Applaud the Hollow Ghost (5 page)

They'd caught me off-guard, and when I'm embarrassed like that I tend to act even less prudently than usual. “So,
Gus,
lemme tell—”

“Wait, wait, wait, Mr.… uh … Foley. Let's all just calm down, and I'm sure we'll have a more profitable discussion.” Gus Apprezziano had one of those affected, world-weary voices, as though he'd seen it all, and it was all so very tiresome. Maybe he really felt that way. Or maybe he just watched too many movies.

I waited, silently happy to be on a last-name basis.

People I trusted had told me that Gus had the moral sense of a crawling swamp creature, but was a man of his word—like it or not. He was upper management—not at the top, but still up there a ways—and along with a bunch of other Outfit types was taking a lot of high hard ones just then in a
Chicago Tribune
series called “Uncovering the New Untouchables.” I was guessing he didn't like his name surfacing in the papers, especially when the reporters kept hinting that the Feds were closing in. That's why, at Melba's, I'd thought mentioning the newspapers would catch his ear.

And that's why there were three of us shoulder to shoulder in the backseat of his car, staring at the backs of two more heads in the front, and waiting to calm down and have a “more profitable discussion.”

In fact, quite a long time passed, while no one said anything. A CTA bus rumbled up beside us. Three passengers, a heavy-set young woman and two small children, stepped off into a deep pool of salty slush ten feet from the curb because the bus stop was occupied—by us. When the bus roared away a squad car followed it, then turned the corner to the right. If the cops happened to notice five men in a black Fleetwood in the bus stop with its motor running, they certainly didn't let on.

Finally the game got too boring even for me. “Okay, Mr. Apprezziano. I'll go first.” I'd already shown him I was dumb enough to disobey orders even at the risk of a punctured lung. I didn't have to prove that I was patient as well. “I have a client named Lambert Fleming.”

“Yes,” Apprezziano said, “the creep who attacked—”

“Hold it. First, it's doubtful that Fleming sexually assaulted that little girl. Second, even if he did, that doesn't give Stevie Boy the right to threaten to cut off his balls, or to throw him through a window.”

“You might have doubts, Mr. Foley, but Steve Connolly is convinced that this Fleming person is the guilty one. And so am I. On the other hand, I have Steve's word that he had nothing to do with either of those incidents.”

“Third,” I continued, “Steve Connolly's word is worth about as much to me as yours is. Which is to say I wouldn't bet the cost of a cold fart on it.”

Just what that meant even I couldn't have explained, but it did earn me another love tap from Goldilocks, and a sad sigh from an increasingly gloomy Gus. The thing is, you have to keep these people's attention if you want them to remember you.

“Maybe, though,” I added, once I'd regained my breath, “maybe that's because we haven't really gotten to know each other yet.”

“Steve would not lie to me. He is well known in his community, a precinct captain. He has friends, neighbors, people he has helped. Little people, if you will, people who cannot tolerate the abuse of an innocent child by a cowardly pervert.”

“
Little
people who want to score points with Steve Connolly because he's got one foot in City Hall and one on your side of the street. People who don't give a damn whether Lammy did it or not.”

“Lammy? Ah, Lambert Fleming.”

“Yeah, Lambert Fleming for chrissake. Did you forget him? That's what this is about, remember? It's about getting Steve Connolly to lay off him. The court'll decide whether he messed with that little girl, and what should be done about it if he did. That's why I'm sitting here talking to you, for God's sake.”

“No. You're sitting here because I put you here.” The world-weary tone had dropped away, and Apprezziano's voice was cold and harsh. “You made a threat today, a foolish threat. Connolly did not order, or even suggest, that anyone harm that animal you call your client.”

“You have only Steve's word—”

“That's enough for me. What's enough for you is what I tell you now. I've made it known that I disapprove of these incidents with your client. Eventually he will be found guilty and sent to prison. I'm confident he'll receive punishment enough there, even for his unspeakable behavior.”

“Oh? And what if he didn't do it? What if he's found not guilty?”

“That's absurd.” He paused. “But I won't be responsible for anything that happens if he's cut loose. In the meantime, though, until the trial's over, no one will bother this animal. I promise that. I guarantee it.”

Bingo! How foolish could my threat have been, after all.

Apprezziano must have seen the satisfied look on my face. “Don't bother to congratulate yourself, Malachai.” He still didn't get it right. “You are entirely disposable. You know that.”

As though on a prearranged signal, Goldilocks opened the car door and climbed out.

“We're all disposable, Gus,” I said, not moving. “In the end we all slide down the same cold chute.”

He stared straight ahead. “The difference,” he said, “is that I have the power to choose the time for you to slide, and the place. But no matter, just believe what I said. No more threats or harm to your client. And in the meantime…” He hesitated, seemed to switch gears. “Now get out of the car, I'm through with you.”

I got out of the car, digging into my pocket for my own car keys while Goldilocks took my place. He slammed the door without even a good-bye.

The Caddy's motor roared and its rear tires whined, spinning in the slush. Then it was gone, coating me from head to foot with a spray of cold, salt-gray water. And with all the noise, they probably didn't even hear the squealing scrape as I dug my key into the shiny black paint and held it there, letting the moving car draw its own long gash into its side.

Stepping off the curb, I waded to my own car and sat behind the wheel for a minute. I believed Gus Apprezziano when he said Lammy would be let alone. So why didn't I believe him when he said he was through with me?

CHAPTER
7

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
I went to church.

The last time I'd been to church was over a year ago, when I'd sat through Mass twice in one day, a Sunday, in the heart of the city's west side ghetto. The priest that time, Kevin Cunningham, had two mothers and both of them had hired me, for different reasons. Dealing with his demons—both internal and external—grew into a full-time job for both of us. It was a job he hadn't given up on, either, the last I heard.

But this time was different. This was Our Lady of Ravenna, just a few blocks from Lammy's place, at seven o'clock on a Wednesday morning. Ten after seven, actually. I was late, but that was intentional. The sun wasn't up yet, and it was very cold. A wide expanse of concrete steps, swept clean of snow, led up from the sidewalk to three sets of double doors.

The bruised ribs from my encounter with Gus Apprezziano and his golden-haired lackey had been more than enough to keep me awake to worry about whether Gus had something else in store for me. Then, about two in the morning, not long after the pills had finally shut down the pain and I'd fallen asleep, a woman had called. She gave lots of instructions and one of them was that only the set of church doors on the left would be unlocked. I tried the others first. She'd been right.

Inside, a dimly lit vestibule ran almost the width of the church, and there were three more sets of double doors—tall, dark-stained oak doors that swung both in and out and had brass kickplates near the floor and windows with crosses etched into the glass about head-high.

I peered through the window of the left door of the center set. Row upon row of dark wooden pews marched precisely down either side of a wide center aisle, and there were narrower aisles along the side walls. The only brightly lighted area was up around the altar, about fifty yards away, where a white-robed priest stood off to the side of the altar at a reading stand. As I watched, he raised a large book high in the air in a ceremonial gesture, set it back on the stand, then turned and walked toward the altar.

Once he wasn't looking directly my way, I pushed open the door, the one I'd been told didn't squeak, and stepped silently inside. None of the dozen or so worshipers, all huddled up near the altar, turned to look.

Above my head was a twelve-foot-high ceiling that extended out only a few paces and kept the area just inside the doors in deep shadow. Beyond that, the ceiling arched up from the side walls to a center peak that must have been fifty feet high. Down the side aisle on my right, built into the wall just barely beyond the shadow of the lower ceiling, was what I was looking for—a small booth with two doorways, each one covered by a purple velvet drape.

The far-off priest, facing his little congregation across the altar, droned on in a voice barely audible despite the stillness of the huge church. He gave no sign that he saw me as I walked across to my right and stood against the wall in the shadows. I inhaled the ancient aromas of burning tapers, dust, and furniture polish—and suddenly thought of the vulgar jokes we used to make whenever the principal at Saint Robert's would speak of the “odor of sanctity.” In a few minutes, all but one of the people in the pews stood and walked up toward the altar to take communion.

Now or never.

Stepping forward out of the shadows, I moved quickly along the wall to the booth, and ducked behind the heavy curtain of the first doorway. It was pitch-dark inside, but using my hands I found a built-in cushioned bench seat. I sat down, facing the curtain I'd just slipped through, and ordered my breath to slow down. I hoped the woman would know I was there.

I hoped even more that no one else saw me go inside that booth, because I was in no mood to hear anyone's actual confession.

Once my eyes adjusted to the dark, I opened the little sliding door next to my right ear and sat there waiting. When the Mass ended, I heard what must have been the heels of the priest clicking across the marble floor into the distance. A far-off door closed. I heard people walking down the center aisle, then heard them push through the doors on their way out of the church. Meanwhile, from up in front came the sound of several voices mumbling in unison. The rosary had begun, just as the woman on the phone had said it would.

I strained my ears, but that's all I heard.

Suddenly I felt a presence, very close by. Only a feeling, not a sound, and I decided it was my imagination. That's why I jumped so high at the sibilant whisper just inches from my right ear. “This is Rosa,” she hissed, identifying herself as had been agreed.

“Malachy.”

“I must be gone before the rosary is over. I must not be seen.”

“Me too.”

“I am trusting you.” Her words were precise, her accent first-generation Italian. “You have sworn you will never speak of this conversation.”

Actually, I hadn't sworn anything at all. “What is it?” I asked. “What do you have to say?”

“I wish to avoid a great injustice.”

“What do you mean?”

“This boy, this Lambert. I know him for many years. And his mother. They are … backward, perhaps. But this evil thing. I do not believe he did it.”

“Then why did Trish—”

“My grandchild was afraid. They asked her so many questions. I was there, but I could do nothing. She did not mean to say what she said.”

“She told you she was lying?”

“She will not speak to me of what happened. But I have taken care of this child almost from the day she was born. I know her. She wishes to tell the truth, but cannot. She is too afraid.”

“Then it's you who'll have to come forward. Tell the judge.”

“I will not.” She paused, and I heard her soft breathing, scented with toothpaste and garlic. “Because I am afraid, too. Not for myself. I am old enough to be familiar with suffering, ready even to die. But I am afraid for Trish. My son-in-law, he loves her in his way, but—” She stopped. “Steven Connolly is … he is not a man prepared to be a father. With her mother gone to God already, the child needs me. If something happens to me I fear for her.”

“Let me talk to Trish, then. I need to find out who it was.”

“No.”

“Jesus, Rosa, you—”

“This is a holy place.” A new, harsh tone, threatening to rise above a whisper. “Do not take the sacred name in vain.”

“Sorry.”

“There is no need to ask Trish.” Her voice dropped again. Barely audible. “I know who it was who attacked the child.”

“You just said she won't talk to you about it. How do you know who did it?”

“I know it in my heart. Trish was fine when I left her at her Uncle Dominic's on my way to bingo. Later, when I found her at home, she was crying. Steven, my son-in-law, was to pick her up and bring her home. Trish said her cousin went to her room to talk on the phone and when her father was late she was bored and decided to walk home. But she would never do such a thing. She is very bright, and a good child. She would not have left her uncle's house without a reason.”

“Are you telling me…”

“In my heart I know it was not this Lambert. It was … it must have been Dominic who did this. The child's uncle. The husband of my other daughter, Tina.”

“You've got to tell Steve.”

“Steven and Dominic have become close over the years. Even so, he would kill Dominic if he knew the truth. But if I even hint that it was not this Lambert, Steven becomes enraged. His mind is made up. He cannot accept something different. He is a man unable to look deeply into anything. He has filled his soul with hatred for that boy, and his mind will never change now, no matter what. This man, Steven, I warned my poor daughter not to marry him. He drank too much even then. He is a man of cruelty and violence, which gets worse as he gets older. He is Irish—not one of us—but he is so much like Dominic, it is as though they were brothers—brothers in evil.”