* * *
WELL, NOT EXACTLY to church, but to the rectory, the priests’ home. The church itself—Saint Ludella—was next door, a hulking mass of soot-grayed stone that I’d seen the inside of just once. That was a couple of years ago, when I was keeping my eye on a priest named Kevin Cunningham and it turned out he’d needed way more help than the little bit I’d been able to give.
Saint Ludella parish was on the West Side. The neighborhood hadn’t changed for the better as far as I could tell. In fact, it made the streets around the community center in Englewood, where Jimmy Coletta coached basketball, look good. Englewood had its share of gangs and graffiti, rundown housing stock, and boarded-up storefronts. Around Saint Ludella’s, though, they had all that, plus rubble-strewn, vacant spaces which still remained after whole blocks had been burned to the ground in the fallout from Martin Luther King’s assassination, more than thirty years ago.
Many of the worst housing projects in the world were there; some being emptied out now; some already torn down. Here and there—standing out like a shiny new car in a yard full of junkers—a supermarket had appeared, or a Walgreen’s. There was money to be made even on the West Side. But good times never really trickled down very far here. Brutal gang warfare and the drug industry still gobbled up nearly all the young men and spat them out into the grave or, maybe worse, into prison. Kids scrambled over too many stripped, abandoned cars that slouched on their axles at the curbs in front of too many frame houses that leaned too far to the right or the left. There wasn’t much grass, there weren’t many trees, and there was very little hope.
You had to start somewhere, though, so planting trees around the senior citizen housing across the street from the church was one of the latest projects of Casimir Caseliewicz, the priest who opened the rectory door when I rang the bell. He made me walk across with him to look at the trees. He called himself Casey because—or so he liked to joke—he’d long ago forgotten how to spell his real name. He was the pastor of Saint Ludella’s. If he had his way he’d be the pastor there until he died, or until gentrification—still far to the east, but looming up like a cloud of locusts—finally arrived to rehab the few houses worth saving and row-house the rest of the land.
“Hell yes, I’m still here,” Casey said, once we’d settled down to coffee in the rectory kitchen. “I’ll stay until those damn blood-sucking developers—God have mercy on ’em, they know not what they do—drive out all the poor people.”
Not your typical priest. Although … how would I know? I just knew his way of speaking always caught me off guard. It was rough and coarse, yet sprinkled with pious phrases he really seemed to mean. But then, Casey himself was rough and coarse. He was built in the shape of a Wheaties box, six-foot-five in his stocking feet and in the house he never wore those big black boats he called shoes.
Wherever Casey went, he nearly always wore the same outfit—faded black pants, a faded black short-sleeved shirt—with a slip-in roman collar for dress-up occasions—and black shoes and socks. Even his crew-cut was faded black. I asked him once if he wore the same shirt and pants every day, or if he had spares that were identical. “Don’t ask,” he said, “don’t tell.”
So we drank coffee and reminisced about past times, like how he’d gotten shot that night outside Kevin Cunnigham’s summer cottage, and the time he was tied to Lammy Fleming’s kitchen chair when the building went up in flames. We laughed a little, and finally he looked at his watch. “Well,” he said, “I gotta be leaving pretty soon.”
“Oh, sorry. Maybe I—”
“One of those police community relations meetings. You know, where the police get up and scare the hell outta the old people about how things are getting worse all the time and everybody oughta stay home with their doors locked day and night.” He reached to his shirt pocket but it was empty, so he must have been trying to quit smoking again. “So what’s up, anyway?”
“Well,” I said, “I was wondering if I could move in here for a few days.”
“Hey, great idea!” Not even a hint of hesitation. “Let’s go get your stuff.” He stood up, but when I didn’t move he sat back down. “What else?”
“Nothing really.” I got up from the table to get more coffee.
“What else, dammit?”
“I just wanted to tell you … tell somebody.” I took the carafe from the coffee maker and turned back toward him. “I shot a man a couple of days ago.”
“Damn.” He stared at me, his eyes squinting beneath bushy eyebrows going gray. “Is he … I mean did he…”
I sat down and refilled both our cups. “He’s dead.”
“Holy crap. Lord have mercy on him.” He slapped at his empty shirt pocket again. “Is that why … I mean, are you hiding out?”
“No. Well, yes. But not from the police. Or maybe from some police.”
“That certainly clarifies things,” he said.
“I don’t think anyone knows I shot the man. I don’t even know if I killed him.”
“You said he was dead.”
“I know. I shot him and his friends dragged him into a car and drove off, and someone had put a bomb in the car and … and the car blew up.”
“Holy Christ! I mean, Lord have mercy on his friends, too. So someone else had it in for this guy, too. Besides you.”
“I didn’t even know him. Mine was self-defense.”
“Thank God. That is, I knew that, of course. That’s the only reason you’d—”
“Whoever planted the bomb in the car didn’t have it in for him, either. He and his buddies were stealing the car, and…”
“And what?”
“And it was my car.”
“Jeez, Mal.”
“And that’s why I need a place to stay.”
* * *
JUST SHORT OF SEVEN-THIRTY Casey left for his meeting and I got on the phone again. First I confirmed my meeting later that night with Jimmy Coletta. He was coaching at his west side site, which made it convenient for both of us. Then I called for my messages. Bingo! Maura Flanagan. She wanted to see me. Tonight, if possible. At her place.
I called the number she left, but got her answering machine. “I’ll be there tonight,” I said, “but I have another committment first. I’ll call when I’m on my way.”
Casey had given me a remote control for the garage, which was attached to the rectory and opened onto the alley out back. The rectory was built to house as many as six priests, but he was the only priest there now.
“I finally got a janitor, though,” he’d told me. “Him and his wife and baby are living here. Until they can find an apartment. It’s been about six months and they’ve … well … they’ve kinda taken over the third floor.”
“Uh-huh,” I’d said.
“But they’re real quiet, and they never have any visitors. He speaks a little English, but she only speaks Nigerian. Ibo, I think. I’m pretty sure they’re in the country illegally. But what the hell, it’s nice to hear a baby cry once in a while.”
I’d be staying in the housekeeper’s room, on the first floor behind the kitchen. The place hadn’t had a live-in housekeeper since long before Casey was pastor, but the room was there, complete with a telephone, a sofa bed, a TV set, and a tiny bathroom. I pulled around to the alley and parked in the garage and brought in the gym bag I leave in the trunk with my stuff for emergency exile from home.
I rummaged around in the refrigerator, and had a supper of hot dogs and decaf and chocolate-mint ice cream. After that I made a few more phone calls, but mostly I just sat. I tried taking a nap, but that was no use. Awake or asleep, I kept seeing the same man. He sat on the ground and turned his frightened face up to me under his black Zorro hat. Blood kept bubbling out of his mouth … and tears ran down his pockmarked cheeks.
* * *
AT NINE O’CLOCK Casey came back home. He said he was going up to bed, and I told him he was expecting company at nine-thirty.
“I am? Hell, I don’t have to stay down here and t
alk to whoever it is, do I?”
“Only a little. You’re his excuse for stopping by, but … what do you do if you have a visitor in a wheelchair?”
“Well, the church is wheelchair accessible, but not the rectory. I think, though, that the two of us could carry just about anyone up those front steps.”
“Except that I can’t afford to be seen, and it’s possible someone’s following him.”
“Well, then, I’ll meet him out front and wheel him between the buildings to the stairs down to the basement entrance. It’s only five or six steps down and you can help me. We’d be out of sight there.”
“Deal,” I said.
I told him it was Jimmy Coletta who was coming and that, in case anyone ever asked, the reason was so Jimmy could look over the facilities, to see whether they were appropriate and available for a handicapped youth program he was trying to expand.
“Is that true?” Casey wanted to know. He didn’t like to lie.
“That’s the only reason you know of,” I said. “And he’ll be back someday to follow up on his visit … if I can keep him out of jail.”
It wasn’t long before the van pulled up in front, with Suzanne driving. We got Jimmy down the side steps and into a basement meeting room, where a long, battered table took up most of one wall. A large coffeemaker stood on the table, and beside it a carton of paper cups. An ancient refrigerator whirred noisily in the corner, and there were ten or fifteen old metal folding chairs scattered around. The floor was clean, but the room smelled like roach spray and cigarette smoke and old coffee.
“Not exactly elegant,” Casey said, clearing the way for Jimmy’s wheelchair, “but at least it’s not being used tonight. Two nights a week they have AA meetings in—” He stopped. “Oh, can I get you something to drink? Pepsi or something? Don’t have any beer or booze around.”
“That’s okay, Father,” Suzanne said. “We don’t drink alcohol.”
“Really?”
“We’re evangelical,” she said. “It’s against our relig—” She stopped and looked embarrassed. “We don’t practice Catholicism anymore, Father.”
“Not to worry. You got lots of company,” Casey said, obviously trying to put her at ease.
“I never went to church anyway,” Jimmy said, “but I sure used to drink, way too much. Before I was born again in the Holy Spirit and accepted the Lord into my life.” He said it matter-of-factly, neither ashamed of it nor pushing it.
“You drank too much?” Casey laughed. “Well, join the club. I’m a recovering alcoholic. What I call a fallen-away drunk. But back when I was a practicing drunk I was a full-blown, pee-down-my-leg, crap-in-my-pants, fall-on-my-face drunk. Pardon my French, but it’s God’s truth. And I don’t wanna ever forget it. ’Cause I could be one again, dammit, any day of the week.”
There was a long, embarrassed silence, until Jimmy finally spoke up. “It’s okay,” he said, and he looked right at me. “Sometimes the truth isn’t pretty.”
Casey got drinks out of the refrigerator—three cans of Pepsi-Cola—and handed them out. “I’ll be upstairs,” he said. “Just holler when you’re ready to go.”
CHAPTER
38
THE THREE OF US sat there in the rectory basement and waited. Suzanne pulled her chair up closer to Jimmy. She looked at the unopened Pepsi can in her hand as though wondering where it came from, then set it on the table.
We heard Casey close the upstairs door, and then Jimmy spoke up. “You keep telling me you’ll protect me,” he said, “but I keep wondering why I should trust you. I don’t know why you would care what happens to me.”
“I told Marlon Shades I wouldn’t talk,” I said, “and I went to jail to keep my word. That’s why you should trust me.” I leaned in toward him a little. “But I never said I’ll protect you. What I keep telling you is I’ll do my best to keep you out of this if I can. And that’s what I’ll do … my best.” I popped the top of my own Pepsi. “Why do I care? I guess it’s really why I don’t care. I know what you were doing that night and I still don’t see any reason for you to go to jail—not now—or lose your disability benefits because of a conviction. For what purpose? Justice? The law? Maybe protecting you is illegal. Some might even say it’s immoral. I don’t much care about what people say.”
“So then why are you stirring up trouble?” Suzanne asked. “If you don’t care, why not just let things be?”
“I have my own interests, other promises I’ve made; some of them to myself. And I like to keep my promises. Besides, sooner or later it’s not going to work to ‘just let things be.’ The case is still an open case. People are working on it.”
“Working on it?” she asked. “What are you—”
“Wait, Suzanne,” Jimmy said. “What he means is it’s a homicide case. A man got away—a cop killer—and the case will stay open forever. Or until they catch him. And if they do,” he added, “then all the other … circumstances will come out.”
“Maybe someday they’ll put it all together,” I said. “If that happens, and if you go to jail, it’ll be because of your own actions. I can’t change what you did. But I have no interest in taking you down. None. If you fill me in on the details, maybe I can wrap up what I need to do, and keep you out of it. Maybe. That’s the best I can offer.” And maybe I had no business holding out even that much hope. “Otherwise, I just keep flailing around and whatever I churn up goes public.”
“I don’t know, Jimmy,” Suzanne said. “Maybe we shouldn’t have come. Maybe—”
“No,” he said. “We agreed. I can’t just sit and wait any longer. It’s eating away at me. I don’t want to go to jail, or lose my disability. But we both know that someday that might happen, whether this man has anything to do with it or not. Maybe he can help; maybe he can’t. But I need to take some action that might protect us.”
“But…” She paused, then let it go. “You’re right,” she said. “We agreed, and we’re together in this.” She was strong and smart, and she loved this man in his wheelchair.
Jimmy turned to me, took a deep breath, and began. “One of the hardest things for these poor kids I work with is to face reality. As for me, I’ve already faced my paralysis, and now I’ve got to start facing the rest of it.” The words came out in a rush, as though he’d rehearsed them so he’d be able to get started. “On the night—”
“Wait,” I said. “Let me go first, all right? Then you can fill in the blank spaces.”
He looked at me. “Okay,” he finally said. Suzanne just stared down at her hands in her lap.
“When a suspended lawyer files a petition for reinstatement to the bar, the disciplinary commission notifies lots of people,” I said, “people who might have something to say about it. So the cops who were there that night at Lonnie Bright’s—and their friends and relatives—they all heard about my petition. Right?”
Jimmy nodded.
“And everybody expects them to object. After all, I lost my license because I wouldn’t reveal what Marlon Shades told me, so why should I get it back again until I tell? I make it clear, though, that I still won’t tell, and I insist on a hearing. The cops and their relatives are notified that if there’s a hearing they’ll be subpoenaed to testify against me, to describe the damage that’s been caused to so many families, and how I could help bring them some closure, if I’d just obey the supreme court’s order. Maybe my information would help catch someone who participated in shooting three police officers, murdering one of them and putting another…” I sipped some Pepsi.
“In a wheelchair,” Jimmy said, but he didn’t look at me.
“The thing is, though, for the three living cops—and let’s assume it’s all of them—for these three cops maybe the truth is the one thing they’re afraid will come out.” I paused. “Stop me if I get too far off base, okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” Jimmy’s voice was barely audible.
“Of course, these cops don’t know for sure what Marlon told me. But if I didn’t
reveal it before, they ask themselves, why should I now? And if I don’t tell, and if they all stick together, they’re in the clear. They have a meeting, maybe, to talk it over. And then there’s a new problem. If there’s a hearing, and if they have to testify, maybe they won’t all stick together. In fact, one of them says he won’t lie, says he’s different now. Or he doesn’t say it and they know it anyway. He won’t lie, and he especially won’t lie under oath. Jesus wouldn’t lie—even to save himself—and neither will this born-again Christian. He doesn’t want to go to jail, but he’s a man who lives by what he sees as God’s commandments. He’ll tell the truth.”
“If he’s asked,” Suzanne said. “Remember that.” She looked like she might cry.
“That’s what I figured,” I said. “Anyway, the truth these police officers don’t want known is that they were selling cocaine to Lonnie Bright. And worse than that, that they murdered him. They figured why give the coke they had to Lonnie Bright, when they could take his money and keep the stuff and sell it to someone else.”
“Wait a minute,” Jimmy said. “I—”
“Well, let’s say everyone didn’t know what everyone else was thinking. But anyway, who’d care if Lonnie was shot down? Decent citizens would be glad to be rid of one more middleman in the delivery of death to kids. Lonnie’s competitors would be happy. The cops who could sell the same coke twice would be happy. Of course they couldn’t do this very often, or who’d deal with them? But this time, hey, why not?”
Jimmy cleared his throat. “You—”
“If I’m pretty close to right so far,” I cut in, “don’t say anything.”
No one said anything.
“Maybe Lonnie’s looking to rise in the world, so he’s cutting his … his business associates … out of the deal,” I said. “Anyway, the cops know he’s gonna be at his place by himself, which is what’s gonna make it so easy. They arrive and get their money, and then one of them puts a bullet in Lonnie’s brain. But surprise! Someone else is there. Fay Rita, Lonnie’s lady friend. Who knows why? Anyway, she’s hiding and watching. She’s a psychopath herself, and she’s got an automatic and when Lonnie takes the bullet she’s too slow to stop it, but she starts shooting everyone in sight. Eventually the cops take her down, but by the time it’s over three out of the four cops are shot too. The fourth one, Richard Kilgallon, calls for help and when help arrives he’s wandering around on the sidewalk out front—like in a daze, or in shock. He talks about Lonnie and his girl friend, and some other man with a gun, too. A man no one’s ever able to identify.”
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