The Big Wheel

by Scott Archer Jones

A large chair spun around and revealed Father Mirko. Zlata saw a dark, dangerous Slavic face. “Yes, can I help you?” With the words, the priest’s face moved from sullen repose to a real smile.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Ithaca is a long way from Chicago.”

  The priest’s eyes squinted and he said, “I know you! Robko Dragomir Zlata! You’ve changed your hair color, and you’ve cleaned up your eyebrows, but it’s still the same shifty kid I grew up with.” He jumped out of the chair.

  “Shifty, huh?” The two men met beside the desk. They exchanged a hug and pounded each other on the back.

  Robko said, “Let me introduce you to Sibyl, the most important person in my life. Sibyl, this is Mirko and vice versa.”

  Mirko stuck his hand out to Sibyl. She stared down at the hand. “What, no hug?”

  “I thought the uniform gave me away. I have foolishly taken a vow of celibacy. Hugging you, well... sit down, drag up that chair, come sit down.”

  They both sat down with him, separated by the bulk of a scarred metal desk. Robko said, “Mirko and I grew up within three apartments of each other. We went to school together. We played ball together. We both dated Nadia Miroslawa Radoslaw, maybe at the same time. We whipped the Murphy brothers together. Why, we even... maybe we shouldn’t go there.”

  The priest guffawed. “No, let’s not. How did you find me in Ithaca?”

  “My Ma of course. She holds you up as the almighty powerful example we should all follow.”

  “And when was the last time you saw your mother?”

  “Now, Mirko, don’t play the guilt game. I live in NYC, and besides, Ma and I spend every visit fighting.” That was all true, but it was also true that there was some comfort in the arguing.

  The Father said, “And you were such an obedient child.”

  Sibyl snickered. “Robert? You’re kidding.”

  The conversation circled, wove back and forth, looped back on itself and plunged off again before it flattened out. The priest cleared his throat. “Why now, Robko, after all these years? Is there some way I can help you? Did you come to ask for something?”

  “I want you to hear my confession, Father.”

  Mirko broke out in laughter, long and hard. He wheezed.

  “No, I’m serious. I want you to hear my confession. Then I can ask my favor.”

  The priest cocked up one eyebrow. “Uh, you’re gaming the system, aren’t you? What I hear in the box is bound by the sanctity of the confessional. You tie my hands, then you ask the favor.”

  “Works for me.”

  Mirko leaned over to Sibyl and whispered, “And you hang around with this man?”

  “Actually, he’s kind of my ex. I’m available if you’re in the market.”

  Mirko sat with his elbows on the table, his hands folded together. Then he slapped the desk with both hands and hollered, “Okay, let’s go hear the grís grís. Mirko sat with his elbows on the table, his hands folded together. Then he slapped the desk with both hands and hollered, “Okay, let’s go hear the grís grís. Confiteor Deo omnipotenti! Or Robko will confess to me, and to God.” He led the way through the church. They followed behind, hearing his slippers whisper on the stone flagging. With a flourish, Father Mirko indicated the confessional—shiny wood, pierced panels, and a trinity of doors. Robko slipped off to the left, and Father Mirko took the middle.

  Robko had a lot to say. Sibyl circled around the church three times inspecting everything, her camera out and busy. She took a place in a pew in the transept and waited, sitting still and silent in the dimness. She inhaled the dust of old masses and older stone. Silent, she could hear the melody of Robko’s voice, punctuated by the drum of the priest’s words. When the doors opened and the men stepped out, Robko looked shaken and the Father’s face glowered dark and brooding. Robko paced forward to the altar and knelt at the rail. Father Mirko strode over to Sibyl. “Come back to the office. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. Come, child, he’s going to be a while.” As they ambled out of the church, he shouted over his shoulder. “No faking it. He’ll be watching, and so will I. And leave the collection box alone. I’ll be checking.” His slippers scuffed along, smoothing out her hard clattering footsteps. “Now, tell me who this Sibyl is and why she gave up her marriage to Robko Zlata.”

  ***

  Robko showed up in the office in fifteen minutes, popped in to find his ex and his friend conspiring. “Glad we got that over.”

  Sibyl said, “You’ve got a smirk-and-a-half, Robert.”

  Mirko flashed out a crooked grin. “My son, you may think you’ve put one over on the Church, but for a moment, a small moment, you’ve received some absolution. Of course, in your case, it was a drop of absolution boiling away under a hot sun.”

  Robko grinned. “I admit it; I feel better. Just don’t tell my Ma.”

  The priest folded his hands. “Now, what’s your favor, my old friend?”

  “I need two things, Father. First… a place to hide.”

  “That’s one.”

  “And I need to know who’s chasing us. People around us are starting to die.”

  “That’s two. Why me?”

  “I can’t trust anyone I’ve worked for or with. They took my last boss down—whoever they are—and he gave me up.”

  “I repeat, why me?”

  “You still have the contacts. My uncle says you were the confessor for half the Polish criminals in Chicago.”

  “True. God chooses a priest’s flock. I had thought I left most of that behind me when the Church sent me here.”

  Robko said, “Sorry.”

  “No you’re not.” Mirko tented his fingers. “Who would have thought you’d come back to the Church?”

  “I’m the prodigal son, aren’t I?”

  “More like a Trojan horse.”

  Sibyl reached across the desk and patted Mirko’s hand. “I know just what you mean. You open the gate and let him in, and pretty soon, you’re overrun. Do it because of who you are, not who he is.”

  “Let me think about it. Come back tomorrow after early Mass. I’ll know by then what God wants.”

  Sibyl said, “Thank you, Father.”

  “Be prepared for me to say no. I’m not in the business—or that business—anymore.”

  ***

  Outside, Sibyl asked her personal skanker, “So what is the story with the Father?”

  “You mean besides my Ma liking him better than me? Mirko got sent up to do hard time. In prison there was a Polish gang united under a rock-hard leader. The way I hear it, Mirko got promoted to enforcer and made quite a name in there. Nobody in that jail screwed with the other Polish, any of them. But the big Pole…,” Robko twitched his head back towards the church. “The one fried up on phencyclidine, everybody scraped and bowed to him.”

  “Phen—?”

  “Angel dust. Bad, bad drug. The Bluemen never pinned a murder on Mirko, and he rode out his term. No extra time, but no parole either. Prison changed him. He did something he’s ashamed of, and it wasn’t just a killing.”

  “And where were you?”

  “I met him at the gate as he walked out. He took my hand and told me, ‘I’ve got to change, Robko.’”

  “So that’s where all this came from.”

  He nodded. “Mirko also said, ‘Hell waits beyond my death.’ Pretty dramatic talk, but he meant it. After that, he went off into the Church, and I moved off to jobs out of town.”

  ***

  A woman from Accounting, dressed in black and as severe as a nun, said to Thomas and Angie, “I’ve got it! There’s a Polish boy who shows up in several of the yearbooks with Zlata, from junior high into high school. He’s a Mirko Kazimierz.” She carried a stack of index cards and slapped one down in front of him.

  Thomas said, “Polish is good. Kazimierz was a saint right?”

  Accounting ignored him and snapped down another card. “One of Kazimierz’ four sisters married a Zlata, a cousin.”

  Angie said, “Close family ties.
Good.”

  “Mirko’s got a criminal record.” She produced an index card with a rap sheet summary.

  Thomas shook his head. “Good, but so does another twenty percent of Zlata’s class.”

  “He has a page on a social site. It’s more interesting than many pages. He tells us prison reformed him, and he’s now a priest.”

  Angie asked, “Relevance? Old friends, but now one is a priest. Maybe Zlata would go to him, maybe not.”

  The woman shook her head. “I like the Church tie. That makes it more likely Zlata will seek him out, not less. I’m Catholic—I know. There’s one thing more.” She leaned back, and pleasure flooded her face.

  Thomas grinned. “What’s your punch line?”

  “He has a church in Ithaca, two-hundred-some-odd miles away.”

  He snatched up the card and jumped to his feet. “That’s it! Thank you so much—this is going to work. Angie, call the town car. I’ll go by my place and pack a bag. You’ll run things on this end, and I’ll call in each step of the way.”

  “Wait, Thomas. This is all a gamble. What if you’re wrong?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Angie asked, “Can’t you call Ithaca?”

  “The priest won’t tell me anything over the phone.” Thomas packed his briefcase. “This is all a wish on a guess on a hunch; but if you examine it, it’s rational. It’s one of the possible solutions. Smile, everybody—the sun’s just popped out from behind a cloud. What could go wrong?”

  Chapter Eleven: Daniel in the Lion’s Den

  Ithaca—the type of place Thomas pictured for retirement, not that CEOs really retire. The town car took him past Queen Annes, Richardsonians, Cape Cods, bungalows—neighborhood after neighborhood of 1920s suburbia mixed in with 1890s wealth. He nodded again and again—he could live in this one, or that one. Even the student slum seduced him—the old houses made up for their descent into tiny chopped-up apartments by housing beautiful young people, as Ivy League and white-bread as any nostalgist could want. Realism intruded; he would also have to keep an apartment in ugly, messy New York.

  He checked into a chain hotel on Seneca—not the usual standard he booked on O’Brien’s travel account. To balance it out, he took a suite. He rented a robocar at the desk and gave voice commands to the town car to return to New York. As the clock on the mantel of his room struck four, he headed out to the church.

  He found the priest as Mirko shuffled in slippers down the stairs from the classrooms. They met in the doorway of Mirko’s office, on the faded linoleum and the cracked threshold. The man in black habit said, “Can I help you? Are you looking for someone?”

  Thomas took stock of the priest. He appeared six foot tall, six foot wide, with a dark complexion, high cheekbones, and dark impenetrable eyes. “I’m looking for Father Mirko, and based on the Chicago accent, I think I’ve found him.”

  The wall of a man inclined his head, reserved. “You have the advantage over me.”

  “Sorry. My name is Thomas Steward.” He held out his hand.

  “And how can we help you today?” The priest’s handshake mangled Thomas’s hand.

  “We have a mutual acquaintance.”

  “God’s world is a small place.”

  “Robert Zlata. I have to find him. I need to talk to him, pretty desperately.”

  “I once knew a Robko Zlata. I grew up with him in Chicago.”

  “Same man. Can we go in your office, Father? Sit down? Talk?”

  Father Mirko waved his hand into the room. “Go right in.”

  The room smelled of institutional cleaner and stale cabbage. Seated, the priest cast a neutral gaze upon him. Thomas said, “Perhaps I should begin. Zlata took a certain object from my employer. It’s placed him in a great deal of danger.”

  “There are a number of ways I can interpret that, Mr. Steward. Are you a threat to Robko Zlata?”

  “I’m his best option.”

  “Well, I don’t know what I can tell you. Priests can’t always be forthcoming when discussing their parishioners. Besides, I have no reason to think you mean well for my old friend.”

  “Is Zlata one of your parishioners then?”

  “More like family, I suppose—once upon a time.” A silence deadened the room.

  Thomas looked for another approach—apparent candor. “Um, I see your dilemma. Anything I say might be tainted by my own agenda, and any assurances I give could be less than trustworthy.”

  “As you say.”

  “And you’re not ready to say if you’ve been in contact with him recently.”

  A single syllable answer. “No.”

  No could mean no Zlata or no betraying of Zlata. “But you’d tell the police if they asked you?”

  “The Church and its priests are full members of the community. That gives us obligations to the authorities.”

  “But I’m better than the police, in this circumstance.”

  “Bring me a policeman, and I’ll cooperate.”

  “Even if it would be better for this to remain a private affair for Zlata?”

  “You can’t pressure me that way. Robko will always have to pay the consequences for his actions, but with God.”

  Real candor then. “Let me start over. I don’t know if you can represent Robko Zlata or contact him, but I have a message for him. I can offer him a private amnesty, a full walk-away from any repercussions from my employer. I can also help him avoid certain dangerous criminal elements and, of course, any legal prosecution. What he would give me in return is the full story and the restoration of the object.”

  “That’s so generous, Mr. Steward… and sensitive too, not to offer thirty pieces of silver on top of it. Don’t expect any commitments on my part, however.”

  “I’ll leave you my card. I’m in the hotel down on Seneca. I’ll write that number down also. I don’t know how you can confirm who I am and what I say. Go online and search my name and the name Dennis O’Brien. I do urge you to pass the message on to Zlata.” Thomas waited to see if the priest would ask anything else, but he only sat motionless. That black-cassocked force had damped all the sound in the room, like a wool shroud. Thomas rose to his feet.

  “Mr. Steward.”

  “Yes.” Maybe the priest was reconsidering.

  “Just one thing. To my knowledge, my friend has never physically hurt anyone. He has always been indifferent to the concept of ownership, but he’s never been violent.”

  “Thanks for the picture. Why are you telling me this?”

  “Robko is like all of us. He doesn’t deserve to have pain or death brought to him.”

  “Then give him my message.”

  ***

  Father Mirko rocked back in his chair as Sibyl and Robko strolled into his office. “Are you still riding motorcycles, even after that ghastly accident?”

  Robko grinned at his friend. “You know me and bikes.”

  “Where did you park your motorcycle?”

  “In front.”

  “Move it now. Park in back, and then come here.” He nodded to Sibyl, “You, lovely child, can stay with me while he does my bidding.”

  In two minutes Zlata slunk back in and asked, “Now, what was that about?”

  “Do you know a Thomas Steward? He’s a tall man, dirty blond hair, horn-rimmed glasses. He dresses well and carries a leather attaché case. He works for Governor O’Brien.”

  “Hardly my type, Father.”

  “There’s more. You may not know him, but he knows all about your last job. He’ll give you a free drop and a certain amount of protection. Protection includes no criminal charges… all in return for an unnamed object and your autobiography.”

  Robko jerked bolt upright. “And he said, an object, as in a single object?”

  “One object, quite clear on that.”

  Robko turned to Sibyl and shook his head. “Then it’s not the memflashes he wants. It’s the acrylic box.”

  Father Mirko said, “There’s a potential trade, i
f you believe him.”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Mirko raised one eyebrow, and Robko ducked his head. “The box was kind of destroyed in a raid on my place. I don’t have it to trade.”

  “Complicates things. He found the connection between you and me, and he’s followed you to Ithaca. He has resources.”

  Sibyl said, “But so do we. We have you.”

  Father Mirko sucked in a big breath and trickled it back out. “I told you I would know today what God wanted from me. This Thomas Steward is God’s sign. He shows me the consequences if I say no to you. I can’t guess what the consequences are if I say yes. But that is what I do say. Yes.”

  Robko revealed his pleasure as he touched Sibyl’s hand.

  She said, “You’re smirking again, Robert. Thank you, Father. I’d hate to ride that motorcycle clear to Chicago.”

  “Here’s what I can do. We run a summer camp. We require our employees to live in the camp—pay is room and board and peanut money. I’ll send you to the camp director—you do have I.D.s in other names, don’t you?”

  “I do, but Sibyl....”

  “Robert, I’ve got a driver’s license in my maiden name. It’s not all under Boxwood.”

  The priest said, “Then you’re set. I can hide you. As a penance, you’ll mop floors and clean bathrooms.”

  Robko asked, “Done deal. What about the other? Our need for information?”

  “I made some vidi calls last night. I think I’ve found your wet mob. There’s no Pole on the crew, but you might remember a guy who is a member. Jerome Powers?”

  “AKA Jerry the Squeeze?”

  “That’s the man.”

  Robko nudged Sibyl. “This guy is so huge, he once turned a four-hundred-pound coke machine over and bounced it up and down until it delivered all its soft drinks and money.”

  The priest said, “Turns out Jerry used to be military before a dishonorable discharge. Now he runs with a crowd that purports to be a private army. He told his brother who married a Czech whose brother married my niece who is deeply religious. Let me give you a second to unthread that one.”