its conclusion. On the radio the Four Seasons were blasting:

  Walk like a man,

  talk like a man,

  walk like a man,

  my so-o-on.

  It was the first music I had heard in a week, and I imagined this must be what prison is like: you remain the same while the world changes around you. In a matter of days Shushan’s trial would begin. I was wondering if this was on his mind as well when Ira-Myra’s deftly pulled the big boat into a parking place in front of a small church on East 132nd Street in Spanish Harlem, right under a sign that read:

  CHURCH

  NO PARKING

  “You ever been in a Roman Catholic church?” Shushan asked as he got out.

  “Once or twice.” I realized this was not an idle question. “I’ll wait.”

  “Get out of the fucking car, college boy,” was his answer.

  I got out of the fucking car. A light rain was falling. Lit by a street lamp, the spray of tiny droplets seemed to be falling only here: beyond the light it was merely a soft November evening, not raining at all. I considered how easily the eye can deceive the mind. “You changing religion?” I asked brightly.

  Shushan rewarded me with the aborted beginnings of a smile. His eyelids scrunched up, his nose creased at the top above where the hook began, and even his ears seemed to draw together as though bowing to one another across the sharp planes of his face. But his mouth remained one solid line. “You sit where I show you, and you pay attention. If anyone’s gonna change his religion, college boy, it’ll be you. Look, listen and learn.”

  Inside, the church was in semi-darkness. But even in this light it was clear it had seen better times. These streets had once been heavily Italian, an immigrant population so uniformly Roman Catholic that its churches were among the richest in the city, not so much because their parishioners were generous but because there were so many of them. In the past twenty years what had been Italian Harlem had been inherited by impoverished Puerto Ricans and Dominicans—many of whom even in their homelands had defected to Evangelical sects. It was simple economics—there were too many churches for too few clients. In the ensuing years dozens of churches in Spanish Harlem would be closed by the Archdiocese of New York, but in the sixties the empty collection plates in many churches were unable to fund routine maintenance or even regular cleaning. I had only to look up: high above at the top of the nave two pigeons seemed to have made a home. They squawked and dipped. The church had a distinct smell, and not a good one. It was as if small animals had died in its walls. The bench I sat on at the front had not been polished by anything but Catholic behinds for a long time. Behind me Ira-Myra’s took a seat. Shushan went right to the confessional, behind whose old-fashioned grills low wattage bulbs burned with little effect.

  “Bienvenidos, mi hijo,” came a voice in New York-accented Spanish from the left-hand grill.

  “Good evening, father,” Shushan said quietly.

  “Good evening, my son. We don’t often have English-speakers. Are you here to confess your sins?”

  “Yes, father.”

  “When is the last time you confessed?”

  “A long time, father,” Shushan said.

  “How long, my son?”

  “Maybe never, father.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Never, father.”

  There was a pause. I could not help but imagine what the priest was thinking: never confessed, a stranger who has found a church far from where he lives. Probably it was not uncommon, the sons or daughters of Italian immigrants returning to confess theft, adultery, murder or—infinitely worse—lapse of faith. “Have you sinned?”

  “Oh, yes, father. I have sinned.”

  “I am here,” the priest said.

  “I have taken the name of the Lord in vain.”

  “Is that all, my son?”

  “I have stolen.”

  “Yes, my son.”

  “I have killed.”

  A long pause. “Tell me more, my son. In the eyes of Christ we are all sinners.”

  “You know how it is, father. Do I need to tell you the details?”

  “In the eyes of Christ all may be forgiven, but only if truly confessed.”

  “In Korea, in the war, I shot a man.”

  “In war it is necessary to kill.”

  “I shot him in the back, father.”

  “Was there reason, my son?”

  “Oh yeah, father. He was an American officer, running away.”

  “And was this the only time you killed, my son?”

  “I killed a lot of Koreans. North Koreans. Maybe some were Red Chinese. You couldn’t tell. They wore Korean uniforms. It was at the Chosin Reservoir. All the others I shot in front.”

  “You were in the army?”

  “The Marines, father. First Marine Division. No better friend, no worse enemy.”

  “I am sure you fought bravely and did not sin.”

  “Also several wops, a mick and two kikes.”

  “In the army, my son?”

  “No, father, the Marines. Not in the Marines. Just in life.”

  “Tell me about this, my son.”

  “It was just what happens.”

  Pause. “Tell me.”

  “Well, you know, father. It’s New York. It’s not Iowa or somewhere. It’s what happens. Pretty much that’s it. What happens. It’s the kind of thing where if you don’t do it to them they do it to you.”

  “Are you a policeman, my son?”

  “Hell, no. Excuse me, father. No, far from it.”

  “How far, my son?”

  “Very far, father.”

  A really long pause. I had grown up in the fifties, when radio was still alive, not yet fully replaced by television. I remember staying up late when I was eight listening to Gunsmoke and The Fat Man in bed: the deep voices, the eerie hyper-realism of the sound effects, the silences that foreshadowed some dramatic high point to come. “Tell me about the stealing, my son.”

  “Ah, that was nothing, father. I mean, I was a kid. Does it count if you’re a kid?”

  “And taking the name of our Lord—”

  “You know, father, just God damn this, God damn that.”

  “These are mortal sins, my son.”

  “I figured as much, father.”

  “Are
you prepared to repent, to ask forgiveness of Jesus Christ our Lord?”

  Now the silence came from Shushan’s side of the confessional. “Let me think about it, father. To repent, do you have to be a Catholic?”

  From behind me Ira rose—in the way of really big men he moved gracefully, though the very bulk of him was a presence, as if the air around him were being pushed back, disturbed. He stepped in front of the priest’s side of the confessional, facing it as though to look through the grill. But the grillwork was meant for a seated man. It met Ira’s waist.

  “Yes?” the priest said.

  “I’m just waiting,” Ira said in his hoarse whisper.

  “Please take a seat in the rear of the church, my son. I shall be with you shortly.”

  Ira didn’t move.

  “Do I have to be a Catholic?” Shushan repeated.

  Pause. “Are you not a Catholic?”

  “No, father.”

  “Were you baptized, my son?”

  “Uh-uh, father. Though I do like to swim. Sometimes I go out to Jones Beach in the summer. Florida and Mexico every winter. I used to go to Cuba, but since Kennedy went after the guy with the beard...”

  “You have no place here, my son,” the priest said.

  “Well, yes and no, father. I figured you might want to know who’s going to do it to you. You know, that I’m not some amateur.”

  At this point the narrow door to the priest’s side of the confessional swung open and then was slammed back hard as it met Ira’s big shoe, which was then wedged tight against it.

  “Be patient, father,” Shushan said.

  “I have no money,” the priest said. “This is a poor church.”

  “Hey, there’s more money in the Roman Catholic Church than in all the Rockefellers’ bank accounts combined,” Shushan said. “But I’m not interested in money. I got money. You ever read Shakespeare, father?”

  “Shakespeare?”

  “The Merchant of Venice?”

  “What do you want?”

  “A pound of flesh, father. You probably have a pound to spare. I mean, if you want to atone for your sins, you might consider parting with a pound or so. Or maybe your two brothers would volunteer in your place. A pound is all I want—”

  “Shushan!”

  “Shut up, kid,” he said. “This is between me and Father Bill here. Father Bill, right? You know, father, I don’t like to cast asparagus, and unlike you I don’t get involved in calling people on their sins, but your sister is something of a hot babe. Did she bother to mention she was the one who—”

  “This is a church!” the priest shouted. “I’ll call the police!”

  “You can call the fucking pope for all the good it’ll do, father. Just stay calm and we’ll get through this. Are you going to stay calm or would you prefer that we take you out of this box and nail you to the fucking cross where your parishioners can find you in the morning and maybe venerate your bones? Are you listening to me, father?”

  “I’m listening,” the priest said quietly.

  “Like I say, I don’t want to get into who’s right and who’s wrong, because even if your sister wasn’t getting vengeance on my friend Russell for losing interest—which you probably wouldn’t know about, but believe me it seems to be God’s plan for men and women—even if your sister, what’s her name?”

  Silence.

  “What’s her name, father? You want to cooperate or not? If not just let me know because we got ten-inch spikes and a hammer in the car—”

  “Celeste.”

  “Nice name,” Shushan said. “Look, I have a sister too. Hey, she doesn’t do what I want all the time. You can’t control the whole world. But what you did, that wasn’t right.”

  “I did nothing.”

  “You and your mick brothers beat the shit out of a good friend of mine.”

  “I know nothing about it.”

  “Ira,” Shushan said in a bigger voice. “Go to the car and get the Jesus tools.”

  “I’m sorry,” the priest said quickly. “I was overcome with anger. Your... friend... dishonored our sister.”

  “My friend fucked your sister and your sister fucked him right back. Do you want me to bring in the two witnesses to these repeated acts of carnal congress or will you take my word? Because if you don’t take my word I’m going to be offended.”

  “I take your word.”

  “Good,” Shushan said. “Are you ready therefore to confess your sin?”

  “I may confess only to Jesus Christ.”

  “He’s not in the room?”

  “I may confess only to a priest.”

  “Ira,” Shushan said, so conversationally it was like a suggestion to go out and pick up a pack of smokes. “Go out and see if you can’t round up a priest.”

  “No!” the priest said. “All right. We were angry. We struck out. We punished your... friend.”

  “Damn right,” Shushan said. “Now how about my pound of flesh?”

  Silence. This was no radio drama. Still, with every stretch of blank air would come, I knew, another critical point in the narrative. As an old-time radio narrator might have put it, I was riveted to my pew.

  “Father Bill, how about it?”

  “I don’t know what you want. Whoever you are, please. I don’t know what you want.”

  “Shushan Cats.”

  “Shushan Cats,” the priest said. Apparently he read the papers. “Sir, you have no idea. This is a mistake.”

  “A pound of flesh, that’s about the weight of an adult hand. I’ll take a hand.”

  “A hand?”

  “Right, left. No matter. Or a foot. No, better a hand. Either from you or from your brothers, or from all of you. How about you sit down and come up with five fingers between you?”

  “Five fingers?”

  “Technically that’s probably going to work out to less than a pound, but what the hell, father. Consider it a sheenie discount. You are familiar with the term sheenie? How about kike? Hebe? Hebe is good. A hebe discount. The regular price is one whole hand, but for you five fingers. Practically half price. What do you say?”

  Silence.

  “Father? You still with us, father?”

  “Your friend attacked us.”

  “Yeah, he hit you in the boot with a couple of ribs. Father, we’re getting close to cross-time here. Work with me.” He paused. “Russy!”

  “I’m here.”

  “You been following this theological conversation?”

  “From the beginning.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Think?” Was I allowed to think? “I’m sure the father is sorry,” I said.

  “You do? Does he repent, do you think? Father, do you repent? I mean, three big micks on one little kike kid, that’s probably a sin. It’s for sure a crime. If you think about it, more than one actually—aggravated assault, conspiracy, maybe even attempted murder. Do you repent, father?”

  “I repent,” the priest said quietly.

  “Louder, please, father.”

  “I repent.”

  “You know about the Second Vatican Council? In Rome? Of course you do. They may actually allow the liturgy to be in English. Or Spanish. Very democratic. If you don’t mind me saying so, a shrewd move. But probably it won’t bring in more clients. People like the mysteries. If you make everything too clear you lose them. It’s uncertainty. People are fascinated by uncertainty. But hey, it’s your fucking religion, father, not mine. I’m just speaking as an observer. Anyway, in whatever language, did you sin in busting up my friend?”

  “I sinned, Mr. Cats.”

  “So as I understand it, you have to do three things, right? You have to be sorry, deeply sorry. You have to seriously intend never do anything like that again, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have to do penance according to the decision of the priest. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m your priest, father. I want that hand.”<
br />
  “I don’t... I don’t know what...”

  “Father, it’s like five Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys. It’s something you have to do. I suggest you discuss this with your brothers and in a month or so get back to me with your decision. What is it, November? Come back to me January. After Christmas. That’s probably a busy season for you, right? January second, say. January second okay with you?”

  “January second?”

  “What is it with you people? You want it in Latin? Talk to your mick brothers, I mean one cop and one fireman and one priest, that’s pretty mick, isn’t it, father?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know, Mr. Cats.”

  “The only thing more mick would be a sister who’s a nun. But so far there’s no sign of that, right?”

  “Mr. Cats, I—”

  “Okay, father. We have an understanding. You talk to your brothers. Work it out on the fingers, the hand, whatever you prefer. You get the sheenie discount. If you want it. Otherwise, one whole hand. And the date you got?”

  “January second.”

  “Brilliant. Now before I go, I have to absolve you.”

  Absolve me?”

  “Sure. I’m your priest, right? I got it in my pocket. Just give me a sec. The light in here could be better. You might tell Pope John to do something about that. Okay, here goes: Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat; et ego auctoritate ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis et interdicti in quantum possum et tu indiges. Now as I understand it the priest is supposed to make the sign of the cross. You do it for me. You doing it? Okay, back to the script. Deinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. I know you know what it means, but we got some unbelievers here. Pay attention, gentlemen. ‘May our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you; and by His authority I absolve you from every bond of excommunication and interdict, so far as my power allows and your needs require. Thereupon, I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.’ Pretty good, huh? For a Jew?” A sound like a whimper came from the priest’s box. “I take that as a yes. Oh, one more thing, what they call the post-absolution prayer, but I can’t let that one go without your promising me you’ll do everything in your power to make sure your brothers don’t develop vigilante ideas and try to get back on Russy here, because if they do you are one dead priest, and so is your brother the fireman and especially the cop. Your sister, unlike you, I hold her more or less blameless. Women get pissed off. It’s understandable. Now, promise me, father, you’ll do everything in your power to let cooler heads prevail.”