"Pagan Babies" - читать интересную книгу автора (Leonard Elmore)

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 on stage--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, adlibbing, "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 maitre 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 maitre d' was there, taking over, talking maitre 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 maitre 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.

Genoa stared at him.

"A week from Sunday," Terry said, I'll be at Star of the Sea, make an appeal for the mission. See if I can raise enough to feed my little orphans, hundreds of 'em, Vito, their moms and dads killed during the genocide. You see their little faces-it tears at your heart."

Vito Genoa finally spoke. He said, "You don't get up right now, Father, I'm gonna drag you across the fuckin table."

It was in Terry's mind that if the guy dragged him across the fuckin table it would mess up his brand-new suit and he'd have to get it cleaned and pressed. On the other hand, if the guy did drag him across the table, in front of a roomful of witnesses, he wouldn't have to slip and fall to threaten Randy with a lawsuit. The opportunity was waiting for him. He would have to put aside the urge to get up and punch the guy in the mouth. He was the victim here.

He said to Genoa, "Vito, you'd lay hands on a man who's an ordained minister of your Church?"

"I gave up going to church for Lent," Vito said. "I won't need to till it looks like I'm gonna die. Okay, then I'll cash everything in at once, tell you all my sins and ask to be forgiven."

"That's presumption, my son. And presumption itself is a sin. You can't win, Vito."

"You either. Move."

Terry said, "I'm staying," and waited to get dragged across the table.

But what Vito did, he came around to Terry's end of the banquette, put his hand on Terry's shoulder and pinched that muscle between the neck and the shoulder blade, kept pressure on it, and the sudden pain, Christ, made his arm go limp. He tried to twist away, but the guy's fingers were clamped on tight. Debbie was yelling, "Leave him alone," trying to hold on to his arm as the guy took hold of the front of Terry's suit and pulled him up out of the booth by his lapels.

Now he was patting Terry on the shoulder, straightening the front of his suit, Vito saying, "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Terry had to agree, it wasn't. It needed to be a lot worse and he needed witnesses. So he said to Vito, up close, eye to eye and in a low voice:

"You pinch, huh? Why is that, Vito, 'cause you're a fuckin guinea faggot with no balls?"

Said it and got what he wanted, the body punch, Vito driving a fist into him with weight behind it and it rocked Terry, punched the air out of him, hunched him over to grab hold of his stomach-Debbie screaming now-and he couldn't get his breath, couldn't straighten until the guy brought up his knee to catch him in the chest, the guy's thigh ironing his face and Terry went down, landed flat on his back and lay there gasping, trying to suck air into his lungs.

He saw Debbie close to him pulling his collar off. It didn't help. He saw Randy looking down at him and then away, Randy saying to somebody, "Tony's gonna hear about this. Get him out of here."

Now a guy with a crew cut it looked like the bouncer who told Johnny the hooker was his wife-had Terry's coat open, his belt loosened, and was pulling.on the waist of his pants, lifting Terry's back from the floor, up and down, telling him to take short breaths, in and out. Telling him, "You took a shot, you know it?"

They were in Randy's office now in lamplight, Debbie helping Terry into the leather chair facing the desk, Randy watching.

"I want to know what he said to Vito Genoa."

Debbie's back was to him, hunched over Terry, touching his hair, his face, their voices low as Terry asked if Johnny had got into it.

Debbie said no, he was still at the table. Terry said good, lying back to rest his head against the cushion. Debbie straightened. She took the chair beneath Soupy Sales and got out her cigarettes. Randy remained on his feet, restless. He turned to Debbie.

"He said something that pissed Vito off."

Debbie said, "You mean it's okay then to beat him up, a priest, a man of God-"

"Just shut up. I want to know what he said."

"Ask him."

"Who is he? What're you doing with a priest?"

"He's a very dear friend of mine."

"You never told me about any priests."

"What're you talking about I went to Catholic schools, didn't I?

I told you, he's Fr. Terry Dunn, he's a missionary from Africa." She looked over at Terry and said, "Father, how's your tummy? Does it still hurt?"

Terry turned his head on the cushion. "Not too bad. But when I move, oh boy, it's like somebody's sticking a knife in my back.

From the way I hit the floor. I don't think I'll be able to say Mass tomorrow."

Beautiful. Just right. Debbie wanted to kiss him but had to hang on to her anguished look. She said, "I think you should go to a hospital."

It hooked Randy. He turned to her saying, "Shit," and moved about without going anywhere. He seemed to be thinking for a moment, plotting, and said, "Who's the other guy?"

"Father's friend Johnny. They were altar boys together at Queen of Peace." She looked at Terry again. "Randy wants to know what you said to that man."

Terry turned his head on the cushion. "I asked him what parish he was in. He didn't say, but I thought maybe he was in Our Lady Star of the Sea." Terry groaned and closed his eyes. "Oh, boy, I never had a pain like this before."

"He has to leave," Randy said, turning to Debbie. "Where's he staying?"

"With his brother, in Bloomfield Hills."

"Oh? The brother must do pretty well."

"He does, he's a personal iniury lawyer."

Randy said, "Fuck!" turning away again.

"Or," Debbie said, "we can settle it right here."

She watched Randy put on a half-assed sly look, narrowing his eyes. "That's why you took the booth isn't it? You set the whole thing up."

"Right," Debbie said. "I found out a couple of gangsters had reserved the booth, so we took it with the idea of pissing them off and Fr. Dunn would be iniured." Beat. "I hope not seriously."

"Jesus Christ," Randy said, "come on when did you start hanging out with priests?"

"While I was inside, Randy, I saw the light and was saved. You know who my boss is now, a Jewish carpenter."

Randy said it again, "Jesus Christ-"

And Debbie came back with "My Lord and Savior." She said,

"Randy, did you know there was a well-known TV anchorman sitting at the bar? Carlo pointed him out to us. Bill Bonds with his wife. You must know him. Carlo said he was drinking Perrier and saw the whole thing. Of course, everyone in the place saw it if they weren't blind.

You want to settle or go to court?"

Randy took his time. Debbie believed he was facing the fact of the situation now, a priest assaulted in his restaurant, and knew she was right when he said, "How much are we talking about?"

She said, "Two-fifty."

"And you didn't set this up."

"I swear, Randy, it was our Savior looking out for us."

"All right, if you want a carpenter for a lawyer, bring him to court." Randy paused, getting that narrow look in his eyes again.

"You said, '… looking out for us,' didn't you? What does his falling down, maybe drunk-I don't know have to do with you?"

"Fr. Dunn and I are going in together," Debbie said. "The settlement includes the sixty-seven thousand you stole and said you'd pay back."

"When did I say I owed you anything?"

"Randy, see if you can keep your mouth shut for a minute. I'm gonna tell you how you can give us two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, feel good about it, and be able to write the whole thing off."

Johnny stayed at the table trying to look innocent. Debbie's idea.

He was innocent. Shit, he didn't do anything. Still, the two mob guys gave him the stare before they left. Now Johnny had to get the waitress over and ask when he was getting his dinner. She said oh, she thought he wanted to wait for the others. He didn't like sitting here alone, people watching him, talking about what they had seen, so he went over to the bar where the bouncer was hanging out: standing with his arm on the bar as he looked out over the room. Johnny took a stool next to him.

"You see what happened?"

" 'Course I did."

"Why'd you let him deck the priest? You're the bouncer, aren't you?"

"I'm Mr. Agley's bodyguard. One of those two fellas was here? He loaned me to Mr. Agley."

"You're a mob guy, uh?"

"I told you what I do."

The Mutt raised his hand to look at his watch and Johnny saw the tattoo on his knuckles, BANG.

"You ink that tat yourself?"

The Mutt raised his hand again. "This? No, I had it done. I was a fighter."

The tattoo was crude and ugly enough for Johnny to ask, "Your cellmate letter it?"

"Guy in the yard. How'd you know?"

"Takes one to know one," Johnny said. "I did mine in fuckin Jackson, biggest walled prison in the U.S. Where'd you?"

"Southern Ohio."

"For what?"

"Killed a guy. Shot him."

"That what you are, a hit man?"

"You could say, on the side."

"Yeah? You've whacked guys?"

"Three so far. Was a truck driver, a convict and a Chaldean."

"You aren't Italian, are you?"

"Hell no."

"Or from around here. How'd you get hooked up with those guys?"

"I had a letter from a important man-"

"In the joint?"

"Yeah, saying to hire me."

"What do they call you?"

"Just Mutt, mostly."

Johnny believed it. This guy was dumb as a fuckin stump. He said,

"I'm Johnny, I worked for 'em five years ago. Ran cigarettes up from Kentucky."

"Any money in that?"

"There was at the time. You ever see the big boss, old Tony?"

"I drove for him one time, but he don't come in here."

"He's got a piece of it, doesn't he?"

The Mutt shrugged.

Johnny said, "I knew a guy at Jackson was a hit man. He got ten grand a pop."

"shit, I get more'n that."

"You must be good at it. What kind of piece you like to use?"

"Different ones."

"You say you took out a truck driver, a convict and one other guy?"

"A Chaldean. Guy wouldn't pay his street tax."

"You didn't shoot the convict."

"No, I shanked him."

"So you only actually shot two guys."

"Yeah, but I got one coming up."

"Yeah? You need a driver?"

"I doubt it."

"The hitter I knew at Jacktown always used a driver." Johnny waved the barman over and said, "Lemme borrow your pen."

The Mutt said, "I was thinking of going to the guy's house."

Johnny wrote his phone number on a cocktail napkin saying to the Mutt, "I wouldn't. What if other people're there, the guy's wife? You want to pop her, too? You also got neighbors looking out the fuckin windows." He handed the Mutt the cocktail napkin. "Here. Case you want to get in touch with me sometime."

The Mutt was looking at the phone number now. He said, "For what?"

"Get together and tell stories," Johnny said. "Didn't you use to talk to cons in the yard, hear their stories, what they did, how they fucked up? There was a con at Jackson had pulled over a hundred armed robberies. He'd tell where it was, how much he scored, the times he fucked up, had close calls, scrapes he got into. We'd listen 'cause this guy was funny, he knew how to tell a story and would have us all laughing. Guys'd come up to him and say, 'Hey, Roger, tell us about the time you robbed that Safeway store.' They'd already heard it more'n once, but it didn't matter, it was still funny." Johnny was grinning now and it got the Mutt to grin a little, Johnny saying, "Like we're out'n the fuckin yard, huh?"

The Mutt said, "I do the next fella you can read the story in the newspaper."

"When do I look for it?"

"Next couple of days or so."

"I was wondering," Johnny said, "you ever get to make it with those whoers that come in?"