Pagan Babies Page 13

  “I think the ones sitting there know you. One is a priest.”

  “I don’t know any priests.”

  “The other one says the young lady with them wants to piss off the management. But she says oh no. She says, ‘I just want to see how Randy handles it.’ ”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. What’s she look like?”

  Carlo shrugged. “Cute, but common. Probably a very nice young lady.”

  “Then why would I know her?”

  “What do I do, please, when Mr. Moraco comes?”

  “Let him work it out.”

  “I mentioned the one is a priest?”

  “Carlo, if you can’t do your job—”

  “Yes?”

  “Look. If Moraco wants them to move to another table, they’ll move to another table. What’s the problem?”

  Cindy, who worked the first booth and didn’t care who sat in it, brought menus and served their drinks, Johnny swigging his beer out of the bottle now as they studied the caricatures of famous native Detroiters, Debbie spotting them, Johnny questioning, Terry biding his time.

  “Sonny Bono.”

  “You sure?”

  “Who else looks like that? There’s Lily Tomlin, Tom Selleck in the Tigers baseball cap. The girl next to him is . . . Pam Dawber.”

  “It’s Marlo Thomas. I know she’s from Detroit.”

  “It’s still Pam Dawber. Mork & Mindy, I never missed it, I wanted to look just like her.”

  “You didn’t come close,” Johnny said. “There’s—Jesus Christ, is that Ed McMahon? He’s from here?”

  “I see Diana Ross,” Debbie said, “Smokey Robinson . . . Michael Moriarty—I loved him on Law & Order. And there’s, my God, Wally Cox.”

  “The one next to him,” Terry said, getting into it, “you know who that is? Seymour Cassel.”

  “Who the fuck’s Seymour Cassel?”

  “He’s good, he was in . . . something about a Chinese bookie. Okay, and the one next to him you should know. David Patrick Kelly.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Pat Kelly, he was three years ahead of us at Bishop Gallagher. He was in that movie with Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy, 48HRS.”

  “Which one was Kelly?”

  “Guy’s running down the street, Eddie Murphy opens the car door and knocks him on his ass? That one.”

  “Look,” Debbie said, “sitting at the bar, Bill Bonds.”

  “The anchorman? That’s not his hair,” Johnny said.

  “Anyone who watches TV knows that.”

  “I mean that’s not the rug he always wears.”

  Debbie called the maître d’ over and asked him. Carlo looked toward the bar. He said, “Yes, Mr. Bonds and his wife. They come here often.”

  “He’s drinking?”

  “Only Perrier.”

  Right after that Johnny spotted Ted Nugent’s picture on the wall. “I know it’s him, ’cause there’s a hack in Four East looks just like him.”

  Debbie said, “Were the hacks at Jackson stupid?”

  “You gotta be stupid to be one, don’t you?”

  “Where I was they’d never get the count right the first time. Never.”

  “I know what you mean, you can stand there all day while they do their recounts.”

  Terry said, “Isn’t that Alice Cooper?”

  They went right on talking.

  “You had women guards, didn’t you?”

  “Some, mostly men.”

  “They hit on you?”

  “I didn’t have any trouble. But it was going on, yeah, some of the girls doing it for favors, preferential treatment.”

  Johnny said, “There’s one over at the bar, the redhead? I wouldn’t mind her doing me a favor.”

  “If you like whores,” Debbie said.

  “Come on—”

  “Go ask her.”

  Johnny looked past Debbie to Terry. “You think she’s a whoer?”

  Debbie said, “What’re you asking a priest for? How would he know?”

  “Well, how do you know?”

  “I heard there were call girls here, and that redhead is my idea of a chick who does it for money.”

  Johnny said, “I’m gonna go check.”

  They watched him walk over to the bar buttoning his jacket, touching the collar to make sure it was up and his ponytail hooked over it. They saw the woman turn as he reached her and cock her head to one side to adjust her earring. They saw Johnny ready to take the empty stool next to her. The woman said something to him and now Johnny was talking, gesturing, laying his hand on her shoulder.

  They saw the guy with the crew cut coming along the bar.

  They watched him walk up to Johnny—both about the same height, but Johnny lacking the guy’s solid build—and say something to him. Johnny shrugged, gestured with his hands, nodded as he looked this way, toward the booth.

  Debbie said, “What’s he doing, inviting them over?”

  No, Johnny was coming back alone. Sliding into the booth he said, “That bouncer, he walks up, he goes, ‘Angie, this guy bothering you?’ She says to me, ‘This is my husband,’ the fuckin bouncer. You believe it?”

  Debbie was still looking at the redhead and the guy with the crew cut. “He’s her pimp, you dummy.”

  Now Johnny was looking over. “Oh, he is? You ever see a pimp dresses like that?”

  “What’d you say to him?”

  “I told him I was with a priest, so he wouldn’t get the wrong idea. The guy has scar tissue up here, over his eyes.”

  Terry said, “He must’ve got hit a lot.”

  Now Debbie was asking Johnny about the green outfit the girl at the bar was wearing and what her earrings were like. Terry’s gaze wandered off . . .

  Came to a man who reminded him of his uncle and saw Tibor sitting there in a checked sport coat, a young lady with him, their waiter pouring red wine. No, it wasn’t Tibor. Tibor’s drink was bourbon, Early Times, managing somehow to buy it or have it shipped to him, Kentucky bourbon in Rwanda, and always had a supply. Tibor would sip it through crushed ice packed in the glass, a little sugar sprinkled on top. For his sweet tooth, because he couldn’t find chocolate candy that he liked. A half-dozen bottles left when he died. Early Times in a wooden case with words in Kinyarwanda stenciled on the side. Terry drank three of the bottles during the first year, different times when he ran out of Johnnie Walker and didn’t feel like driving all the way to Kigali. Bourbon was okay, it did the job. But Johnnie Walker red was his favorite because he admired the look of the square bottle with its smooth, rounded edges and neat red label, seeing it as a work of art sitting on the old wooden table, a warm, amber glow in the last light of day. The black label, more expensive, looked almost as good. There was a bottle in the kitchen, up in a cupboard, saved for a special occasion that never came. He would bet anything Chantelle had sold the leftover fifths of Early Times by now. Unless she tried the whiskey and liked it. She would weave when she was high, walking to the house, but still with grace, her hips moving in the pagne that fell to her ankles. Her voice would change, too, become higher and inquiring, a hint of irritation asking him to explain what she didn’t understand. And in the dark under the netting she would rest her stump on his chest and he would cover it with his hand.

  Johnny had his hand in the air to bring the Maître d’ over.

  “Yes?”

  “You see what time it is? Going on eleven.”

  Carlo waited.

  “Where’re these people suppose to have a reservation?”

  “When they come in,” Carlo said, “you will be the first to know.”

  Debbie said, “We’d like another round and we’ll order.”

  “Of course.”

  “Wait. Is Randy here?”

  Carlo turned, looked over the room and came back to them. “I don’t believe so. You wish to speak to him?”

  “Maybe,” Debbie said, “I’m not sure.”

  “May I give Mr. Agley your name
?”

  “You just said he isn’t here.”

  “So I can tell him when he comes.”

  Johnny said, “Tell him Fr. Dunn wants to hear his confession.”

  Debbie shook her head. “I’ll let you know.” Carlo walked off and she put her hand on Terry’s arm. “I was thinking I might talk to him first, before we get into it with him. You know, see what he’s like now.”

  “What was the last thing he said to you, ‘Don’t fuck with me’?”

  “ ‘Don’t fuck with me, kid.’ That was the second to last thing he said. His last words were ‘You’re not in my league.’ But,” Debbie said, “maybe he’s changed. You know, now that he’s got what he wants.”

  Terry said, “You told me he’s a gangster now.”

  “Shit. I forgot. But he did like me, I know that. We had a pretty good time, at least at first.”

  “I bet he’s here,” Terry said. “You want to see him, go ahead.”

  She said, “Yeah, I’m gonna do it,” and nudged Johnny with her elbow. “Move, so I can get out.” She said to Terry, “If the waitress comes I’ll have the bluepoints, a house salad, the Coho salmon in the paper bag and another Stoli. I’ll see you.”

  Johnny slipped back into the booth, picked up his menu and said, “I’m gonna start with the jumbo shrimp cocktail. I like surf and turf but I don’t see it here.”

  Cindy came by to take their orders and he asked her about it, how come no surf and turf? She said, “Sir, you can have anything you want.”

  “And you’ll charge me anything you want, huh?”

  Terry waited while they went around and around on what Johnny might like put together. When his turn came Terry gave her Debbie’s order and said, “I’ll have the same,” keeping it simple, “but instead of the Johnnie Walker, lemme have a double bourbon this time over crushed ice. Early Times, if you have it.”

  17

  * * *

  DEBBIE STOOD JUST INSIDE THE office while Randy put on his act, looked up as she came in, got the right expressions in his eyes, pleasure in one, surprise in the other—she could hear herself delivering the line onstage—and he froze the look; next, he arched one eyebrow quizzically—the word that would come to mind when he used to do it. First, I must be seeing things. And then, Can I believe my eyes? Now he’ll laugh this low chuckle and begin to shake his head.

  He did that, audibilizing the eyebrow thing with “I can’t believe it.” Then serious, ad-libbing, “God, but it’s good to see you.”

  It was the last part that got to her. She didn’t believe him, but so what? It still made her feel good. Gave her confidence a boost.

  She watched Randy get up, come from around his desk and put his arms out toward her. Now she was supposed to rush into them. What she did was walk past him and sit down in the chair facing his desk. And what Randy did, he stepped back until he was against the desk, raised his right leg and laid his thigh on the surface, his crotch aimed at Debbie, the bulge telling her he was still stuffing his Jockeys. When they were living together she caught him one time—they were getting ready for bed—pulling a pair of socks out of his undies and said, being stupid back then, “You’re bad,” and he cocked his head at her and winked. Well, not this time, you phony baloney, but then couldn’t help saying, “You still think that works?” and could kick herself for letting him know she’d noticed.

  Randy grinned. He did that a lot, sleepy-eyed, and said, “You missed me, didn’t you?”

  She decided at that moment to quit screwing around and said, “No, I didn’t, Randy. I knocked you on your ass with a Buick Riviera.” Used to saying it that way.

  And the cool son of a bitch said, “Oh? I don’t recall you driving a Buick. I thought it was a Ford Escort.”

  It made her mad and Debbie had to take a few beats to get her insides to calm down.

  She said, “Why don’t you quit trying to be so fucking cool all the time? What’re you now, a gangster? You quit sailing around the world? You were always someone else, like you wanted me to think you had a secret life. You did, but you know what I mean. You’d be gone for a few days, I’d ask where you were and you’d go, ‘Sorry, babe.’ You’ll never know how much I hated being called babe. I’m not a babe, Randy.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I mean that you hated it.”

  “Because I was stupid. I actually thought I was in love with you.”

  “Maybe you still are, deep down.”

  “Don’t, okay? You’d go, ‘Sorry, babe, but there’s a reason I can’t tell you at this point in time.’ Like one of these days you’d tell me you were with the CIA. Why don’t you just try to be yourself?”

  Randy said, “I’m whoever I am,” making it sound like something he was told on a mountaintop.

  He could wear you out. Debbie said, “Randy, that is so fucking dumb, ‘I’m whoever I am.’ You want to appear wise, you keep your mouth shut. I’m serious. You don’t have to base your whole life on bullshit.”

  Now he was giving her his sincere look, hands folded on his thigh. He said, “Why do you care?”

  Sounding as though he was serious, so she went along with it, watching her step though. She said, “Do you like being an asshole?” See if that would nudge him.

  He let his breath out in a long Randy sigh, staying in his serious mood. “I am sorry for the way I treated you. Really. Even at the time, when you trusted me to invest your money—it was the first time in my life my conscience ever gave me a hard time.”

  “But you took it.”

  He said, “Yes, I did,” looking past her and sounding contrite.

  “Well, would you like to give it back?”

  “It’s been on my mind,” Randy said. “Not while I was lying in the hospital, in pain, but since then.”

  “While I was in prison,” Debbie said.

  “The thing is, I want to make it up to you.”

  She said, “What does that mean?”

  And the fucking maître d’ came in the office saying, “Mr. Moraco is here.”

  They started on their appetizers without Debbie: Johnny dipping his giant shrimp in the cocktail sauce, Terry dealing with his oysters. He heard Johnny say, “Jesus, there’s Vincent Moraco,” and Terry looked up.

  “Which one?”

  “The little guy, with his wife.”

  “That’s not the one used to pay us.”

  “The one paid us was his girlfriend. She said she was Mrs. Moraco so nobody’d argue with her or fool around. Understand? Or you’d be fuckin with Vincent Moraco himself. I heard the feds’re looking for the girlfriend, but she’s disappeared.”

  “They call you?”

  “No, but some other guys making the same run I heard were subpoenaed.”

  “What about the other guy?”

  “Vito Genoa. He’s the enforcer. Mr. Amilia’s take-out guy.”

  “They’re watching us eat,” Terry said.

  “I know they are. Don’t look at ’em.”

  Too late. Terry nodded to the three standing with the hostess, and smiled. The Moracos and Vito Genoa, looking this way as the hostess was talking to them, did not smile back. Now the maître d’ was there, taking over, talking maître d’ talk to them, schmoozing them over to the bar.

  Johnny was saying, “Remember we use to go sledding at Balduck Park? Genoa was the guy use to come by there, act like he was king of the fuckin hill.”

  “He went to Queen of Peace?”

  “No, he was from over in Grosse Pointe Woods. He was gonna wash my face with snow and you jumped him. We were about ten, he was twelve or thirteen, big for his age.”

  Terry said, “He beat me up.”

  Johnny said, “And I got a concussion of the fuckin brain, but he never bothered us again, did he?”

  “How do you know this is the same guy?”

  “The name, Gen-oh-a. High school he was All-City in football two years, with his picture in the paper.” Johnny saying, “He’s put on a good fifty, sixty pounds since then
,” as Debbie came back and he had to get up.

  She slipped into the banquette saying, “I almost had him. I got him to say he’d make it up to me, and that fucking maître d’ walked in.” She said, “There’s Randy, coming along the bar. See him? What’s your first impression?”

  “He looks like a guy runs a restaurant,” Terry said, “and eats a lot. He fills out that suit.”

  “He’s put on some weight,” Debbie said, “but the style is still there, the pose.”

  They watched him reach the Moracos and Vito Genoa, Randy already saying something to them as he walked up, taking Mrs. Moraco’s hand now, still talking, making her smile, the two guys looking at him now not happy, and now Randy was gesturing, shaking his head, acting helpless.

  “We’re in their booth,” Debbie said, “and he’s telling them there’s nothing he can do about it.”

  “Maybe an hour ago it was their booth,” Johnny said, “not now. Any restaurant, a busy night, they’ll hold your reservation fifteen minutes, that’s it. You show up late, get in line, man, it’s the way it is.”

  They watched Moraco turn from Randy to say no more than a few words to Vito Genoa and the guy was coming this way, looking right at them.

  Debbie nudged Johnny. “Tell this bozo what you just said,” and all Johnny could say was, “Shit,” without much behind it.

  Terry watched Genoa stop in front of Johnny. He placed his hands flat on the table to lean in and get close. Now he took one of Johnny’s giant shrimp and popped it in his mouth. Johnny didn’t say a word.

  Terry said, “Vito? I’m Father Dunn.”

  Genoa turned his head. Now he brought his hands from the table to stand erect.

  “What parish you in, Vito?”

  Genoa didn’t answer, taken by surprise, or maybe thinking about it. What parish was he in?

  “I remember when we were kids you were in, I think, Star of the Sea. Am I right?”

  He still didn’t answer, maybe wondering what’s going on here? Who’s this priest?

  “You remember Fr. Sobieski, your pastor? He’s been there a long time, hasn’t he? I’ve been serving at a mission in Africa, Vito. Rwanda. I was there when over a half-million people were murdered in three months time. Some shot, most of ’em hacked to death with machetes.” He paused.