Looking for Przybylski

by K. C. Frederick

  Looking away from the mirror, he lifts the beer glass and takes another sip. He made the adjustment long ago: the thing to do now is to lift his foot from the pedal and slow that engine down. What the hell does it matter after all, what Przybylski did or didn’t do twenty years ago? Ziggy has a furnace that’s been acting up, it’s always running out of water, and he has to look into that. The winter is already over, thank God, but he has to get the thing checked out before the next season of cold weather, and that’s going to be a little harder to manage now that he isn’t even getting those paychecks from the city—maybe somebody he knows has a brother-in-law who can do the job cheap. Still, just as he’s bringing himself back to everyday problems, the gas pedal goes down again and the engine roars: was it that bastard Przybylski after all? He raps the bar with his fingers: Rule Number One.

  He’s actually glad when Father Bruno comes in. Paunchy and genial, a little bit of everybody’s uncle as he was in the old days, the priest makes his way through the greetings and takes a seat beside Ziggy at the bar. It isn’t the first time Ziggy’s noticed the priest’s resemblance to Frenchy, a cop he used to pay off back when the numbers were going good. Old Frenchy killed himself and his girlfriend, finally, almost ten years ago—some kind of triangle, as Ziggy remembers. Somebody was cheating on somebody. The usual.

  “And how are you?” The priest wheezes between sentences. “You’re looking good. Just a ginger ale for me, Turk.”

  “So are you, Father.” Actually, when he sat down, he seemed to have sunk into himself like a collapsing black tent. He had large fleshy pouches under his eyes and his face had thickened so that it looked as if it were meant to be seen on a wide screen. “The suburbs seem to be treating you well. Did you come in to see Eddie?”

  “I did. He wasn’t laid out, though. I heard about the problem.”

  Ziggy’s feeling more comfortable now. The priest’s familiar bulk is like his furnace: it keeps things in the present. “How do you find the old neighborhood?” he asks Father Bruno.

  He half-lifts himself when he answers. “It’s changed,” he sighs. “Nobody can deny that. And so many people our age are dying . . .”

  Ziggy doesn’t need this kind of gloomy talk. “Did you see the new monsignor? He looks like an altar boy.”

  Father Bruno shakes his head. “The church has had its problems,” he wheezes, “with vocations.” He pauses for a moment as if he’s heard for the first time what Ziggy has said and he laughs suddenly. “Maybe recruiting altar boys wouldn’t be such a bad idea . . .” His words trail off and all at once he looks like a drunk who’s wondering how he’s managed to get to the place where he finds himself. Ziggy’s sure the priest isn’t planning to stay long. “Say,” Father Bruno says at last, his eyes alert once more, “you’ll never guess who I heard from last Christmas.”

  Ziggy looks at him inquiringly.

  “Father Teddy, Teddy Krawek. I got a card and the poor guy sounded pretty lonely.”

  “How long has it been?” Ziggy asked, not particularly interested.

  “It’s fifteen years since he left the priesthood.”

  Ziggy says nothing.

  “Teddy’s in California now. God knows what he’s doing—he doesn’t say in the card. He gave me an address and he sounded like he was interested in getting in touch with people from the old days.”

  Ziggy shakes his head. “How do you figure that? Leaving the priesthood.” Ziggy figures it means Teddy is pretty dumb to have given up a pretty cushy situation.

  “Oh, we priests know all about spiritual problems,” Father Bruno says. Looking at his beefy face, you can hardly bring yourself to accuse him of anything spiritual, unless you could think of power steering that way. “Well, I can give you his address,” the priest says, reaching into his black jacket and extracting a gold pen.

  “I don’t know,” Ziggy waves it away. No, why try to bring back the past? “Hey,” he gets up. “Excuse me for a minute, padre.”

  He leaves the priest abruptly, as though he’s just heard the unsettling growl of a Doberman. Christ, something is still bothering him as he makes his way down the steps to the men’s room in the basement. The pleasantly comfortable stench, a mixture of sweet disinfectant soap and vague acrid odors that have accumulated over a half-century, the faded octagonal tiles on the ancient floor that somehow give the cramped room the look of a hidden recess in the church across the street—all these familiar details, he probably hoped as he’d bolted from the priest, would help to keep his mind free of some shapeless, bothersome concern that’s been flitting on the edges of his consciousness. It even occurs to him that, since the men’s room is in the basement, it ought to remind him of problems he can handle, like the furnace. Only it doesn’t. He’s thinking about Przybylski and he knows it.

  He’s alone in the men’s room. It’s cool here. The sounds from the bar come to him hollow and distant. Water glistens on the pipes, he reads the name of the plumbing company, long since gone out of business, on the porcelain tank. After the raid everybody was busted and most of them had to do time. Ziggy was lucky to have had the Irishman for a lawyer—he kept him out of prison; but then one thing after another happened—the booze, the IRS, the loss of his liquor license—and his days as a big-time numbers man were over as surely as if he’d gone to Jackson with Big Al and J.J. If he’d have known in his forties what the next twenty years would be like—working at two-bit jobs for the city, battling the bottle, driving a nine-year-old Fairlane that probably needed a valve job, and watching the neighborhood and the whole goddamned city deteriorate around him—he probably would have said there was no way he could deal with it; but when he came out of the fog some years back, he decided that he’d played his hand and got beat and that was that. There was no use crying over spilt milk.

  He smells the sweet soap. But, Jesus, he wants to know before they stick him in the casket and shovel him under, he wants to know: did that bastard Przybylski really pull something like that? He wants to know and, damn it, he’s going to find out. As he climbs the stairs to the bar he feels better for having come to that realization. After all, you itch, you scratch.

  Where’s Przybylski now? he wonders. Somewhere out in California is all he knows.

  At the top of the stairs with his hand on the metal rail, he catches Turk by the cigarette machine and asks him for a match. “Say,” Ziggy says, “you canceling your order with Sam Rok yet?”

  “Me, I’m getting cremated.”

  “All these undertakers are bloodsuckers.” Ziggy feels himself groping in the dark, his hands touching the reassuring surface of a wall as he moves toward some unknown place. He can see that Turk wants to get away, but he can’t just come out and ask him what he wants to know—still, he has to get there quick. “Like that asshole Przybylski. He used to lay them out in one suit and bury them in another—that’s what I heard.” He doesn’t really know if this is true, but it sounds good. “You knew,” he throws in casually, his hands leaving the wall now, “that in the old days he was in cahoots with the cops? You knew that, didn’t you?” In the background they hear the click of balls on the pool table.

  Turk hesitates a moment, looking at Ziggy the whole time; then he nods.

  “Ah, that’s old stuff,” Ziggy says, exhaling. “Who told you about it?”

  “Allie,” he answers, looking away. “Just before he died.”

  “Sure,” Ziggy snorts, “I figured. Thanks.” He gives him back the book of matches and starts for the bar. So Allie was in on it too. Of course, that made sense, you don’t have to search for reasons. At one time or another Ziggy has mentally put the finger on just about everybody. Except that this is different, this time it isn’t a guess. It’s true, then, what Przybylski did, and not just one more idea he’s had his hunches about. Christ! For the first time tonight Ziggy is really angry. So many times he wanted to punch out that big, still face of the undertaker and he didn’t have any good reason; and now, when he has a reason at last—but Przybylsk
i was smarter than the rest of the Polacks, he saw what was coming and when he pulled out of the neighborhood in the sixties it was already going to hell in a handbasket with the rest of the city; and even as he left he probably knew that in ten years it would be shabbier still, with everyone under fifty in suburbs like Warren, the old frame houses now occupied by blacks, run down, with windows punched out and porches sagging, or—often you couldn’t tell the difference—vacant, then torn down finally if you were lucky so that you weren’t living next door to a potential bonfire. Now the neighborhood is full of empty spaces like the gap-toothed mouths of a lot of the old-timers who still live here and it’s hardly fit for living, and Yugoslavs, wild animals whose women fight in the middle of Chene Street, are the only whites who are still moving in.

  Ziggy stands there a minute. Someone has played a record on the jukebox—“Detroit City.” The hillbilly crooner is howling his familiar complaint while the guitar twangs in the background and, strangely, it seems as if, through the dim haze of cigarette smoke, everything in Connie’s is shining. Ziggy feels—what? It isn’t just anger, he realizes: his heart is beating strongly, his blood pounding—he’s excited, he’s hungry to do things. The motor is racing again.

  Damn it, like the old days. Yeah, he feels he has something to do.

  Father Bruno’s glass is empty and Ziggy can see that the big priest is ready to get up and leave. Obviously he’s paid all the dues to the old neighborhood he’s felt were necessary and he’s eager to get into his Toronado and wheel down the expressway to Warren where, safe and comfy in his modern rectory, he’ll have plenty of time for a late night snack.

  “Another, padre?”

  “No, thanks.” Father Bruno is beginning to lift himself—it’s a little like one of those zeppelin launches from before the war that Ziggy has seen on old newsreels. But this zeppelin never gets off the ground. Ziggy sees himself laying a hand on the priest’s white wrist, and when he’s made contact he looks directly into Father Bruno’s pale blue and suddenly confused eyes.

  “Another?” Ziggy suggests again in a voice with a certain amount of weight behind it. He remembers the times when not only Father Bruno but his boss Monsignor Baran used to come to him asking favors. “You’ll have just one more,” he says. It isn’t a question.

  He sees the large black zeppelin sink back onto the barstool. The priest’s heavy-lidded eyes have glazed over with the old look of someone who’s accustomed to taking orders and Ziggy feels good. He removes his hand from Father Bruno’s wrist, knowing he has him now for a while anyway. He isn’t certain how long he can hold him, though—in fact he isn’t even sure exactly what he wants from the priest; but he’s following his instincts and he’s determined not to lose this opportunity to get whatever help he can on the subject that’s been occupying his attention.

  “Ever hear from Przybylski, Father?” he asks after he’s allowed him to sip his ginger ale.

  Father Bruno shakes his head. “No,” he laughs. “Smart man, to get out when he could.” He glances up at the clock above the bar. Ziggy wonders whether he remembers it’s ten minutes fast.

  “Where’d he go? Do you know?”

  The priest shrugs. “Somewhere in California. Los Angeles, I think. Yes, somewhere in the Los Angeles area, I heard.”

  Ziggy has downed his third shot and his head isn’t as clear as it might be. All at once, as if he’s turned a corner and bumped into himself, he wonders what the hell difference it would make if he did manage to find out where Przybylski lived. Is he planning to send him anonymous threats?

  Come to think of it, that’s not such a bad idea. Przybylski. Ziggy pronounces the name under his breath and the syllables seem to slither along the floor, over spilled potato chips, around table legs, past the bright bulky shape of the jukebox, under the pool table and toward the steps that lead down to the men’s room. Ziggy pulls himself erect. More than ever, he’s sure the priest has something he can use, something that might help him.

  He can see, though, that Father Bruno is getting antsy, he wants to slip away from here. He’s downed his ginger ale and now he faces Ziggy impatiently. But Ziggy’s determined to keep him here a few more minutes.

  “Think Teddy’s in touch with Przybylski?” he asks.

  The big priest laughs. “Sometimes I wonder if Teddy’s in touch with himself.” His eyes go blank for a moment, then he smiles. “No, on second thought I think it’s likely he is in touch with himself.” He winks at Ziggy to make sure he catches the reference to “touching yourself,” the formula they use in the confessional for masturbation.

  “I hope he’s got something,” Ziggy says, just to kill time. What’s the thought shaping itself on the edge of his mind, like a drop of water gradually getting bigger? He hears himself saying, “My son Charlie’s in California, you know.”

  “The dentist? I didn’t know that. When did he go?”

  “Four years ago. Royal Oak wasn’t good enough for him.”

  The priest looks sad. “Seems like everybody from Detroit’s winding up in California. Say, maybe he could get in touch with Teddy.”

  “You kidding? That one’s another Przybylski. Once he left this neighborhood he never came back.”

  “Where is he?” the priest asks abstractly.

  “Burbank. Where the Johnny Carson show comes from. Do you know if that’s anywhere near where Teddy is?”

  “Geez, I don’t know,” Father Bruno says. “I’ve never been out there.” And all at once Ziggy sees that the priest is old, that for all his fat and jolly look there’s a kind of paleness about him, as though he’s been dusted with flour; the skin around his eyes is dry and pinched like a crumpled paper bag and he winces a little when he moves. This is the same priest who, at the stag parties on the island, dressed in his black trousers and sleeveless undershirt, would lift the tree trunk that the strongest numbers men couldn’t budge. Sweat pouring down his face, a beer bottle in his hand, he’d acknowledge the congratulations with a little joke about washing his hands in holy water before he’d attempted the feat.

  “I’m glad Charlie’s doing well,” the priest says quietly. He picks up his glass and seems surprised to find it empty.

  “Who do you think put him through about a hundred years of school?” Ziggy says, suddenly angry again, though he’s not sure what he’s angry about. “And what does he do? Pretends he isn’t even a Polack. Him and that Gloria of his. She’s the one that convinced him to move . . .”

  The priest looks at him, without reacting. He’s already lost to Ziggy and will be gone in a few minutes at the most. But like a prisoner who knows he’s being visited by the only person he knows in the outside world, Ziggy’s determined to hold him as long as he can.

  “What did you say Teddy’s address was?”

  “Oh, sure.” Father Bruno snaps out of his daydream. “Here, let me see.”

  He pulls out a little black address book and the gold pen that Ziggy’s seen before, a gift from his parishioners, no doubt. The priesthood is the game to get into, all right. Except for the sex thing, they have it made. And the sex can always be arranged. Ziggy knows of enough cases like Father Andy from St. Casimir’s. No, he could never understand why, once you got into it and had been there for a while like Teddy, you’d ever want to leave.

  “Here it is: 605 Oceanside Lane, Venice, California 90291. It’ll do him a lot of good to hear from some of the old gang.”

  Ziggy takes the sheet with the address. He makes a note to play 605 in the lottery. “Oceanside Lane. Sounds pretty nice.”

  “I hope for his sake it is. Like I said, I’ve never been out there. Two weeks a year in Florida is the best I can manage.”

  “They say Florida’s changed a lot,” Ziggy says.

  “Oh, yeah, it has. It’s all condominiums now.”

  “That’s too bad,” he answers distractedly. He’s bored with Father Bruno now and is glad to see that the priest is slowly rising from his seat.

  “It’s been too lo
ng,” Father Bruno wheezes, “too long. We’ll have to get together again sometime soon. Under pleasanter circumstances. I’m sure Teddy would be glad to hear from you.”

  Ziggy’s grateful when he’s gone at last. The priest had come to be a distraction and he wants to keep his attention on this feeling he has, that he’s on the verge of doing something—though he doesn’t know yet what it is that he’s going to do. The buzz of talk in the bar is like the noise from some unseen machine that’s causing everything to vibrate in front of him, as though the things on the bar itself—glasses, bottles, ashtray and cigarette pack—have begun to slide crazily for the edges while Ziggy has to try, with the only two hands he has, to keep them from going over the side. Because in his mind everything is sliding: California, Przybylski, Father Teddy, Florida, Father Bruno, Charlie, California . . . He has to keep reaching for these objects, has to try to put them in their proper places.

  Somebody has played the “Helen Polka” on the jukebox. There must always have been a record of the “Helen Polka” in Connie’s jukebox, whether the bartender was Turk or Fajka or Boom-Boom. The clarinets tootle, the accordion sighs and the drummer bangs. Przybylski would be in that corner leaning over his glass of Vernors, smiling but showing no teeth. He seemed to be able to drink without opening his mouth.

  Ziggy looks at the Schlitz ad, a sailboat leaning almost on its side. Florida. Palm trees. There were dog tracks and jai alai, grown men in white suits, Panama hats. The DC-3. It’s probably changed a lot, as Father Bruno had said. All condominiums. He’d been one of the first to come to the stag parties and one of the last to leave—he knew how to enjoy himself in those days. Not like Father Teddy, who’d sit on the sidelines and smile a bashful smile. What the hell could have caused him to leave the priesthood? Was it a woman, maybe? A man?