Too bad. Not their fault. Her fault. What next?
Rick could tell from their expressions that his gang was going along with his reasoning. Time to chart the next step.
“So, what next? We could stay right at this level. If we do, we’ll be hanging around automatic tellers waiting for some poor schmuck to take out a couple of hundred. Then we step up and take the wad and the car, maybe put a slug in his head. Or, we just get in the carjacking scene and if the driver looks at us cross-eyed, we off him. Or maybe we give the ’burbs some drive-by action. So far, nearly all the drive-bys are by the blacks and for the blacks. The lily suburbs haven’t had that thrill yet …
“How does all this grab you guys?”
Rick looked around. Ronnie was reduced to sniffling. He seemed to be trying to follow Rick’s premise.
The others gave every indication that carjacking and drive-bys might be just the ticket. Rick would have to burst this bubble. “Come on, you guys!” His voice dripped with ridicule. “That’s penny-ante stuff! We passed all those plateaus tonight. This very night. If they caught us for what we did tonight we’d be in the slammer for the rest of our lives—no parole. Hell, if we did it in some other state, they’d snuff us. Don’t you get it: We can do this over and over again! We can off guys and broads because they don’t want to give us their car—or because they’re scared shitless, but don’t get out of their cars fast enough. Or we can cruise and pick off some people just because they’re standing on their porch, or on their front lawn, or walking down the street—or just because we don’t like their haircut.
“But—and this is the important part—whatever we do to people like this, we can’t beat what we did tonight. See?”
The others looked at one another, bewildered. “So, what then …” John asked finally, “… we retire undefeated?”
They all laughed, even Ronnie. After a few moments, Rick joined in. When the laughter waned, Rick said, “No, buddy boys, what we do now is we go to the top—or as close to the top as anybody’s going to get.”
They looked uncomprehendingly.
“Let me put it this way. Who’s coming to town?”
After a minute, John said, “Santa Claus?”
“Yeah,” Leo said, “we better be good.”
The laughter was less forced this time. Rick joined in heartily. Laughter was helpful. They’d have to put tonight’s killing behind them so he could lead them on to new contests. And laughter helped. “Okay, you morons, don’t any of you guys read the paper … or even watch TV?”
“Wait a minute … the pope? My God”—John was horrified—“you mean the pope?!”
Rick simply smiled.
“What about the pope?” Leo asked.
“Don’t you get it?” John said. “Rick’s talkin’ about takin’ out the pope!” There was awe in his voice.
The rec room became as silent as an empty church.
“The pope.”
“The pope?”
“The pope!”
“The pope!”
One by one each member of the Golds demonstrated comprehension.
“The pope,” Rick confirmed.
“You must be out of your effin’ mind,” John said with solemn conviction. It was not a frivolous comment, but a statement, every word of which John fully intended.
“The pope!” Leo still did not grasp this as reality.
“Why fool around with the same old thing time after time?” Rick picked up a pool cue and began twirling it. “Everything the ordinary human being could think about right now would be in the same category as what we pulled off tonight. The same thing over and over again. Put a bullet through a bitch’s head. Put a bullet through some asshole’s heart. It hits the papers for a couple of days. The cops come up dry—no arrests, no leads. The same thing all the time.” The only way to enhearten them was to make them think it was nothing; give them something else to think about. “Hell, I’m giving us a chance to change history. To become more famous than you ever dreamed.
“Try it this way, when I say Abe Lincoln, whaddyou think of?”
“The Civil War.”
“A tall guy with a weird hat, a beard, and a huge zit on his cheek.”
“He got shot.”
“John Wilkes Booth!”
“That’s it,” Rick said. “John Wilkes Booth. The guy who assassinated Abraham Lincoln.”
“Only one problem,” John said, “Booth didn’t live too long after that. They got him.”
“Right,” Rick agreed. “They got him because he made some lousy plans and because the team he put together turned out to be a Mickey Mouse gang.”
“The pope!” Leo was in a daze.
“You got a better plan?” Ronnie asked.
“What you got in mind?” John demanded.
“Okay.” Rick pulled an armful of newspapers out from behind the wet bar. He spread them over the pool table, the Ping-Pong table, and every flat surface he could find. “See …” He pointed to the first of his series of papers. “The pope leaves Rome in his comfortably outfitted plane, which flies nonstop to Metro. That’s where our opportunity begins—at Metro.”
He moved to the next set of papers. “Now, see, here’s the layout at Metro. If he goes through any of the regular gates, we got a great chance. There’ll be TV cameras and reporters, the priest guys and a zillion sightseers, along with all those cops. Easy for us to squeeze into this mob.
“But he ain’t going to a regular gate. His plane goes to the GM hangar, where there’s a real tight space. And look …” He pointed to a sidebar. “Everybody in that hangar has to have special credentials to even be in there.”
“So that’s not a good place,” John said.
“That,” Rick said, “is a first-class lousy place.
“But we move right along. The whole bunch—or most of them anyway—get into helicopters for the next stop. And by the way,” he said, “they got choppers guarding the choppers. Get the idea of how much they want to secure the whole area the pope happens to be in?”
The others nod. They are impressed.
“That,” Rick said, “just shows you what a fantastic caper this is. You got feds, state, county, and local cops. You got the best security money can buy and this country can provide—and a bunch of high school kids beat it!
“Man, when we are like 103 and if, by then, we’re dying, we can give the press our names for history. We’ll be among the most famous bad guys of all time.”
The others began to get into the spirit of the thing.
“Now ….” Rick pushed several papers together to form a montage. “These choppers set down on a big fenced-in field at this seminary. I’ve seen it. It’s humongous.
“But this’ll be in the late evening and, at this time of year, it’s gonna be awful dark. They plan on having powerful searchlights around the area where the pope will set down. but there’s no chance in hell that they’ll ever be able to light the whole shebang. That gives us an in.
“Three, maybe four, of us will cause one hell of a disturbance in the dark, just outside the lights. When the security people start toward the ruckus, one of us moves into range and pops the pope.” He looked from one to the other to gauge their reception.
“Wait,” John said, “how do we get in there in the first place?”
“There’s a wire fence around the place. They’re not gonna have the heat at every inch of fence,” Rick explained. “Now you’re thinking, ‘Sure, but they’ll spot five guys climbing over the fence.’ But I’ve already been there … and I cut through one section of the fence and I put it back together with wire hooks that we can pull away easy. I checked: There’s no moon that night. We’ll be through that fence in no time. Once the pope is shot, everybody’ll be running every which way. We head back right where we came from. Our fence entry is dead up against some heavy bushes. It’ll be a snap.
“So, how ’bout it? Whatddya think?”
Silence.
“How come we gotta get
so close to the pope?” Ronnie asked. “John here is pretty good with a rifle. We could be a mile away—whatever range John is comfortable with—and not run the risk of getting close.”
“A point,” Rick admitted, “but the cops have got that angle pretty well covered. You guys ever see that movie, Day of the Jackal? Well, this professional assassin is trying to take out de Gaulle. He gets a dead bead on the guy and he squeezes the trigger—just as de Gaulle bends over and the shot goes over his head.
“It’d be even tougher to get a bead on the pope. Security’s all over him all the time, and they keep moving. From a distance, no matter how good you might be, you’re more likely to bag a cop than the pope.
“No, whoever gets the pope is gonna hafta do it up close and personal.”
“So,” John asked, “which one of us is it gonna be?”
Rick looked from one to the other. Each seemed enthused. Good! Great! They’re in it. He’d done it; he’d got this frazzled bunch of wealthy delinquents to agree on the greatest caper in history … or at least one that would rank.
Why there was any doubt as to who would pull the trigger? He would, of course. But … one thing at a time. They were in; enough for the moment.
Rick, Leo, John, and Ronnie, as if on cue, looked to Andrew. Through this entire episode he hadn’t said a word. He seldom did. They called him Harpo. Not because he had curly blond hair, but because he was virtually mute. He looked back at them. He nodded and smiled. He was in.
“We got one more thing to plan,” Rick said. “We got to cause some kind of diversion … some kind of distraction that’ll make it easier for us. Now I got just the thing we’re looking for—I think you’re gonna go fork it.”
The plotting, the questions, the answers went on into the wee hours. The gang’s enthusiasm crescendoed as the details became more specific.
Completely and oddly forgotten was the unclothed body of a socialite who would be found about 2:30 A.M. Police on patrol would spot the pricey car and investigate.
Her purse and identification were in the car. In a few hours her husband would be notified and would go with the police to identify his wife.
The husband, the children, the family, relatives, and many friends would be devastated. She had been very active in many charitable causes. The obituaries would be lavish; the funeral, from Christ Church Cranbrook, impressive.
Those reading about it or seeing the story on TV would wonder again what this world was coming to. The usual cast of characters would reawaken the fight for tighter gun laws. The other usual cast of characters would remind everyone that guns don’t kill, people do. Besides, there is the Constitution to defend.
Rick, Leo, John, Ronnie, and Harpo would be tickled by all the publicity they had engendered. It would give them courage and incentive to forge on in their plot for the ultimate media event.
12
He’d never played the part of a priest before. First time or not, everything seemed to be going well.
He sank into the upholstered chair, exhausted as much by tension as the discomfort of air travel.
He took stock of his surroundings. By his standards, this was more than adequate, it was luxurious.
He was seated in what might be called a living room, or perhaps a den. Three walls were almost totally bookcased; the fourth wall was almost totally windows—three large ones that looked out on the courtyard. The bedroom had two similarly sized windows, the lavatory a smaller one—all again overlooking the courtyard.
What pleased him most was having his own loo, with cabinet, wash-stand and—think of it!—a shower.
Indeed, as far as he could tell, things were moving along flawlessly.
Not a shred of trouble at customs in Ireland or in Boston. But that was due to his meticulous planning, not deferential treatment bestowed on a clergyman. Undoubtedly there had been a time when “Father” was waved through inspection zones. But no longer—not with international terrorism so prevalent.
The flight—his first long journey ever—was confining and uncomfortable. The food was slightly better than he’d expected. He was able to listen to his tapes of TV and radio newsreaders without interference, though he sensed that at least a couple of people would have liked to engage him in conversation. When he wasn’t eating or practicing his accent he was grateful for the privacy a nap afforded.
He was met at Detroit Metro by a man in a driver’s uniform and cap, holding a sign bearing the name of the priest whose identity he had taken. When they got into the limousine, the driver handed him an envelope that read, “Preliminary Information.” He noted that on checking in at the seminary he was supposed to present a photo of himself to be given to the police for identification and security purposes. Fortunately, he had two extra copies of his passport photo in his wallet.
On the trip into the city, he tried out his borrowed accent. It went over fine; the driver made no comment about his pronunciation. They chatted a bit about the weather, which, with the dusting of snow, was quite Christmas-y. But mostly they talked about what for metro Detroiters was, after Christmas, the most discussed topic—the pope’s visit.
He was grateful for the limo. This way he’d have to converse with as few people as possible. Once at the seminary he would try to keep to himself. After all, he wasn’t sure what to expect—and there was always the possibility that somebody there could have met the real priest. But he’d cross that bridge when and if … For now, he’d take it one step at a time. His luck had held so far.
When they finally drove through the entrance of Sacred Heart Major Seminary, he noted that it was not very well guarded, and the guards did not look like professionals. Obviously the major security was being reserved for the pope’s arrival.
He checked in at the seminary’s back entrance hallway, which had become the entry foyer when what had been the building’s main entry in front was virtually sealed off many years ago—for security’s sake.
He handed over the requested photo and watched carefully. No comment was made; it was put with a stack of other priest photos, which he assumed would be turned over to the police. He was given his room number and directions on how to reach it. He was also given a packet containing information on and a diagram of the seminary, including the chapel, the dining hall, snack bar facility, and the like. The packet also contained the agenda for the symposium and the main event—the Pontifical Mass in Cobo Arena.
He was not surprised—he had taken it for granted—that the dining room was closed. It was now quite late Sunday evening. He was grateful that the snack bar was open around the clock. In good time he would eat, more to keep up his strength than because he was hungry.
But first he wanted to familiarize himself with this building. He hoped he would not meet anyone in the hallways. If he did, he would try to appear in too much haste to stop and talk. He didn’t know how anyone he might meet would be dressed. He’d already noted that it was quite warm in the building; attire could be anything from pajamas and robe to more formal garb. He quickly decided to wear the traditional black suit with clerical collar and vest. That way there’d be no question but that he belonged.
Everything had gone so smoothly thus far, he was beginning to relax somewhat.
He left his room, locking the door behind him. He smiled; the chance that someone might try to rob or attack him was ludicrous; would a hungry rabbit stalk a lion?
The building’s layout was simple and easy to grasp, but he wanted to walk it through.
The centerpiece was the Gothic chapel. Everything else revolved around it. Unfortunately, only a few lights had been left on so he wasn’t able to properly appreciate his surroundings. Because of the half-light his steps were cautious as he made his way down the middle aisle.
Looking from side to side he was able to make out some three or four small chapels against either wall. From his recent study, he knew that private chapels such as these were probably not used nowadays. At one time—he could almost see it in his imagination—these
altars would have been busy with priests and their servers saying “whisper” masses, so as not to distract each other.
The pews in the body of the chapel seemed farther apart than usual. If ever these were occupied by laity accustomed to parish churches, he thought, there must be many an embarrassing moment when, kneeling, they tried to rest their fannies on the seat … only to find that kneelers and seats in this chapel were too far apart for this customary convenience.
The sanctuary had been modified to comply with the post-Conciliar liturgy that did away with the ornate “high” altars where the priest was far removed from worshipers and, for the most part, kept turned away from the people. Now a table covered with altar cloths was set as close to the pews as possible.
In the subdued light, he could not make out much more in the chapel.
He was able to examine the diagram of the building by the light of a miniature flashlight on his key ring. Thus guided, he located classrooms, study spaces, parlors, lockers, the gymnasium, the main dining room, libraries.
Basically the seminary was a three-story building with a rectangular outline, the chapel cutting through the middle of the rectangle, and appendages at each corner. The extensions were an auditorium, residence halls, a recreation building, and a one-time convent, now used by various diocesan departments.
He was almost at the end of his tour when, dead ahead, a bright light blinded him momentarily. “Hold it!” The voice carried a naked warning.
He stood stock-still. He was afraid of nothing but a gun. And from all that he’d read and heard about Detroit—hyperbole and fact—he believed that for many inhabitants of this city a gun simply was the extension of a hand.
The figure behind the light came close enough to see that the man he had challenged wore clerical attire. He reversed the light, aiming it first at his badge, then up to his large, amiable black face. “Sorry if I scared you, Father,” the guard said. “Can’t be too careful in this neighborhood.”
“That’s okay. Actually, I’m glad it was you.”
Call No Man Father Page 10