Strange Gods

by Peter J. Daly

  “They sent divers overboard and found the body. The story in the papers said that the boy had been drunk and that he fell overboard and drowned. They made it look like an accident. When the press came to us for the story, that’s what we told them.

  “We canceled our trip to Sicilia and flew back to Rome from Palermo. The captain told the boy’s family that there had been an accident at sea. He took responsibility. The traghetto company paid the boy’s mother and family. They said it came from insurance. It was in the newspapers.” Salazar paused. His face was flushed, and he was almost out of breath. “They did not suspect us. Later, I think, the family was told by the Camorra that their silence would be remembered.

  “We escaped, but what a price! O Dio, it was a terrible price!”

  Salazar was weeping hysterically now. He stopped for a moment.

  Nate picked up the cup of water and threw it in the cardinal’s face. “Spare me your grief, you asshole. I went down to Naples yesterday. I met Luca’s mother. She knows what you did.”

  Salazar was shaking now. Decades of lies crumbled around him.

  “We had no choice,” said Salazar. “Luciano and I. We had no choice.”

  Nate interrupted him. “You had a choice, you piece of shit. We all make choices. You made your choices.”

  Salazar was almost talking to himself now.

  “It was small things, at first. We carried letters in the diplomatic pouch. We ran messages, did errands. No one stops a diplomat and nobody questions a priest, especially not a monsignor from the Vatican. But gradually, they wanted bigger and bigger things.

  “They helped us, too. They made donations to church projects. They arranged letters of recommendation. We became prominent with their help and were noticed by our superiors. We moved ahead.” Salazar was talking more and more slowly, almost in a trance.

  “You moved ahead on the blood of a seventeen-year-old boy who had never been out of Naples,” said Nate. “You never sent a word of condolence. You never even visited his mother. You took that innocent young boy, who trusted you because you were priests, and you got him drunk and raped him. Then you threw his body overboard like a piece of trash and lied to the police and to his mother. Then you willingly went to work for the mob. Some messenger of Christ you were!”

  Nate slammed the palm of his hand on the table. “You disgust me.”

  “Every time we thought about getting out,” said Salazar, “we got a visit from the Camorra with the pictures from that night. We paid and paid. Now Luciano has paid with his life. They killed him.”

  Nate realized it was useful for the time being to let Salazar think that Crepi had been killed by the mob. “That’s enough for now,” said Nate.

  “Can you protect me?” pleaded Salazar.

  “No promises,” said Nate. “It depends on your cooperation. I can tell you right now, though, that you won’t be getting immunity. You’ll be going away for a long time.”

  Salazar bristled, his arrogance still not quenched completely. He thought he had one more arrow in his quiver. “You tell your patron O’Toole that he better watch his step. He’s made plenty of enemies. I still have friends in the Vatican. His medicine can turn to poison.”

  Nate thought it was a strange remark, but he attributed it to the bluster of a desperate man.

  On his way out of the room, Nate told the policeman, “Put this piece of garbage in a regular cell. His days of privilege are over!”

  The policeman smiled and locked the door behind Nate.

  Salazar, once a prince of the Church, had become a prisoner of the State.

  23

  HEAT WAVE

  THE BIG APPLE WAS IN THE MIDST OF ITS FIRST SUMMER heat wave. Temperatures soared into the nineties in Central Park. New Yorkers were fleeing to area beaches, pools, and neighborhood fire hydrants.

  Brigid Condon arrived into the noontime summer heat from Belgium. Her stay in Brussels had been extended from four days to ten as the work dragged on. Taxi service from New York airports is spotty at best. Whether it’s snow in winter or heat in summer, taxis seem to be nonexistent. So she took the Port Authority AirTrain into Manhattan.

  When she got to Penn Station, she had to stand in a long taxi queue on 8th Avenue. She had time to check her messages, which she could hardly hear over the roar of midtown traffic.

  Brigid was unaware that both men and women gave her second glances as they passed by. She was one of those unself-consciously beautiful people. Despite the heat, she looked cool. Ironically, Brigid did not think about her looks. But Nate did.

  The street noise made it impossible to hear her voice mail, but she saw she had a dozen text messages from Nate.

  Eventually, a taxi freed up, and the dispatcher opened its door for her. The driver threw her bags in the trunk. Of course, the air-conditioning was not working, and so with the windows open, it was still too noisy to check her messages.

  In less than an hour, she was upstairs in their apartment. Finally settled on her bed, she checked her voicemail. There were several messages from Nate.

  “Brig, this is Nate. Call me.”

  “Brig, it’s me. Call me.”

  “Brig, it’s your lonely husband. Call me.”

  “So, where are you? Belgium must be fascinating. Call me.”

  “What do I have to say to get you to call me?”

  Brigid decided to call him. She looked up the number for the Columbus Hotel in Rome. European phones have that funny long ring. It even sounded far away. A few seconds later, she got through to his room. Somebody in Rome picked up the phone and said, “Pronto.”

  “Nate, is that you?” said Brigid, perplexed. She didn’t think Nate knew any Italian.

  “Si, sono io,” said Nate, recognizing her voice and deciding to have a little fun with her.

  “Speak English,” said Brigid.

  “Non parlo inglese,” said Nate.

  “Speak English or I’m hanging up,” persisted Brigid.

  “OK,” said Nate. “That’s really the extent of my Italian anyway. After two weeks here I’m still at sea, but I’m beginning to find my way around. What’s up in New York?”

  “It’s sweltering here. Wish I were back in Belgium,” said Brigid.

  “Did you get to Bruges?” Nate asked.

  “Yes, it was very interesting. I met a nun there.”

  “Wait, wait, wait. What did you say? You, you, met a nun? Will wonders never cease? How did this all happen that you met a nun?”

  “Are you sitting down? I even went to Mass. At least it was a sort of Mass. A Mass without a priest. This Church of yours has sides I knew nothing about.”

  “I’m finding out the same thing here. What are you doing now?” said Nate.

  “Running a bath. Then meeting Drew and Sophie for drinks at Papillon.”

  “Say hello to Sophie for me and watch out for Drew.”

  “Well, I am lonely.” They both laughed.

  “Come to Rome, babe. It’s beautiful here this time of year. And we can go to the funeral of the pope. That’s not an offer you get every day.”

  “Well, you are wearing me down. How can I resist a dead pope?”

  “I’m pulling out all the stops. Even a dead pope,” said Nate. “Is it settled, then?”

  “Hmm … Let me get back to you on this one. Throwing in the dead pope was a good play on your part. By the way, how is the investigation going?”

  “OK, I guess. But I’m learning a lot about the Church. Stuff I wish I never knew. People say if you come to Rome, you’ll lose your faith. But you should come anyway. Rome would be good for us.”

  “OK. You’re starting to convince me. Let’s talk more tomorrow. You know I love you, Nate,” said Brigid.

  “I know. I love you too, babe. Ciao,” said Nate.

  When they hung up, Brigid stared at the phone for a few seconds. Jet lag was catching up with her. She needed a hot bath and a good nap before she would be ready to meet her friends at the bar. She lay down and
was asleep in seconds.

  An hour later, Brigid was up, dressed, and walking over to Papillon. She was an extrovert, so being with friends always gave her energy. She was anxious to share her experience in Belgium.

  Drew and Sophie were sitting under the clock at the bar. By the time Brigid arrived, the evening happy hour crowd had just about filled the place. Drew stood up and hugged Brigid when she found them at the barstools.

  “Don’t get too close, Drew,” joked Brigid. “Nate told me to watch out for you. He’s in Rome, so he can’t fight back.”

  “Ah, when have I ever listened to him?” smiled Drew.

  “Never,” said Brigid. She turned to Sophie and gave her a socialite’s kiss on the cheek.

  Sophie flattered Brigid. “Oh, Brig, despite a transatlantic flight and a New York heat wave, you still look fabulous as ever!”

  “Thank you, darling Sophie,” said Brigid. “You’re insincere as always, but I love your lies.” Brigid’s conversation with her New York friends was a little like a Noel Coward script—arch sophisticated.

  The bartender came over and smiled at the ladies.

  “I’m going to make it easy for you,” said Drew. “We’re all drinking the same thing: double shots of Glenfarclas, straight up.” The bartender nodded. Such an expensive Scotch meant a good tip.

  Sophie waved to catch the waiter’s eye. “That’s Glenfarclas for these two, but just tonic with lime for me.”

  Brigid raised an eyebrow quizzically. Maybe Sophie is pregnant, she thought. For a moment she felt a twinge of envy.

  “So, tell us about Belgium,” said Sophie. “Was the chocolate wonderful?”

  “Chocolate is always wonderful,” smiled Brigid, “but I’ll tell you the real wonderful—monk’s beer! I went out for a beer with a nun, at a Trappist monastery, if you can believe that!”

  “Imagine,” marveled Sophie, “you, the champion lapsed Catholic, out drinking with a nun at a monastery. And you thought the Age of Miracles was over.”

  “Did you have a conversion experience over there?” asked Drew.

  “Not exactly,” said Brigid, “but it was very interesting. I went to Mass in Bruges with a colleague from the EU Central Bank. That whole town is a medieval jewel. You should go there sometime.”

  “What’s there?” said Sophie.

  “Lots of old houses and canals and art,” said Brigid. “Sort of like Venice. But the most interesting thing I saw there was a medieval women’s compound they called a Béguinage.

  “Did you know there were female-only communities in the Middle Ages? They were single women, but not nuns. They lived together in walled compounds. Some of those communities lasted seven hundred years. They supported themselves with handicrafts. They kicked the men out at sundown. Just beautiful, really.”

  “Sounds like a delicious idea,” said Sophie, looking at Drew. “Most nights, anyway.”

  The bartender brought the drinks.

  “So, tell me about this nun who took you drinking,” said Drew.

  “Her name is Miriam, Sister Miriam. I don’t know. There was just this immediate connection. I felt drawn to her, like a guru or advisor or something. She was calm and pleasant, not angry like a lot of the people here.”

  “What does she do?” asked Sophie.

  “I don’t know exactly,” answered Brigid, taking a sip of her Scotch. “She’s in charge of the convent in Bruges. They work with the poor and local battered women. I was surprised they even have poor people in Belgium, with their social safety net. Her convent has a drop-in center for migrants and gypsies, too.”

  “Sounds like good work,” said Drew over the din of the bar.

  “I really liked Miriam,” continued Brigid. “She reminded me of my grandmother in a way, a kind person. She was like the nuns I had in school, smart, straightforward—nobody’s fool. I liked her.”

  The bar was getting oppressively noisy, too noisy for conversation. “Let’s try the tables outside on the sidewalk,” suggested Drew. They squeezed their way through the crowd, trying not to spill their expensive Scotch. They found an empty table. Despite the heat, it was more pleasant.

  Brigid picked up the thread of their conversation. “The most amazing thing was, we had Mass at the convent and there was no priest. Miriam said they can’t get priests, because there just aren’t any. So, they have been saying Mass by themselves for years—no men. How about that?” Brigid was clearly energized just talking about her experience.

  “Well, are they thinking of starting a new church or something?” asked Drew.

  “If they do, I’ll join,” said Sophie. “A women’s church.”

  “No, it’s not like that,” said Brigid. “They’re not angry at the old Church. They’re just practical. Women can’t wait around for men in collars to bring them communion.

  “They don’t feel they have left the Church. They say the Church has just ignored them. Anyway, I felt more at home with those women than in any parish here in New York.”

  They all paused for a moment, enjoying the warm June evening. They did some people watching for a while. A mime came by and entertained them with the old “prisoner of the glass” routine. Drew ordered them some bottled water and a plate of cheeses.

  When the mime left, Brigid picked up her story again. “I met somebody else over there,” she said. “His name is Bernard Willebroeck, an angry ex-priest. Not that he doesn’t have good reason to be angry. His nephew was molested by a priest. Even this guy’s own bishop confessed to pedophilia.”

  Drew and Sophie seemed genuinely shocked. “How could anyone continue on with the Church after that?’ observed Sophie.

  “I don’t know,” answered Brigid. “This guy runs a group called New Church. I read some of their statements. They gave me the shivers. It goes to show you how divided this Church really is.”

  “You haven’t talked this much about religion in years,” observed Drew.

  “Well, people evolve. Isn’t that what Vice President Biden said once about gay marriage? Seems to me it’s only the rigid or the stupid who don’t change,” answered Brigid.

  “Well,” said Drew, “tell that to the Catholic Church, right? They don’t care that they are wrong, so long as they are consistently wrong.”

  Brigid and Sophie smiled at Drew’s acid tongue.

  “Do you think a new pope will make a difference?” Sophie asked. “You said Nate is in Rome. Was he there when the pope died? I didn’t know his law firm had business over there.”

  “They don’t,” said Brigid. “Oddly enough, he’s working for the Vatican. The way Nate explains it, Pope Thomas asked for his help.”

  “Wow! He knew the pope!” Sophie exclaimed.

  “No, I’m kidding, but that was how Nate put it to me when he explained why he was taking time from his firm to spend who knows how long in Italy. He reports to a cardinal, some Boston connection, who asked him to look into the killing of Cardinal Manning. It may be linked to other killings. It’s all very murky. I don’t know much about it, really.” Brigid took a drink of the bottled water. She realized that perhaps she should say less about what Nate was doing. All that talking might actually be putting him in danger.

  “Well, when is he coming back?” asked Sophie.

  “I don’t know. He’s been after me to go over there. He’s still working on the investigation, but everything will stop for the pope’s funeral. It will be something to see. I just don’t know. I can’t just drop everything and chase Nate around the world. But I do miss him …”

  “Oh, just go,” said Sophie. “You have vacation coming, don’t you? June is a slow month in the legal business. You’ll never have this chance again to see Rome with your husband.

  “Besides,” Sophie added, in an intimate girlfriend voice, “It would be good for the two of you. A little hot romance never hurt a marriage.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Sophie,” said Brigid.

  “Yeah,” said Drew, “that’s how my first marriage went cold. T
hen Soph came along.”

  “Oh, shut up, Drew,” said Sophie with a wave of her hand. The conversation was girls only.

  Once their Scotch glasses were empty and the cheese was gone, it was time to go.

  “We’re going to Craft for dinner,” said Sophie. “It’s a special evening. We have something to celebrate.” She sent a look and a small smile over to Drew. “And it’s our anniversary, too. June wedding, you know. Would you like to join us?”

  “No,” said Brigid, “I feel enough of a third wheel here as it is. It was fun meeting you guys for drinks. Go have one of those famous veal meatballs for me. I’m still a little jet-lagged. I think I’m just going to turn in early.”

  “OK,” said Drew, “but do think about Rome.”

  “Yes,” added Sophie. “Go.”

  Drew and Sophie walked off into the humid June evening, arm in arm. Brigid watched them leave, a little envious. Then she thought, celebrating? Maybe they are expecting.

  Warm summer evenings often bring people out onto the streets, but on this particular evening, even diehard New Yorkers were choosing air-conditioning over alfresco dining. The sidewalk café was emptying out.

  Brigid headed off in the opposite direction from Sophie and Drew. As she left the café, she noticed a man sitting alone at a corner table. He was dressed completely in black, with long blond hair pulled tight in a ponytail behind his ears. He was smoking, which is forbidden in New York, even outside. She also noticed that he was drinking coffee. It seemed odd for such a warm evening. Like most New Yorkers, she deliberately avoided eye contact.

  Brigid headed east on 54th. From the restaurant it was only a fifteen-minute walk back to their apartment on Park Avenue. Brigid prided herself on being a real New Yorker, fearless and confident. She was rarely intimidated by the city. But tonight, she felt differently. Despite the warm evening, she felt a chill, or rather a shudder. It was a sinister presence, similar to what she experienced in her brief encounter with the ex-priest in Bruges.