“No, I think he’s just asleep. Unlatch the gate, Gloria. Dead or alive, we’ve got to do God’s work.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone sleeping in a hot tub,” Gloria protested.
“Nonetheless, we will lead this poor creature to deliverance. Open the gate.”
In the Jacuzzi, Gaston Boudreaux heard the latch click and fought the grogginess to gain his bearings from a deep sleep. One eye opened and focused on an overhead tree branch that had somehow captured a plastic grocery bag.
Women’s voices. Was I dreaming?
“Praise God, friend. You’re okay. We thought you were unconscious,” said the Bible-toting Stephanie in her caring, witness voice.
There was no response from the hot tub. The second eye opened.
Dat was definitely a woman’s voice.
Boudreaux lifted his head and focused on the holy women. A fierce growl commenced from behind a sofa on the deck. A large dog stood, and inched forward, every hair bristling.
Boudreaux cast a disapproving look in the dog’s direction and spoke with a heavy Cajun accent.
“Chomp! No, boy. Be nice to these pretty ladies. This mama is taking her young daughter to the beauty contest and got lost. Lay back behind that couch before I take a stick at you.”
The menacing growls stopped. Chomp returned to his post behind the sofa. Boudreaux now turned his full attention to the younger lady, looking her squarely in the eye. He stood. For a moment she thought he might be dressed only with confidence, which shocked her, for she had never seen a naked man. But as he rose to full height, he revealed a skimpy Speedo swimsuit that revealed more than it hid.
Gloria, eyes big as church collection plates, focused on the critical area of the swimsuit. The older woman shook her head.
“I am Gaston Boudreaux at your service. How can I help you gorgeous ladies?” He addressed both, but looked only at Gloria.
“Would you like to be closer to God?” the elder asked. She held out her Bible as if offering it.
“I feel close to God already, especially since you beauties walked into my yard.” His eyes never left the girl, who was now turning pink.
“You like motorcycles?” he asked Gloria with a smile.
“Sure I guess so,” she answered, their eyes now locked.
Chomp, who had decided to investigate the visitors, moved off the porch and behind them.
“How’d you like to meet me tonight at Pope’s Bar?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, but her manner said otherwise.
The older woman stepped between them. “She doesn’t go to bars. She reads her Bible at night.”
Boudreaux ignored the interference and leaned around her. “You sho mighty cute. What’s your name, young lady?”
“Gloria.”
Well, Gloria, I’ll teach you to play pool, and we’ll read the Bible. Then I’ll give you a motorcycle ride. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“I don’t think I should do that.”
“Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be there about seven.”
Chomp, having completed visual observations, casually lifted Gloria’s skirt with his nose and continued his investigation. From under the long skirt, his nose touched her calf.
“Ooooo,” she jumped, startled.
“Chomp! Shame on you! Get your ass back on that porch. I know she smells good, but you can’t just sniff around like that without permission.” And to the red-faced woman, “Gloria, I apologize for my dog. I’ll make it up to you tonight.”
In the next ten seconds two things happened that broke up the meeting and changed destiny. First, the older woman grabbed Gloria by the arm, spun her around, and directed her out the gate. At the same time, Boudreaux’s cell phone rang.
As he flipped the phone open he bade the ladies farewell.
“Where you going, girls? Does this mean we’re not going to read the Bible? I like that story about Daniel in the lion’s den.”
And to the phone, “Hello?”
From beyond the gate: “Have a glorious day.”
The voice in the phone was weak and forced. “Boudreaux, is that you? Who are you talking to?”
“Jake?” Boudreaux answered, now turning his entire attention to the phone. “The Jehovah’s Witnesses came by. We were trying to help each other.”
“I remember the last time they came you turned Chomp loose on them. You’re lucky you didn’t get arrested.”
“Yeah, but these were women, and were fine, if you follow my meaning. You know, Jake, you don’t sound good. How are you, my friend?”
“How do you think I’m doing? I’m dying down at a charity hospice. And you, Boudreaux? Has that rat trap you live in fallen down yet? I half expected you’d be buried alive by now.” Jake managed a laugh.
“No, Jake. Life is good here. That Jacuzzi I won is all hooked up. The Budweiser man gave me the papers two days ago.”
“Budweiser must be run by idiots to give you something like that.”
“I won it fair and square, and when you get home, we’re going to have one hell of a party.”
“I’m not coming home, Gaston. I’m getting worse by the day. They’ve got so many tubes and wires on me, I look like the back of a TV set.”
Boudreaux’s jovial tone turned somber. “Can I do anything for you? I’ve got all your mail in a pile.”
“I called to get your help. I need to talk to my daughter.”
“You mean the daughter who never talks to you? The one you haven’t even told you’re sick?”
“Yeah, Boudreaux. I need you to go next door and get her phone number for me. It’s written on the wall by the phone. And there’s a bottle of good whiskey in the cabinet over the refrigerator. Bring it down here with the phone number.”
“Are you allowed to drink whiskey in your condition?”
“Of course not, you Cajun half-wit. But what the docs don’t know won’t hurt ‘em. I just want to have a drink or two before I check out. Come this evening if you can.”
“Sure, Jake. Today’s no problem. Should I bring highball glasses?”
“I’ve got plenty of paper cups. Get on down here, and don’t forget Maggie’s phone number.”
By seven-fifteen, as Jake and Gaston tipped their second Dixie cup of Jack Daniels at Douglas Charity Health Center, across town the door to Pope’s Bar opened. A slim figure in blue jeans walked in.
Gloria looked over the rowdy crowd. Gaston Boudreaux was nowhere to be seen. She walked timidly to the bartender.
“I’m looking for Gaston Boudreaux. Have you seen him?”
“He’s not here tonight. If he’s not at his table by six-thirty, he ain’t coming.”
“Oh. Okay,” she said meekly. “He wanted me to meet him here tonight. Sorry to bother you.”
Young, beautiful Gloria turned and walked out the door. She mentally prepared herself to return to her bland, lonely apartment. It was time for Bible study.
Chapter 8
Charlie Arrives - Boys Town, April 1949
There were chilly nights in spring, nights when the boys curled deep in their beds with covers pulled high. But those nights were fewer now. The hard freezes of winter and frosted grasses of March were gone.
For a sunny April day, the temperature was cool, which neither helped nor hindered two hardworking boys trying to complete their grounds maintenance tasks. They stopped to rest for a moment and looked up just in time to watch a yellow sedan turn off Highway 6 and past the stone pylon announcing the facility as Boys Town.
“Taxi,” said one, wiping the dust from his forehead.
The appearance of a taxi always signaled one of two events: the arrival of potential parents from out of town hoping to adopt a child, or the arrival of a new student. Donors and dignitaries never arrived by taxi.
“I’ll bet it’s that new kid, the one we heard about at the gym.”
“Ole Hank really knows what’s going on, huh?”
“Yep. If that’s the kid from Indi
ana, things could get interesting. He’s got a record as long as my arm.”
They snickered at their insider knowledge and returned to the weeds on the sprawling hillside lawn.
The rumor mill at Boys Town was an efficient, reliable machine pumping out a daily fix of gossip and secrets. The muck leaders always seemed to have and dispense sensitive news. The boys who liberated information from Monsignor’s trash cans frequently found themselves at the center of attention, and they loved it. The advance documents about Charles Manson were enlightening and perfect fodder for the rumor circuit.
The taxi moved steadily up the hill toward a collection of buildings dominated by what looked to be a medieval, stone chapel. To the boy in the back seat, the brass-domed bell tower appeared very much like a guard tower. At the hillcrest the taxi made a right turn into the heart of a campus buzzing with activity. Boys rushed in every direction to classes or to assigned work duties.
In the distance, the boy saw massive construction projects with an army of construction workers. Judging from the immense scale, it was easy to see why Boys Town was a famous institution growing daily in reputation and accomplishments.
The passengers would have been surprised to learn the campus, as active as it appeared, was less hectic than normal. The prized show choir had departed three days earlier for a four-state singing tour on the East Coast. The Boys Town director, Monsignor Wegner, was with the choir to properly cultivate wealthy donors and national broadcasting executives.
The baseball teams too, varsity and junior varsity, were away at an exhibition tournament in Kansas City. The players and coaches would attend church services at parishes across the city where special collections would fund the trip, with plenty more for the coffers back home. The track team was at an invitational meet in Des Moines and would not return until next Tuesday.
To the boy in the sedan, the campus looked busy and beautiful. Red bricks and tall trees. Green grass and blue skies. New asphalt streets bustling, yet quiet. And it looked like the boys all wore the same blue jeans and plaid shirts. Many new arrivals felt overwhelmed at the sight, but not this boy.
Carl pulled the police captain’s written orders from a manila envelope.
“Slow down, driver. There are too many kids on the streets. Save the speeding for getting me back to the train station. We don’t need trouble here.”
The driver grunted, but slowed.
Carl turned to the boy. “The captain’s note says we’re to meet a priest, Father Gallagher. He should be at the high school office this time of day.”
Less than a block later, Carl and the driver spotted a sign that marked their destination.
“Find a parking place, driver. The office must be inside the main door.”
The cigar-chomping driver ignored the “PRIESTS ONLY” signs and pulled into one of the two parking spots nearest the door. He smirked at the signs and turned off the engine.
Carl stuffed his orders back in the envelope and turned to the boy.
“This is it, kid. Grab your stuff.”
“Gladly.”
“Might I add: Welcome to Boys Town, punk. This is where Indianapolis dumps its trash.” Carl jabbed.
Charlie opened the back door and stepped out just as Carl closed the door on the opposite side of the taxi.
“Hey, Carl,” Charlie said in a low voice, but just loud enough for the driver to overhear. “You ever wonder what they say about you at police headquarters?”
“How would you know?” Carl shot back.
“I’ve heard them,” Charlie answered. “They say you like to hang out at juvenile detention so that, well, you know. I’m really surprised and thankful you didn’t try any funny business on the train. And I heard one cop say he thought the smartest part of you dribbled down your mother’s leg. But I don’t believe it. I just wanted you to know.”
From the taxi, the driver watched as Carl’s face turned scarlet.
Kid sure knows how to light his fuse.
Carl wasn’t sure whether to obey his instincts and hit the kid or ignore him. With witnesses everywhere, he decided the best course was to get rid of this worthless piece of shit and get home as quickly as possible.
“Come on, you little bastard. Let’s get this done,” Carl hissed.
Charlie tagged along, taking in everything he saw. High on the nearby church, Charlie spotted a hideous gargoyle and smiled at the irony of a horrible demon adorning a holy building.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, three passing students stepped aside to let the visitors pass. Charlie made eye contact with the students.
They seem friendly enough, except for the biggest one. Mean-lookin’. Talk about an unwelcome feeling. If looks could kill…
The moment passed as the somber twosome from Indiana walked toward the school. The three students walked a different direction toward the dining hall.
Unbeknownst to Charlie, his arrival at the chapel office had not gone unnoticed by the rest of the students. Across the campus, boys whispered news of his arrival, this one who was rumored to be so different than the others.
Sister Mary Agatha, the school’s ancient secretary, was at her desk nibbling on a wheat cracker and studying the Omaha Tribune’s radio program listings when she heard the main doors slam shut and a man’s cursing.
She calmly tucked the newspaper out of sight and had her crumbs brushed away before the office door opened.
The parishioners and boys who knew Sister Mary Agatha judged her to be about 70 years old, but they didn’t know for sure. Nor did they know much else about her except that she was retired from the daily grind. She was a small woman with a practiced grave look who seemed always to be at the school, always on top of things, always making phone calls on behalf of the school and parish.
The two guests crowded into the tiny office before her. Her dime store reading glasses rested halfway down her nose. She appraised them through wrinkled eyes.
A cop and the new boy we’ve been waiting for. The cop looks unhappy to be here. Ugly, sulking cuss, probably very adept at knocking heads in the tough areas of Indianapolis. The boy. Oh my. The boy is so cute. Small for fourteen years old, but oh my, those beautiful, captivating eyes.
Carl began abruptly, without introduction. “We’re looking for Father Gallagher. We thought he might be here at the school.”
Sister Mary Agatha smiled at them, and her entire face wrinkled. Her gravelly voice asked, “And you are?” It was a power question, a sort of penance for his rudeness, and she left it hanging in the air, requiring a response.
“I’m Detective Carl Pechar from the Indianapolis Police Department, ma’am. I’m here to see Father Gallagher about a new boy. The boy here is Charles Manson.”
Carl managed an uncomfortable and unconvincing smile.
“I’m Sister Mary Agatha, the school secretary.”
She glanced at the boy and smiled.
Of the two, Charlie alone stepped forward and offered his hand.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Sister,” Charlie said warmly.
She was suddenly flustered and felt her face flush, requiring an awkward moment to regroup and return to business.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked the detective knowing the answer but wanting to regain her full authority.
“No,” Carl answered. “We have general instructions to meet him at the high school.”
“Wait here. I’ll see if Father Gallagher is available for you.”
They noticed she had difficulty standing and walking. Probably arthritis.
It seemed to Charlie that she barely made it out the door and ten feet to the door across the hall, but once in front of it, she pounded with the authority of an army sergeant.
They heard the door open and her last words before closing it behind her.
“Father Gallagher, you have guests.”
She returned within minutes with the message they hoped for.
“Father Gallagher will see you. He’s in our conference ro
om. It’s his temporary office.”
Carl addressed the boy. “Sit here with the nice nun lady. I’ll be quick.”
Carl left the room, making sure to give Charlie a final, threatening glance.
Charlie gave Sister Agatha a sheepish grin.
“Do you smoke?” she asked.
“Yeah. Marlboros.”
“Show me?” the nun asked.
“Sure, sister. Want one?” Charlie asked.
Charlie reached into the paper bag at his side and pulled out a pack.
The old sister held out a hand yellowed with nicotine and smoke stains.
“Actually, one of my duties is to collect any cigarettes arriving with our new boys. You’re too young to smoke. Let me have them, please.”
“My. My. Aren’t you the tricky little nun?” Charlie commented, giving her a wink. “I offered you a cigarette and you took the whole pack.”
“I’m just letting you know the rules, dear boy.”
Sister Mary Agatha was satisfied with the exchange. After all, she had read the boy’s file and prepared Monsignor’s dossier about him. She knew the boy’s reputation and elected to bypass a search of Manson’s paper bag and guitar case where three more packs lay tucked away.
If Father Flanagan had been a role model for boys, Associate Priest Sean Gallagher was a role model for other priests. He loved his work and lived a life dedicated to God, the Church, and the appeasement of bishops. He lived and breathed the priesthood. Unpriestly moments had been nonexistent in his first six years. Only recently had he doubted his direction, and these doubts he pushed firmly away for now. As he prepared to face a policeman delivering a troubled boy, he was perfectly positioned and trained to handle God’s business.
He sat at a magnificent mahogany desk. It was a room that contained the best characteristics of executive offices, art galleries, and luxury apartments. The dark cabinets and bookcases that lined the walls fit harmoniously with stacked cartons of school books resting on plush rugs. Religious paintings adorned the walls and nooks around the room.
Before He Became a Monster: A Story Charles Manson's Time at Father Flannigan's Boystown Page 4