The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  “Thank you, Mary.” He clasped her hand in his. “I can always count on your smile when I’m at the altar.” Father Shaunessy didn’t acknowledge Michael. It was as if he wasn’t there at all. Sensing her husband’s discomfort, Mary smiled, pulling him close.

  Finally, as an afterthought, not wishing to offend Mary, the priest nodded to Michael. “Mike.”

  “Patrick,” Michael begrudgingly mumbled back.

  The line of glad-handers behind Mary was growing long and impatient. Reluctantly, the priest released her hand. “Peace be with you, child.”

  “Thank you, Father. And you.”

  The St. Pierres headed down the tree-lined walk toward the parking lot as Father Shaunessy continued to greet his well-wishing flock.

  The ’89 Ford Taurus pulled out of the church lot and headed east. Its dinged and pinged body may have been old but it was clean. Michael drove, silent, focused on the horizon, lost in thought. Mary knew Michael was hurting again. Her husband was retreating to that world where he shut out everyone to tackle his problems all alone. It was a wall she always fought to break down, and each time required a new strategy. Her eyes twinkled and she smiled, reaching out to touch him.

  He glanced over. “What’s up?”

  “Just brushing something off your shoulder.”

  “Dandruff?”

  “No. The chip.”

  “What?” Michael was genuinely confused, moving as if he had a spider on him. “What chip?”

  “The chip on your shoulder.”

  Michael grimaced, trying to hold on to his bad mood.

  “Pat is not a bad guy,” Mary said.

  “He looks down on me, like I’m going to infect his congregation or something. I thought priests were supposed to be forgiving.” There was bitterness in his voice.

  “It’s pretty hard for a man that short to look down on you, Michael.”

  “Take a look at the world through my eyes, Mary.” Michael’s eyes never left the road.

  Mary hated when he snapped. It wasn’t often, only on Sundays and generally within an hour before or after Mass. She knew it was difficult for Michael but it was only an hour out of his week. She did see the world through his eyes; it was something she was always able to do, and as far as she was concerned, he could use a little peace in his life. “Why do we have to go through this every week?” Mary rested her hand on his leg in reconciliation.

  An uncomfortable silence filled the car.

  Cars by the dozens lined the sides of the road. Music, sounding like Springsteen, blared from somewhere. The roar of the ocean was not far off; a sea breeze filled the air with that unmistakable summertime smell. Mary walked up the slate path to a weathered gray Cape Cod house with Michael an obvious five steps behind her, still silent and stiff. She rang the bell. No answer. She rang again as Michael finally caught up. Mary grabbed the handle, opened the door—

  “I don’t know if I’m really in the mood for this,” Michael warned.

  “What are you in the mood for?” she demanded, her patience seeming to wear thin.

  Michael said nothing.

  “We’ll say our hellos and good-byes within a half hour and be home before two.”

  She took his hand and led him inside. The rooms were dark, suspiciously empty. Mary wound her way toward the back of the house, through a simple living room, past the dining area, muffled noise growing with every step. She came to a sliding glass door, a large curtain across it.

  “Remember to smile,” Mary whispered.

  She pulled back the curtain to reveal a party. Not just any party—this was a party to end all parties. A sea of people filled the back terrace, spilling out onto the beach. Three barbecues blazed, their flames licking the sky. If there was any meat on their grills, it had long since been cremated and returned to the gods. Large speakers spewed “Candy’s Room,” Springsteen’s wailing voice having a hard time competing with the festive uproar.

  Mary tugged Michael’s hand and they dove into the mayhem, squeezing their way through the drunken throng. As she tugged Michael to breathing room at the back of the terrace, they spotted a huge bear of a man walking toward them. People parted, as if out of respect for royalty, nodding and slapping his enormous back as he went by. He was a heavy man, not fat but not muscled, either, just big and burly. At six feet five, he towered over everyone. His sandy blond hair reminded you of a surfer but they probably didn’t make boards big enough for him. Mary was instantly swallowed within his girth as he hugged her tight: a gentle giant caressing a dove.

  “The party can now officially start,” the big man growled. He released Mary from his clutches, turned and embraced Michael, who couldn’t have been more embarrassed as the wind was crushed out of him. “As usual, you’re late,” he roared.

  “Church,” Mary defended.

  The giant looked right into Michael’s eyes and asked: “Bubby?”

  “I was praying for that large, whiskey-pickled soul of yours.”

  The big man’s eyes became stern. “Excuses, excuses.” He grabbed Michael’s head in his enormous hands and pulled him close. “They’re just like assholes—everyone’s got one and they all stink.” He planted a noisy kiss on Michael’s forehead before releasing him. “Glad you made it.”

  Michael finally relaxed.

  Paul Busch didn’t drink to excess except when he had a really good reason—which was rarer than rare—didn’t smoke, and drugs had always been his enemy. In fact, other than a weakness for junk food, Paul was probably one of the cleanest-living men you would ever find. Except for once a year. Once a year around this time, Busch had his Memorial Day weekend blowout. Everyone he had ever met, spoken to, beaten up, kissed, coached, hugged, or married was invited to help him kick off the summer. This was his appreciation-of-life festival and thank-you to all the living, and since he paid the freight he felt entitled to partake in everything, including the alcohol. Hence, his current clumsy, grinning state.

  The sound of giggling, screaming children rose above the pounding music drifting over the crowd, the noise getting closer by the second. And suddenly they were there, as if materializing out of thin air, a boy and girl no more than six, Irish twins. Robbie—older by eleven months—and Chrissie Busch, a pair of towheaded blonds with smiles that could warm the depths of the ocean. Charging through the partygoers, they leapt into Michael’s waiting arms.

  “Come on the trampoline—” Robbie shouted, pulling Michael left.

  “No! Sand castles!” Chrissie tugged to the right.

  “Hey, guys, how about a hello?” Busch admonished his children.

  “It’s OK,” Michael said, loving the attention.

  “Give the man a break, let him at least get a drink.” Busch tried to pull his kids off.

  “But, Daddy…he’s the only one here that’ll play with us,” Robbie pleaded.

  Busch looked his son straight in the eye. “That’s because he’s the only one here with your advanced level of maturity.”

  “It’s OK,” Michael repeated, crouching down to the kids.

  “Dad, please…”

  Busch may have been a strong man, probably the strongest you’d ever meet, but when it came to his kids he was more than weak, he was putty. Throwing up his hands, he turned to Michael. “Suit yourself, but if they kill you, don’t come crying to me.” Busch grinned and put his arm around Mary. “Care to have some fun, beautiful lady?”

  And they vanished into the crowd.

  Michael and the two children sat down right in the middle of the party crowd as if they were sitting in their own private playroom, and in a magical fashion Michael raised his arms and waved both hands, showing they were empty. The two kids looked confused, exchanging glances. Then he reached behind their ears, pulling from behind each a small stuffed elephant. The smiles couldn’t have been wider.

  Sitting among a coffee-klatsch of women, Mary listened to the mile-a-minute chatter. The women had gathered, sipping umbrella drinks and gorging on chips and sal
sa. The conversations ran from gossip to their disappointing marriages back to gossip, none of which Mary could relate to. Next to her was a woman who had no patience for the pretentiousness of these ladies. Jeannie Busch sat back watching the diverse cross-section of her husband’s friends and their wives mingle, chat, and drink, all the while barely concealing her contempt. Jeannie hated parties. All the phony smiles and insincere gestures seemed to dissolve to truth as the alcohol washed away the carefully constructed facades. Not that she didn’t enjoy the company of her girlfriends, but this was her husband’s party and she chose to keep her friends away, not wishing to expose them to the lunacy—that is, all her friends except Mary. Mary was Jeannie’s anchor, her rock. She would help her keep her lip in check lest she pop off in her tough, take-no-prisoners fashion to one of Busch’s inebriated buddies or boss—or worse, his boss’s wife. One’s true character was usually laid bare by drink and in general Jeannie didn’t like what she saw—but she wore her smile and nursed her water every Memorial Day, because Jeannie hated parties but she loved Busch.

  “How’s the new school, they treating you all right?” Her husky voice cut through the banter.

  Mary nodded, her hair glowing like embers in the midday sun. “I’ve got twenty-six of the cutest kids you’ve ever seen.”

  “Couldn’t take that many,” Jeannie remarked, pulling her sandy brown hair into a ponytail. “My hands are full with my two munchkins from hell.”

  Mary smiled. “I’d be happy to take them off your hands.”

  “Just wait until you have a set of your own, you’ll see.” Jeannie paused as she momentarily caught sight of the tops of her children’s heads before the pair vanished in the throng again. “You think they are all cute, peaches and cream, but after sundown…they’re nocturnal, you know, up all night. They come alive just when you’re ready to collapse. Oh, they may hug and kiss you but it is all just a front, it’s a big kid conspiracy. They turn on you like animals.”

  Mary let out a soft laugh but her attention was waning. Her emerald green eyes were following a beachside football game. Jeannie followed Mary’s gaze to Michael. She smiled, leaned forward, and waved her hand before the younger woman’s face. “Hello? Earth to Mary…?”

  Mary snapped back to the moment, smirked in embarrassment, and rejoined reality. “Sorry,” she said, as she stole another look at her husband.

  “Honey, never apologize for lust.”

  A football game was in full swing, bare feet cutting through the hot white sand. The tipsy athletes were over-the-hill wannabes reliving past revelries and triumphs from their youths. But to Michael, they all looked like they were about to explode, heaving for breath, faces on fire. Of course, they were real men, so pain was not a factor, at least not in front of friends.

  Michael took the snap, faded back, and threw deep, the ball gliding through the clear blue sky. Paul Busch may have been a large man but his size certainly didn’t weigh him down as he sailed across the sand for the goal line, leaving his pursuers in the dust. The ball arced inward, picture perfect, landing right in his palms. Touchdown. Busch danced in the end zone, spiking the ball and thumping his chest. He charged back to the huddle slamming high fives as if the score just put them ahead at the Superbowl.

  “Way to go, Peaches!” Michael called, tickled with their teamwork.

  One of the guys on the other team, hearing Busch’s nickname, threw a look at Busch.

  “Don’t ask.” Busch glared as he brushed his straw-colored hair out of his eyes.

  They lined up six on six as Michael kicked off, sending the ball tumbling end over end into the end zone: touch back. They slowly huddled up, chatted about the latest greatest beer commercial and, clapping in unison, they broke. Busch crouched down, knuckles in the sand, looked left then right, and finally at his opposing man. Jason was half his size, the top of his bald head burned and beginning to blister, but the pain was mercifully dulled by his beer intake. He looked Busch in the eye and in a mocking tone crooned, “Peaches? What’s up with that?”

  The blood rushed to Busch’s face. Time seemed to slow as the big man snorted like a bull, deep and rhythmic. And the ball was snapped. Busch, a taunted raging beast, violently plowed the smaller man over, burying Jason halfway in the sand. He triumphantly stood over his dazed and confused opponent. “Sorry,” he crooned back, gleefully.

  The sun had set hours ago, taking the warmth of the late spring day with it. The party was finally breaking up. Empty beer bottles were strewn everywhere; the last wisps of smoke floated up from the grills. Most of the crowd had long since passed out or been carried home. The kids were the only ones left with energy, still charging from room to room.

  Michael draped has blue sport jacket over Mary’s shoulders. She pulled it tightly around herself to ward off the evening chill. They gathered up their things and headed for Jeannie, who manned the front door. “I have to grab some stuff from the shop,” Michael told Mary.

  “At this hour?” Mary just wanted to get home to bed.

  Before Michael had a chance to answer, Jeannie leaned in, kissing Mary’s cheek. “Thanks for coming, guys.”

  “Thanks for having us,” Mary replied warmly.

  “Leftovers, take ’em.” Jeannie handed Mary two bags. “They’ll last you at least till Thursday, and you’ll be helping me stay in my size sixes through the summer.”

  “Mike?!” Busch’s slurred voice echoed from some other room. Michael headed to the kitchen, leaving the two women by the door.

  “Lunch Tuesday?” Jeannie asked.

  “Ooh, doctor’s appointment,” Mary said. “Wednesday?”

  “Mulligan’s?”

  “Twelve o’clock,” they agreed simultaneously.

  Busch, a little more than drunk, slumped over his kitchen counter and pulled out some papers. “Just need your Johnson Hancockowitz.”

  Michael took the pen. “Thank for everything. It means a lot.”

  “You’d do the same for me.” Busch nursed a Scotch.

  “The kids don’t know about me, I mean, do they?” Of all people, Michael would be devastated if Busch’s children were to find out the truth.

  “No way. And they never will.”

  Michael continued flipping the legal-looking pages, signing as he went, ignoring the document’s content; he already knew its purpose. Coming to the last page he gathered them all up, stacked them neatly, and pushed them toward Busch. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything,” Bush said, pouring himself another drink.

  Michael thought on this a moment. “Any others here tonight?”

  “Man, I told you, I invited you here for you, not this.” Busch pointed at the papers. “Our friendship isn’t a ploy. It’s usually the kiss of death but hey, what’s life without risk? Pat Garrett was friends with Billy the Kid. Besides, who else would want to be your friend?” He emptied the entire glass of Scotch. “But I do have to be honest with you—you’re cute, but I think Mary has a much more fantastically splendid derriere.” Busch grinned and burped. Getting out of his chair, he threw his tree trunk of an arm around Michael and led him out of the kitchen.

  Tomorrow, as he had done for the last twenty-four months, Busch will file the forms Michael has just signed: one copy for the courts, one copy for his commanding officer, and one copy for his files. They were official, the state emblem along the top. In big bold letters the heading read: PAROLE BOARD STATE OF NEW YORK.

  Chapter 2

  Michael dug through a desk in the repair area of his anally organized security-and-alarm shop. Safe and Sound was fastidiously arranged. Electronic components lined the Peg-Board wall; security monitors, switches, and control panels filled the shelves. Several empty desks lined the back wall—provisions for future success. For now, Michael was pretty much on his own. Out front was a state-of-the-art showroom, gadgets for every imaginable security need: miniature cameras, bulletproof vests, bugging devices, special watches, lie detectors, hidden safes. Most went unsold; i
t was really the security installation systems that drove his business, and that was where his talent lay. Michael felt at home here. It wasn’t much, but he had built it from the ground up; while they still counted on Mary’s weekly paycheck, he was determined that someday he would make enough money that she could stop working to raise a family.

  Unbeknownst to Michael, a man stepped through the doorway. The newcomer was handsome, in his mid-sixties. His long white hair was pulled back in a ponytail; dark eyebrows framed his earthen-brown eyes. Wearing a long dark raincoat over a fine European suit, he smelled rich.

  As Michael straightened, he caught sight of the man and nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jesus Christ!”

  The man let out a soft laugh. “No.” His voice had a hint of a German accent. “Hardly. But thank you for the comparison. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The stranger’s warm smile exuded confidence and charm. He was definitely the charisma king.

  “We’re closed.” There was an uncomfortable pause.

  “I’m terribly sorry to bother you—”

  Michael, searching the top drawer, pulled out a set of blueprints. “I’m in kind of a rush.”

  “I’ll be brief.” The stranger handed Michael a business card. “I think we could help each other.” He walked about the office, looking, assessing. “I could help you solve your problems and you could help me solve mine.”

  “Problems? I’m sorry, Mr.”—Michael glanced at the card—“Finster.” He stuffed the card in his pocket. From a cabinet he grabbed an envelope marked Proposal and tossed it, along with the blueprints, in a briefcase. Clipping his keys on his belt, he looked directly at the man. “I don’t have any problems,” he said tersely and led the way out of his shop.