Pagan Babies Page 17

  “Not anybody from the crew, no way.”

  Randy’s mind was racing now. “Run him down. Hit him crossing the street with a truck, hell, anything, a Buick Riviera.”

  Vincent turned to look over his shoulder at the Mutt. “He’s done it, the farm boy. Tell him to go take a guy out. The Mutt says okay, goes and does the guy. Hey, Mutt?”

  The Mutt said, “You bet,” and looked at Randy looking at him, the two making eye contact for the first time since Vincent walked in. What surprised Randy was the calm expression on the Mutt’s face. The Mutt got it—accepting a contract from a guy he had a contract to take out. If that wasn’t cool . . . And if Vincent had confidence in him, Vincent a made guy, into this kind of thing, then maybe the Mutt wasn’t as dumb as he looked. Man, this was weird. It allowed Randy to settle back.

  He said to Vincent, “He can handle it?”

  “I told you, he’s done it.”

  Turning to the Mutt again, “What do you say?”

  “Yeah, I’ll do’er. But now which person was it again?”

  “The priest.”

  The Mutt said, “Oh,” hesitated and said, “I guess it’s okay, I’m Baptist.”

  “Then it’s a deal,” Randy said. “Do’er.”

  “Yessir, but who’s gonna pay me?”

  Randy said right away, “Vincent will take care of you,” knowing he’d get an argument.

  Of course, Vincent saying, “You’re the one out the cash.”

  “But you have more to lose than I do,” Randy said, “if Tony finds out.” He could stare back at Vincent now—fuck him. He could say, “I wondered, Why don’t you want Tony to give them the two-fifty? And then I realized, shit, you think of it as yours. It’s where the eight yards a week comes from. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re skimming off the top. Tony goes away you can keep the whole thing, even raise it, uh? Take whatever you want. The restaurant business, hell, it’s just a front. What I am really is a fucking bank.”

  Vincent listened, sat there watching him. Didn’t get excited or do any more than stare with his sleepy eyes. No, he seemed quite calm—and that did begin to work on Randy’s central nervous system and tighten him up. He was pretty sure he was right; but, shit, he might’ve gone too far.

  Randy felt the need to add then, with a slight smile, “But who’s complaining?”

  Vincent got up from the chair to stand over the desk. “Sign the papers and cut a check.”

  Randy said, “Why? You don’t need it now, do you?”

  “I go back to Tony I got the check in my hand he sent me to get. Understand? Write the fuckin check.”

  Randy signed the copies of the promissory note. He brought a checkbook out of the desk drawer, made a check out to Tony Amilia in the amount of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars and laid the check on the papers. He watched Vincent pick it up and fold the papers with the check inside. No thank-you or anything.

  What he did say, “You and I’re gonna have a talk, smart guy.” Turned and said to the Mutt on his way out, “Do the priest right away.”

  He was through the door before the Mutt came out of his chair and started after him.

  Randy called out, “Where you going?” But the Mutt was already gone.

  He caught up with Vincent in the restaurant and followed him out to the street. Vincent turned to him now.

  “What?”

  “How much you paying me?”

  It took him a minute to say, “Twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-five what?”

  “Hunnert—the fuck you think?”

  Now the Mutt had to think a minute. “Okay. And I need a pistol, a clean one.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He started to turn away and the Mutt said, “You better pay me when you gimme the pistol as I’ll be taking off soon as I’m done.”

  “I said I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You have to do better’n that,” the Mutt said. “You want the priest done or not?”

  Now Vincent gave him a look that reminded the Mutt of his mom, the times he’d forget and say “shit” in front of her and she’d call him “young man” and threaten to wash his mouth out with soap, but never did. These people were like her, they liked to try and scare you. Vincent gave him the look but then said, “Stay around here. I’ll call you.” See? They got by on dirty looks.

  22

  * * *

  TUESDAY MORNING TERRY WAS UP, Debbie still in bed: Terry coming through the dining room with coffee for Debbie, heading for the foyer. He glanced at the window as the limo was turning into the drive, 11:15 a.m., Fran back from Florida with the family a good five hours before they were supposed to arrive. Terry placed the mug of coffee on the dining room table, flew across the foyer and up the stairs two and three at a time. He was going to wake Debbie up with the coffee and tell her she slept like a teenager. What he did instead was get close to her face and say, “They’re back.” It opened her eyes. “Fran, the whole family, they’re here.” He heard her say, “They can’t be,” but that’s all. Debbie was cool, rolled out of bed in her T-shirt and they tugged and smoothed and tucked the covers together; Terry ran out to the hall and was on the stairs as the front door opened, the two little girls running in, stopping as they looked up and saw him.

  Jane the older one and Katy still a baby the last time he was here; the girls would be eight and six now. Coming down the stairs he said, “Hey, girls, you remember me? Your uncle Terry.”

  Mary Pat was behind them now, looking a little surprised but okay, so far. Fran came in with the luggage, placed the bags on the floor looking at Terry but didn’t say anything until Terry said, “You’re early,” and Fran said, “Yeah, we decided to get going. You take the one o’clock flight, the one I told you we’d be on, it only gives you a couple hours in the morning, get any sun . . . Hey, I called Padilla. He said you had a good talk and he’s, you know, satisfied.”

  “Yeah, he seemed like a nice guy.”

  Mary Pat hadn’t moved, staring at him, Mary Pat in a long black coat with some kind of black fur collar, her blond hair in the same suburban bob he always pictured when he thought of her. She said, “How are you, Terry?” sounding like she wanted to know. But then as he was saying “Fine, good to see you, Mary Pat,” she said, “Girls, your uncle Terry is now Fr. Terry, Fr. Terry Dunn. He’s become a priest.” She gave each of the girls a push and they came over to hug him, putting their arms around his hips and his legs until he got down with them and they each hugged him around the neck. He gathered them to him, his hands feeling their small bones. The older one, Jane, said, “We know where you were. You were in Africa.” He said, “Yes, I was, and if you’d like, I’ll tell you about it and show you pictures I have brought with me.” He wanted to be natural with them and not sound like he was talking to children, but he did, talking much too slowly, picking the words. He said, “Listen, you little cuties, we’ll sit down later on, I’ll show you a bunch of little African kids and tell you what they do . . . you know, how they live . . .”

  Fran saved him. He said, “So you did take pictures.”

  “Yeah, a lot.”

  He straightened and the girls were moving around him, going up the stairway and he wanted to stop them, but there was nothing he could say. They would go upstairs, run into Debbie—

  Mary Pat said, “Is that your coffee on the table?”

  It brought him around again, thinking fast. “Yeah, I was coming from the kitchen when I saw the limo pull into the drive . . .” Thinking too fast—why was he coming down the stairs—if the coffee . . . It didn’t matter. The girls were on their way down the staircase now and Mary Pat and Fran were looking at Debbie standing at the top in her sweater and jeans.

  She gave them a nice smile. “Well, hi. You must be Mary Pat. I’m Debbie Dewey.” She was coming down the staircase now. “You know I do investigative work for Fran every once in a while? I stopped by to pick up Father and he offered to show me the house I’ve heard so muc
h about, and I love it. You have excellent taste, Mary Pat.” She was down to the foyer now saying, “Well, hi, girls,” and offering her hand to Mary Pat, Fran saying, “Yeah, this is the Debbie I’ve told you about,” Debbie saying to Mary Pat, “I finally get a chance to meet you.” They shook hands, Debbie saying now, “I was going to take Father to visit parishes, line up a few Sundays when he can make his mission appeals, the Little Orphans of Rwanda Fund. But, listen, you probably want to visit, I’ll get out of your way,” but then took time to bend over, hands on her knees in front of the little girls. “Hi, I’m Debbie. Let me guess, you’re Jane, right? Hi, Jane. And you must be Katy. Hi, Katy. You both have lovely bedrooms, neat dolls.”

  Terry watched with a smile fixed to his face. She didn’t know how to talk to kids any more than he did. He said, “I’ll get your coat,” and started for the hall closet.

  “I think it’s in the kitchen,” Debbie said.

  Now Terry was heading toward the dining room. “That’s right, you came in and we made coffee . . .” He picked the mug up from the table telling himself to keep his mouth shut, for Christ sake, Mary Pat following him now as far as the dining table. He got the raincoat from the kitchen and was back in time to see Mary Pat inspecting the table, rubbing the tips of her fingers over the place where the mug of hot coffee had been sitting on the polished surface. She didn’t say anything. Not until she was in the foyer again and Terry was helping Debbie on with her coat.

  “I wondered whose car that was in the drive.”

  Debbie said, “Oh.” She said, “Oh, yeah, that’s mine. Well, listen, it was really a pleasure meeting you.”

  Terry watched Mary Pat, the suburban lady pretty cool so far, meeting Debbie, not making an issue of the stain on the table, Mary Pat telling Debbie it was nice to have met her, too, and Debbie was out.

  Fran got out next. He said every day you stay in Florida more work piles up. He said he had a pile of work to do, a pile of work.

  That left Terry with Mary Pat and the luggage.

  She said, “You want to help me up with these?”

  Three nylon hanging bags and two backpacks, he slid them from his shoulders to the carpeted bedroom floor and stood waiting for Mary Pat to look at the bed. He knew he was acting like a teenage kid—a girl upstairs and all of a sudden the family walks in—but couldn’t help it; there was no way to explain the situation, the bed most of all. He watched Mary Pat walk past the bed to a matching white love seat and chair, a low table between them, in the window alcove. There were plants on the table, plants all over the house, he’d forgot to water. Mary Pat sat down in the love seat looking at the plants, then motioned to him.

  “Shut the door and come over here. I won’t hurt you.”

  He could hear the girls down the hall as he pushed the door closed. He started toward Mary Pat and she said, “Do you have a cigarette?”

  He raised both hands to touch his T-shirt. “Not on me.”

  “Look in the top drawer of the dresser, the one close to you. There should be a pack in there.”

  He opened the drawer, felt around among panty hose and brought out a pack of Marlboro. “There’s an ashtray in there, too.”

  “And there should be a lighter, a pink Bic. Bring everything.”

  He handed her the cigarettes and lighter and placed the ashtray on the table. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “You thought I made casseroles and cookies and went to PTA meetings. Fran thinks all I do is vacuum the kitchen floor.”

  “Do you?”

  “Not more than twice a day.”

  “Does it need it?”

  She smiled at him. “Does it matter? Sit down, Terry. Would you like a cigarette?” He shook his head and she lit one with the pink Bic. She said, “You never know what to say to me, do you?”

  “We talk.”

  “Not really. How was Africa?”

  “It wasn’t too bad.”

  “See what I mean? You spent five years in Rwanda and it wasn’t too bad. What wasn’t, the food, the incidence of disease? Did you like living there?”

  “I was comfortable.”

  “Did you drink much?”

  “No more than I did before.”

  “Were you bored?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “No more than you ever were at home, uh? When aren’t you bored, Terry?”

  “Does Fran know you smoke?”

  “Of course he does. I hide it from the girls.”

  “What if they come in?”

  “The door’s closed. They know they have to knock first, see if it’s okay.” She drew on the cigarette. “I’m gonna knock on your door, Terry, and ask you a question. I hope you’ll be honest with me.”

  He was going to wait, but then said, “There’s never been anything between Fran and Debbie, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, I know that. Fran’s conscience would drive him crazy. Terry, he’s president of the Dads’ Club at school. He’s the youngest member of the Knights of Columbus in the Archdiocese of Detroit. His buddies are like veterans left over from some war long past, even the uniforms look ancient.”

  “He’s got the admiral’s hat, and the sword? He never mentioned it to me.”

  Mary Pat drew on her cigarette. She waited.

  “All right, what’s the question. You want to know if Debbie and I slept in your bed?”

  “I knew someone did as soon as I walked in the room. But even before that, seeing little Debbie at the top of the stairs, and all that cheerful chatter—”

  “I’m not good at that,” Terry said.

  “No, you never were. But there’s more to it,” Mary Pat said. “Sleeping in my bed with a woman is one thing . . . Did you change the sheets?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But a priest sleeping in the bed with a woman—you could never admit to that, not with all your years of Catholic schools, the idea would be shocking, scandalous.” She drew on her cigarette and said, “You’re stuck, Terry. You have to tell me the truth.”

  “I have.”

  “Nothing but the truth, so help you God. You’re not a priest, are you?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  And remembered Debbie asking if he felt better now, and he did. But then saw where this was going, Mary Pat saying, “It’s still a sin, I suppose, but not as serious as breaking a vow? You have to remember I was a good Presbyterian before I met Fran and became a convert. And the way they’re relaxing the rules, I’m not sure what’s a sin and what isn’t anymore. Debbie of course knows you’re not a priest.”

  “She guessed the same as you did.”

  “Terry, I didn’t guess, I know you. You’re not selfless enough, or that security-minded or devoted to your mother.”

  “You told the girls I was Fr. Terry.”

  “Maybe for a moment I believed it. Then Debbie appeared, little sleepyhead trying to look innocent.”

  “Fran believes it.”

  “He wants to more than anything. Then he doesn’t have to worry about you ending up in jail. But deep down? I’m not so sure.” She said, “I loved little Debbie calling you Father. ‘I’m taking Father to visit parishes so he can make his mission appeal, for the little orphans.’ The bed still warm. You and the Deb are hot for each other?”

  “That’s where we are right now, yeah.”

  “You did do it in my bed.”

  “Only once.”

  “Five years in Africa, you come back—”

  “Maybe twice.”

  “Terry . . . ?”

  “Another time where you’re sitting.” He believed he saw Mary Pat move her butt on the love seat, squirm, just a little. “Once in the library, the other times at her apartment, and that’s all.”

  “I admire your restraint,” Mary Pat said. “Tell me, if you’re not a priest, what are you?”

  “I guess I’m back to whatever I was.”

  “Terry, don’t act dumb, okay, or innocent�
�‘back to whatever I was’— you’re a crook, admit it. You’re gonna put on your Roman collar and con parishes into giving you money. Isn’t that what you are, Terry, a con man?”

  “That was the original idea,” he said, serious, telling his sister-in-law of all people what she wanted to know and looking at it himself, hearing himself. He said, “But now we have a benefactor,” Terry smiling just a little, seeing Tony Amilia sitting at that table in his warm-up jacket. Mary Pat might think that was funny, too, if he told her. And maybe not. She wasn’t smiling.

  She said, “We. Debbie’s in it with you?”

  “She’s helping out.”

  “Con one person now, this benefactor, instead of a bunch of people sitting in church?”

  He didn’t have to answer that one. The girls were banging on the bedroom door, calling their mom. Mary Pat said, “Let them in, will you?” stubbing out her cigarette, then waving her hand in the smoke rising from the ashtray.

  Terry walked over and opened the door and the girls looked up at him, hesitant. He started back to his chair and now they came in, Jane saying, “We can’t find our backpacks.”

  “They’re right there,” Mary Pat said. “Uncle Terry brought them up for you.” She said, “Girls, come here for a minute.” They came over to their mother’s side of the table, the six-year-old, Katy, pressing close to her and Mary Pat brushed the girl’s hair from her forehead. “Tell Uncle Terry what you want to be when you grow up.” She had to be coaxed. “Tell him, honey, he’d like to know.”

  “I want to be a saint,” Katy said.

  “Like the one you’re named after,” Terry said, “Saint Catherine?”

  “Which Saint Catherine?”

  He had to think. “Saint Catherine of Siena?”

  “She’s okay. She was a mystic and could see guardian angels. My favorite is Saint Catherine of Alexandria, virgin and martyr. They put her on a spiked wheel, only it broke? So they cut her head off.”

  Mary Pat said, “Katy loves martyrs.”

  Terry said, “You know what they did to Saint Agatha?”

  “Is she the one, they cut off her boobs and threw her in a burning fire?”