Sympathy for the Devil

by Justin Gustainis

  "Since it's not my birthday, I've got a feeling that doesn't mean good news," Voytek said, with a ghost of a smile. The unsealed envelope contained a single sheet of paper. Voytek unfolded it and read quickly. Then he read it again. With a sigh, he dropped the sheet onto his desk and sat back in his chair.

  "I never know what to say at times like this," he said. "'Congratulations' doesn't seem quite appropriate, but I can't bring myself around to something like 'How could you?', either."

  "For what it's worth," Finlay said, "that was very hard to write. Maybe the second-hardest thing I've ever had to write in my life."

  "That invites me to ask what occupies the position of Number One, so I will. Just nosy, I guess."

  "The eulogy for my mother's funeral mass."

  "Well, at least the occasion involved this time is more joyous." Voytek chewed a fingernail, a habit, Finlay knew, he'd been trying to break his entire life. "I won't insult you by asking if you've thought this through, Marty."

  "My confessor and I have just about worn it out from talking about it. I've discussed it with a couple of old friends, too. And I've prayed over it for countless hours, Arthur."

  Voytek nodded. "Who's the lucky girl - anybody I know?"

  "Her name's Judith Racine. She heads the County Social Services office downtown." Finlay hesitated, then said, "She's a former nun."

  Voytek nodded again. "I wish you both every happiness. And I mean that from the bottom of my heart."

  Finlay smiled for the first time since entering the room. "I know you do, Arthur. Thank you."

  They were quiet for a bit, then Voytek said, "Did the exorcisms have anything to do with it, Marty? I have no doubt that you're in love with the lady, but I wondered if that aspect of your work has..."

  "Burned me out?" Finlay touched his rosary, as if he found comfort there. "I've thought about that... and it's hard to say. The stress involved in an exorcism is immense."

  "I can imagine," Voytek said.

  "And, although I've never declined an assignment, I can't say that I don't look forward to the day when I know that part of my life is behind me. Maybe the nightmares will stop then." Finlay shook his big head slowly. "I don't know, Arthur. If it's played a role in my decision to request release from my vows, I'm not consciously aware of it. But who knows what the subconscious influences are?"

  "Indeed. And I hope you understand that what I'm about to say is not an attempt to 'guilt' you in any way." Voytek paused for a second. "You're the last exorcist the Order has left in North America, Marty."

  "I wasn't aware of that," Finlay said quietly - then, more strongly, "Not that it affects my decision."

  "No, of course not. I wouldn't expect it to."

  "How did I get to be the last one? I thought there were... three or four of us."

  "There were. But Father Tobin retired last year."

  "That's right, I forgot. It was in the newsletter."

  "Right. And frankly, he's too old to handle the challenge of an exorcism now. The man is 74, Marty."

  "I agree - someone that age should not be performing exorcisms."

  "And Father Echols, another of our exorcists, was killed in a car crash last New Year's Eve. Some fool of a drunk driver..."

  "Really? I must have missed the news of his passing. Oh, wait, that's right. Last New Year's I was in Ohio, performing the exorcism of that poor woman. What was her name - Elvira Jernigan. I wasn't following the news, either the Order's or anybody else's. I didn't know about poor Father Echols."

  "Here's something else you probably don't know," Voytek said. "Gerald Hooper has been diagnosed with stage four liver cancer. The doctors say six months, maximum."

  "Dear Lord," Finlay said. "So, I'm the last of the Mohicans, as it were."

  "For the time being, yes. The Master of the Order has asked Rome to send over at least one, preferably three, qualified exorcists to this side of the Atlantic. But even if they agree, these things take time."

  "Yes, I know."

  Voytek nudged the sheet of paper on his desk. "So do these requests for release from vows. I'll send it through in tomorrow's mail, with my recommendation that your petition be granted. But it could take six months, or even longer, to work its way through the bureaucracy."

  "I expected as much," Finlay said. "I've researched the process pretty thoroughly. There isn't any chance the order could refuse, is there?"

  "I've never heard of that happening, in all my years of service. The Order won't keep any man against his will, Marty. It goes against all our principles."

  "Still, I'm glad to hear you say it."

  "I hope you're prepared to continue in your priestly duties until the release becomes official, Marty."

  "Of course I will. I'm teaching three classes of grad students. I wouldn't dream of leaving them hanging by making an exit in the middle of the semester."

  "Your sense of responsibility is as admirable as always," Voytek said, with no trace of sarcasm. "And what about exorcisms? Should the need arise, I mean."

  Finlay didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied a crease in his cassock as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. "Judith and I have discussed this," he said, finally. "I told her I was planning to decline any further requests for exorcisms, for the sake of my mental health - and hers. But that was before I knew that I was the only game in town."

  He studied the crease a bit more. "I'm going to pray that no poor souls are afflicted by the minions of Satan over the next six months - or if they are, that the Jesuits will handle it. But if it becomes necessary..." Finlay took in a big breath and let it out. "I'll be your exorcist - for a little while longer."

  For its size, the nation's capital can lay claim to an usually large number of drinking establishments - but then politics, some say, is thirsty work. Peabody's Bar and Grille is located a couple of blocks from M Street, the street known as Lobbyist's Row. It's one of the many establishments to occupy the mediocre middle among the District's bars. It was midway between upscale and sleazy, which is why Nestor Greene occasionally used it for business purposes. You could bring, or meet, almost anybody there without drawing undue attention.

  Greene walked into Peabody's a little after 3:00 in the afternoon and stood just inside the door for a few moments, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, which was only slightly abated by the glass-enclosed candles burning on each table. Even in Washington, most bars experience this slack period, between the departure of the lunch lushes and the arrival of the Happy Hour crowd. Consequently, once his night vision had kicked in, Nestor Greene had no trouble spotting the person he had come to meet.

  He slid into the booth and looked across the table at the man who sat with one big hand curled around the half-empty glass of beer in front of him. Al Mundenar's curly black hair was still worn short, Greene noticed, and the moustache was badly in need of a trim, as usual. The gray pinstripe suit looked handmade - which it would almost have to be, to accommodate the breadth of those shoulders.

  "How's it going, Al?" Greene said. "Sorry you had to wait. Parking is a royal pain around here, as usual."

  "Why didn't you walk over?" his companion rumbled softly. "That's what I did."

  Nestor Greene, who loathed physical exercise, smiled and said, "It's a little cold for a southern boy like me to be outdoors. Besides, we can't all be athletes."

  "I'm not an athlete, either. Not any more. Doesn't mean I let myself get soft." Al Mundenar had spent just over three years as a defensive back for the Minnesota Vikings. The second game of his third season had produced the knee injury that ended his career, but Mundenar wasn't complaining. His new occupation was just as financially rewarding as the old one, and infinitely easier on the connective tissue.

  A waitress approached, took Greene's order for a Dewar's and water, and departed. Greene watched her ass wiggle in the tight skirt for a moment, then turned back to his companion. "Haven't seen your byline for a while," he said.

  "Naw, I'm mostly an edit
or these days. You'd be amazed how many of these fucking kids we get, fresh out of college, can't write a sentence that makes any sense. So I edit copy a lot, and sometimes, if it's a slow week, they let me write headlines."

  "'Elvis Speaks to Me through My Dog'," Greene murmured. 'Face of Jesus Found on Dark Side of the Moon'. And my all-time favorite, 'Dwarf Rapes Nun, Flees in UFO'."

  "That last one's not ours," Mundenar said. "Sounds more like the Weekly World News. Or it would, if they were still in business."

  "How about, 'Presidential Wannabe Has Homo History'? Think you could sell some papers with that? Or maybe something a bit more pithy: 'Governor Sucks Dick'?"

  "Couldn't go with that second one," Mundenar said, seriously. "It's a family paper, after all."

  Greene raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And which one might that be - the Addams Family?"

  Mundenar took a sip of his beer and put the glass down. "Did you come here to diss my work - which, coming from a slimeball like you would be the biggest case of 'pots and kettles' since Jimmy Swaggart was on the air denouncing porn - or do you want to do business?"

  "I'm always ready for business," Greene said, "but, in this case, most of the business has already been done, as you well know. I've already been on the phone with McGreevy in Lauderdale, and we've made our deal. All you're supposed to do is eyeball the material to ensure its authenticity, and then it's the sole property of The National Tatler - in return for that check you've got in your pocket, of course."

  Mundenar stared hard at Greene for a long moment - a look that more than one NFL quarterback would have recognized. Then the big man smiled, but not in a way that promised undying friendship. "Well, if all I am is the errand boy in this deal, we might as well get the errand over with. Let's see what you've got."

  Greene produced the three Polaroid photos and placed them side by side on the table.

  Mundenar peered at the pictures, going back and forth between them, for at least a full minute. Then he produced a small, square magnifying lens with a built-in light - the kind that the elderly use to read restaurant menus. He examined the photos more closely, concentrating on the faces. Then from his coat pocket he pulled out a sheet of paper that appeared to be computer-printed copy of a head-and-shoulder photo, the details enlarged considerably.

  "What's that?" Greene asked.

  "I had a fella I know scan this from a college yearbook. Dartmouth, 1978."

  "Chesbro's graduating class."

  "That's right, smart guy. I wanted a better idea of what he looked like, back then. People can change a lot in thirty-some years."

  Mundenar examined both sets of images for the next minute or so, making frequent use of his magnifying glass. Finally he looked up and said, "I was told there was something else, too."

  "Yes, there's this." Greene pulled from the envelope the single sheet of gray personal stationary and placed it next to the Polaroids.

  Mundenar read the letter twice, taking his time about it.

  "How sweet," he said. Then he looked at Greene and lightly slapped the table with his huge right hand. "Okay, it looks like it is what you said it would be. Guess we have a deal."

  Mundenar reached into an inside pocket and produced a certified check. He placed it, face up, in front of Greene. "Satisfactory?"

  Greene peered at it for a moment, then nodded. "That's the figure I agreed to." His left hand had just touched the green rectangle of paper when Mundenar's paw clamped down on top of it.

  "You know, I was just thinking," Mundenar said, with a small, tight smile, "one of these days we ought to do a story on you. You're not important enough for the front page, of course - not any more. We usually reserve that for the story on whatever bimbo is fucking some politico this week. But we might find room for something juicy on an inside page, what do you think?"

  "I think you ought to let go of my hand," Greene said calmly.

  "Sure, sure, just a minute. That story I was thinking about, we could call it, 'The Dirty Tricks King that Nobody Knows,' or something like that. Maybe throw in a photo or two of you as well, Nessie. Could be that somebody might provide us with a picture of you sucking cock, or doing something else nasty. Wouldn't that be funny?"

  "A riot, absolutely," Green said equably. "But be sure you discuss this story idea of yours with McGreevy before you invest a lot of mental energy in it. He might tell you that it's a really bad idea. He might even mention that I know where an awful lot of bodies are buried - including a few that he might not want to see dug up." Greene finished the sentence with a broad gesture, which brought the hand close to the candle burning in its translucent container. In one smooth movement, he plucked the candle from its glass globe, tilted it, and poured about a tablespoon of hot wax onto the back of Mundenar's big, hairy hand.

  Leaving Peabody's a few seconds later, Nestor Greene wondered which was going to give him more pleasure for the rest of the day: the figure inscribed on the check in his pocket, or the memory of his last sight of Al Mundenar's face.

  Chapter 14

  "Quincey? Can you hear me? Quincey?"

  Libby Chastain was tired. The spell she had worked on Morris required a lot of direct contact, not unlike the 'healing touch' that some mystics are reputed to have. Time-consuming it was, and hard on the knees, but the spell had been successful. She had drawn out of Morris's bloodstream most of the alcohol that had caused him to pass out, turning it into vapor which she had then burned away with a snap of her fingers. She then removed the toxins that the liver produces as it digests alcohol. It is the toxins, not the alcohol, that cause a hangover. There was no point in sobering him up if he couldn't talk because his head was pounding out the drum solo from 'In-a-gadda-da-vida.'

  "Quincey? Time to come up from the dark now. Come to my voice, Quincey. Follow the sound of my voice."

  Morris made a sound that was a mixture of equal parts sigh and groan. His eyelashes fluttered then, blinking rapidly, he opened his eyes.

  He turned his head toward Libby Chastain and she saw his pupils dilate in recognition. He stared at her for a few seconds then said, softly, "Ah, shit."

  Libby leaned back a little, to escape his breath as much as anything else. "Charmer," she said with a little smile. "I bet you say that to all the girls."

  Morris moved his head around, as if checking that it was still attached. "I oughta feel like death, just lightly warmed over," he croaked. "As I recall, I sure as hell earned it."

  "Yes, I expect so. But I was able to give you a little help with that. Think you can sit up?"

  "Let's find out."

  Moving slowly, stiffly, as if unsure what parts of his body still worked properly, Morris brought himself upright.

  "Very good." Libby handed him a tall glass full of clear liquid. "Here - drink this. Take your time."

  Morris looked at her. "More magic?'

  "Sure. A magical potion combining hydrogen and oxygen, in a ratio of two-to-one."

  Morris's brow furrowed. Clearly, he wasn't tracking well, yet.

  "It's water, Quincey. Just water. You've got to be dehydrated."

  As he drank, Libby took another look around the shambles of a room.

  "Seems like it was quite a party," she said. "Everything but a trained monkey and bunch of hookers."

  Morris moved a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels aside and put his empty glass on the coffee table.

  "The trained monkey was already booked," he said, looking at the floor. "The hookers, they left - what's today, Tuesday?"

  "Wednesday."

  "They left Sunday, sometime. I think."

  Libby snorted. "I'm surprised I can't smell the stale perfume, or... whatever."

  "That's because all of our business transactions were carried out upstairs." He still wouldn't look at her.

  "Prostitutes, Quincey?" She kept her voice mild. "Cheap hookers?"

  "Uh-uh. They weren't cheap, I can tell you that much. I'd say they were two of the most expensive working girls in this town, which is saying
something. Don't forget, Austin's the state capitol - got the governor and the whole administration, plus the State Lege, and all those lobbyists, too. Makes for a high-class clientele, which requires high-class service. Hell, one of the ladies, if I can use that expression, said she was second year at the law school - and I believed her. I said that she ought to be real good at practicing law, because she was already knew how to screw her clients, and she told me -"

  "Quincey." Libby's voice had some snap behind it. His words had been coming faster and faster, and she had sensed the incipient hysteria behind them.

  Morris stopped talking. He took in a big breath and let it out slowly. "Sorry."

  Libby put a gentle hand on his arm. "It's all right." She squeezed the arm for a moment before letting it go. "I'm not judging you, Quincey. I'm the last person in the world to do that. But, high-class or not, I hope you and those working girls practiced safe sex."

  Morris nodded. "Condoms every time. They insisted, whether I gave a damn or not."

  Libby just stared at him. "Whether you gave a damn? Are you fucking serious?" She grasped his arm again, and this time the grip was not so gentle. "You ever hear of AIDS, Quincey? It was in all the papers."

  Morris said nothing. After a moment, she let his arm go.

  "I mean, they've got some wonderful drugs these days," she said, "and maybe a cure is on the horizon, but right now, that disease is still a death sentence."

  "I'm aware of that."

  "Well, then?"

  "The only thing wrong with it as a death sentence," Morris said bleakly, "is that it would take too fucking long."

  Libby's stare lasted longer this time. When she spoke, her voice was soft. "I think you'd better tell me. I know something happened, and I know that it must have been horrible, to lead you into a state like this. But I want to help you, Quincey - and I can't help unless I know."

  "I don't know if anybody stocks the kind of help that I need - even you, Libby," Morris said. "But if you'll fetch me another cold glass of this hydrogen and oxygen mixture, I'll tell you. That'll explain my little" - he waved a tired hand around the room - "orgy of self indulgence here, even if it doesn't excuse it."