Extreme Unction: A Lupa Schwartz Mystery

by J. David Core

  “He has some faith. He believes in the duality of man; his capacity for greatness and his capacity for baseness. He sees the beauty in a well plotted murder. He doesn’t approve of the act, but he enjoys the audacity of it. He chooses to champion justice, but he could just as easily have championed anarchy. That is religion, isn’t it? That’s original sin.”

  Though she’d begun by saying that I would have to ask Schwartz if I wanted to understand his religious philosophy, I now had the feeling that I’d gotten the treatise.

  ***

  I followed Beverly out into the garden. Her cilantro had begun to flower, but it had also begun to grow too tall for its own stalks to support it. Soon (I was told) it would begin to get heavy round seeds which would harden and be coriander, so we needed to stake the plants. She cut straight sticks off of a willow and stripped the leaves. She pushed these dowels into the ground next to the cilantro and fashioned ties out of the leaves. As she worked, I helped where I could and continued the conversation.

  “You’re Catholic, right?” I said rhetorically, “so maybe you can answer a question I have.”

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  “Something strange happened today at the funeral home,” I said, and then I told her the incident where Peggy Hanson had defended the righteousness of the priest whom she thought killed her father. “Is that something peculiarly Catholic?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll find that kind of misplaced devotion in any orthodox type of religion. In Protestant religions, the pastor usually works at the sufferance of the church elders. At any moment, they can revoke his charter, in a sense denying his divinity. However, when the pastor is put in place by a larger governing body, like a diocese, the people have no power to usurp his authority at all. As a subsistence stratagem, they begin to give him berth. They deny his humanity, his foibles, and his errancy. They substitute papacy, and grace and in-errancy.”

  “I see,” I said, and I quoted Lester, the skinny kid at the playground. “…the fourth leaf on the clover.”

  “What?” Beverly said. “Oh, right; the shamrock actually.”

  ***

  Beverly and I were trussing butterflied pork chops with mushroom stuffing when the phone rang. Beverly went to the hall to take the call, just as Schwartz and Mia emerged from the garage. “Are you preparing dinner tonight?” Schwartz said amicably.

  “No,” I said. “I’m just helping Beverly. She had to answer the phone.” As I spoke, Beverly returned from the call.

  “Lupa,” she said. “I was just on the phone with Fr. Donatelli. He says to tell you that Fr. Coneely won’t be able to come tonight. The bishop has summoned them, and they had to go with him to meet with the archbishop.”

  “The archbishop is in Pittsburgh?” Lupa asked.

  “No,” Beverly said. “The arch-diocese is in Philadelphia. They’ve gone there.”

  Schwartz gaped, visibly stunned. “He’s a murder suspect, and he leaves the area to travel several hundred miles? Of all the arrogance.”

  “The archbishop wanted to see him,” Beverly said.

  “Then in that case, the archbishop should have come to Pittsburgh,” Schwartz insisted. He waved his hands as if to say, “bah!” and he stormed from the room. He went into his study, and soon we could hear the saxophone riff of The Pink Panther Theme by Henry Mancini. Mia placed a hand on my shoulder and said, “Well, that ends your working day. He’s started a movie marathon. How many of those films are there, Bev?” Mia asked.

  “Five I think,” Bev answered. “Unless you count the Alan Arkin one or the three after Sellers died.”

  “He only watches the Sellers ones,” Mia said; and as the two women spoke, I smiled knowingly, despite the fact that I had always thought the Pink Panther was just a cartoon character who sold fiberglass insulation. Beverly returned to the kitchen and soon reappeared with a frosted glass beer mug and a chilled bottle of dark beer which she took into the study for Schwartz. Mia turned her attention to me again. “Well, you might as well make alternate plans. He’ll be taking his dinner on a T.V. tray tonight. What do you say? Feel like going out on the town with me?”

  ***

  After dinner that evening, Mia and I borrowed a cool green Ferrari from Schwartz’s mélange, and we headed into town. During the trip, Mia asked me how I enjoyed my afternoon with Bev. “It was nice,” I said. “She’s very bright.”

  “Did the topic of Schwartz come up?” Mia asked.

  The question made me uncomfortable. I didn’t know what she was driving at, but the tone seemed sarcastic. I felt myself pull my shoulders into a defensive posture, and I answered, “Well, I am doing a story on him, after all.”

  “Did she defend his behavior?”

  Mia’s questions seemed harsh, but her devilish grin confused the situation for me. “How do you mean?” I asked.

  “Did she make him seem deep or thoughtful about whatever you asked concerning him? Did she seem to be lifting him up to an unreasonable standard?”

  The questions made no sense, but she was striking all the right chords. “I suppose you could say that, yes,” I said.

  Mia leaned collusively across the gear shift toward me. “That’s because she’s in love with him,” she said slyly, and now her questions made sense. She wasn’t trying to undermine either Beverly or Schwartz. She was gossiping. It was just girl talk.

  “Really?” I said in genuine glee. “Does he know? Is he in love with her?”

  “No,” Mia said. “He doesn’t have a clue.”

  “How do you know she’s in love with him?” I asked.

  “Oh, come on,” Mia said in mock derision. “You’re the daughter of the great detective. Didn’t you pick up on the clues?” For the first time, I allowed myself to think about it. I’d been so preoccupied with the case and with my story that I hadn’t taken time to examine the people around me. Mia was right. Beverly was in love with Schwartz, and he was oblivious to the fact. Either that or he chose to pretend not to be aware of her feelings for other chauvinistic or self-serving reasons. Mia and I spent the rest of the trip bonding as girlfriends in that girl-friendly way.

  “What’s your situation?” I asked. “Are you seeing someone?”

  “Me?” Mia said. “No, well, yes. I’m seeing lots of someones. Every weekend, I see the goons in these nightclubs leering at me like a piece of meat, and then I see my grandma on Sunday. I don’t know. I guess I’m just too picky. I want a guy who can keep me in the manner to which I’ve grown accustomed. Trouble is, that manner involves a garage that’s a gear-head’s paradise and three squares prepared by somebody other than me.”

  “You could always settle,” I said.

  “Bite your tongue!” Mia snapped playfully, then suddenly she seemed remorseful. “Oh, unless — have you settled?”

  “Huh?” I said. “Oh, no. Actually, I just divorced from the king of all jerks. I was married to a guy at the magazine where I work. He stole a story I was working on, and it got him a promotion. Classic story line: girl meets boy; girl marries boy; girl gets lead on utilities commission scandal; boy uses marriage to spy into girl’s computer files; girl sees story on editors desk under boy’s byline, etceteras.”

  “I hate those etceteras,” Mia said.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Me too.”

  ***

  If you’ve never been to Pittsburgh’s strip district, it’s a true day out. During business hours, they have open air markets of every description all summer long. Then, after, the nightclubs open to invite the riffraff and the hoity-toity of every description to revel near or on a river wharf. All of the clubs are but a few minutes’ walk apart down a wide brick street through warehouse lots and bustling walkways. The club that Mia had chosen for us abutted a Chinese specialty foods shop, and had a live thrash metal band playing an indistinguishable cacophony of a new generation’s music. We found a seat far from the speakers, but close to the alcohol, and Mia left me with the purses
while she went for the drinks. Soon, she and I were set to enjoy our respective drinks, her standard rum and coke, and a bourbon and water with a lime twist for me. I judge the quality of a bar by their understanding of simple bar orders. A twist is a sliver of pith-free rind twisted to release the volatile oils. What I got was an eighth of a lime — rind, pulp, pits and all — squashed over the rim of my martini glass — which was the second mistake.

  I asked to be excused, grabbed my purse and went to the bar for myself. Not to chastise the bartender, but to order a different drink. As I made my way to the curved bar, I noticed an open stairwell leading to another section of the club. People were coming up the flight in what seemed a hurry to get away from whatever horror was down there, and I wondered what could be so bad that this place could be anybody’s idea of preferable.

  When finally I got the barman’s attention (which took far longer for me than it had for Mia, but perhaps that had something to do with the fellows inability to make eye contact with anyone whose eyes were above her bust-line) I asked for a Manhattan. I watched him prepare it with some little sense of hope. After all, he did pick the right glass this time; but when I saw him hold the jar of maraschinos over my drink, allowing the syrupy fluid to drain into my glass as he dug for a cherry, I flipped a hand to cancel the order. I was about to return to the table and ask Mia if we could go to some other bar, when I noticed that she’d made a friend. She was sitting with a shaved-headed, toothy, “Buy-you-a-drink?” type, and she was playing with her hair. I knew that body language. It was the universal sign for, “I like this guy. Don’t hurry back.” So, I couldn’t hurry back.

  I was about to return to the bar to give the tapster a third opportunity to at least hit a foul tip, when I again passed the stairwell to who-knew-where. It happened that the thrash band was between thrashes, and I caught the undeniable sound of a trumpet coming from the cellar below. I decided to venture down the brick-walled flight, and there I found the source of all the terror. Six men stood playing horns, keyboards, acoustic guitar and bass; what must have been a rancorous mishmash of instruments to the road-house’s usual clientele. As they rendered their resonances, a sleepy looking probable heroin addict made shsk shsk sounds with brushes on a snare, and a woman in a party dress sang like Billie Holiday. Behind them on the wall was a vinyl banner announcing them to be “Humpack and the Blue Whailers.” It wouldn’t be hard to find a seat at the cellar bar. I saw only one other couple and a bored woman in a cocktail waitress uniform.

  I sat eagerly, while the band finished God Bless the Child, and when the waitress asked me what I’d have, I decided to give it another shot. “Bourbon and water with a lime twist,” I said hopefully, but hope quickly faded when she took her tray and went upstairs to fill the order. As the band drifted into Gloomy Sunday, I thought I recognized something about the shaggy-haired clarinet player. I couldn’t tell if it was his stance or his build, but something seemed awfully familiar about him. The feeling lingered all through the overture and the lyrics. I knew I’d met that man. If only he’d speak or smile or do something to lift the veil. Then, as the horns brought the melody home, they allowed the clarinet player a moment of solo virtuosity, after which he tossed his hair back from his eyes lifting the veil. Recognition dawned, but even as though I still needed the help, the singer recognized the soloist.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said to the three of us in the audience, “Mr. Trevor Johns!”

  Applauding wildly, I added in a whispered tone, “Of the Pittsburgh Police Homicide Squad.”

  Chapter 12

  Johns squinted past the stage lights, trying to get a look at his lone fan. I continued whooping and applauding as though a frenzy of music appreciation had swept my very soul. Finally, he shrugged, and the band started up with their rendition of Crawlin’ Kingsnake. There wasn’t a whole lot of call for a clarinet in that number, and I noticed the man called Trevor trying several times to catch a glimpse of me to figure out who I was.

  Eventually, there was a break in the set. The woman in the party dress announced that they would be taking ten and that there was more to come. Though by this time, even the couple had moved on, and I was the entire audience.

  Johns hopped down from the stage and made a bee-line directly to my position at the bar. The others gathered at a table and gave their orders to the waitress. “Have we met?” Johns asked.

  “Are you always this observant?” I asked. I was beginning to actually feel a little hurt. After all, I’d recognized him — eventually.

  “We have met, haven’t we?” he said nodding. “Hoskin, right? In Schwartz’s office? Did he send you to talk with me?”

  “No,” I answered. “I came on my own. Do you feel like being interviewed?” I was teasing a little, but seeing as how my ego had been bruised it seemed permissible.

  “For Gamut? About Schwartz or about the band?” He was becoming eager.

  “Why would Gamut care about your band?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said taking a glass of water being proffered by the cocktail waitress. “It’s a pretty good band, don’t you think?”

  “It’s the first time I’ve ever heard Crawlin’ Kingsnake sung by a woman,” I admitted. “So do you do all cover material, or have you got any original stuff?”

  “We just cover the old blues classics, some jazz, some big band. The big band stuff requires a lot of re-working to fit our combo. I wrote our score for Gloomy Sunday myself.”

  “How do you find the time with your busy schedule?” I asked.

  “This is Pittsburgh, lady. Not Newark. We don’t have all that many murders.” His shaggy mop fell in his eyes, and a trickle of sweat ran down his cheek.

  “Are the other musicians all cops too?” I asked.

  “So you do want to interview me about the band?” Johns said smiling coyly. He folded his arms on the bar and looked up knowingly at me over his shoulder. He was so cute, it made me want to just cut his hair; but since that wouldn’t do in civilized society, I just grinned and leaned back on my elbows.

  “I don’t want to interview you at all,” I said letting him off the hook. “I found you guys here by accident. I had to get away from the crap upstairs.”

  “That’s my son’s band,” Johns said gruffly. I felt like a fool, and I tried to back-paddle.

  “Well, I’m um — I’m sure they’re good if you like that sort of music. I just — um — I.”

  “It’s okay,” Johns said graciously. “It’s not my style either. But, you’ve got to let kids express themselves in their own way. I figure this is better than drugs.”

  “Is your son’s mother here too?” I asked judiciously avoiding asking him if his wife was here.

  “His mother lives in Philly with her new husband,” Johns said smiling a smile that told me he’d caught my omission.

  “So,” I said, “how do you and your son come to be playing in the same venue?”

  Johns demurred. “That part is a little embarrassing. They’re actually very popular, so when the owner approached them about playing here, they asked if it would be all right if we played the cellar.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said smiling my toothiest smile.

  “No, yeah, that’s how it happened,” Johns said. “This is a sympathy gig. Given the turn-out, it will probably be our last gig.”

  “No,” I said. “You can’t judge on one gig. You guys are good. You just need more publicity. I’d be glad to help with that. I’m in the press, you know. I know people who know people.” I was really feeling like an idiot now.

  “No,” Johns said. “Well, we’ll see. Maybe. I’ll talk with the others. By the way, are you here alone?”

  “No,” I said. “I came with Mia, Schwartz’s mechanic. Do you know her?”

  “Know her?” Johns said. “I’ve only been trying to get her to go out with my drummer, Jimmy Yitzosky, for six months. He’s in love with her. Don’t let him know she’s here.”

  “I won’t tell i
f you won’t,” I promised. “Do you think maybe she knew your band was playing here tonight? Maybe she came hoping to bump into him.”

  “I doubt it,” Johns said. “But she should know that the band upstairs is my son’s band. Their name is FdP. It stands for ‘Figli dei Poliziotti.’ It means ‘policemen’s sons’ in Italian.”

  “Who came up with that?” I asked.

  “Our singer,” he said pointing to the party dress. “She’s married to our trumpeter, and she’s the mother of FdP’s guitar player.”

  “Who named your band?” I asked all syrupy.

  “I did. Why?”

  “Are you humpback?” I asked, “or are you one of the Whailers? Should I just call you Ishmael?”

  ***

  When the band retook the stage, I went upstairs to find Mia and alert her to my position. It took a little searching, but I finally located her grinding the alopecia wanna-be out on the dance floor. I tapped her shoulder, and she tossed her head back rather than turn away from her dance partner. “Hi,” she said. “Having fun?”

  “Loads,” I said. “I’m downstairs in the cellar with the other sightless moles. It’s more my speed.” I remembered that Johns had asked me not to let the drummer know she was here. “When you’re ready to go, just send the waitress down after me, okay? Johns’ band is playing down there, and he asked me not to let you break his drummer’s heart again until after the gig.”

  “Sure thing,” Mia said. “I try to keep my heart breaking down to once a night, and Markie here is already tonight’s victim.” She rubbed Markie’s shorn dome, and he pulled a face as if to say, “Yeah, right; like you could ever wound a stud like me.” Mia tilted her chin and stabbed him with a withering come-hither glance that actually made me feel sorry for poor unsuspecting Markie.