by Neil Howarth
“The high point of my life. I think it all went downhill from there.”
“That’s not true, Joseph.” William sat on the end of the bed. “And it will get better again.”
The next day the young doctor arrived. He was dark skinned like William, and there was something vaguely familiar about him.
“Mister Fagan, how are you feeling today.”
"Better." Fagan still had the nag, that he knew this young man from somewhere, “Do I know you? What’s your name?”
The young man’s face broke into a smile. “It’s James, Mister Fagan.”
Fagan struggled for a moment with the name, then he saw him, his image in the photograph. He was much younger then, barely more than a boy.
“That James?”
The young man nodded, and his smile broke into a white-toothed grin.
“James,” Fagan took his hand then pulled him into a hug. “You saved my life.”
“You saved all our lives.”
“Look at you, a doctor.”
“Well, I’m a first-year resident at Mass. General. But I try to help out his Grace when I can.”
“Pulling out bullets from patients?”
James smiled. “Treating gunshot wounds is something a doctor learns early in Boston.”
After James left, Fagan struggled out of bed. He had to hold on to stand up, but he managed to stay on his feet. He made his way to the small bathroom and undressed, then stood under the shower, trying to keep his bandaged wound dry but failing miserably. Still, he felt better when he climbed out. He struggled into his clothes and was able to move around, slowly, but without help. He called for the nurse, and she redressed his wound and later that afternoon, James appeared again.
“His Grace has asked me to take care of you. We have to leave.”
Fagan had nothing to take with him. He followed James as he led the way into the internal garage, and they climbed into the back of a van. The driver was already up front. He started the engine.
“Francis will make sure no one is following us,” James said as they headed out.
They changed cars twice before they arrived at a small private airfield. The car stopped beside a single engined Cessna.
As they climbed out, James held out a hand. “This is where I must say goodbye.”
“You’re not coming with me?”
“My place is by his Grace’s side. And besides, my shift starts at four.”
Fagan nodded. “It was good to see you again, James. Thanks, for everything. And good luck with your career. I’m sure you’ll make a fine doctor.”
They hugged, and Fagan climbed into the Cessna.
The pilot took off into a light rain.
“Am I allowed to know where we’re going?”
“New York,” the pilot said. He didn’t speak again throughout the journey.
They landed at a tiny private airport on Long Island. A car met him and drove him into the city, into the Bronx. The car turned into a street with a line of brownstone houses and stopped in front of one of them. Fagan got out, and the car drove away, leaving him standing in the rain.
Fagan climbed the front steps and rang the bell. The man who answered the door was dressed as a priest. He was short and bulging around the middle. His face was of indeterminate age, though he was probably in his sixties. The little hair left on his head was grey, as was the straggly beard.
He held out a hand. “Father Luca Baldini,” he said with a smile and a glint of humor in his eye. “You must be Joseph. Welcome. Best come in out of the rain.”
24
The Bronx, New York.
He stayed with the priest for a week without going out. Getting plenty of sleep and each day feeling his strength return, little by little. Father Luca was often gone during the day but would usually return in the evenings, and they would have dinner and a glass of wine, or in Luca’s case, glasses of wine, and talk, which appeared to be Luca’s specialty.
Luca would do the cooking. His recipes were all Italian, but he was surprisingly good. Fagan talked a little as Luca probed into his past but he didn’t give away too much. Usually, it was Luca doing the talking, telling his tales. He had a habit of repeating them, but the food and wine were excellent, and Luca had a certain comfortable story teller’s style about him that made it all feel just right.
His full name was Luciano Alfredo Baldini, known to everyone as Luca. He was born in New York City’s Little Italy. But if you cut him in half, he would have Sicily written all the way through. They spoke only Italian in his house when he was growing up and in the local neighborhood. He retained the Italian accent to this day. When he first went to school he couldn’t speak any English but that was okay, neither could any of the other kids.
His Grandparents had a small Italian restaurant. The word restaurant was maybe a little grand for the tiny place tucked away on the corner of Mulberry and Hester. But as Luca told him, his grandmother’s cooking was the best in the neighborhood and was where he had gained his own cooking skills.
Luca’s father worked on the docks when there was work to be had, and his mother was a seamstress. The few dollars she could scrape together in a week mainly came from repairs of garments that had long passed their normal life, but she would breath new life into them for five and ten cents a pop.
Luca took another slurp of his wine. “Did I ever tell you how I became a priest?”
Fagan looked across at him, then let his eyes fall to the almost empty bottle on the table in front of him. Luca had drunk most of it. “Luca, it’s imprinted on my soul, but you’re going to tell me anyway.”
His gaze went back to Luca but the old priest was already gone, that glisten in his eyes, their focus on some far off point, deep in the shadows of his memory. And so he told it, as he always did. The priest who caught him stealing from the collection box. Instead of handing him over to the police he had made him come to the church every day after school. If he didn’t come, God would damn him into hell.
Luca always paused at this point. “That scared me far more than being handed over to the police. So I went every day after school and polished the benches, and the floors, and the steps around the altar. One day, I was there on my knees, polishing away at the altar steps. Suddenly the sun caught the stained glass window and threw a beam of light that struck me directly in the face. It held me there. I was unable to move. And right then I knew that God was talking to me. When the light faded, I looked up at the glass pane it had illuminated. There in the colored glass was the face of Saint Stephen. And I somehow I knew he was looking for me.
“I found out from the Priest that Saint Stephen was the patron saint of the seminary that he had attended. And I knew, that was my path.”
The homeless shelter was in the South Bronx, a stone’s throw from Yankee Stadium. It was the first time that Fagan had ventured out.
“It will do you good to get out,” Luca said as he navigated a battered old pickup truck through the New York traffic. He leaned on the horn then turned left and pulled into a parking lot beside a broken down building.
“There are some boxes on the back. Clothes that we’ve collected. We’re having a giveaway this morning.”
Luca loaded him up with boxes and Fagan followed him across the parking lot. A sign was stenciled on the glass above the door in gold letters, St. Stephen’s Residence.
Luca led the way into the building. Various people greeted the priest as he headed inside. The hall passageway opened up into a large room with neat rows of camp beds, and the smell. Bodies living in close proximity. It reminded Fagan of his days in the military.
The place was starting to empty. Homeless people having spent the night, were now heading out.
“Father Luca.” A large man with a shock of dark curly hair and a thick beard bounced out of a side room and stopped in front of them. He looked a few years younger than Fagan. He was wide around the middle and had a broad grin on his face.
“Walter.” Luca gave the man a hu
g. He seemed to disappear in the big man's embrace. He eventually extricated himself and turned to Fagan. “Let me introduce a new friend. This is Joseph. Joseph, this is Walter McGeechan.”
Walter held out a hand the size of a dinner plate. “Another one of Luca’s waif’s and strays.” He flashed a white-toothed smile. “Don’t worry. I’m one too.” He spoke with an accent that Fagan vaguely recognized.
“Are you a Scot?”
In his time in SEAL Team Six, Fagan had done some joint training stints with the British SAS. He remembered the Scottish contingent. Hard as nails and could outdrink the devil. Looking at Walter, he wasn’t sure that he was out of the same mold but looking at the size of him he could probably hold his own when it came to the drinking part.
“Well spotted,” Walter said. “Most American’s can’t work it out. They just know I’m a foreigner.” He gave him a wink. “Generally speaking we’re not big on sharing details of past lives. Much of it is too painful to remember anyway.”
“I want you to take care of Joseph over the next few days,” Luca said. “He’s staying at the house so you can pick him up on your way here, then drop him back off in the evening.”
“Are you not going to be around?”
“I have to go to Washington for a few days.”
“No worries, I’ll take care of him.”
Luca disappeared, and Walter showed Fagan the ropes. In the shelter, there was work to be done, cleaning, maintenance, and repairs. Then out in the van making collections of discarded clothes and sundry items. Then back to the shelter as evening came, when people were coming in off the streets. He also accompanied Walter, when he drove the pickup truck loaded up with large cauldrons of homemade soup and boxes of bread. They doled it out at various sites across the district where people were sleeping rough.
And so it went over the next few days. Walter picked him up on a morning and drove him into the shelter. Fagan threw himself into the work and strangely, found himself enjoying it. It was a world away from the life he had been living before. At least here he was helping people to stay alive.
“So, what are your plans,” Walter said through a mouth full of salt beef and focaccia bread.
He and Walter sat out on the back lot. The salt beef sandwiches were made from thick wedges of freshly baked bread from a little deli that Walter knew, just down the street. The beef was home cured. It was their usual, strange kind of conversation, with neither one referring to their past lives.
“I’m not sure. I think maybe I’ve already stayed too long.”
“You sound like me a couple of years ago.”
Fagan gave him a quizzical look, as if he had just broken the unwritten rule.
Walter gave him a rueful smile. “Always on the run. Always looking over my shoulder.”
“Who was after you?”
“Mostly, me.”
Fagan smiled. “I wish it was that simple.”
“You should think about hanging out here for a while. It’s good for the soul.”
“You could be right about that, but I’m not sure I have a choice. What about you?” Fagan asked. “Are you going to be staying here, working in the shelters?”
Walter shook his head. “I’m just killing a little time until the semester starts at the Catholic Seminary in September. I’m going to be a Priest.”
“Walter, I’m impressed. Where is the Seminary? Here in New York?”
“In Boston, it’s Father Luca’s old alma mater. I think he pulled a few strings for me.”
“I’m sure it will be great fro you.”
They finished their sandwiches and headed back inside.
Walter stopped as they stepped back into the main room and put a hand on Fagan’s arm.
“Trouble,” Walter said in a low voice. “I knew it couldn't last.”
25
St. Stephen’s Residence, The Bronx, New York.
There were four of them. The leader stood out front, Latino of some kind. A tall, wiry guy, his head was completely bald and covered in multi-colored tattoos. Down the right side of his skull, in large red letters, were the words, ‘Los Lobos’.
“Who are they?”
“Local gangbangers. His name's Raoul, Cuban. Mean son of a bitch, but mostly he keeps his distance. Small time, really. Luca usually keeps him in line. Good Cuban Catholic boys. He has already given them a glimpse of hellfire and damnation.”
“They don’t look too fearful at the moment. What are they doing here?”
“They’re looking for Jose. He’s just a kid, one of Raoul’s runners. He was in here last night. He’s scared, and he wants out. I told him we’d take care of him.”
“It looks like someone has other ideas."
Another member of the gang appeared. He held someone by the scruff of his neck. He was hardly more than a kid. The gangbanger pushed him in front of the leader.
“Jose,” the one called Raoul gave him an evil grin which revealed a large gold tooth in the middle of his upper set. “Where have you been? We missed you.”
Father Paul, Luca's man in charge, stepped in between them, shielding the kid behind him.
“Now Raoul, I thought we had an agreement.”
“We did, until Jose here broke the rules.”
“Look let’s just talk about it.”
“You heard me, priest, out of the way.”
The Cuban pulled out a silver-handled 45 he had stuffed into his jeans and pointed it at the priest.
Father Paul held up his hands. “Look, Raoul, there’s no need for that.”
“I told you to get out of the way."
The Cuban made an aggressive step forward and clubbed the priest across the head. Father Paul dropped to his knees, blood pouring from a gash on his forehead.
Walter stepped forward. Fagan went to pull him back, but Walter shrugged him off.
“Hey Raoul, there’s no need for that. Father Paul is a man of God. He deserves some respect.”
The Cuban looked across at him. “Stay out of this, fat boy.”
“That’s not very friendly. Picking on kids and priests. Word on that gets out on the streets, and you’ll have the Salvation Army on your ass.”
“Funny man.” Raoul shrugged. "You want for me to show you, not friendly?” Raoul had that look of confidence about him that came from being the leader, and a bullet in the head for anyone who stepped out of line. “Jose knows what happens to someone who is disloyal.”
“Look, he came here for help. Why don’t you let him go? You have enough kids in your gang. He just wants out. He wants a chance.”
“You don’t get it, do you.” He pointed the 45 at Walter’s head. “You don’t get out. Nobody give me a chance. Jose takes his with the rest.” He looked across at the boy. “Jose, come to me.” The smile had hardened into a sneer.
The kid was scared. His eyes were wide. He moved towards the gangbanger.
“You heard my friend.”
Raoul, looked around as if not believing what he just heard.
Fagan stepped into the space between the kid and Raoul.
“This building is part of the Church. It's a place where people can come for refuge. Now I think you and your boys need to get back out on the streets and leave this place to get on and do what it does.”
Raoul shook his head in disbelief. “What is this, come to Jesus week?” He swung the aim of his 45 towards Fagan.
Fagan moved fast, with the economy and the elegance of a ballet dancer. He swept the gun aside, and his booted heel slammed into the side of the Cuban's knee. The bones broke with an audible crack. Fagan took hold of the 45 as Raoul screamed and collapsed to the floor. The gang boys reached for their weapons, but they were already way too late. Fagan pulled the trigger, and the one who had been standing behind Raoul grabbed his ear as blood poured through his fingers.
“The next one who blinks gets it between the eyes.” Fagan had their attention now. “Okay, nice and slowly, guns on the floor.”
“We o
utnumber you," the skinny one on the end said. "You can’t outgun us."
Fagan stood far enough back to cover them all easily. He eased around his aim. “You want to go first? Give it a try.”
The guy didn’t make a move.
“Now, guns on the floor. Come on boys, you can steal some more later.”
Uncertainty and fear were clear in their eyes. They were used to ruling the roost, not to something like this. But this guy was different. They could see that. One by one they lifted out their weapons and dropped them on the floor. Fagan held out the 45, tracking every move.
Raoul was whimpering on the floor.
Fagan leaned over him. “Hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it. Now listen to me closely, because I don’t aim to repeat myself. Your territory is out there.” He pointed towards the door with the gun. “I’m not trying to step in on that. But this place is off limits. I see anything of you or your boys around here, you’ll not come around again.’
"You’re a dead man.” Raoul spit out between his gritted teeth.
“It’s Raoul, isn’t it.” Fagan leaned in again but kept the gun aimed at Raoul’s gang. “A lot of men have tried. Men a lot meaner, and a lot more able than you. All I can say is I’m still here, and they’re in the dirt.” Fagan leaned in closer and spoke in a low voice. “Remember this. If I see any of your guys around here, I’ll end you first. That’s a professional promise.”
He stood up and looked at the gang. “Now why don’t you take your buddy here, and get him to the hospital. If you hurry, you might just save his leg.”
The gang picked up their boss who yelled, screamed, and cursed as they manhandled him out the door.
“Wow,” Walter said as the gang disappeared. “I don’t know what you did to them, but you scared the shit out me.”
“At times like that, I scare the shit out of myself."
The gang stayed away. Later the next afternoon a cop turned up. Walter recognized him. He told Fagan to stay in the office and stepped out to talk to him.