Funny Money

27 What Is Sin?

Valentine did not say a word during the drive back to the Blue Dolphin. He walked Gerry and Yolanda to their room, then took the precaution of doing a once-over around the motel. He didn’t think the Mollo brothers were stupid enough to come calling in broad daylight, but he’d learned that it was never wise to second-guess Neanderthals.

“I need to go out for a few hours,” he said upon returning to their room. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid, like sneak off to The Bombay to play Funny Money.”

“It was my idea,” Yolanda said.

“And it wasn’t stupid,” Gerry cut in. “Yolanda’s sister won a brand new Suburban.”

“You know what the odds are of winning a car playing a slot machine?” Valentine asked him. “The same as being struck by lightning... twice.”

“It happens, Pop,” his son said indignantly.

Nothing made Valentine angrier than idiot’s logic, especially when it came to gambling. Going to the dresser, he opened the top drawer, removed the Gideon’s Bible, and presented it to his son.

“Promise me on this Bible that you won’t go out.”

Gerry stared at him like he was crazy.

“Do it,” his father said.

It was twenty minutes after one when Valentine pulled the Mercedes into the empty parking lot at St. Mary’s Cathedral and killed the engine.

Sitting in the car, he tried to remember the last time he’d stepped foot inside a church. He’d been raised a strict Catholic, going to Mass every Sunday, sometimes twice if his mother thought he needed to say a few more Hail Marys, but as he’d gotten older he’d abandoned the practice and eventually the church itself. He still believed in God and tried to live his life accordingly, but the faith he’d been raised in no longer worked for him. To be a good Catholic, you had to be a penitent or a supplicant, and he was neither. It was that simple.

Slipping into the confessional, he was surprised at how the cold little box had the ability to dredge up a ton of guilt, and he lowered his head in shame. Moments later the tiny window slid open.

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.”

“And how have you sinned, my son?” Father Tom asked.

Valentine took a deep breath. He’d decided not to tell Tom about Sparky’s dying, simply because he believed he’d done nothing wrong. But there were plenty of other things weighing heavily on his mind, and he proceeded to tell the priest how he’d knocked down Kat, lied through his teeth to Coleman and Marconi, taken Archie Tanner’s money for a job he was already planning to do — something which hadn’t seemed a sin when he’d done it but sure did now — and had gone to the Croatians’ apartment intending to pump a few bullets into Juraj Havelka.

“You’ve been busy,” the priest said.

Valentine stared at the confessional floor. “There’s something else.”

“What’s that?”

“I stepped on a guy’s hand.”

Father Tom was a mouth breather, and his sharp intake of breath sounded like a small-caliber gun going off. “Please, explain.”

Valentine did, spelling out the scene with Big Tony at the motel as best he could.

“Surely you’ve hurt people before,” Father Tom said when he was done.

“I stepped over the line,” Valentine said.

“And which line is that?”

He fell silent. The line between what was truly good and truly evil was invisible, yet he’d always known where it was drawn. And he’d stepped over it in a big way.

“The guy was defenseless,” Valentine said.

“But he hurt your son and his fiancée.”

“I stooped to his level. Maybe lower.”

“Have you never done that before?”

He detected a hint of skepticism in Father Tom’s voice. Like the sin he was describing was as common as the sun rising. Only Valentine didn’t see it that way. He’d lived his life as purely as he could and hadn’t inflicted pain unless it was justified.

“No.”

“Then I’m sure God will forgive you this time,” the priest said.

They stood on the front stoop, the wind whipping mercilessly at their faces. St. Mary’s was located in a residential area off Route 9 in Swainton, the eighty-year-old church surrounded by apartment houses with Murphys and O’Sullivans stamped on the mailboxes. Black smoke billowed out of nearly every chimney. Across the way, two gangs of kids had joined forces to build a mammoth snowman.

“I need to talk to you about Doyle,” Valentine said.

“So the confession was just a way to get on my good side,” Father Tom said, smiling thinly. “Doyle and I talked often, but rarely about his work.”

“But you spoke a lot.”

“Yes.”

“Mind if I ask about a particular conversation?”

Father Tom’s face turned sour. He’d been handsome once, with a ruddy Irish complexion and wavy blond hair, but with age he’d turned gaunt and his hairline had receded. Seeing something across the street he didn’t approve of, he clapped his hands and let out a shout. The misbehaving kids scattered in a dozen directions.

“Sorry about that,” the priest said. “Which conversation between Doyle and myself are you referring to?”

“It was a conversation where Doyle blew up. He later wrote you a note and apologized about it.”

Father Tom hesitated. He had come outside without a coat, yet looked perfectly comfortable. All his life, Valentine had seen priests walk around in the winter in street clothes, like God had given them an extra layer of skin for joining up.

“Walk with me,” the priest said.

They took a stroll around the block. At an intersection they found the same hellions Father Tom had disciplined a few minutes earlier hurling snowballs at passing cars. The priest ran into the street and rounded them up while threatening to call their folks. It was fun to watch him work, and the troublemakers marched away with their heads lowered in shame.

Coming back, Father Tom said, “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“If there were more people like you, there would be fewer people like me.”

“Guilt is one of God’s most powerful weapons,” the priest said. “Humankind’s capacity for sin is nearly unlimited. Without guilt, we’d all run amok, don’t you think?”

“Sometimes I think we do run amok,” Valentine said.

They were standing outside a bakery, the smell of pastries scenting the frigid air. The priest lowered his voice. “My brother was a good Catholic, loyal to his friends and family, subservient to his creator. Yet he was struggling with personal demons. I’ve never seen him so... apprehensive.”

“What happened?”

Father Tom had to think about it. “One day at lunch Doyle got a call on his cell phone. The caller said something, and my brother said, ‘What is sin?’ Then he got very angry. After he hung up, I said, ‘Doyle, don’t tell me you don’t know what sin is?’ And Doyle said, ‘This is a different kind of sin, Tom.’

“I’ve thought about that conversation many times, but it never made sense. Perhaps you have an idea.”

Valentine shook his head. All Catholics knew about sin. There was mortal, venial, spiritual, carnal, and capital sin. But a different type of sin? He had no idea.

“Was his caller a man or a woman?”

“A man.”

“Did Doyle address him by name?”

Father Tom thought hard. “Bob? No, Barry. No, wait. Benny. It was Benny,” he decided.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Doyle addressed him several times.”

The only Benny in town was Benny Roselli, a dumb-as-nails ex-cop who ran security at the Wild Wild West Casino. Why would Doyle be talking to Benny about religion?

They walked back to St. Mary’s. A young couple stood by the church’s front door, their faces flushed with excitement. Father Tom introduced them as the soon-to-be-married so-and-so. They looked so damn happy that Valentine found himself smiling.

“It’s been good talking with you, Tony,” the priest said. “Let me know if you find anything.”

“I will,” Valentine promised him.

“And Tony...”

“Yes, Father Tom.”

“Try to stay out of trouble.”

The priest’s eyes were twinkling, as if knowing what he was asking was impossible.

“And if you can’t, come back and see me,” the priest said.