Third Strike

by Philip R. Craig

  That morning, though, I wasn’t in church for the hymns.

  I also wasn’t dressed up for the occasion, although I did wear clean slacks and a clean shirt, both recently purchased at the thrift shop where an unknown-tome clotheshorse just my size often abandoned good-as-new clothes, which I snatched up if I happened by before someone else got them.

  Brady, perhaps because he was used to wearing neckties, looked posh and comfortable in my sports coat.

  I gave him an admiring glance as Zee brushed imaginary dust particles from the jacket. Then she stepped back and said, “You look very nice, Brady, so don’t be surprised if you get a lot of smiles from wives and frowns from their husbands.”

  “That’s why I don’t go to church more often,” said Brady. “I don’t want to break up families.”

  “I like a man with a sense of social responsibility,” said Zee. She looked at me. “Don’t worry. I like you, too.”

  “Let’s go,” I said to Brady. “We don’t want to miss the opening prayer.”

  “Or the collection plate.”

  We went out to Zee’s little red Jeep, which she had offered us on the grounds that it was more respectable than my battered Land Cruiser.

  It was another sunny day, but low gray clouds off to the east suggested that a weather change might be on the way. As we drove up our driveway, Brady shook his head. “It’s been a while since I went to church.”

  “It’ll be good for you,” I said.

  “Once, when I was in college,” he said, “I was walking along a street one Sunday morning when I heard some singing in a church and realized that it was in a language I’d never heard. I went inside and sat in the back so I could stand when everybody else did and sit when they did and not be going up when they were going down and down when they were going up. The church was all gilt and bright colors, and it was obviously a Christian church of some kind, but when the singing stopped and the sermon, or whatever it was, began, it was in that same language that I’d never heard. I stayed to the end of the service, then left and never did learn what kind of a church it was.” He paused. “It was as if I’d been to another planet, where things looked familiar but really weren’t. Very ethereal.”

  “How was the music?”

  “Very ethereal.”

  “And the sermon?”

  “Ethereal, of course,” he said. “It was that sort of day.”

  “You’re more spiritual than I thought.”

  “Did I ever tell you that I once gave thought to becoming a Trappist monk?”

  “No. Did you?”

  “No.” He laughed. “My religion is fishing.”

  “Now there’s a divine experience,” I agreed. “At least when they’re biting.”

  Father Georgio Zapata’s church was hardly a cathedral. It was a low wooden building at the end of a short dirt driveway off North Road near the Vineyard Haven–West Tisbury line. The sign at the end of the driveway read: CHURCH OF THE SAINTS AND THE SINNERS.WELCOME ALL.FATHER GEORGIO ZAPATA,PASTOR. I thought the sign looked movable.

  “All-encompassing,” said Brady, as we passed the sign. “Saints and sinners.”

  “We both fit in there somewhere,” I agreed.

  The driveway was bumpy, and the dirt parking area at the end of it was full of potholes and cars. I’m always surprised at the number of people who go to church, though I guess I shouldn’t be. The cars were of all ages and conditions, ranging from ancient sedans and pickups to modern SUVs. On the far side of the lot was a big new four-door pickup with Zapata Landscaping written on the door, along with a logo and a Vineyard telephone number. The pope had a special car, so why shouldn’t Father Zapata?

  The building was not new. It was a fairly large, shingled, one-story structure that, I suspected, was probably used for some other purpose when not in use as a church. Maybe as a meetinghouse or a warehouse, or as a studio for dance or gymnastics or karate. Teachers of those arts are always trying to find a place to practice them. That would account for the movable sign. It probably only went up when religious services were being offered. On Sunday and maybe one or two other days of the week.

  “Just what are we looking for here?” asked Brady.

  “Eduardo Alvarez attended this church,” I said. “I’m hoping to find somebody who can give me information about who he hung around with or how he managed to get himself killed. If his widow’s here, maybe she can point me at somebody who can help me.”

  I parked the Jeep. Brady and I exchanged arched eyebrows and went into the building.

  The church service was being held in a fairly large room that appeared to take up about half of the building. The room was full of rows of folding chairs that faced a low stage with curtains behind and on either side of it. A portable pulpit had been placed on one side of the stage, and on the other was a banner with a white cross on a blue field. In the middle of the stage was a small altar covered with a white cloth and holding a cross carved from dark wood upon which hung a crucified Christ.

  At the back of the room was a wall split by a hallway that led toward the rear of the building. I whispered a guess to Brady that there were bathrooms back there, and that one of the side rooms might be a kitchen. It was the sort of setup often found in buildings used for informal special occasions or as meeting places for clubs, and it reinforced my notion that the place was used by a lot of people for a lot of different purposes.

  The folding chairs were filled with people, both adults and children, dressed more formally than I expected. They looked solemn, and many held beads in their hands. There were even a few veils. When we came in, faces turned toward us. Many looked puzzled or curious, but others simply turned back. I thought I saw Gloria Alvarez’s face on the far side of the room, but I couldn’t be sure. We sat in chairs near the rear of the room, and I found myself studying the backs of many heads. I had a sense of déjà vu, having done just that the previous night.

  A murmur of hushed voices flowed into my ears as the worshippers exchanged whispers. Then the murmur quieted, and Father Georgio Zapata emerged from behind a curtain. He knelt and said something in front of the crucifix, crossed himself, then faced the congregation. He again made the sign of the cross and said something in what I thought was Portuguese, and the audience responded in the same tongue. He smiled a charismatic smile and went to the pulpit.

  The service started with what I presumed was a Bible reading followed by a song I didn’t know. The sermon that followed started mildly and grew in intensity until the ceremony became what seemed to be a combination of revivalist fervor and Catholic ritual. Perhaps if it had been conducted in English I’d have understood it, for although Portuguese was a language I could recognize, I couldn’t speak or comprehend it very well.

  What I did grasp was Zapata’s charm and his passion. As the sermon progressed, his face took on a glow, and his chanting voice filled with persuasive power that first roused his listeners and then brought them, chanting with him, to their feet. I had no idea what they were saying, but their voices and clapping hands made the room shake, and when I looked along the line of people standing and chanting beside me, I could see ecstasy in their faces.

  Brady put his lips close to my ear. “Scary.” He pointed a finger toward the door, silently indicating the virtue of an early exit.

  I nodded but didn’t move. I felt as I have felt in a crowd of partisans at a football game—as though I was sitting with a beast with a thousand mouths but no mind at all. Its great univoice was braying, its eyes were brilliant with faith and ardor, and its mighty heart was beating a cadence of zeal that allowed for no doubt or skepticism such as Brady’s and mine.

  No wonder Brady thought it wise to withdraw.

  Then, more suddenly than it had arisen, that fantastic passion peaked and subsided as Zapata’s voice flowed over his congregation in soothing, quieting, confident tones that pushed his listeners back into their seats and bent their heads in prayer. Something about the rhythm of the words they intoned wit
h him led me to think I recognized the Lord’s Prayer.

  The prayer, or whatever it was, ended, and the collection plates moved through the congregation from the front rows to the back. Brady and I were last in line, and we both dropped in bills and watched as the containers of money were carried to the stage and placed on the altar. Then there were more words and the people all moved forward to receive wafers and wine. Then came another hymn followed by a final, soothing prayer given by Zapata, and the service was over.

  The participants stood, chatted with their neighbors, collected their children, and began moving toward the door, where Zapata stood, smiling and shaking hands.

  I had presumed that Brady would be more than willing to be the first to escape into open air, but to my surprise he nodded toward the back of the building. “You know Gloria Alvarez and Zapata,” he said, “but I don’t. I think I’ll look around while you try to get a line on people who might know something about her husband.”

  He turned and walked toward the hallway in the back of the building. Aside from the fact that he was several inches taller than most of the others in the congregation, he looked like just an ordinary celebrant whose bladder had been stretched by a long sermon.

  As I went toward the door, I saw that Brady had caught Zapata’s eye, and when I reached the priest and took his hand, he said, “Mr. Jackson, isn’t it? I’m delighted that you and your friend have attended our service. We don’t get many Anglos here. May I hope to believe that you speak Portuguese?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said, “but I’m glad I came. I can remember when Roman Catholic masses were in Latin, so listening to a service in a language I don’t know isn’t new to me.”

  “You seem too young to remember the Latin mass.”

  “I was a kid,” I said, “and my father used to take us to different churches now and then.”

  “And which did you choose?”

  “None.”

  He smiled his charismatic smile. “Ah, we live in a skeptical age, but I assure you that faith is the way to happiness and a better world. Does your friend share your views?”

  “You’ll have to ask him when he comes out.”

  Zapata laughed. “Yes. Perhaps I will. Better, though, not to attempt such a conversion right now, don’t you agree?”

  I agreed and went on out to the Jeep, where I stood and watched for Gloria Alvarez to emerge from the church.

  When she came, though, I almost missed her, because I was staring at a man who had preceded her. He was a big man with a wide face, and he had taken time to talk warmly with Zapata before walking away from me across the parking lot with a smaller, swarthy, companion by his side. I watched him—casually at first, because he seemed to be another of those Anglos whom Zapata had called rare in his congregation, and because he looked vaguely familiar.

  But then I really watched him, because when he turned his head to speak to the smaller, bronze-skinned man, I instantly thought I recognized the back of his head as belonging to the man I’d observed listening to Dr. Nathan Lundsberg last night, and in the same moment I recognized him as the same man I’d seen in the photo on Robert Mortison’s fireplace mantel when I’d talked with his wife, the soap opera fan. Mortison was one of the names Steve had given me when I visited him in the hospital. Mortison and Harry Doyle. Names that had seemed to scare Steve.

  And now Mortison and Lundsberg? Could that be right? How could they be connected? Or had I jumped to a conclusion based only on fleeting glimpses of a face and the back of a head?

  I flashed a look at the church’s door just in time to see Gloria Alvarez dropping Zapata’s hand and walking into the parking lot. I glanced back at Mortison, who was approaching a forest green Mercedes sedan that looked a lot like the one I’d seen in front of his garage, then trotted across the parking lot, dodging potholes, and intercepted Gloria.

  “Mrs. Alvarez,” I said. She looked startled. “Do you remember me? J.W. Jackson. Zee’s husband.”

  Her eyes were tired, but she tried a smile and said, “Yes, of course.” She put a hand on my arm. “Have you found something to show Eduardo was innocent?” Her eyes brightened.

  “Not yet,” I said. “I’m hoping that you can point out some of his friends from church who might be able to help me. But first, tell me. Do you know that big man over there?” I pointed.

  The bright eyes dimmed. “Of course.” She nodded. “That is Mr. Mortison.”

  “Who’s that with him?”

  Her face seemed to harden. “That? That is Harry Doyle. He works for Mortison. Eduardo didn’t like him.”

  I wondered if I should be wearing a dunce cap. “That’s Harry Doyle? I thought Harry Doyle must be Irish. That man looks like a Latino. Are you sure?”

  She gave me a look of gentle irony. “Do you think the Irish all stayed in Ireland? O’Connor was Simon Bolívar’s Minister of War and O’Higgins was the liberator of Chile. Harry Doyle’s people live in Guatemala or Nicaragua, I believe. Am I not right to think that there are even some Irish here in America?”

  I gave her a smile. “Yes, I believe that’s the case.” Across the parking lot, Mortison and Doyle were looking at the church door. I followed their gaze and saw Brady Coyne, testimony of the Irish presence in America, shaking hands and talking with Zapata. Brady then walked toward Zee’s Jeep, unaware of the attention he was getting from Mortison and Doyle.

  As Brady left the church steps, Zapata looked at Mortison and Doyle and nodded toward Brady’s back. Then he looked at me and, seeing that I was watching him, waved and smiled before turning away and shaking the hand of the next person coming out of the hall.

  Brady walked on to the Jeep, where he paused and glanced around a bit before spotting me. Then I looked again at Mortison and Doyle and saw that they were no longer studying Brady, but were staring at me. They held my gaze for a long moment, then climbed into the Mercedes and eased out of the lot.

  Hmmmm. Something had just happened, but what was it? Had we caught Mortison’s attention because we were strangers? Had Zapata signaled them to take note of us, or was that just my imagination?

  Gloria Alvarez touched my arm again. “There, coming out now. You see that man? His name is Norman Frazier. He worked with Eduardo in the restaurant. They were friends. Perhaps he can help you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I want to talk with him.”

  I left her and crossed the lot to intercept Frazier. I caught him at his car, an elderly sedan.

  “Norman Frazier?”

  “Yes?” He was a young guy with a shock of yellow hair. His name, skin tone, and hair all set him apart from most of Zapata’s flock, and I wondered if he knew Portuguese. He gave me an uncertain smile.

  I told him my name and that I was looking into the death of Eduardo Alvarez, and I watched his face change.

  “Terrible thing,” he said, opening his car door. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  I put my hand on the door and held it open. “You were his friend. You worked with him at the Wheelhouse, but the night he was killed you didn’t show up for work. Were you with him?”

  “No.” He slid into the driver’s seat.

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “No.”

  He tugged at the door, but I held it. “Why so great a no?” I asked.

  He’d probably never read Cyrano but he knew what I meant. “Let go of the door.”

  “A man is dead. He was your friend. What happened to him?”

  Frazier’s face was full of fear. “Stop this. They’ll see us.”

  “Who? Who’ll see us?” I looked around, searching for, but not finding, eyes upon us as I held the door open against his yanks and pulls.

  “I don’t know who they are,” he said, “but I know what they’ll do if they think I’m talking to you. They did it to him, and they’ll do it to me. Let me go!”

  “You can talk to me or to the cops,” I said. “It’s up to you.”

  “The cops? You think I’m afr
aid of the cops? Let go! Please!”

  “Who are you afraid of?”

  “Doyle is one of them. I can feel his eyes on me right now. He’s watching me all the time.” He gave up tugging on the door and started up the car with a roar.

  “Doyle is gone,” I shouted over the sound of the engine. “He drove away.”

  His eyes were wild. “There are others!”

  He slammed the car into gear, and the door jerked out of my hand and slammed shut as he spun his wheels and sped, bouncing and sliding over the potholes, out of the lot. I watched him roar away, then walked across to where Brady stood by the Jeep.

  “What was that all about?” he asked. “You got everybody’s attention, even Zapata’s. Most people don’t confuse church parking lots with the Indianapolis Speedway.”

  I looked back at the church, but Zapata was gone, and the last of the worshippers were headed toward their cars, some looking at me as they went.

  I told him what had passed between Frazier and me.

  Brady thought for a moment, then said, “Do you know where he lives?”

  “No, but I can probably find him.”

  “I’d say it’s pretty clear that Mr. Frazier knows something about Eduardo Alvarez,” he said. “I think you should squeeze it out of him before Doyle or one of those other people he’s afraid of gets to him. Remember what happened to Larry.”

  How could I forget? “I think you’re right,” I said, “although I didn’t see anybody looking at Frazier. I did see several people who seemed to be interested in you and me, though.”

  Brady allowed himself a small smile. “Maybe it was because we’re an unexpected sight in church, especially one where we stick out like sore thumbs. You know the names of any of the interested parties?”

  “Three,” I said. “Bob Mortison, Harry Doyle, and Georgio Zapata.” I told him what I’d seen pass among them and of their interest in him and me. “And there’s another thing,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that I saw Mortison up in Chilmark last night, listening to Lundsberg.”