Pagan Babies

13

THEY DIDN'T TALK ABOUT IT last night, in bed. He did say, "I walk in the restaurant and slip and fall. On what?" All Debbie said was, "We'll work it out." This morning sipping her instant coffee he said, "How do we work it out?" And she said, "What?"

Well, here she was now, looking up at the high-domed foyer, Terry watching her from the top of the curving staircase: Debbie in a dark skirt and turtleneck beneath the open raincoat, Debbie clicketyclicking across the marble floor, doing a tap routine in her heels.

"You know what I wanted to be more than anything? A chorus girl."

"Why didn't you?"

"I found out it was work. You know, to be any good and get in a show. I was a go-go dancer once, but only for a few weeks, when I was at U of M."

"I'd like to have seen that."

"You did. I didn't have enough tit to be a star. And really, to do it for a living you have to be on crack."

"Come on up."

She said, "Wait," and clickety-clicked over to take a look at the living room. Coming up the carpeted staircase she said, "It's okay, what I call four-star hotel decor, Mary Pat not taking any chances."

"Nothing from Taiwan," Terry said, "or India."

"Now you're making fun of my decor, Pier One kitsch and St.

Vincent de Paul hand-me-downs." She reached the top and kissed Terry on the mouth. "What's your plan, throw me on a bed?"

"I thought you wanted to see the house."

"I do, and I won't make any more cheap remarks."

They came to the master bedroom, gold draperies, a tufted gold spread covering the king-size bed. Debbie looked in. "So this is where Fran and Mary Pat do it."

"We know they have at least twice," Terry said, and in the same moment wished he hadn't, sounding like a smart-ass for no reason.

He brought Debbie along to the little girls' rooms.

She looked in at each one and said, "Cute."

Nothing about the dolls and stuffed animals.

"Remind you of when you were little?"

"I was more into dancing and playing doctor."

He said after a moment, "It's a nice place though, isn't it?" thinking of his brother who loved his home and was proud of it.

She said, "The house? Yeah, it's very nice. What else is up here?"

"The guest room, where I'm staying."

He showed her and she looked in at the twin beds with white spreads, a comfortable chair, Terry's duffel and athletic bag on the desk, no clothes lying about.

"You keep your room neat. There's a good boy."

"I don't have enough stuff to mess it up."

Now she said, "Terry, what is that?"

His machete, lying on the desk close to the duffel.

"For cracking open coconuts."

She went into the room and picked it up to heft it and put it down, not saying one word, and walked to a window.

"I've got the Rwanda pictures here," Terry said. He picked up the athletic bag and turned to the beds, but then walked up behind Debbie at the window. They looked out at a swimming pool covered in dark-green plastic, the rest of the yard, the leafless trees and shrubs stark, the dead look of winter holding on. He said, "Fran hangs a swing from that maple tree in the summer."

He turned and walked over to stand between the twin beds with the athletic bag, Debbie, still at the window, saying, "I should do a bit on winter in Detroit. Shit, if this is spring, I could do a whole set." Terry was taking the color photos from the bag now as she said, "I wish Randy lived in Florida. I think I'll move there after we score. You want to?"

Terry didn't answer, busy laying out photos on the spread; he wasn't sure what she meant. Did he want to move to Florida after?

With her, or what? Now she was next to him between the beds, looking down at the photos. She asked how many he had and he said about two hundred. "These are the best ones."

"Are they all boys?"

"No, but that age, it's hard to tell them apart. Some of these kids are in orphanages, but they're not much better off than the ones that live in the street. They form families, an older girl maybe fifteen taking care of the little ones. They're on their own, they have to scrounge for food, clothes to wear… This kid's digging in a charcoal pit. He'll collect bits and pieces that haven't burned and sell them."

Terry handed Debbie a photo.

"Kids at a garbage dump looking for something to eat."

She said, "Jesus, Terry," and sat down on the bed behind her with the picture. She said, "But in some of the shots the land looks so green and lush, crops growing everywhere-"

"They're children," Terry said, "they're not farmers, with land.

They're little Tutsis nobody wants. Here, a couple of ten-year-olds smoking cigarettes. They roll their own. This boy, he's thirteen now, killed a friend of his during the genocide. With a machete. They were eight years old at the time." Terry was saying, "What do you do with this boy?" and looked up.

So did Debbie. She said, "Did you hear that? Someone calling you?"

He was moving now, reaching for the machete on his way out of the room, Debbie behind him, Terry saying, "You left the door open."

"It was open when I got here."

In the hall they heard the voice again, calling out, "Terry, you luck, where 're you at?"

And he knew who it was.

At the staircase railing that curved around to the hall, they looked down at the foyer to see Johnny Pajonny looking up at them.

Terry said, "My man Johnny."

Johnny said, "Where's my fuckin money?"

It surprised her when he stopped to pick up the machete from the desk. Debbie, behind him, had put her hand out, almost bumping into him. She wondered if it was a reaction left over from Africa: you hear something, grab a machete.

Now she watched Terry going down the stairs with it, the blade about a foot and a half long, the carved handle a natural color of wood, Terry holding it pointed down, along his leg. Johnny saw it.

She heard him say, "The fuck is that, a sword?" She heard Terry, on the stairs, say, "A machete," and as he reached the marble floor, "one I found in the church after they hacked to death seventy people, while I was on the altar saying Mass. There was still blood on it." Johnny said, "Jesus Christ." She watched Terry raise the machete, hold it by the blade and offer Johnny the carved wood handle. Taking it Johnny said, "Jesus Christ, they kill people with this?… Chop their heads off," Terry said, "and their feet." Debbie started down the staircase, her hand sliding along the gold leaf railing. She saw Johnny look up, but only glance at her as he hefted the machete saying, "It's heavier'n it looks." He made a short hacking motion with it. "They actually killed people with this, uh?" And Terry said, "Right in front of me."

Debbie paused a few steps from the floor, then remained there to watch.

It was a show. Johnny comes in yelling for his money and Terry meets him with a machete and tells about death in Africa.

Two buddies from cigarette-smuggling days. Terry in Levi's and a blousy white starched dress shirt that had to be Fran's. Johnny in a long black-leather jacket, collar turned up behind his thin dark hair slicked into a half-assed ponytail. He wasn't bad-looking. He was shorter than Terry, five eight or nine, one of those skinny tough guys with a slight stoop to his bony shoulders. He said, "You're a priest, huh? I don't fuckin believe it."

Which could mean, the way Debbie heard it, he did believe it. She watched Terry make the sign of the cross over Johnny, saying, "in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancd…"

Johnny waved the machete at him, saying, "Get outta here, for Christ sake. I want to know what you did with my money, ten grand, and Dickie's."

"Dickie gave his to an orphanage."

It stopped Johnny and he got with it saying, "Oh, is that right?

And who'd I give mine to?"

"Some lepers."

"Oh, some lepers."

"They bought booze with it," Terry said, "to relieve their suffering.

I told them it was okay, you wouldn't mind. But then when the money started to run low they switched to banana beer."

Johnny said, "Banana beer."

Terry said, "You know when you change your oil and you see it drain out of the crankcase? That's what banana beer looks like."

"You try it?"

"I was never tempted."

"But the lepers drank it, huh?"

"They couldn't get enough. It took their mind off of being lepers."

Johnny said, "Tell, luck the lepers. You spent my money, didn't you?"

Debbie watched Terry shrug, a helpless gesture, and hold up his empty hands.

"I was over there five years, Johnny. What do you think I lived on?"

"What do other missionaries live on?"

"Contributions. Don't you remember at Queen of Peace giving to the missions? You gave to the St. Martin de Porres Mission in Rwanda. You can deduct it on your income tax."

"You think I pay income tax?"

"If you ever do. You put down 'ten grand to the lepers.' Johnny, you kept me alive during those five long years. I was able to buy sweet potatoes, meat once in a while. Mostly goat, but that's all I could afford.

If you can look at it as your gift to the mission, Johnny, then I can forgive you for what you did."

Debbie loved it. What a cool move, turning it around on Johnny, no match, Johnny frowning now.

"Forgive me, for what?"

"Dragging me into it, saying the whole thing was my idea."

"Man, you were gone. Me and Dickie're in the Wayne County jail, for Christ sake. That place is so bad you can't fuckin wait to get sent to prison. I'm telling you, man, almost six months they're trying to decide should it go state or federal."

"Yeah, but Johnny, I'm not off the hook. I gotta go down this afternoon and see the prosecutor about my indictment, Gerald Padilla."

"That's the same fuckin guy put us away."

"And now he's got a chance, because of what you told him, to put me away."

"But you're a priest, for Christ sake."

"Doesn't matter," Terry said. "I'm gonna have to tell Mr. Padilla you lied, all I did was drive the truck."

"Go ahead."

"Is that okay with you?"

"Tell him anything you want, I'm out, man."

Terry said, "Was it pretty bad?"

"What, Jackson? Live with five thousand morons screaming and fuckin with each other? Watch your back every minute you're outta your cell? You fuck was it pretty bad. I ran a sports book in Four East, hired two of the biggest boon coons in the block keep me from getting robbed. I still got shanked, in the gut. Sewed it up myself."

"How's Dickie making it?"

"He practically lives in Five, the Hole, in and out on account of his attitude. Dickie keeps selling his radio to fish, new guys. Takes fifty bucks off 'em but never gives 'em the radio. I told him, 'You're gonna sell it to the wrong guy one of these days.' He says, 'Fuck it.'"

"Is he ever coming out?"

"That's a good question."

"How's Regina?"

"You know she's born again. She's got a bumper sticker now on the car says MY BOSS IS A JEWISH CARPENTER. You two oughta get together, sing some hymns."

"What about Mercy?"

"She's a senior at Wayne State, wants to get into computer programming."

"You never know," Terry said, "do you?"

Johnny said, "You never know what?"

On the way downtown, Debbie driving, she said, "Last night when we were talking about Johnny, I said I wouldn't want to owe him ten grand, and you said don't worry about it. I guess you knew you could handle him."

"Get him confused enough," Terry said, "he'll believe whatever you tell him."

"Like your being a priest."

"You could see he didn't want to believe it, but he does."

"Will you ever tell him you're not?"

"I don't know. Maybe someday," Terry said. "In the meantime let's keep Johnny in mind. We might be able to use him."

They had lunch at the Hellas Cafe in Greektown: calamari in olive oil, lamb shanks that Terry said tasted a lot like goat, and rice pudding Debbie swore was the best in town. The diners in the cafe wearing I.D. tags were jurors from Frank Murphy courtrooms, like tourists here for the first time, looking up wide-eyed when they heard "Opal" and would watch a waiter present the flaming cheese dish to a table. They walked the two blocks from the Hellas past the back end of 1300 Beaubien, Detroit police headquarters, and past one of the newer county jail buildings to the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice, all criminal courtrooms and the offices of the Wayne County prosecutor.

Terry went in to ask about Gerald Padilla. He came out and said to Debbie, "He's either out to lunch or in a courtroom on four; he's got a trial going."

They took the stairs to the fourth floor and passed groups of people waiting along the corridor.

"It sounds like he's working me in during his lunch hour," Terry said, "so it shouldn't take too long. Get me out of the way and back to sending some poor asshole to the joint."

"Are you nervous?"

"Why? Fran says the guy's an usher at Queen of Martyrs."

"You're too much. Is it okay if I go in with you?"

"I don't see why not."

"Good," Debbie said, "I like to watch you."

It was another show.

Terry, with the black parka, his gaunt face, his beard, takes on the suit, a navy blue one, the prosecutor pushing his glasses up on his nose, a neat-looking gent who turns this way as Terry announces:

"Mr. Padilla? I'm Fr. Dunn, from Rwanda. Sir, I understand you want to see me."

From Rwanda. Like he'd come all the way from Africa for this, Terry's voice subdued but level, a touch of humility in his tone, completely at this guy's service.

Debbie hung back.

She watched the prosecutor drop papers on the table where he stood and come out through the gate in the railing to the rows of benches that were like church pews, Gerald Padilla saying, "Father, I'm so glad you were able to make it. I won't take up much of your time." He gestured. "Let's sit down, anywhere here, and get this business out of the way."

Terry moved into the second row from the railing, then half turned and extended his arm. "Sir, this is Miss Dewey, an associate of my brother Francis, here to represent me."

Making her a lawyer on the spot.

Padilla nodded as he took a long look, smiling in a nice way. He said, "Gerry Padilla, Miss Dewey, it's a pleasure. You're welcome to sit in, though I don't see that Fr. Dunn needs legal representation."

Debbie smiled. She said, "That's good to hear, but I'm really only his chauffeur. Fr. Dunn's been so busy working on mission appeals he hasn't had time to renew his driver's license."

Terry said, "Believe me, Gerry, I'm in good hands with this young lady."

Getting on a first-name basis right away.

But then he said, "I wish I could take her back to Rwanda with me."

Debbie said, "Father, please," sounding mildly shocked, but with a smile to show he was kidding and she was going along with it.

Padilla said, "I don't blame you, Father."

And she had to smile again, this time as Padilla winked at her-the rogue.

She sat in the same row but left space to show she didn't intend to become involved. Terry sat turned away somewhat, his back to her, while Padilla could look right at her over Terry's shoulder. Debbie kept her gaze on the judge's bench now, straight ahead, giving the prosecutor a good shot of her profile, her cute nose, the pert way she tilted her head as she gazed about, lips slightly parted. She could hear them okay.

From the start talking about Rwanda.

Padilla saying he had read an account of the genocide, a fascinating book with the chilling title/P'e wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families. Asking Terry if he'd read it. Terry saying no, Gerry, being there was enough, seeing dozens of his parishioners hacked to death as he watched from the altar. Padilla taking this in and then wanting to know why the victims accepted death in such a fatalistic manner. Terry saying they were a very serious people, Gerry, who bowed to authority and would always abide by the fact of whatever was happening to them. Terry saying nonetheless he knew in his heart they were martyrs, welcomed by Our Lord that very day into Heaven.

Nonetheless?

Padilla would raise his head to steal a glance this way and Debbie would show him a solemn look, almost but not quite sorrowful. Now the prosecutor was asking about the Rwandan legal system's ability to deal with the more than one hundred thousand alleged perpetrators being held in prisons, saying he'd read about a system of tribunals on the village level they might try in order to speed up the process, the prosecutor saying he believed it was called Gacaca. Terry saying yes, it was being considered, "But if you don't mind my correcting you, Gerry, it's not pronounced ka-ka in their language, Kinyarwanda, but cha-cha, like the dance. So it's Gachacha." Gerry Padilla was smiling, shaking his head…

As Debbie, smiling back at him, was saying to herself, I've got to get out of here.

She took the elevator down to the main floor and stepped outside the front entrance to have a cigarette. It was cold out here, bleak, a few other smokers waiting to go in. Jurors coming along St. Antoine, back from lunch, got Debbie thinking about a jury bit. She heard her voice playing it to herself:

"I served on a iury once. It was a murder trial, like Twelve Angry Men only this one was eleven pissed-off guys and me. They all wanted to convict and I was the holdout. They'd say, 'The guy was caught with the fucking gun in his hand. Why can't you see that?'

And I'd go, 'But he couldn't have done it.' Beat. 'He's so cute.'"

Work on it. You can't vote to convict. You can't even kill a fly.

Why not? Because you are a fly. A fly on the wall. Buzzing around, buzz buzzit's what you see out of your huge fly eyes. "I've been walking around on dog shit out in the yard. Hmmmm, why don't I take a stroll on that lovely lemon meringue pie? My purpose in life is to be annoying, fuck with people and get them waving at me and cursing. Oh, there's a couple getting it on. Why don't I land on-"

Her phone rang.

"-that big white butt."

Her cell phone, a faint sound coming from her handbag. Debbie got it out and for the next few minutes listened to a lawyer, a good friend of hers, answer a question she had left with his assistant two days ago. As she listened she said, "Yeah?" a number of times. She said, "Oh?" thinking oh no. She listened and said, "Oh," a few more times. Listened again and said, "No, I'm outside, on Frank Murphy's front steps," and looked up at the building against a dead-pale sky.

"I'm with a friend, a smuggler." Had to explain that, then listened for more than a minute and said, "Get out of here. Really? You think he could be called up?" She said, "Ed, I appreciate this more than I can tell you. And I'll think about what you said, I promise." She said,

"Anytime. Give me a call."

Not more than a few minutes later Terry was coming out of the building, a happy Saint Francis in his beard and parka, grinning at her.

"I'm off the hook."

"Did you ever get around to the indictment?"

Terry hugged her. "We ran out of time. He told me not to worry about it-I must have enough on my mind with the business of saving souls."

"Saving your ass," Debbie said. "What did you do, call him 'my son' a few times?" Debbie talking, filling in, still in her mind with Ed Bernacki, a lawyer who gave her confidential information with confidence, but seemed hesitant this time. She was anxious to tell Terry what she'd learned and would watch him to get his reaction. But it wasn't something to talk about here.

Terry was saying his very dear friend Gerry Padilla had turned out to be a good guy. "He even gave me a hundred bucks for the orphans.

A check."

"Made out to you?"

"No, I had him make it out to the Little Orphans of Rwanda Fund.

I've already opened an account; Fran took me."

She said, "That's where you want to put the check?"

"Yeah, and get a drink."

She saw him looking down St. Antoine now, toward Greektown, and said, "There's nothing much around here. Why don't we go back to your brother's house? We can get comfortableif you catch my drift."

It put a smile in his beard. "Anything you say."

Which was just what she wanted to hear.