Accidental Evils

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Accidental Evils Page 8

by Susan Fanetti


  Chickenshit.

  She plopped on a log near a cold fire pit and got to work coughing the saltwater out of her lungs.

  “You okay?!”

  She looked over her shoulder and saw another wet-suited surfer hurrying her way. Tall and broad-shouldered. Blond. Nice. He looked kind of familiar, but she didn’t know why. Probably this—sharing a wave some morning. Or several mornings. She wasn’t out here to make friends, so normally she just smiled and waved and got out there.

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  “You’re bleeding.” He half-reached toward her face, and Billy put her hand to the sorest part, on her forehead, and came back bloody.

  “Huh.” Another batch of water tickled her throat, and she leaned over to cough it out.

  “I hate kooks like that. He could’ve killed you. I tried to go after the little pussy, but he was at the lot before I got to the beach.”

  “It’s okay. Not your battle.” She swiped at her forehead again. Still bleeding. And the saltwater dripping from her hair was an interesting experience in that cut.

  “You need some first aid. My place is just back there”—he waved at a pretty cottage on the beach, and Billy’s heart stuttered. “We’ve basically got a triage unit. My wife likes to be prepared.”

  “You’re Trey Pagano.” That was why she’d recognized him. He’d been at the club a few times, including before she’d opened, while she was building. His family had done the construction. The other side of his family was currently threatening to hurt her.

  “Yeah. I thought you knew. You’re Billy Jones.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you without the suit and tie.”

  He smiled and offered his hand. “Come on. Let’s get you patched up.”

  “No, thanks.” She stood, too. “My van’s just in the lot. I’ve got my own triage unit. I’m fine.”

  “You sure?” He was being perfectly friendly, and she didn’t have a bad history with him, but just now the thought of being in proximity with a Pagano man made her anxious. She could still feel Tony’s finger skimming down her chest. His mouth on her neck. His breath. His tongue. And the throb of how she’d woken from her dream. All of that was far too confusing and dangerous to contend with.

  “Positive.” She manufactured a carefree smile. “But thanks.”

  “Okay. See you around, I guess. I’m out here every morning I can, so if you need anything, that’s us.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  With a amiable nod of his head, Trey Pagano, nephew of the don, trotted back to the surf.

  Billy unleashed her board and hurried back to her van.

  ~ 7 ~

  “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession.”

  “May the Lord be in your heart and help you to confess your sins with true sorrow, my son. Unburden your soul and be absolved.”

  Tony stared at his hands, struggling as always to begin. Confession was a doubly difficult act of faith for a man like him.

  Though there was a screen between him and his confessor, he knew the priest, and the priest probably knew him. Father Sabatini wasn’t much older than Tony, maybe in his mid-thirties, and had come straight from Rome to little Quiet Cove less than a year earlier. His English was flawless, but his accent was strong. The screen was more a metaphor than an actual shield of identity.

  Father Sabatini had taken over Sunday morning confession as soon as he’d arrived. Tony didn’t know if that was because he was friendlier to La Cosa Nostra than Father Brennan or Father Merkel or it was simply a duty the others didn’t like, so they’d dropped it on the new guy’s shoulders.

  Sunday morning confession at Christ the King Church wasn’t advertised in the parish newsletter or website, or in the missalettes. In the two hours between the six a.m. dawn Mass and the nine o’clock main Mass, a priest held confession exclusively for the Pagano Brothers. Everybody else in the parish got Saturday afternoon for confession.

  The don didn’t require his men to take Communion, he often didn’t take it himself, but he wanted their presence at Mass. At some point before Tony’s tenure, he’d arranged for this special confession, so his men could take Communion if they chose. Or maybe Ben Pagano had done it; Tony didn’t know for sure. In any case, it showed a high degree of faith in Catholicism and in the confessor priest, to free up his men to unburden their souls, considering the weight those souls carried.

  Tony had grown up in this church, done his First Communion and his confirmation, the whole bit. His mother was devout, and she’d dragged all three kids to Saturday confession and shined them up every Sunday morning for Mass, but he’d never liked it. His father had only gone for Christmas and Easter, and then usually resentfully, and Tony had developed an early idea that Mass was for chicks and pussies. Chum.

  He’d groused every Sunday morning, until he’d been old enough to notice the Pagano Brothers men and their families, taking up half of one whole side of the sanctuary. Nick Pagano right up front, with his wife and children.

  It was at Mass, when he was in middle school, that Tony had first connected the Paganos his father sometimes spoke of, with a kind of reverent resentment, with the men in the pews and understood that they had real power—that they were power. He started watching them, and the way people behaved around them, and knew what, and who, he wanted to be.

  It was at Mass he’d understood that his father wasn’t anything more than a dogfish. Pagano men were Great Whites.

  After that, Tony took Mass seriously, attending regularly even after he’d moved out of the house. But he gave up confession and Communion, feeling no need for absolution or redemption.

  Until last October, when he’d killed a seven-year-old boy.

  He hadn’t confessed that sin yet. But he sat here almost every week, trying to drag it off his soul and into the light.

  So, as always, he started with the easy stuff. “I took the Lord’s name in vain. I lied. I held hate in my heart. I beat my father up—but he deserved it.”

  “Are you confessing this act, or defending it? Confession requires wholehearted contrition.”

  “I—” Tony stopped for a minute and thought about that. He wasn’t really sorry for lying or hating, either, but it didn’t cost him anything to repent it. Was he sorry about what he’d done? “I don’t know.”

  Father Sabatini let that sit for a moment and then asked, “May I make an observation, my son?”

  “Sure, Father.”

  “I believe you struggle with this sacred act of confession, and I wonder if it is because you think yourself unworthy of forgiveness.”

  Tony looked up, studied the vague profile of the priest through the intricate screen. He didn’t know what to feel about that, or what to say, so he kept his mouth shut.

  “There is no sin that cannot be forgiven with a heart that truly seeks it, my son. The Lord tell us in the Book of Hebrews, For I will be merciful to their iniquities, and I will remember their sins no more.”

  “You know what I do, Father. I did it last week, and I’m gonna do it next week. So how do I confess?”

  “I am not an agent of the law. I am a servant of the Lord. Only you and He can know what burdens your soul. I can only help you lift the burden you feel. What burdens you?”

  Artem Honcharenko. The little boy, his eyes so full of fear, trying to hold onto a life that had already left him. Why had a little kid been there? Tony squeezed his eyes shut and slammed the heels of his hands against them until the vision of that terrified, dying face was overwhelmed by flickering swirls.

  Angie had taken the blame that night. He’d stepped up before Tony could and told Nick that he’d killed the boy. With that act, meant to protect Tony, Angie had taken away his chance of coming clean. Angie had taken the don’s heat, but had left Tony with the weight of the deed.

  Maybe he’d never be able to confess what he’d done.

  But there was something else he regretted. He felt ridiculous for it, and in
the scheme of shit he did for his fucking job, it was about on par with saying ‘goddamn,’ but it had been scraping at him for more than a day now, pulling his thoughts toward it over and over. If he could give it over to the priest, he’d feel that as a relief. “I pushed myself on a woman.”

  The priest was quiet, and Tony felt a little defensive twitch of nerves.

  “I didn’t rape her or anything, it wasn’t like that, it wasn’t any big deal, but I got up in her space and scared her. That’s all it was—I don’t hurt women, so it wouldn’t’ve gone any further. I don’t know why it’s buggin’ me, but it is. I’m sorry about it.”

  “Do you think it was a ‘big deal’ to the woman?”

  “Well, yeah.” He laughed a little, feeling the defensive twitch flare up a bit more. “That was the point. I was trying to scare her. It was work. I didn’t do it for fun.”

  “But it bothers you, even though it was work, and your work isn’t usually a burden on your soul.”

  “I guess.” The priest didn’t respond, and Tony’s evasive answer sat between them. “Yeah, it’s buggin’ me.”

  “Why do you think this instance is different?”

  “I don’t know.” He thought of that moment, of Billy Jones staring up at him, scared but holding firm, waiting for her chance to stab him. He chuckled softly and set his hand on his side. And then she’d fixed him up. “It was just different. She didn’t deserve it.”

  “Like your father did.”

  “My old man took a shot at me. So yeah, he deserved it. I’m not sorry for that.”

  “What is the fourth commandment?”

  Tony laughed. “I’m guessing that’s honor thy father.”

  “It is.”

  “What if thy father is an abusive piece of shit? What’s the commandment about not beating the crap out of thy wife and son on the regular?”

  “I am sorry for you and your mother.”

  This was starting to feel like some kind of shrink session, and Tony was over it. “Is there penance for me, Father, or am I just fucked?”

  He thought he heard a Sicilian-flavored chuckle on the other side of the screen. “You are not ‘fucked.’ The Lord’s love is patient and compassionate. Ten Hail Marys, five Our Fathers, and an Act of Contrition. And son—apologize to the woman.”

  “Please?” He’d never gotten a penance that wasn’t just kneeling in a pew and reciting some prayers. “That’s part of my penance?”

  “It is.” A shadow moved as Father Sabatini made the Sign of the Cross. “God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

  “Amen,” Tony said.

  “May the Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ, the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary and of all the saints, whatever good you do and suffering you endure, heal your sins, help you to grow in holiness, and reward you with eternal life. Go in peace.”

  ~oOo~

  Tony’s family attended the nine o’clock Mass, too, but he sat with the Pagano Brothers now, so he didn’t see them until afterwards, on the church steps, where people gathered to chat with neighbors or get a personal moment with the priest. Father Merkel, the pastor, stood at the top of the steps with the large double doors topped with a round stained-glass window as his backdrop, and held court.

  Tony didn’t wait to greet the priest. He trotted down the steps and found his mother and sisters off a ways on the walk to the parking lot. He hadn’t been home or called since that last scene with his father.

  His mother smiled brightly when she saw him. “Antony!”

  “Hi, Ma.” He accepted her hug and kissed her cheek. Then he turned to his sisters. Kiki first. She was twenty-six, a college graduate with an actual career as a graphic designer at an ad company in Providence, and still living at home. Mainly as a peacekeeper; their parents got along better when they were supervised. And Tony was sure to get word of it when they weren’t.

  He kissed her cheek and gave her a one-armed hug. “Everything good?”

  She squeezed him around his waist—ouch—and nodded against his chest. “Yeah. All quiet.”

  The oldest of them was Aurora. She managed a t-shirt shop on the boardwalk. She was married, but her guy didn’t come to church, or spend much time around the Cioccolantis—and Aurora was pulling away, too, except for showing up every now and then for Mass.

  “Hey, Ro.” He hugged her and gave her round belly a quick pat. She was expecting a boy in September.

  “Hiya Tone. You look good.”

  “You, too. You got that glow.”

  She laughed. “It’s fat. I’m eating for about twenty, I think.”

  Their mother grabbed Tony’s hand. “The girls are taking me out for brunch and shopping, and then we’re gonna have a good dinner tonight. I got a roast in the cooker, and I’ll put a ziti in. How ‘bout you come over and join us?”

  “I don’t know, Ma.” He didn’t want to see his old man yet.

  “Please, Antony. Let’s make things right again.”

  Things weren’t ever right in their family. They could only be made to look right. Cover up the scars and bruises, glue the broken things or throw them away. He looked to his sisters. Aurora had found her way out, so she was merely interested. Kiki gave him a little nod.

  “It’ll be good. We’ll pick up some ice cream for dessert while we’re out.”

  “Okay, sure.”

  “Wonderful! Oh, it’ll be so good to have the table full again! You know ...” his mother added, “Your father’s at the marina. He says he’s gonna push off around noon, if you wanted to join him while we’re having our girls’ day.”

  “He said that?” Tony turned to Kiki, who’d give him a straight answer. Sailing, like golf, was a thing he and his old man did okay. When they had something to do that drew their attention from talking, something they both had reasonable skill at, they got along.

  However, the last time he’d seen his father, he’d beaten him unconscious. It might not be the best idea ever to put them alone together in a sailboat in the Atlantic Ocean right now.

  “He did,” Kiki agreed. “I think he was really hoping.”

  “I don’t know. I might have work to do.” As far as he knew, what he’d done Friday night at West Egg was all there was on his schedule for the weekend, but that could change any time. And he liked to have that in his back pocket as a ready excuse. Before he went to the marina, he’d need a minute to think hard about it.

  “Well, if you don’t. He’s pushing off at noon, like I said.”

  “Okay, Ma. I’ll run down there if I can. I’ll see you for dinner.”

  “Okay, honey. Six o’clock!”

  “Yep.” He said his goodbyes and headed off to the lot.

  ~oOo~

  It hadn’t taken him long to decide his first instinct was the right one—not enough time had passed for it to be safe to be alone with his old man yet. Especially not on the water, where either one of them could lose their shit and create a very big problem.

  Tony had intended to go home, change, and spend the afternoon at CBSD instead, but he had to pass the boardwalk to get to his condo from Christ the King, and now he was parked behind West Egg.

  As far as he was concerned, whether or not he had been forgiven, or was worthy of it, was an open question, one he guessed would be answered when he croaked. He believed in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, in Heaven and Hell and everything in between, in everything he’d been taught, because he hadn’t heard anything else that made more sense. It was all guesswork, anyway. He’d had thirty years of being taught one kind of guess, so that one was etched deep in his mind.

  Thus, he should believe in absolution, too. But he always held back. He’d killed three men before the night he’d killed Art
em Honcharenko, and he’d killed a man that night, too. He’d killed a man in that shitty Richmond squat mere days ago. He’d hurt dozens of men, some of them very badly, so they’d carry scars for all their lives. He’d buried men other Paganos had killed and erased the evidence of their deaths. None of these things had he confessed. His kills were the kills of a soldier. Not sins, but the toll of war.

  Until Artem Honcharenko, he hadn’t felt the need for confession. Now, he went regularly and still hadn’t said these things he’d done.

  But for some reason he’d confessed what he’d done to Billy Jones, that insignificant little game he’d played. Father Sabatini wanted him to apologize, but as Tony sat here, staring at the plain steel back door, he didn’t think he was here on the orders of a priest.

  He was honestly sorry.

  He couldn’t figure it. True, his world was a man’s world, and rarely did the work pit him against a woman, so he wasn’t often in the position of leaning on one like that. Still, Friday night wasn’t the first time he’d had to intimidate a chick, and it wasn’t the first time he’d gotten up close and personal to do it. His job was to find his mark’s chief vulnerability and exploit it. Sexual autonomy was often a woman’s chief vulnerability.

  But that was as far as he’d ever go, just a little play like Friday night. Never an explicit threat, because he didn’t make threats he wasn’t ready to make good on. If he’d needed to go harder on her then—or if he ended up having to go hard on her later—he’d find a guy she loved and make her watch while he hurt him. There was a father somewhere in the picture, and some uncles in Boston—though the uncles were loaded and connected all the way up, so probably not them. The father, then. They were estranged, but Tony knew as well as anyone what kind of vulnerability a father was, no matter how much you hated the bastard. Love and obligation were always sunk in there somewhere, and a lot of hurt could be mined in all that conflicted feeling.

 

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