Looking for Przybylski

by K. C. Frederick

  We weren’t exactly friends, Ziggy wants to tell her, but he gets the impression that small details like that aren’t so important to this short, solidly built woman with a wide pleasant face and shoulder-length blonde hair. When she smiles at him there’s an ironic twinkle, as if she and Ziggy are sharing some joke. When her smile stops she looks wary, even a little tough, but the smile returns easily, accompanied by a tilt of the head that reminds Ziggy of some forest animal he can’t quite place. He guesses she’s in her forties, but she moves with the quick grace of someone younger. This is the woman who saved Ted’s life, he reminds himself, Linda the Lifesaver.

  By now she’s moving around the room examining the plants. “I see Ted’s been taking good care of you,” she whispers to one of them. “That’s right,” she says, stroking another one. “Look at the sheen on those leaves.”

  Ted hands her a glass of red wine and gives Ziggy the beer he asked for, and the three of them sit down around the Salvation Army coffee table, though Ted springs up every now and then to look after his meal. There’s music playing dimly in the background, drums and bells and some kind of stringed instrument, but it’s barely audible. Ziggy, who’s only had a couple swallows of beer so far, is in a surprisingly mellow mood. Linda the intruder has quickly become Linda the pal. She’s a little flakey, maybe, talking to plants, and her outfit—a colorful peasant blouse, denim miniskirt over those tights, along with the jingling silver bracelets and the hoop earrings—may be a little loud, but she seems perfectly comfortable in it. She reminds Ziggy of Sharlene and, given their ages, she could be the traveling pool-shooter’s mother. She’s actually pretty attractive, and likeable too. He’s happy for Ted.

  His host, for his part, is beside himself with unconcealed joy, practically dancing from the kitchen to the main room to refill drinks and then back to check on his lasagna, whose aromas are coming through more and more strongly.

  “Ted says you come from Ohio,” Ziggy ventures, hoping Linda won’t be upset that he knows something about her past. But then, she and Ted don’t seem to be very secretive types.

  She squints over her wineglass as though trying to see all the way to the place where she grew up. “I’ve made my peace with Ohio,” she says quietly. “Ohio’s fine for a lot of people. Not for me, though.” She smiles. “I guess I need to roam.”

  Ziggy remembers something the ex-priest told him about Linda. “Ted said you were a fire sign,” he says and she nods, leaning in his direction to hear more. “You wouldn’t be a Sagittarius, would you?” he ventures.

  “Wow!” she exclaims, turning suddenly toward Ted. “This guy’s good. And you?” she asks Ziggy. “What’s your sign?”

  He finds that he’s hesitant to say the word “cancer” aloud. “I’m a Moonchild.”

  She nods and gives him a naughty smile. “That figures.”

  Ziggy takes a swig of his beer. He’s having a good time, no doubt about that. For a moment he thinks it’s almost like being on the bus again, encountering something new along the way. Many a person his age wouldn’t have been able to manage that trip, he reminds himself, and it makes him feel younger.

  As though she’s guessed what he’s thinking, Linda says, “Ted tells me you came all the way from Detroit on the bus. That must have been something.”

  He nods.

  “I’ve always wanted to do that,” she says. “It would be great to go all across the country that way, with a backpack, maybe a tent. You could stop where you wanted and camp out, catch the next bus whenever the spirit moved you.” She calls to Ted in the kitchen. “What do you say, sweetie?”

  “Sure thing,” he says, though Ziggy doesn’t have such an idyllic view of what that trip would be like, even for a younger guy like Ted. But at this point, he knows, Ted would enthusiastically agree to a swim in shark-infested waters, as long as Linda suggested it. On the other hand, Ziggy doesn’t mind at all being seen as a bold adventurer, and with Linda’s encouragement, he tells the two of them about the Midwestern storms, Lennie’s brief imprisonment and the arrest of the woman who said she was visiting the graves of presidents.

  “Hmm,” Linda frowns after he’s told the last story. “Who knows the real reason those cops took her off the bus. After all, there are a lot of strange things going on in our country these days. Maybe that woman was in one protest too many. You never know.”

  Ziggy nods amiably. If that’s the story she wants to believe, it’s no skin off his back.

  “But you stood up to the cops when you got that poor Lennie guy out of the hoosegow,” she says. “Good for you.”

  “He wasn’t a real deputy,” Ziggy says.

  Linda shakes her head. “Sometimes the ones who want to be cops are worse than the real ones. Give yourself more credit.” She lifts her glass. “To Ziggy, champion of freedom.”

  As the beer and wine keep flowing, Ziggy feels perfectly at home here in California.

  Later, at the table, Linda turns to him and says, “Ted told me about your problems looking for that undertaker. Why are you looking for him, if I might ask?”

  For a moment Ziggy isn’t sure how he wants to answer that question. After all, he hasn’t even told Ted this part of the story. And does he even know himself at this point why he wants to see Przybylski? Around him many candles are burning, some on candlesticks and some in little colored jars like the votive lights in church. OK, he thinks, if I can’t make this sound like a halfway sane project, maybe it means I’m crazy. But he finds that he wants to tell this woman he’s just met, he wants somebody else to know how he feels.

  “I don’t know if Ted told you,” he begins, “but back in the old days I was pretty big in the numbers.” He’s happy to be able to present himself as a person of consequence, if only in the past, though he doesn’t want it to sound like he’s bragging. “OK,” he says, “it was just some Polacks in Detroit, but we had a very nice thing going in the neighborhood and, really, all over the east side of the city. We didn’t hurt anyone and we made a lot of people happy.” He interrupts himself. “I know I might be making it sound like a social service agency. Some of us made a lot of money doing it, but if you took a vote in the parish, I’d say the numbers would have got an overwhelming approval.” He points toward Ted. “Even from the priests.”

  Ted raises his hand. “I confess. I would have voted against it. But I was younger, dumber, there was a lot I didn’t know.”

  Linda leans toward him and kisses him. “But you were always sweet. I know that.”

  “So there came a time,” Ziggy goes on, “when the cops raided the numbers and came to my house; they kept my wife and kids in one room while they searched the place . . .” He breaks off. “This is too long and too complicated a story,” he says. “The fact is, after that, everything was different: some of my best friends went to jail, I went into a tailspin, the numbers went to hell.” He sighs. “Well, what I’m trying to say is that everything changed.” Saying that aloud here in faraway California isn’t easy. He takes another sip of beer and the other two wait for him to resume. “Maybe everything comes to an end eventually,” he says with a shrug, “maybe it happens no matter who does what, but not long ago somebody told me that this undertaker Przybylski might have helped the cops, he might have given them some information.” Linda nods encouragingly, sending her earrings into motion. “Now here was a guy,” Ziggy says, “who never liked the numbers, he kind of stood aside from everyone, he just buried them, and that bugged me big-time. When I heard he might have fingered me, I decided I wanted to come out here and ask him to his face if he really did that.”

  “You came all the way out here to ask a question?” Linda says.

  He nods.

  Linda’s bracelets glisten in the dancing light. “Wow!” she says, turning toward Ted. “I knew I liked this guy. Now I know why. You’re one of the seekers, Ziggy. You didn’t come out here just to see the sights, go to Disneyland, get some sun.” She leans toward him, fixing him with her blue-eyed gaze. “Fo
r me,” she says, “there are only two kinds of people, those who are seekers and those who aren’t. You, me, Ted, we’re seekers.”

  Ziggy has certainly never thought about it that way but if she’s including him in some special group, he’s not going to complain tonight. He wants to be honest, though, he wants to make himself clear about the way his feelings toward this mission of his have been changing. “The truth is,” he says, “I don’t even think what he did or didn’t do bugs me the way it did when I first heard about it. I mean I’m not trying to find justice or anything like that. Still, I damned well want to find out what happened, if you know what I mean. I’m not going to punch him out or anything, I just want to find out what happened.”

  “In other words,” Linda says, “you aren’t willing to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  Ziggy shrugs. “I guess.”

  She smiles encouragingly. “And that’s why you came all the way out here?”

  “And by bus, let’s remember,” Ted adds, “Which is pretty heroic in my book.”

  “Yeah,” Ziggy says. It’s quiet for a while. The music plays dimly, Linda’s bracelets jangle as she reaches for her wine, flames are pulsing and jittering all over the room, green leaves shine in the dancing light. “The problem is,” Ziggy goes on, “Przybylski seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth. I mean, there’s nothing in the phone book.”

  She turns toward him with fire in her eyes. “LA is full of people who don’t want you to know where they are,” she says. “There are lots of ways to find them.”

  Ziggy shakes his head. “I could understand a guy who might want to run away from his creditors if he owed money,” he says. “But Przybylski’s business was doing fine.”

  Linda nods. “That is interesting,” she says, “but that just makes it more of a challenge. Look, I suppose Ted already told you I used to work for a pretty damned good P.I. named Art Shamsky. And he owes me lots of favors,” she says. She fixes Ziggy with her gaze. “Let me work on it,” she says. “I won’t let you down.”

  “I’d really appreciate that,” Ziggy says sincerely. “The problem is, I’m only here for a few more days.”

  She reaches out suddenly and takes his hand in hers. “Listen, Ziggy. If this guy is in the greater Los Angeles area, I’ll find him for you. I promise.”

  Ziggy’s taken aback by her intensity. “Well,” he says, “thanks.”

  Ted raises his glass. “Here’s to finding Przybylski,” he says.

  “We’ll solve this mystery,” Linda adds. “Someone can’t just disappear into thin air like that.” She laughs. “Not with all those syllables.”

  There’s a sheepish grin on Ted’s face when he says, “Linda always gets her man.”

  “Damned straight I do,” she says, putting on a southern accent. “And don’t you forget it, mister.” Leaning toward her, Ted seems to be panting with the desire to lay his hands on her, and from the look she’s giving him, Ziggy’s sure she’s eager to reciprocate. All at once he feels like a fifth wheel. Maybe the two of them are already regretting letting him stay here.

  Not long afterwards, Linda says, “I guess I’d better get going,” and an eager Ted accompanies her to the door. “You know,” he says, “I’ll follow you to Sarah’s place. I’d like to pick up that book you mentioned when you were at Words.” He turns toward Ziggy. “Don’t wait up for me,” he says. “I won’t disturb you when I get back.” Then he adds softly, “We have a bit of catching up to do.”

  “Sure, sure,” Ziggy says.

  At the door Linda gives him another squeeze. “Remember,” she whispers into his ear, “you can count on me.” When she steps back, she says, “Repeat after me: ‘We’re going to find this guy.’ ”

  Ziggy smiles. “We’re going to find this guy,” he says obligingly. He certainly wants to believe it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next morning at breakfast, Ziggy quickly learns that Ted is as good at frying eggs as he was at making lasagna. He isn’t surprised to find out that one of the ex-priest’s many jobs was as a short-order cook. A man of many talents, his former parishioner has to concede.

  “I sure need this coffee,” Ted sighs. Though he’s bleary-eyed, he looks happy, and Ziggy can only guess that he and Linda managed to get in a good deal of catching up last night. He has no idea when Ted came in, since he slept very soundly and apparently dreamlessly. At last, he feels, the kinks from the bus trip are being worked out—he feels ten years younger this morning. Still, as pleasant as things are here at the ex-priest’s house, he has to fight the sense that he’s just drifting. The fact is, it’s become harder lately to conjure up an image of Przybylski beyond the vague memory of a thin smile and a glass of Vernors ginger ale on the bar. If the man turns out not to be in Los Angeles, what’s Ziggy doing out here? But that story isn’t over, he has to remind himself, it’s too early to give up on finding the undertaker. Maybe he’s putting too much weight on a thin thread of hope, but he might as well try to make the most of things in the meantime.

  When he went out to get the paper about an hour ago, he saw that it was shaping up to be another nice day; and he experienced a rush of anticipation, since he knew he was going to have the car once Ted got dropped off at the bookstore where he works. His host has even gone to the trouble of marking up a map with the routes to some of the places of interest nearby, and Ziggy can’t deny that he’s looking forward to the prospect of a little drive through the streets of the city. He hasn’t been behind the wheel for days now and, coming from Detroit, he may need that more than he’d realized. Then too, a little sightseeing will help him take his mind off of the Przybylski problem, not to mention the unwelcome prospect of a couple of days at Charlie’s. It will at least be good to have some time to himself, to look around a bit and call his own shots. But as he drinks his coffee, he’s aware that there’s still a piece of unfinished business that has to get done this morning: he’s got to tell Ted what he learned yesterday from Maggie about Father Bruno.

  He washes down a bite of toast with his coffee before announcing, “I’m afraid I got some bad news when I phoned Detroit yesterday.”

  Ted looks up from his plate. “Is everything all right at home?” he asks.

  “Oh, yeah,” Ziggy nods. “Yeah, everything’s fine. It’s Father Bruno, though. Maggie said he died of a heart attack the day before yesterday. I guess I didn’t want to tell you right away.”

  “Huh,” is all Ted can say in response. The syllable escapes him as if a sudden slap in the back has expelled the sound involuntarily. The weary joy of a minute ago has gone out of his eyes and he looks momentarily confused, a man who’s caught somewhere between this small plant-filled house in Venice, California and the imposing mass of St. Conrad’s church back in Detroit. “Wow,” he says, “that’s a bolt out of the blue, isn’t it?” He takes a quick swallow of his coffee.

  “Were you two close?” Ziggy asks. He’s completely in the dark about what a friendship between priests would be like.

  Ted shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says. “We were colleagues, part of the St. Connie’s team, you might say, but, no, I never really did get to know him.” The muscles in his face tighten and he runs his teeth over his lower lip. “Bruno had a way of keeping relationships distant,” he says after a while. “At least with me, I guess. He had a kind of formal sense of humor. He’d say things like, ‘How is my esteemed colleague this morning?’ or ‘I wonder what the reverend monsignor has up his sleeve for us his minions today.’” Ted’s silent for a few moments. “I had no idea what he was like when he was by himself, what his inner life might be. He didn’t open up much.” Ted’s laugh is curt, almost inaudible. “Of course, none of us did in those days, I suppose.”

  Ziggy remembers Father Bruno on Harsens Island, pulling at the stump, his face red, his tee shirt drenched with sweat. He was smiling because he knew he was eventually going to pull it free. “He used to have fun at my parties out at the island,” he says. “He was strong an
d I guess he liked to show off his strength.” The last time he saw Father Bruno, though, after Eddie Figlak’s wake, there was little of that strength left. Ziggy remembers his sense of the priest settling down on the barstool like a deflating black zeppelin.

  Ted’s eyes narrow. “Did he . . .” He breaks off and starts again. “Do you know if he still believed?”

  “Believed?” Ziggy’s puzzled.

  Ted’s voice is hushed now, as if he’s speaking in the confessional. “Did he seem to have any doubts about his faith?”

  Ziggy shakes his head. “He sure never talked to me about any of that stuff.” As far as he knows, Father Bruno had no more doubts about the Roman Catholic church than he had in the Oldsmobiles he regularly drove.

  “Let’s assume then that that wasn’t a problem for him,” Ted says, settling back with a sigh. “If so, he was lucky.” Ziggy can see that talking about Father Bruno has opened up old questions for Ted, questions that might not be permanently settled. There’s a brooding expression on his face as he moves his coffee cup idly on the table and Ziggy waits for him to go on. “Losing something like that,” Ted says at last, “something that was your moral compass from the time you were a kid, that’s incredibly hard, you know, and painful.” He falls silent and his solemn expression is one that Ziggy hasn’t seen before on the California version of the man who used to be a priest at St. Connie’s. In the morning light the lines in his face pull downward, and he looks older.

  “You said you . . . what, lost your talent for faith?” Ziggy ventures after a while.

  The other man smiles wanly. “Yeah, that’s the version I give when I want to sound flip and offhand, but the real experience was much more wrenching.” He looks down at his hands. “It took a while before I could admit to myself what was happening. And when I did . . . well, I know they always say quitting drugs cold turkey is one of the most painful experiences . . .” He’s silent again and Ziggy waits, knowing there’s more. “I never felt so exposed, so . . . I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but,” he pauses, turning his cup, “for a while I even thought I was going to kill myself.”