All the Dead Fathers (26 page)

It was a foolish plan, and dangerous. Both for himself, and for the janitor if he let him stay. But she sure hoped Anthony Ernest was here. Because otherwise he might right now be sitting somewhere else, dead. Or worse yet, still alive, with sections of his skin being peeled off in strips. Besides, whether he was here or not, this had to be where Michael had come.

If Michael had stuck around Villa St. George long enough for the police or the FBI to get there, he would have had to choose between lying to them or exposing the janitor to arrest and deportation, possibly never to see his baby or its mother again. Michael wouldn't have liked either alternative. Nor did Kirsten, which was why she hadn't told Harvey Wilson where she thought Michael might have gone to look for the missing priest.

Michael knew that Anthony Ernest's hiding out here was a dangerous idea. And since he clearly felt a responsibility to his fellow “exiles,” he would have come here to try to talk him out of it. That was assuming, of course, that Michael's disappearance from Villa St. George was voluntary. Which is what she
did
assume. First, because Harvey Wilson said Michael's old white Ford Fairlane was missing from the parking lot there; and second, because any other assumption was simply unacceptable. She tried each of the five street-level entrances, but found no mailbox or doorbell marked
MAINTENANCE
, or
MANAGER
, or anything like it. She went around to the alley and to the rear of the building. The space within the L formed by the two wings was paved, and there were several cars parked there. Two were taxis; none was Michael's Fairlane.

A set of concrete steps led down to a basement entrance, right at the angle where the two wings met. The door was wooden and covered with what looked like fifty coats of black paint. It was locked, so she pressed the button and heard a loud buzz from inside. No one answered. She tried again and still got no response, so she just pressed her finger to the button and let the buzzer go on and on. Finally a door opened on a wooden porch a little to her right, and about five feet above ground level. She took her finger off the buzzer.

The door was the back door of a first-floor apartment. A dark man in an undershirt and gray pants came out, yelling in an angry voice. The language must have been Arabic, but the message was clear: that damn basement buzzer was driving him crazy.

“Where's the janitor?” she yelled back.

“What?” He stared in her direction, blinking as though she'd woken him up. Then he ducked out of sight and returned almost at once, wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses. “What you want?” he asked, leaning forward with his hands on the porch railing.

“The janitor,” she said. “He's not answering.”

“So then … go away.”

“Do you think he's down there?” she asked. “Because—”

“I don't know nothing. Go away.” The man went back inside and slammed the door.

She turned to go and almost tripped over a boy, maybe six years old. “He went to the Elks Club,” the boy said. He looked Middle Eastern, too, but his English was perfect. He had wide, serious eyes that gazed up at her under lots of curly black hair, and his backpack said he was on his way to school. “He took the American man to the Elks Club,” he said, then added, “What is an Elks Club?”

“Who took who?” she asked. “What man?”

“The janitor, Habi.” The name sounded like
hobby.
“He took the sick American man in the sick man's car. That was not so long ago.” He frowned. “I'm American, too. Did you know that?”

“No,” she said. “But how do you know the man was sick?”

“I heard him. He said he felt terrible and gave Habi his car keys. Habi said the Elks Club is on … I think … Foster Street?”

“Foster
Avenue?
” she suggested.

“Oh yes, Foster Avenue. I'm American because I was born here, and anyone who is born in America is—”

“Just
one
American man? What kind of car? How did—” She stopped, not wanting to scare the boy off.

“Just one. And Habi, the janitor. It was an old white car and they—” A late-model SUV pulled into the alley, and the boy swung around. “Oh, I must not be late,” he cried, and ran to the SUV and was gone.

45.

It took just two phone calls for Kirsten to get the address of an Elks Club on Foster Avenue near Kedzie, a couple of miles away. The old white car the boy spoke of had to be Michael's Fairlane, but was Michael ill? And even if a fraternal organization was open this early on a Wednesday morning, why would anyone take a sick man there?

When she got there she had to park a block away and walk back. It was a storefront building, with a Thai restaurant on one side and a printing shop on the other. Horizontal venetian blinds were closed behind the large window along the sidewalk, and
ELKS CLUB
was painted on the window. A piece of paper taped to the inside of the glass door said simply:
MEETING WED.
8:00
A.M
. She knew at once what that meant.

She pulled on the door and it wasn't locked. She stepped inside into a small room with a desk and a couple of chairs, but no people. In the opposite wall was an open doorway. She couldn't see into the room beyond, but the lights were on in there and she could smell overheated coffee and cigarette smoke. She started that way and just then heard a brief burst of applause, then the scraping of metal chairs on a tile floor, then people talking and laughing. The meeting was obviously just breaking up.

She went through the doorway and into a room about the size of a large classroom. Set up at the end near her were four or five round tables with chairs, and more tables and chairs that were folded up and leaning against the wall. Across the far end was a small bar, and in front of the bar was a rectangular conference table with more folding chairs. Twelve or fifteen people of various ages, three of them women, were up near that table. The meeting was over, and some were slipping into their coats, while others—including Michael, in wrinkled tan pants and a dark blue windbreaker—stood around in groups of two or three, drinking coffee from polystyrene cups. Most of them were smoking, but not Michael.

Kirsten stepped aside as a woman slipped past her and left, not speaking or even looking at her. A man in a sport coat and tie was gathering papers from the table near the bar and looked up and caught her eye. “Good morning!” he called, in a deep pleasant voice. “Can we help you?” All heads turned her way.

“No thanks,” she called back. “I'm just … ah … just here to pick someone up.”

“That's my niece,” Michael said. He disengaged himself from the group and hurried toward her. “Kirsten, how in the world did you
find
me?”

She didn't answer, but just stared at him. Gray stubble covered his cheeks and chin, and his thin grey hair was matted and uncombed. His face was even more pale than usual, and his eyes were bloodshot. Walking as though his knees were stiff, he carried a cup of steaming coffee at arm's length, taking great care not to spill … the way a drunk carries his drink.

Michael wasn't drunk, though. Not now. But this had been an AA meeting, and it was clear why that young boy heard him say he felt “terrible.”

“Where's Habi?” she asked, when he stopped in front of her.

“Habi? How do you—”

“The janitor.” Despite the coffee, she could smell alcohol on his breath … or maybe he'd spilled it on his clothes. “Didn't he bring you here?”

“Yes … but he didn't stay. He insisted he'd take a bus back home and—” He stopped. “But how do you know Habi? I mean … I guess I don't know
what
I mean. Anyway, I'm glad to see you.”

“Where is Anthony Ernest?”

“He's … I promised not to tell anybody, but Tony's determined to stay in that janitor's room, Habi's room, as long as he has to. I went there to talk him out of it, but I couldn't. Then it got late and I was afraid to go home and … well … I spent the night with them. Habi had some apricot brandy—I guess he's not a practicing Moslem—and a jug of cheap wine, and—”

“And you got drunk.”

“Yes. And then sick as a dog. That hasn't happened in ten years.”

“Ten years? I thought you hadn't been drinking since … since the time of the girl, and—”

“Not often, but I've had my lapses. Three or four. I guess just to … to remind me I have a disease.” He shook his head. “But this time I was lucky. Those other times I drank for days, sometimes weeks, before I stopped. But this time Habi—he's Syrian, and I don't think that's his
real
name—anyway, we shared the brandy and then he watched me knock down the better part of that jug of wine before he realized I … I had a real problem. When it was gone I'd have run out for more, but he wouldn't let me. He's a pretty strong guy. I didn't sleep much, and this morning he brought me here. And now it's over.” She heard a strange gurgling noise, and realized it was Michael's stomach growling. “And I'm sober again. I haven't touched a drop in … what?… eight hours?”

She could tell he wasn't joking, just calculating his latest period of sobriety.

*   *   *

All Kirsten wanted to do was get Michael back to Villa St. George, but she knew he should eat something. She walked him to a nearby diner and ordered coffee for herself and bacon and eggs for Michael.

He seemed terribly embarrassed. “I must look like a bum, huh?”

“Actually, you do.” She wasn't kidding. All those years she'd had a wonderful uncle, a priest. A hero. Kind, but also strong enough to overcome his alcoholism. Then two years ago she discovered he was a man who had betrayed everything he stood for. And now? A drunk. “You smell of alcohol,” she said.

“I'm not surprised. It's…” He sighed. “How did you find me at that Elks Club?”

“It's one of the things I do, you know? My job.”

He shook his head. “It's strange. Why last night? I mean, I stayed sober even two years ago when I … when I was sued, and everything bad came out. Of course I went to an awful lot of AA meetings during that time, and talked an arm and a leg off my sponsor—you know, the AA person you sort of latch onto for support? And I managed to stay sober through the worst time of my life. Losing all I had left of my family. Losing
you.
And still I stayed—”

“So this … this sponsor,” she said, “did he— Was it a man?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him about … you know … about the girl, and that you were a priest? And all of it?”

“I did. I told him.” The waitress brought his food, and when she left he said, “I've had different AA sponsors through the years, and I told them all. That goes along with making amends, and the whole AA program. I did it all.”

“Really? You told all those damn strangers? But you never told
me?
Your only so-called ‘family'?”

“No, I—”

“Do you know how upset I was when I learned you were named in that lawsuit? I said it couldn't be true, and got Dugan to help you. And then … and then … I
hated
you for what you'd done. And for never telling me.”

“That's what I was afraid would happen … that you'd hate me. That's why I never told you.”

“Right, but you told these ‘sponsors.' What did
they
think? What did
they
say?”

“They thought it was a terrible thing … but they'd all seen a lot of terrible things, a lot of lives ruined. They'd all seen a lot of drunks, and the horrible, disgusting things some of us do. They—”

“Wait a minute. Are you saying you had sex with that girl, got her pregnant, because you were an alcoholic? Jesus, is that your excuse? ‘Don't blame
me,
'cause I was drunk!' Is that it?”

He pulled back as though she'd slapped him, then slowly leaned forward again. “I wasn't drunk when we … when it happened. I was drinking every day, but I wasn't always drunk. There
was
no excuse. She was … she seemed older … but I knew she was seventeen. She had problems, and I thought I was helping her. I was going on thirty, and I'd been out of the seminary five years and I might as well have been
fifteen
myself, for all the experience with women I'd had. A few months went by and I thought I was in love, you know? Stupid, but inside me I was thinking I might leave the priesthood and we'd get married. I never realized how much she must be looking
up
to me. I thought we were just … equals, somehow. I thought we loved each other and … and then one night we slept together.” He stared down at his untouched breakfast. “And then I got really guilty and I went on a binge, and I lost track of everything and … and the next thing I knew she was dead.”

“You didn't know she looked
up
to you? She was a kid and you were her
priest,
for God's sake. You didn't know she trusted you? You didn't know she thought—”

“All those things are so obvious … now.” He sat back, his shoulders sagging. “What I did was wrong, Kirsten. I had no excuse then, and I don't have one now. But you asked me, and I—”

“I wasn't asking for explanations. I was just—” She drank some coffee and it was cold. “Eat your eggs and let's get the hell out of here.”

*   *   *

After breakfast Michael still looked exhausted, but he swore he couldn't fall asleep now if he wanted to, so Kirsten let him drive his car. She drove behind him all the way and went over their conversation a hundred times in her mind. She'd never before actually told him that she'd hated him. But she'd also never given him an opening to talk about what had happened with him and the girl. Maybe she should have.