Starr Sign

by C. S. O'Cinneide

  “Are you afraid?” Janet asks me.

  “Of what?” I say.

  “Of the Scarpellos.”

  “They’re family, Janet. Don’t worry. Everything will be okay.”

  I don’t know whether it’s the guilt over my not-so-hidden agenda or that last bit of our conversation that keeps me awake long after Janet’s soft snoring tells me she’s asleep. After about an hour of tossing and turning, I get up and go to the adjoining door. Through the open crack, I can see the glow of the computer monitor. I open the door and find Deep asleep on top of the bedspread, his hair in a tumble on the pillow, just like that first morning when I woke up beside him.

  I pad my way over to the monitor to see what he’s been up to. On the screen are crime-scene photos. I scroll through them, each one more grisly than the next. I’ve seen a lot of dead bodies in my time, but there are good and bad ways to die, and every one of the people in these photos had a really bad death. Probably preceded by some serious torture and other sick-fuck stuff that makes the undigested pizza in my belly want to move back up where it came from. It takes a lot of carnage to produce acid reflux in someone as desensitized to violence as myself.

  Every bad death in those pictures is the work of the Scarpellos. My blood. My inherited murderous genetic code.

  The family I never had.

  CHAPTER 10

  ST. CLARE’S CATHOLIC CHURCH isn’t much to look at from the outside, and it’s dwarfed by a large stuccoed apartment building that rises up behind it. Even without that for comparison, it’s a lot smaller than I would have thought, with narrow windows and a third-rate night club awning over the front door. The two tiers of the church are topped with a skinny bell tower painted a yellowy beige, piped with white around the windows and eaves. It looks like a wedding cake made out of crème brûlée. You wouldn’t think I’d have much experience with fancy desserts, but Dad liked to blow his cash at upscale restaurants when he was flush. I’ve seen my fair share of prix fixe.

  “It doesn’t look like a Mob church,” I say.

  “It’s not a Mob church, Candace,” Deep says, getting annoyed with me. “It was founded by hard-working Sicilian immigrants who came to this country for a better life. The vast number of Sicilians are upstanding citizens, you know.”

  “Like me?”

  “Last time I checked, you weren’t one of their regular parishioners.”

  I let out a sigh. I really do work better alone. “Maybe you two should stay out here in the car.”

  “How am I supposed to school you in all things Catholic from out here?” Deep asks.

  “I’m not an idiot, Deep. I’m not going to start washing my pits with the holy water or something.”

  “If you’re going to fool Anya Scarpello into thinking you’re here for the beatification, you’ll have to make it convincing. Do you understand about taking Communion?”

  “You got to eat and drink stuff. How hard can it be?”

  “It’s a little more than that.”

  “You’re not in a state of grace,” Janet says from the back seat.

  “What?”

  “You can’t take Communion if you’re not in a state of grace. You’re supposed to have fasted beforehand and been to confession recently. Mom told me that. It’s why she said she didn’t go to Mass anymore.”

  “Because she didn’t want to go to confession?” I ask.

  “Because she liked to eat breakfast.”

  “You can’t take confession in a Catholic church if you’re not baptized a Catholic,” Deep says.

  “How are they supposed to know if you are or not?”

  “They don’t.”

  “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  “That just might be sacrilegious.”

  “I’m going to Mass at seven thirty in the morning with the express purpose of infiltrating my Mafia family, and I’ve got a gun down my pants. I think if I’m going to get hit with a lightning bolt, it would have happened by now.”

  One of the heavy black front doors opens, and a bald priest steps out onto the sidewalk. He unlocks a glass-encased bulletin board beside the front entrance. After taking down a few older notices, he tacks up a new one. I can’t read it from here, but it’s got way too many colours and fonts going on. He looks up and down the street but doesn’t seem to notice us. He’s focused on two little old ladies bent over their walkers. They’re making their way from the nearby apartment building, moving along the sidewalk like glaciers. He waits awhile, perhaps thinking he’ll hold the door, but one of them has to sit down and take a rest on a bench, so he heads back inside. When the door closes, it almost catches on his long black robe, but he tugs it out of the way just in time.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  We get out of the car and make our way toward the church. At the front door, I check out the poster that the priest tacked up. It’s advertising something called a “Mass Mob.”

  “I thought you said this wasn’t a Mob church,” I say to Deep, pointing at the poster.

  “It’s supposed to be a play on words for Flash Mob,” he says. “They use social media to try and attract a younger audience. I read about it online.”

  I check out the two old ladies, who are both now sitting on the bench, their pantyhose bagging at the ankles above their orthopedic shoes.

  “I don’t think it’s working,” I say, opening the door.

  Inside, it’s fairly dark, and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. We’re standing in a foyer of sorts. It smells like lemon wood polish and dusty upholstery. There’s an archway to the business end of things, or the sanctuary, as Deep explains to Janet. He steps up to a little stone recess in the wall and dips his two fingers into the water there, then makes the sign of the cross on his forehead. Janet does the same. They both then stand and wait for me.

  “You two go inside first,” I say. “I don’t want it to look like we’re together.”

  Deep rolls his eyes at me before he turns and leads Janet through the archway. I see him drop to one knee in the aisle before taking a seat in one of the dark varnished pews. My sister follows suit. Christ on the Cross hangs front and centre above a raised platform, the blood streaming down His face from a nasty-looking crown of thorns. I don’t know whether it’s this that sends a shudder down my spine, or the idea that I am purposely trying to make contact with a family that may have killed the woman who gave birth to me. The brass pendulum of an old clock swings back and forth on the wall. The incessant ticking sounds like a bomb counting down.

  I dip my fingers in the holy water and tap it on my unbelieving forehead before going in and taking a seat in the pew directly behind Deep and Janet.

  In this situation, I can use all the help I can get.

  I managed to get through Mass without making a total ass of myself. It’s not that hard. All you have to do to fit in is mumble the words everyone else knows off by heart and stand up at the right places. I followed along with what Deep and all the others were doing. In that way, it is a bit like a flash mob.

  I didn’t end up going up for the Communion thing. The way the priest was looking at me, I thought for sure he knew I wasn’t a baptized Catholic. I don’t know if they have a bouncer for that sort of thing, but the altar boy had this long, heavy brass candle snifter that I imagine could give a person a serious clock to the head. So, when they were handing out the bread and wine, I stayed put like Deep and Janet and acted like I was praying. Which I sort of was, in my own way.

  It looks like the whole Anya Scarpello thing is a bust, though. She never made an appearance, and the Mass is over now. Deep and Janet have already gone to shake hands with the priest, who stands at the archway as the trickle of attendees file their way out. I wait awhile, flipping through the leather-clad Bible in front of me. I don’t want to be seen leaving with them. I’m standing up to go when the priest comes over, heading me off at the pew.

  “I haven’t seen you at St. Clare’s before,” he says. “Welcome. I’m
Father Randolph.”

  “I’m Candace Starr,” I say, shaking his hand, surprised that I’ve just used my real name. Maybe he’s caught me off guard, or maybe I’m a victim of the Catholic guilt that seems to permeate this place, acting like some kind of truth serum.

  “I’m just visiting,” I say, explaining myself. His smile falters a little. I guess he was hoping I was one of the people under the age of seventy he’d attracted with his Twitter account. “I’m in town for the beatification.”

  “Ah, Detroit’s own Father Murphy,” he says.

  “Yes.” I’m not sure what to add to this. Where the hell is Deep when I need him to provide me with some Catholic 101.

  “I noticed you didn’t partake of the sacraments,” Father Randolph says, raising a shaggy grey eyebrow. He’s got a lot of hair happening on his face for a bald man. I can see a few swinging from his nostrils, as well.

  “I’m not in a state of grace,” I say, remembering what Janet told me.

  “Well, I have a few minutes. I can take your confession if you’d like.”

  I look over his shoulder, hoping to find a way out of this predicament. I’d rather do just about anything than crawl into one of those creepy boxes at the back of the church where the priest listens to all your faith-based fuck-ups. My sins would take longer than a few minutes to confess. Deep and Janet have disappeared, either waiting in the foyer or back at the car by now. I’m about to make my excuses when a woman enters through the archway. She’s got a three-quarter-length fur coat that easily cost more than Deep’s car. She’s also got two goons flanking her, both wearing shiny suit jackets that barely button up over their barrel chests. She leaves them to stand guard by the confessionals and walks up behind the priest, politely clearing her throat. Father Randolph turns around and then walks up and kisses her on both cheeks.

  “Anya,” he says. “I thought we had missed you today.”

  “I am so sorry, Father. I was delayed by a family matter. My son …” She flits her delicate hand in the air but gives no further details. I’m quite sure that Father Randolph knows the type of family matters her son is responsible for, but he doesn’t let on. Anya Scarpello looks even better kept in person than she did in the photo at the old Don’s funeral — hardly a line on her face, her upswept dark hair not showing a hint of grey. A small mole dots her lower left cheek, marking her for beauty, just like Marilyn Monroe. Here’s a woman I should be asking about eye cream. She looks past the priest to me, waiting for an introduction.

  “This is Miss Starr,” the priest says. “She is in town for the beatification of Father Murphy. This is Anya Scarpello, one of our most esteemed parishioners.” By esteemed, I assume he means loaded. The amount of Anya Scarpello’s offering plate donations would be followed by a lot more zeros than the old ladies in their support hose.

  Anya extends one well-manicured hand. “Starr?” she says. “Are you any relation to Mike Starr?”

  “He was my father,” I say as we shake hands. I feel the slightest tension enter her long fingers before she let’s go.

  “I see,” she says, then turns back to the priest. “Father Randolph. I wonder if you could find me the contact details of the caterer we used for the Communion brunch?”

  “Certainly, Anya. I can forward you a link to their website this afternoon.” This really is one tech-savvy priest. Or maybe they are all like this. After all, the pope is on Instagram. I hear God even has a Twitter account.

  Anya smiles, but I notice her eyes don’t. “I hoped you could get it for me now, Father,” she says, placing a hand lightly on his upper arm. “You see, I would like to hire them for a small fundraiser,” she says, “to benefit the church building fund.”

  That gets a fire under his cassock. Father Randolph excuses himself and races down the aisle to go get the catering brochure from his office.

  Once he’s out of earshot, which is where she wanted him, Anya fixes her gaze on me. She has the piercing dark eyes shared by many Eastern Europeans, eyes that tend toward a default look of mistrust. Probably comes from never knowing when your neighbour was going to rat on you to the KGB out of spite. I don’t back down from her staring contest, but I also keep tabs on the goons in my periphery. For now, they aren’t moving from their stations.

  “Your mother did not say you were coming,” Anya finally says, breaking the tension. I guess we’re not pretending Angela and the Scarpellos haven’t seen each other, then. Maybe she’s alive after all.

  “I haven’t talked to my mother in almost thirty years,” I tell her. “But it sounds like you have.”

  She nods, slowly and with assessment. “She came recently to visit with my father-in-law, before his death.”

  “My condolences.”

  “He was your great-grandfather,” Anya says. “Did you know of his passing?”

  “I don’t live locally,” I say, feigning ignorance.

  “It is a shame when family lose track of one another,” she says with a sigh, and I see a tiredness behind those penetrating eyes. “Your mother and I were close once. When I was first married. Friends as well as family. But we lost touch.”

  Friends? I didn’t think my mother went in for friendship — much like myself. But maybe Anya had been the exception to that rule. My mother’s very own Malone. This woman has way more class and dignity than Angela ever possessed, but there is still something broken about her. Maybe that’s what brought them together. Come to think of it, the two of them are probably around the same age, given that Anya was married off young to Angela’s much older uncle.

  “So, you are in town for the beatification? I didn’t realize you were raised in the faith.”

  “I found religion in prison,” I tell her. I’d made up this lie beforehand. The only religion I found in prison was the Church of the Immaculate Appeal.

  She nods again but stays silent. This is another trait I’ve noticed in people who have lived behind the Iron Curtain: their economy of words. Or maybe she’s clammed up because the priest has re-entered the sanctuary, holding the catering brochure in his hand. He hands it to Anya, practically salivating over the prospect of a building fundraiser hosted by someone with her connections. You really can’t blame the guy. He’s not greedy, just desperate. I’d noticed the cracked shingles on the roof of this place, the damp around the windows. St. Clare’s is clearly strapped for cash, struggling to keep this monument to the man upstairs from falling down around them. This priest would probably auction his own soul just to get a new furnace.

  “I’d be happy to administer a private Mass for you, Anya. Since you missed this morning’s,” he says. “I only need to take this young lady’s confession first if you would like to wait in my office.”

  “That’s okay,” I say, looking to wriggle free. “I wouldn’t want to make anybody wait.”

  “Please, do not concern yourself with me,” Anya says. I have another engagement to attend. I will come this afternoon, Father. Around threeish?” Anya must be in one hell of a state of grace to have the resident priest at St. Clare’s on Mass-standby.

  “That would be fine,” Father Randolph says before kissing her hand goodbye. For a celibate guy, he does a lot of smooching. He takes my arm and leads me over to the confessional boxes. The two goons move over by the archway, either out of respect or because they’re expecting Anya to leave. But I see she hasn’t moved from where I left her in the aisle. She’s still gazing up at the bloody Jesus when the priest shuts the door on me in the wooden box.

  I don’t buy this “Seal of the Confessional” garbage, where the priest has to keep mum on whatever you tell him. Although I know quite a few felons who have counted on it. But I’m not about to give up my criminal resumé to anyone, even if they put me in a box. I’ve withstood tougher interrogation techniques than that. So I stick to my sexual history in the sin department, figuring I’ll give the old guy a thrill. After about five minutes, I can hear Father Randolph start to hyperventilate on the other side of the privacy screen. I
take this as an opportunity to make my exit. He doesn’t come after me, probably still trying to catch his breath after my story of fucking a bounty hunter on a cluttered desk in The Goon’s back office. I’d had to use nail polish remover to get the Liquid Paper off of my ass the next day.

  Outside, I shield my eyes from the bright morning sun, my pupils still adjusting after the twilight of the dark confessional. Deep’s Celica is gone. But a black Caddy pulls up from where it was waiting down the street. The tinted back-seat window powers down and Anya Scarpello extends her hand out to me. Between her slim fingers she holds a small embossed card. I take it from her and read the name and address. I didn’t know Mafia mothers had their own business cards.

  “You will join us for dinner this evening, Candace?” she asks, lilting it to be a question when really it’s a statement I’m not meant to dispute. “My son, Alex, will be interested to meet you. Family should not be strangers to one another, I think.” She’s wearing big starlet sunglasses, hiding her eyes so I can’t really tell what she thinks.

  I nod. It is my turn to be short on words.

  “I am so glad. I look forward to discussing the beatification with you. Please come at eight. We prefer to dine late.” She motions to the driver, and the Caddy pulls away. I’m left standing on the street with only the two old ladies sitting on the bench as witnesses. They’d made it to Mass but are now taking a rest for the long trip back home.

  This is what I’d wanted, a way into the Scarpello inner circle, but I’d imagined it would be a covert one, not an upfront invitation. Anya Scarpello seemed genuine enough with her talk of family and strangers, but like I said, I couldn’t see her eyes. And while she’d mentioned seeing Angela, she didn’t give anything away as to where she is. Maybe I’ll find her sitting at the dining room table, waiting to greet me, with some simple explanation for why she hasn’t messaged Janet their code word, slalom. Perhaps Anya is hoping for a teary reconciliation between the two of us, like they do on daytime TV. But I’m not one for tears.