by R. J. Grant
My mind again went to Giovanni. It was time to find that greasy bastard, and see just what he was all about. Evidence of his transgressions was circumstantial, but that was more than enough for me. I had no problem administering penance first, and then listening to his confession.
Do I hear an Amen?
A little Wine, a Little Truth
5 It was not long before I tired of watching the old man sleep. The rest of the rectory was empty. Everyone was out doing whatever it is they do between morning Mass and dinner. I had often thought that the life of a parish priest must bring on excruciating depression. Visit the sick, bury the dead, and console those left behind. Ah, it must be a calling. I decided to go up to my quarters and stretch out for a while.
While walking up the stairs, I thought I heard a sound coming from my room. I approached quietly, and opened the door slowly to find a man looking through my closet. He wore the black suit of a priest.
“What are you doing?” I asked firmly.
The man turned with a startled look on his face, and guilt in the corners of his mouth. I was sure that he or whoever sent him had not expected me to be able to return today. I gave him a quick study; the haircut and the mustache didn’t look right. This was no priest. A quick glance at the rest of the room and I knew it had been searched rather roughly. He had my HK from the closet shelf in his hand, but it was still in the holster. He moved toward me in a threatening manner, expecting me to step aside and let him run by.
I did step aside, however, I also clothes-lined him with my forearm, catching him dead in the throat as intended. His body was immediately horizontal in midair, and seemed to float for an instant before falling flat on his back at my feet with a thud. The gun fell beside him as he reached to hold his throat, and I reached for his hair. I dragged him by the head across the floor with all my might, sitting him up against the bed.
“What are you looking for? Who are you? Whom are you working for?” I said, in rapid succession.
He gargled something unintelligible between choking on his own spit. Damn, I thought, wrong tactic. I probably ruptured his larynx; there’d be no conversation with this one for a long, long time. While he gagged and wheezed uncontrollably, I tore open his pockets, finding a billfold and an Italian drivers license.
“Murhaf Bestani—well, well. Syrian by the sound of the name, but apparently living here for quite some time.” I left him struggling to breath at the bedside and opened the window, stealing a peek at the courtyard below—empty. Turning back, I found him trying to crawl to the doorway.
“Not so fast, Murhaf. You and I are not done yet,” I said, dragging him by the hair again to put him back where I left him.
“I suppose I will get nothing more from you on this matter, but I can’t just let you go. I think you are going to attempt an escape out the window into the ally. Out the window it is for you, Murhaf.”
The man’s eyes bulged, and he began to gurgle even more while trying to struggle from my grasp. He had no chance as I tightened my grip on his hair, spinning him backwards to me, and grabbing his groin with my other hand. One good upward yank and he all but jumped out the window for me.
The window was only on the second story, but I knew that dropping him in his present condition all but guaranteed he would crack his head on the concrete in one way or another. Even if it didn’t kill him, I was sure he would be unconscious in a hospital for an extended period. Poor bastard, he couldn’t even scream on the way down.
I closed the window and quickly tidied up my quarters. Best I disappear until after someone finds him, I thought. Time to take a walk on the avenue. I slipped back downstairs and out the door without being seen. Maybe a good walk would clear my head from the irritation I was still feeling at Giovanni.
However, the walk had not cleared my head one bit, and I was still in a bad mood when I returned to the rectory about two hours later. The police were just removing a body bag from the building. I was pleased to see that Murhaf had not survived the fall; he would be one less loose end to contend with. Dinard was standing on the steps with the monsignor, and I saw his face redden as I approached. He immediately stepped inside as if to avoid me.
I stopped to speak with the monsignor, displaying shock at the event. For the time being, it was assumed the dead man was a thief who had fallen off a drainpipe near to where he was found. I expressed my sorrow with much pious expression, and excused myself to retire to my quarters. There are times when a group of turned collars is useful for blunting a police investigation, especially in Italy. With a little luck, the injury to his larynx would also be overlooked in the autopsy.
Opening the door, I was surprised to find a man in my room again, but this time it was Father Dinard. He was sitting at my desk chair, arms folded and resting on his enormous belly, with his hands inside his sleeves in his usual pose. He remained silent for a long moment, and finally, when he couldn’t resist any longer, he asked the question.
“Father Adama, did you have anything to do with that man’s death?”
“Father, how can you ask such a question?”
“You are not answering the question, Father. The kitchen is directly below your quarters, and I heard a scuffle moments before I heard a thud in the court yard.”
It would not do to try to bullshit Dinard. Despite appearances, he was an astute little man with an acute sense of awareness. There was nothing to do but confess.
“Yes, Father, I threw him out the window.”
“Good! ...God forgive me… He was a known thug and murderer—a blight on Milano. Here, I removed this just before the police arrived, just in case they searched your room.”
Taking his hands out of his sleeves, he offered me my holstered HK. I casually took it from him and hooked the conceal holster inside my waste band.
“Thank you Father. That would have been difficult to explain, now wouldn’t it?
“Yes, I supposed it would.”
To my surprise, he didn’t ask any more questions, but rose from the chair to leave me. At the door, he paused and turned with a frown on his face.
“Adama, I am very good at judging character. If I had thought for one moment that your actions were unrighteous, I would have revealed to the police what I suspected. Please do not prove my judgment wrong. I would be most disappointed.” With that, he was gone.
I freshened up and decided it was time to lose the collar and black suit for a time. I was going out this evening to find Giovanni. Even though it was evident to me that he was the cause of my little run-ins with some of Milan’s undesirables, it didn’t make sense. The man was certainly connected to Burtuchi. But then why was he trying to mislead and outright eliminate me? Obviously, he was not aware of my true vocation, or he would not have been so foolish to send common thugs to perpetrate my demise. However, by now I was sure he realized that he wasn’t dealing with Mother Teresa.
As I recalled, Giovanni worked for World Wide Models, and I was pretty sure he had not given up his day job. The Vatican does not over pay. A quick check of the phone directory gave me the address I needed—1278 Corso Sempione, right in the heart of the city, within sight of the Piazza Duomo. I was sure I would find him and his black SUV in short order. I found myself thinking, because of this bastard I am going to miss one of Dinard’s delicious suppers. I would pay him back for that, too!
I walked to the piazza and got a taxi to bring me within a city street of the address. Corso Sepion was one of the many wide, multi-lane boulevards that divided the city into sectors. I crossed to the far side of the street, and planned to watch the place for a few moments before going directly to it. In the front of the building were downstairs offices with the floors above sporting sun terraces on each floor. There were seats and small umbrellas for the occupants. Watching the comings and goings from the terraces, it was obvious that these were model flats provided by the modeling agency downstairs. Typically, each flat housed a dozen girls at a time, with new girls coming, and those who did not find a
dequate work leaving—sort of a rotating stable of flesh. However, it was well known that, although they were expected to work hard and live in dormitory settings, the girls were treated exceptionally well and given the opportunity to make a good income.
For these girls, it was the opportunity of a lifetime. Some of them were barely seventeen, leaving home for the first time from virtually every part of the world to follow their dream. In general, they were sent here by their local modeling agencies with a subcontract to such agencies as World Wide Models. Maybe they were the winners of local contests, or they had successful ads in a magazine. Given some note, the local agency could earn the interest of one of the large agencies here. If they were extremely lucky during one of the castings, they might even win a spot in one of the fashion runway shows during the season. Of course, very, very few were “discovered,” and instead of fame and fortune, they would soon be on their way back to whatever little hamlet they came from. Nevertheless, while they were here their lives were truly glamorous, and they were paid very well.
I watched a few of them out on the third floor terrace recuperating from the day’s toil. They were all very young and very beautiful to a fault. It wasn’t long before an SUV pulled to the front door of the place to let out several more girls. I was ready to sprint across the avenue and jump in before Giovanni ever knew what hit him.
Unfortunately, it was not Giovanni driving. The girls stood on the sidewalk talking and laughing before entering the building. I saw this was my chance to covertly find out what I could. I quickly crossed over the avenue and sported my best smile and pleasant manner.
“Ciao, ladies,’” I said cheerfully. “I wonder if you could help me out.”
Their first reaction was somewhat standoffish, and I was met with frowns. They immediately started to walk away toward the apartment door. I supposed that they were often approached by the local Casanovas, and were just worn out from it.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. I am looking for Giovanni. He was supposed to meet me here this evening.”
Their expressions changed with the recognition of his name, and smiles easily returned. They turned back toward me and the brave one, a very tall girl with legs up to her armpits, stepped forward.
“If it is Giovanni Garabela you are looking for, I can help you.”
That was when I realized I didn’t even know his last name. Well, by just learning that I had made progress already.
“Yes, Garabela. Tall, handsome guy that escorts you ladies around town.”
“He is with Melissa and Salina. At the last minute he had to fill in for Roberto and take them to an evening rehearsal. I’m afraid your friend will not be back for several hours.”
“Oh, that’s too bad, I have some money I owe him,” I said, touching my breast pocket for effect. “I am going out of town for a while and wanted to pay him back for all he has done for me.”
“If you really want to see him before you leave, he is at the Park Hyatt Hotel on Via Tamasso Grossi. Do you know where that is?”
“Why yes, of course. Thank you so much. Have a pleasant evening ladies, and thank you again.”
I was off to the Hyatt. I expected it was a fashion show rehearsal, and was probably being held in one of the hotel ballrooms, but I doubted he would be inside. It was more likely that I would find him in the underground car lot waiting for his charges. I couldn’t think of a better place to have a heart-to-heart talk with the man. His repentance was surely drawing close now.
I found a taxi, and a few Euros later I was walking up to the main entrance. The hotel was typical of Hyatt. The place smells of luxury—exquisite design, and impeccable service. The lobby, unsurprisingly, was an inviting garden with winding paths, accented with rock gardens and running water. The hollow core of the building reached up over twenty floors, serviced by glass elevators to each terraced floor. I have to hand it to the Japanese—they certainly know how to run a world-wide hotel chain.
I quickly found the elevator to the garage and pressed the button to the lower level. As soon as I stepped out of the elevator, I stepped to the side out of the direct light. My eye scanned the parked cars. It would not be hard to spot an SUV given the small size of most cars in Italy. Sure enough, there it was. It was parked nose out about ten rows down from me, and someone was sitting in the driver’s seat, apparently taking a nap. I walked directly to the row as if I were going purposely to my car so as not to look suspicious slinking about. When I was within a few paces of the SUV I recognized the napping driver through the rolled-down window as Giovanni, and drew the HK. Without hesitation, I walked directly up to the driver’s side, placing the weapon inches from his head, and at the same time I loudly said, “risvegliare,” but he did not wake up.
Only then did I notice a small trickle of blood from his ear. He had been shot in the back of the head with a small caliber, probably a twenty-two. There was no doubt that this was a professional job. I doubted he ever saw his assailant approach.
There was not going to be a come to Jesus meeting with this bastard after all; that train had already left the station. I quickly holstered the weapon and turned to walk away from him. It would not do to be seen here. It was quite possible that the girls back at the agency would be giving my description to the police when they came around asking questions. However, I had no expectation that they would come to St. Andrew looking for their murder suspect. Even if I showed up at World Wide Models again I was sure no one would recognize me, provided I had my collar turned around. However, I would not be going there to tempt fate. For now, everything I thought I knew appeared to be false.
What the hell was going on? I thought that Giovanni had been doing Burtuchi’s bidding—that he set those thugs upon me and sent Murhaf to search my quarters. Now that I found him shot dead, I was not so sure of his guilt in setting me up. Maybe he didn’t know about the bishop documenting the case against Crochi, but nothing really explained why he had been killed. The only thing I knew for sure was that he had been in contact with Crochi, and was probably the one who compromised him. Was he supposed to be the recipient of the Atonement Lot? I guessed that I would never know for sure now. Funny thing about Giovanni, he was probably going to die tonight anyway. I had every intention of doing the deed myself when I found him. Oh well…
Whoever had killed him had now tipped their hand and made me aware of their presence. Could that someone be Burtuchi, had Giovenni become a liability to him in some way? No, in retrospect Giovanni had been a loyal instrument of the man’s purposes. Of course, Giovanni had not been able to talk me out of finding Victorio Del Cielo against the cardinal’s wishes. It was quite possible that Giovanni had reported my intention, and Burtuchi had repaid his failure. That didn’t seem likely, though. Nothing was clear yet, but I was determined to get to the bottom of it all.
Before going to my room back at the rectory, I stopped in the kitchen, hoping to find Dinard still there cleaning up. Luck was with me and I found him having himself an after-supper sandwich.
“Father Dinard, do you think I might make myself one of those also?”
He looked up, surprised to find me in the doorway. He had a mouth full of ham and cheese-filled baguette to contend with, which slipped a little out of the sides of his mouth when he tried to smile at my presence.
“Um, um,” he mumbled, pointing to the cutting board with his sandwich hand.
All the makings were there and they looked good. It had been about ten hours since I had eaten and I could taste the ham just by looking at it. He was chewing vigorously to enable himself to swallow the large mouthful, which finally went down with a loud gulp.
“Adama, please help yourself. Have as much as you please. We missed you at supper. We had the most delicious roast beef; you would have been in heaven.”
“I’m sure it was excellent,” I replied.
“I see you have been on shore leave,” he said, gesturing to my attire. “One day, I must go out dressed as you are just to ex
perience people who are not in the presence of a priest.”
He was opening a bottle of wine now with the diligence of a surgeon. The cork had no chance against the man’s intent.
“You may be disappointed, Father. When men have no pretense you may find them most unpleasant to be with.”
“I fear you are right, Adama, but I still want to do it if only for my own satisfaction. Sometimes I think we shield ourselves too much in the vestry.”
I wolfed down my sandwich almost as fast as Dinard. He poured a second glass of wine while we talked and before I knew it he was opening a second bottle. A mellow buzz from the wine shortly followed, allowing us both to drop our own pretenses. The fact was that we both genuinely liked each other and found it easy to converse. By the last glass of the second bottle, laughter was easy and friendship was clearly established.
“Adama, I fear you have awakened elements of Milano that were better left undisturbed.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Opus Dei10, they are prowling about!”
I could see a hesitation on his face. It was to be expected, given the preference for privacy that I had displayed to him on several past occasions.
“Go on, what about Opus Dei?”
“They are very active in Milano, and I have had run-ins with them in the past. Usually they stay away from St. Andrew, not because they fear anyone here in the least, but rather because there is no gain for them here. Our parishioners are steeled against their overtures to join them. Their attempts to seduce our youth have proven unsuccessful, so they ignore us for the most part. However, I have seen several of their members who are known to me in the nearby streets. I must think that it has something to do with you, Adama.”