Priestly Sins

by Hadley Finn

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “They don’t trust me, so they try to talk in code, but I ain’t stupid.”

  “You’re far from stupid, Henry. Stay sharp and keep your head in the game. You know you can always call me, right?”

  “Okay.”

  I give him my cell number, but mention if he doesn’t trust the guys he’s working with, he may want to save it under an alias. I don’t know those meatheads. But I know Calabrese and I don’t want to be on his radar. I may already be if the tracker on my car means anything, but I don’t want any more interest from him.

  “Anything else you want to talk about?”

  “Nah. Sorry about the other night and thanks.”

  “Anytime. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. I mean it. Anytime. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.”

  “Amen.”

  He leaves and I’m left with my thoughts. Henry wrapped up in this is just another reason to kill Calabrese. Now, though, the potential collateral damage is higher.

  As I’m walking out of the booth, I’m struck by something else. Something worse. Sirona is wrapped up with Calabrese too. Motherfucker! Why are deliveries being made from a shipping company to a bakery and why wouldn’t she stop it? Is that why she was so pissed the other morning?

  My morning runs continue, and I keep my head on a swivel. There are too many pieces in play here. Enzo, Zera, Henry, and Sirona all entangled doesn’t make any sense. How can this many people I know be enmeshed? It’s like a web stretching to ensnare me.

  My runs vary more than they ever have. Times, routes, clothing. Occasionally I’m in shorts, sneakers, and ball cap. At times, joggers, tees, and bandana. Always with sunglasses. I need to see, but be seen as little as possible. I do mornings, lunchtime, and evening. No pattern, no way to track. I come and go from all angles. Something’s far from right, and I need to keep my distance so I can think.

  I drive my car with that damn tracker, but, each time, I weave my own web. Same gas station every single time. Same grocery store over and over again. I never exit the car. I’ve never shopped there. I have my groceries delivered, but I go anyway and sit. I drive to a park the same time every Thursday night, wait for twenty-two minutes, and leave. Always taking the same path.

  When I go anywhere on my own, I Uber or I remove the device and place it in the same spot in the garage of the rectory.

  I remove it when I go to Petites Fleurs one afternoon, just to pop in. I never want whomever is watching to connect me with the Dugas’. No clue what her mom is up to or if she’s clean, but Clara doesn’t deserve any blowback from my shitty life or from any fucker who would try to come after me.

  The bells chime out my entry. They’re rendered useless with Clara’s squeal.

  “Poppa Sean!” Clara flies at me, dark hair sweeping out behind her, until she plows into my knees.

  “Clara Bell,” I return the same enthusiasm.

  “Up!” She lifts her arms straight up and wiggles her fingers. Who am I to deny her? Who am I to deny myself?

  “Up you go,” I say, as I hoist her onto my hip. From this vantage point, we both stare down at the curved glass display case. She eventually falls over, pressing both hands onto the glass.

  “Aren’t they pretty?” Her whisper is almost reverent.

  “You’re pretty. Those cupcakes are—”

  “Hi.” Sirona’s tentative voice is juxtaposed with her curious expression, having come face-to-face with me holding her daughter, half-inverted, over the desserts.

  “Hi.” I smile, finally feeling some relief from the cares of the week. Seems I’ve been weighed down for too long.

  “Did you come for pastries?”

  “Cupcakes!” Clara knows the system and is working it to her advantage.

  “Of course.” I slide Clara down onto her feet and turn to her. “Pick your favorite that we can split. Is that okay?”

  “Yes!” She squeals and runs around the case, arms flailing. “Mommy! Mommy! What’s the pink ones today?”

  “Are.”

  “Huh?”

  “What are the pink ones today?”

  “Yes. That.”

  “Try it again, baby.”

  “Mommy, what are the pink ones today?”

  “Pink lemonade.”

  “Yuck. What are the yellow ones?”

  “Wait! You don’t like pink lemonade?” I ask

  “To drink, silly! But not to eat.”

  “They’re caramel with caramel vanilla buttercream.”

  “Yes!” She spins around. “Poppa Sean, do you like caramel?”

  “I do.”

  “That one, Mommy!”

  With that, she runs to the table and sits down, anxiously awaiting her cupcake.

  “Will you join us?” I ask. She usually cleans or busies herself when I’m here.

  “I can.” It’s a tentative response. “Coffee?”

  “If you have it.”

  “I do.”

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  I sit with Clara and, as she begins to tell me about her day, a cup of coffee appears before me. Another is set in front of Sirona’s empty chair. She leaves again and when she returns it’s with one cupcake, two cookies, and a glass of milk.

  “That’s for me.” Clara points at the glass of milk.

  “You sure?” I ask and pick up to pretend I’m going to drink it.

  “Poppa Sean,” she harrumphs.

  I laugh at her face and cut the cupcake in half, knowing I’ll probably be getting the stump again. Clara is serious about her frosting.

  “How was your day?” I ask Sirona while Clara’s mouth is full of icing.

  “I’ve had better, but I won’t complain. You?”

  “Same. How do you choose your flavors?”

  Sirona launches into how she chooses cupcake flavors and what days of the week she usually has the specialty flavors. Several things are always in stock; the special flavors weave their way through. She does seasonal specialties with King Cake, Red Hot, and Irish Cream for the beginning of the year holidays and always has some more adult, atypical flavors as well. She’ll do alcoholic cupcakes upon request, her favorite being the liquor-infused frostings.

  During all this, Clara stealthily eats the whole cupcake, save for the one bite I had before asking about her bakery.

  We both look down and see Clara looking away as if we can’t see her because she can’t see us. Sirona covers her mouth to stifle a laugh. I don’t even try. This kid is smart and savvy and makes me smile.

  “Darn. You ate all my cupcake,” I say in mock horror.

  Her mouth still full, she has the good sense to look ashamed before my laughter makes her grin and she lights up the room with her smile. Her mouth is still full of cake when she smiles and nods.

  “Clara, that’s rude,” Sirona begins.

  “It’s okay. This time,” I say and toss a wink at Clara.

  “Here. Have a cookie. Toffee shortbread. But it’s not dry shortbread. I hate when you have to work to enjoy a cookie.”

  I nod and smile and break off part of the cookie before tossing it in my mouth. Heaven. This place is heaven. Heaven smells like spun sugar and vanilla. I’d bet on it. My little moan tells her what she already knows—her baking is divine.

  “Delicious.” I wink at her too, something I know I ought not do, but I’m too curious to see what will happen. She looks away and blushes a bit and that satisfies me in a way it shouldn’t.

  “Thank you.”

  “Can I taste?”

  “Of course, silly,” I reply, using her words and hand her half the cookie.

  Sirona’s stern look is an attempt at reprimanding me. I wish it worked. It’s just cute, and I grin. She blushes again. That causes me to laugh.

  And our time together goes like that for a few more minutes before I have to reenter the real world.

  I leave with a gray and tu
rquoise box of miniature key lime pies, pink lemonade cupcakes, and half a dozen maple-glazed apple pie cookies.

  The bells over the door jingle me back into reality. I drive home, replacing the tracker in my car upon my arrival, careful not to jostle it and set off the motion.

  Tonight answered one question I desperately needed answered. Sirona Dugas is good to the core. She’s no mobster. She’s no mule. If she’s affiliated with Enzo Calabrese, it’s by coincidence only.

  Eighteen

  Killian and I have kept in touch since we met a few months ago. He was suspicious at first. Hell, he still may be, but I think he’s figuring out I’m not my father. That may just be something that’s proven out over time. Old wounds cut deep.

  I’ve made a point to call him every couple of weeks. He’s reticent, and our calls are brief, but I’m making the effort. I don’t know what happened between them, but my father was an asshole of the highest order.

  I sent him the paperwork showing that my father’s plans were nullified, as a sign of good faith. I have no idea whether documents drafted in the States hold up in Irish courts or vice versa, but I want him to know my intentions.

  It has done wonders to soften him to me, despite my being Patrick’s son.

  Even so, the paperwork came back signed. Bobby has it in his files in Indy.

  I’ve asked Killian for a few favors—ones that he has grumbled, loudly and continually about, but still he has acquiesced to.

  Today he is no less grumpy.

  “Aye?” he grumbles when he answers the call.

  “Killian, it’s Sean.”

  “What?”

  “No pleasantries for your favorite nephew?”

  “What do ya want, lad?”

  He and I work through some details on my retirement home he is overseeing being built on the property. What this means is he grouses and complains about people, equipment, and supplies. That, and the noise. It’s got to be almost a half a mile away from his cottage on our property. When I say “our” property, he bristles and curses me in Gaelic. Occasionally he does it in English as well, just for good measure.

  I want him to live out his days in peace where he chooses, and I want to support him if he ever gets to the place where he needs help to do that. His wife has long since passed and they never had children, so he’s stuck with me if he’s going to be independent. He curses about that too, but my answer never changes.

  “Lad, I’m not interested in a family reunion.”

  “Killian? I’m the only family you’ve got. And you’re the only I have left. Know you don’t trust me yet, old man, but I am not my father.”

  He hmpffs and ends the call.

  Weeks pass and my dilemma never changes.

  Enzo still breathes and I, the good pastor, smile and bide my time.

  I wait and I plan.

  But mostly, I just fucking wait.

  Nineteen

  On a hot July evening, I follow Sirona, wearing a tiny green tee that hugs her tits too tightly, as she leaves her shop early and heads toward the Central Business District. Her behavior lately has been erratic, and I know this because I’ve been watching her more than I’ll admit. She’s antsy—jumps when people move around her. Her head is always on a swivel. Her gaze, while alert, is vacant at best, fearful at worst.

  She hasn’t come back to confession. Not that I expect it, just hope for it since it’s private and personal. Little risk for her, even less for me.

  While she drives, I notice a black SUV keeping pace with her, and since she isn’t speeding, this is odd. Louisiana drivers don’t allow for much space and rarely tolerate speed-limit drivers. I pull back just a bit, something in my gut telling me to slow down and watch.

  She winds her way to a parking garage, another oddity for her. The Escalade does the same. I park on the street and remove my collar and black shirt, leaving only the graphic tee below. Throwing on a long-sleeved shirt and a baseball cap, I feed the meter and begin to wander like a tourist. It’s too damn hot for this extra shirt, but the baby blue is so different from my normal black, it is a refreshing change and a great disguise. She exits the garage on foot, not seeing the goon behind her doing the same. As nonchalantly as possible, I follow, allowing them to lead and not drawing their attention.

  I text her.

  Me: Find a women’s clothing store or duck into the D-Day museum and go to the women’s room.

  Sirona: Who is this?

  Me: Sean. Need you to trust me.

  Sirona: How do you know where I am? How did you get this number?

  Me: Explain later. Just do it.

  Sirona: Okay.

  Her paused steps quicken and she makes a hard right, the museum in her sights. She walks in through the restaurant entrance and winds her way down the hall to the women’s room. The glass walkway is visible from outside where the goon stands brazen, leaning against the wrought iron fence. He watches while grabbing his phone and punching the display furiously with his fat thumbs. The sweat rolls down his rounded forehead and he shifts restlessly.

  I breeze up the stairs past him and pose for a “selfie” in front of the entrance. What I’m really doing is taking a snap of the idiot. He never notices and I open the door, chilled at the too-cold air-conditioning while meandering down the hall.

  Me: Where are you?

  Sirona: Are you following me?

  Me: Yes. And I’m not the only one.

  Sirona: What?!

  Me: Is Clara safe?

  Sirona: Yes. I’m in the women’s room. Don’t know where or which one. Hang on.

  I meander through the shoulder-to-shoulder masses to the gift shop. I’m really buying time and watching. Goon One is joined by Goons Two, Three, and Four and they are beginning to make their way toward the doors. Fuck!

  Me: Is your restroom near one of those family ones? Get to it now and text me when you’re there.

  Two excruciating minutes later, I get a reply.

  Sirona: Found one by the movie theatre. Not the back wall. The theatre wall.

  Me: On my way.

  Sirona: What? Why?

  I slip into the crowd, yanking off my starched shirt as I go. I thank God I thought to grab it. I push open the first one. Empty! Shit! Flush, run water, and grab a paper towel and move to the second that is locked.

  Me: Open up!

  The click of the bolt is the first relief I’ve had in almost half an hour. I push in.

  “Strip.”

  “Father—”

  “For the last time, Sirona, it’s Sean.” I grab her shirt from the waistband of her pants to a shrieking noise. I put my hand over her mouth, get close to her ear, and hear her breath catch. “There are four men out there who are looking for you. One followed you in a black Escalade from your shop.”

  She goes rigid, so I remove my fingers from her mouth but keep whispering in her ear.

  “They’re Calabrese’s enforcers. I don’t know what’s going on but I’ll get to the bottom of it. In the meantime, I have to find a way to get you out of here. Do you have some place to go tonight?” Her temple taps my cheek as she shakes her head. All the while, her breathing speeds.

  “We’ll figure that out. Now, I need you to change clothes. Put this on.” I pull back and offer her the shirt, while turning my back to give her privacy.

  “Okay,” she finally says, while rolling up the sleeves of my shirt and tying it in a knot at her waist.

  What I wouldn’t give to see her in nothing but that! But that’s a fantasy for another day.

  “Ready?” I offer my hand and she tentatively slips her small one into mine. I turn the handle, and we walk out into the packed lobby.

  I only clock one as we snake our way through the throngs of people. We grab the elevator that takes us to the glass breezeway over the street and to the actual memorial. We’re visible, but so are they. A second surveils from the street as we walk and then talks into his wrist. Fuck!

  I drag her with me, winding toward the ex
hibits. The agent stops us, requesting our tickets, and wants to press the issue, but I explain that my date is being stalked and we’re trying to escape. Her anger and disbelief morph into concern and maybe even fear as someone behind us draws her attention. She assents and grabs her walkie-talkie and we move into and through the German front.

  We pop back into the family bathroom — this time there’s no ruse of privacy.

  “Switch!” I reach between my shoulder blades and begin pulling my graphic tee over my head. She freezes, staring at my abs. “Not the time, sweetheart, but thanks.” I wink while handing her my shirt. “Sorry for the sweat,” I add since it’s going to suck for her.

  She tosses back the blue button-up, which I throw on and button in earnest, while she ties a knot in the back making my tee tighten over her curves and small waist.

  “I was wrong before.” Shit! I said that out loud.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  We yank open the door and, just as we exit, a goon rounds the hall heading toward the Japan exhibit.

  I push Sirona’s back into the wall and my instincts take over and I do the first thing I can think, the thing I’ve wanted to do for so long. I lift my hands to her face, shield her body with my own, and drop my mouth to hers.

  And I kiss her.

  Deep.

  The moan in my mouth echoes hers. She doesn’t pull away but kisses me right back. I know I should stop, but I don’t. I deepen the kiss because I’ve wanted this since I met her. My growing cock is taking over. And when the sound of shoving or shuffling of shoes vanishes, I pull back and give her one last peck. I thread her fingers through mine and grab my phone while walking toward the side exit.

  Two NOLA police officers scan us as they walk away from the museum. I offer a chin check and nod, and they do the same.

  I move us around the block until the Uber I ordered arrives, where I drop her in the back seat and mumble, “I’m sorry.” I’m not. I’m anything but sorry, but I’m on Enzo’s radar while she’s in his snare, and for that I am truly sorry.

  Her face drops and she averts her golden eyes. “Oh… okay.” Her shoulders roll forward as the Prius drives away.