by Nick Dorsey
The church was dim inside and the low light made the gold leaf bordering the columns seem to glow. Behind the altar was a high dome decorated in mosaics depicting the Crucifixion. To the right of the apse was a smaller altar holding a statue of Joseph carrying the Infant Christ. At his feet were bouquets and small loaves of bread The overall appearance made Tom think he was back in the Old Country, whatever country that happened to be. Italy, he guessed.
Jean leaned to his shoulder, “Do you know if this is a normal service or a high mass or what?” She was wearing a perfume he was beginning to like. Ray’s comments about this being a date came back to him.
He said, “No. What’s the difference?”
“High mass is forty-five minutes longer and in a dead language.”
“Let’s hope for a regular strength, then.”
She tried not to smile and failed. Tom craned his neck to check out the other patrons. They were not the youngest couple in the place, but it was close. A few parents chased the odd toddler.
A wave of murmurs went through the crowd and as if it had been planned, the grey heads turned to look at the back doors of the church. Like they were at a wedding and expecting a bride.
Instead of a blushing young bride, a thin, stern-looking woman in a wheelchair came through the door. Sal LaRocca walked next to her, his small smile flashing for the crowd. So the woman in the wheelchair must be Amelia LaRocca. She looked frail, but her eyes darted over the faces in the crowd like she was a grade school teacher taking attendance. Still sharp. Her hair was grey going on white except for an auburn streak running up through it. It looked like a negative image of a younger person’s hair. She wore it up as if to highlight the streak. The big bartender from the Pan Dell’Orso pushed the woman along. There was no Dominic with them, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t around somewhere. When he passed them, Sal turned his head and stared directly at Tom. He inclined his head slightly and Tom raised his hand. He saw Sal’s eyes drop to Jean and the old man seemed pleased. They continued, the woman staring ahead, the old man raising a hand or winking at people he knew as he walked up the aisle. They found their seats at the front of the church.
Jean whispered, “I don’t see the kid. Dominic, right? And I don’t see any Sofia double.”
“I don’t either. Maybe he’s at the restaurant.”
An organ sounded from the choir loft. The patrons stood and sang the opening hymn and the thick smell of incense filled the air. A small procession of altar servers, both boys and girls, a deacon, and the priest made their way to the front of the church. The priest swung his thurible slowly and incense oozed over the gathered faithful.
The priest reached the front of the church and began speaking in a language Tom didn’t know.
He leaned into Jean’s perfume. “Is that Latin?”
“It’s not Spanish and I don’t think it’s Italian.” Jean gave him a look. “High mass.”
“What? You think the whole thing is going to be like this?”
“It sure sounds like it.”
“No, it’s probably just the beginning here. It won’t be this way the whole time.”
It was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tom and Jean left the church as soon as the closing music began, beating the herd of slow-moving men and women out the door. They considered waiting for Sal and the rest of the LaRocca family, but Jean was reluctant.
“Why? They know we’re here.”
Jean shrugged. Tom wanted to meet Amelia, Sal’s older sister. The way he talked about her, Tom wondered if Sal LaRocca was running the show, or if his sister had a stronger hand in the operation than they let on.
Tom said, “It’s a church. Nothing’s going to happen.” Jean frowned. Tom let it go. “Okay. We’ll catch them at lunch.” He looked at the crowd surrounding the LaRoccas as they left the church. “They’re swamped as it is.”
They retrieved their car and drove the back roads to the Pan Dell’Orso. The day was bright and breezy. Tom drove down River Road, the road that made up the western border of New Orleans, winding along next to the Mississippi River. The levee rose on his left and on his right they passed the backs of neighborhoods full of double-wides and mid-century homes, then passed Ochsner Medical Center and a handful of warehouses and body shops.
When they reached the restaurant, Tom resisted the urge to park in the mechanic’s lot across the street and parked in the Pan’s lot instead.
Jean paused by the hood of the Taurus before they went in. “This doesn’t feel like walking into the lion’s den to you?”
“I’ve been here a few times before. The food’s okay.”
She gave him a look. “One of these guys killed a man and threatened me. But the food’s okay?”
“Okay. Sorry. Sorry.” He walked over to her, hands shoved in his pocket against a gust of wind. “Here’s the thing. They all know my name. They know where you live. They have an advantage. I want to know everything about them. Dominic and his girlfriend, they’re the ones who killed Ernesto Adelfi. I know that. I just can’t prove it. Yet.”
“So, what, are you just going to ask them?”
“No, I tried that already. I’m just going to have lunch. Why not?”
Jean made a sound like a laugh and shook her head, but she followed him into the restaurant.
Tom had never seen the hostess before, she was middle-aged and dressed for the occasion. She was wearing big hoop earrings and one was caught in her hair. Tom had to force himself not to stare. “Name?”
Tom frowned. “I didn’t think I had to call ahead.”
“It’s a special event, baby. We open to the public at three.”
“Check Tom Connelly, I guess.”
“Oh! I see. I got you right here. Follow me, Mr. LaRocca has you all set up.” She turned to a younger woman. “Show them in?”
Tom followed the woman but Jean paused. She whispered something to the hostess. The woman looked alarmed for a moment, then she began to untangle her hooped earring from her hair.
The woman led them through the bar and into the main dining area. Dominic, he noted, was not manning the bar. But maybe he was in the back somewhere. The room had been rearranged recently. Tables against the far wall had been cleared and it was now dominated by a huge altar that stretched across four tables. The altar in the church had been a rough sketch of the thing, this one was a full painting. The statue of Saint Joseph was bigger, the flower arrangements were more elaborate. There were loaves of bread baked to look like crosses, or shepherd's crooks, or fish. Plates of cookies and sweets lined the altar.
They took their seats at a table and watched well-dressed men and women filter into the place. Tom was having a hard time keeping his eyes off Jean. She looked better than alright. He tried his hand at some small talk and found it came easy. Jean was dancing around the edge of asking about his son and his ex-wife when the LaRoccas showed up. Tom was grateful for the intrusion.
Sal had taken over wheelchair duties. He wheeled Amelia through the crowd, shaking hands and kissing cheeks as they went. He scanned the room with the eye of a practiced schmoozer. He locked eyes with Tom and bent to whisper something to Amelia. She gave Tom and Jean an appraising look, then nodded. So they had been found acceptable. Sal wheeled her over.
“Hey, Mr. Connelly, what you know good ?” He said.
Tom stood in his chair to shake Sal’s hand. “Same as ever, I guess.”
Sal put two hands on the older woman’s shoulders. “This is my sister, Amelia LaRocca. This is Tom Connelly and Jane Perez.”
Jean shook both their hands. “Jean Perez, actually.”
Sal grimaced. “Sorry, sorry.”
“It happens.”
“We’re gonna get some food out to y’all real soon, okay?” He bent down to his sister. “I gotta look in on the kitchen. I’ll be back.”
Sal hustled to the back.
Tom smiled at Amelia. She was still taking them in. Figuring them out. To break the silence
he said, “Thanks for inviting us.”
Her voice was high and slightly nasal. A more refined version of Sal’s working-class accent. “Thank you for coming. Where did you all go to church?” It was a question that was more than it seemed, Tom judged. The old woman had a slight, crooked smile. She was Sal’s sister, all right.
“I really don’t. My mother was religious. My father? Not so much.”
Amelia made a slight clucking sound. “You don’t live by a church?”
“I have a Saint Christopher medal in my card.”
“You got the car covered. What about the rest of your life?”
Tom’s apartment was actually on the corner Orion and Codifer, right next to Saint Catherine of Siena. Tom told her so.
“Oh, well, that’s right down the way. It’s newer, so it doesn’t have the grace or history of Mater Dolorosa, but it’s a fine building. You should go. And how about you, sweetheart?”
Jean cracked a smile. “I went to Our Lady Of Perpetual.”
Amelia frowned. “I don’t know it.”
“Down in Saint Bernard Parish.”
Amelia nodded and made a small, disinterested sound. Saint Bernard Parish might as well be a million miles away. That explained why she hadn’t heard of it. “You’ve been to a Saint Joseph’s Altar before?”
Jean looked up, trying to remember. She shook her head. “If I have been, it was a long time ago. I don’t remember.”
“I’ve been to the parades, and I’ve seen pictures. But it’s my first time, too.” Tom said.
“Good.” Amelia reached across the table and grabbed Tom’s hand. Her skin was crepe-paper thin. “I always like introducing young people to our traditions. In Sicily, and this was a thousand years ago, there was a great famine. This was because there was a drought. If it didn’t rain they could grow crops, now could they? But they prayed to God, through Saint Joseph. And rain came. And crops grew. It was fava beans that saved the people.” Amelia reached into her purse and pulled out a dried bean about the size of a peppermint. “Now, any good Italian keeps a fava bean for luck. And every year we honor Saint Joseph with a feast, and we give food to the poor. We remember that once we were starving and Saint Joseph fed us.” Amelia looked at the bean in her hand.
“It’s a very nice story,” Jean said.
“It’s tradition,” Amelia answered immediately. “A thousand years old. For a thousand years we have been doing this. And we’ll continue for another thousand.”
A waiter appeared behind Amelia with a tray loaded with glasses of water. He didn’t want to sneak by her, but he also didn’t have the nerve to ask her to move her chair.
Amelia glanced at the boy and raised a hand in a slight wave. “Okay. I’ll let you all eat. Go see the altar, okay? Get yourself a fava bean. Keep it in your purse or your wallet. It’s good luck.”
After a priest blessed the altar and the food and the parish, Sal took over. He thanked the church, and the people attending, about a hundred people, then invited everyone to eat more than they thought they should.
Jean whispered, “He knows his stuff, doesn’t he? Charming.”
“He is. I accuse him of murder every time I talk to the guy and he takes it in stride. I like him.”
A lumpy man with hair so black it had to be dyed stood up. “I want to thank y’all for y’all’s donation today.” Tom was confused a moment, then he saw the two men going around the room with donation baskets. “The money’s going to the Mater Dolorosa food bank, and we’ve also got a college scholarship for Catholic boys we’re setting up.”
Tom pulled out a few bills and tossed them into the bucket. He saw Jean give him a wary look. “For charity, I guess.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s charity. For Catholics, I guess. But still.”
“Oh, sure. And is the scholarship going to go to the black and brown kids over at St. Augustine? Or is it going to the white kids at Jesuit and Rummel?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look around the room and guess.” Jean leaned back and pretended to listen to the man stump for his charity.
Tom glanced around the room. Most of the folks from church were here now, but there seemed to be some younger couples, too. More families and more kids. But they were all white. Jean had a point.
Nobody ordered. Instead, the room flooded with men and women in tuxedo shirts and ties, loaded down with dishes. Stuffed eggplant, Caprese salad, some fish thing Tom couldn’t identify. Jean stiffened. All those men working the room. Tom saw her eyes darting all over the place. He checked out the waiters he could see, but he didn’t see the man they were looking for. No Dominic.
“I don’t think he’s here.”
“No?”
“No. But I recognize that one. Guy with the hair. Nino something. He was at the poker room.”
Jean looked. The guy was dressed in black, standing next to a table on the far wall and making small talk. She said, “Does he know you?”
“He does if he wants to. Try some fish. It’s pretty alright.”
“Pretty alright?”
Tom shrugged. “I’ll let you know if I see Dominic or his girlfriend. But I don’t see them now.”
And he didn’t see them. He kept watch all through the meal. Eventually Jean relaxed a bit. Her shoulders dropped. And she was able to talk to Tom like a normal person. Tom did his best impression of a normal person and thought he did okay. After a few minutes, he decided to go get them a sampler plate of dessert. He was standing at the Saint Joseph’s altar, right in front of all the loaves bread shaped like fish. He tried a cookie. Fig.
Louis, the big bartender, wheeled Amelia next to him. Louis nodded at Tom, some sort of recognition there. Tom just ate his cookie.
Amelia craned her neck over the altar, then waved her hand and said, “I need a zeppole and an almond. And get a second plate for the table.”
Louis grunted something and went to load up two plates with sweets.
Amelia turned to Tom. “Did you have enough to eat.”
“Enough for two or three days, I think. And the altar. It’s impressive.”
“It’s beautiful. Although there should be more biscotti and cuccidati, the boy didn’t order enough.” Her voice dropped at the end. Like the boy had blasphemed himself into hell by not ordering more cookies.
“I think there’s plenty.”
“There should be more than plenty. An abundance.” She looked at him. “To give glory to Saint Joseph. But the boy didn’t understand that. I ask him to get cookies, he thinks I’m a silly old woman. He thinks it’s a chore. He doesn’t understand tradition. Dominic’s always been like that, though. Looking to the future without remembering the past.”
Dominic. Tom knew that she was opening up a delicate conversation. Louis came back with his hands full and Amelia told him to bring the sweets back to her table. She stayed at the altar with Tom and kept him close by sheer force of will.
“My cousin Ernie loved Saint Joseph’s Day. He marched in the parades when he was young, all the drinking and who knows what! But that’s what being young is for. Even so, he always made sure the altar was beautiful. It wasn’t a chore for him.” She smiled. Her eyes sparkled at the memory. “And he was so good with the children. Showing them the altar, telling them stories. He had to give them cookies to keep them interested, but what can you do?”
Tom shifted. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Amelia LaRocca found a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “I hope to leave something behind when I go. Don’t you want to do the same?”
“I do.”
“You have a family?”
“I have a son in Houston.” Tom left it at that.
Amelia nodded, understanding. “His mother’s watching him?” When he said yes, she nodded, frown lines carving canals on either side of her mouth. Her hands folded into her lap. “The boys around here, sometimes I feel like I’m a mother to them all. Especially the last few days. There’s one in the kitchen. D
ominic. He needs supervision. Special attention.” Her eyes were clear when she looked at him. “You understand? I’m watching him. Sal and I are close, and we talk things over. And we both understand Dominic needs supervision.”
“Him and his girlfriend, I think.”
They locked eyes and he could feel the questions she had for him. But she didn’t ask. She sighed heavily and looked at the altar. “Ernesto. He would have been proud of this altar. He always liked them, even when he was a kid.” She looked up at him with a face lined and drawn. For a moment she seemed to be confused. “Ernesto was a child once. How long ago was that? Now he’s gone.” She crossed herself and Tom had to stop himself from doing the same. He didn’t think it would be proper. She said, “Every Christmas my family is a little smaller. Every Easter it seems like there’s one less face in the crowd. What’s the point of growing old, Tommaso, if the world’s just going to break your heart?”
Jean wondered what they could be talking about, Tom and the old woman. Both looking grievous and dour next to all those cakes and cookies. When the big guy came to wheel her away, Tom dropped his hand and the woman in the wheelchair took it. They just held hands there for a moment like old friends. Then she was being pushed to another table and Tom was carrying a plate of cookies back to her.
She tried to read his face, but couldn’t. “You two have a good talk?”
“I guess so,” he said. And put those cookies in front of her.
Jean poked at one, but her eyes were still on him. “What did she say?”
“The world’s gonna break your heart.”
Jean just stared at him.
He cracked a smile. “That’s what she said. Really.” They ate the rest of the cookies not talking, but just being there. Listening to the crowded restaurant. There were the little peals of laughter from the children creeping between tables, the rasp of old men clearing their throats, and too-loud whispers of secrets told to the room at large.