Deadly Blessings (28 page)

With a bland smile that looked to be pasted
on, he picked up a briefcase set near his feet that I hadn’t
noticed earlier, and followed me and the hostess to a far booth in
the “non” section.

Once my iced tea, his coffee, and a basket
of assorted rolls were settled before us and our orders sent back
to the kitchen, I leaned forward, arms on the table, and smiled. I
decided to take control of the moment. His phone call to set up
this meeting had thrown me off my game enough to make me
uncomfortable. And discomfort doesn’t help me maintain my
equilibrium in wacky situations such as this.

“
I was surprised to hear
from you,” I said in an attempt to take the reins and guide the
conversation. “I can’t imagine what you need to see me
about.”

Bruno was wearing priestly garb, black
pants, black long-sleeve shirt with the stark-white notched collar
that let everyone in the restaurant know a holy man was present. He
acted as though he hadn’t heard me, instead moving his gaze around
the murmuring diners, obviously catching an eye now and then.
Giving “priest nods”—those innocuous head gestures that can mean
anything from “hello” to “you are blessed,” but probably meant
nothing in this case more than “Hey, I’m a priest. Did you
notice?”

Attendant Catholics acknowledged, he
returned his attention to the table. He pulled a wrinkled
handkerchief out from inside his black sleeve and blew his nose
copiously, eyebrows raised, his face reddening in the process. This
man plodded. He took his time. And if he was hoping to set me
off-kilter again, it was working. Of course, I wasn’t about to let
him know that.

Time to be direct. “So why exactly did you
want to meet with me?” I asked.

Tucking the soiled hanky back into its nook,
he shot me a short-lived smile. “Alexandrine Szatjemski.”

I felt my eyes squint, wary. “Yeah.”

His face broke into a large smile. A scary
one, because his eyes picked up the overhead light and glittered
when he spoke again. “Also, Alex St. James?”

Damn. He’d made the connection. “Sometimes,”
I said, and shrugged as if to say “no big deal.”

With slow movements, designed no doubt, for
maximum suspense, he slid his coffee cup far to his right and
brought his black briefcase up, opening it on the table, with a
snappy click-click. He had it angled in such a way that I couldn’t
see what he pulled out, other than to know it was papers. Several
papers.

“
You neglected to mention
the real reason for your interest in Sophie.”

“
My real reason?” I
affected confusion.

“
Come
now, Alex. And you do usually go by Alex, don’t you?” He didn’t
wait for my answer. “It wasn’t that hard to find out about you. I
suppose most people who you interview and whose stories you tell
on
Midwest Focus
simply don’t take the time to discover who
they’re dealing with.”

Another smile. Another jolt of unease for
me.

“
Or maybe,” he continued,
“you don’t need to affect a different persona for your other
stories.”

I’d lost control of this one. That was
obvious. Now I needed to decide the best way to regain my footing.
I opened my hands in what I hoped looked like a gesture of
abdication. “Okay, so you found me out. What are you planning to
do?”

“
I’m going to do what I do
best, my dear,” he said. Everything about him oozed condescension.
The gentle, yet not-so-kind look in his eyes. The tilt of his head
that to onlookers might seem as though he was engrossed in my
words, but to me looked like ill-concealed smugness. “I’m going to
protect my children.”

Our young waitress arrived with his
open-face pork sandwich—a mound of meat and accompaniments swimming
in gloppy brown gravy so carelessly ladled on, that thick globs
dripped off the side of the plate. She slid my small dinner salad
in front of me. Ranch dressing in a silver cup on the side, just
like I requested. She asked if there was anything else we needed,
in a voice that expected we’d say we were fine.

“
We’re fine,” I said, eager
to turn the conversation back to Father Bruno. As soon as she left
the side of the table I asked, “How?”

He closed the briefcase again, returning it
to his side on the booth’s seat as he turned his attention to food.
His doughy face had broken into a smile, and I half-expected him to
rub his hands together before diving into his meal. But he picked
up his knife and fork, checking them for spots, it seemed, and
started in with gusto. I didn’t think he heard me.

“
How?” I
repeated.

“
How … what?”

“
How do you plan to protect
them?”

Condescension again, this time blatant.
“Eat,” he said gesturing with his now-dripping knife. “Plenty of
time to talk when we’re finished.”

We locked eyes for a moment or two, him
daring me to push it, I thought.

The idea of eating right now went beyond
surreal. His arrogance glittered from small eyes peering out over
flabby cheeks. This man across the table from me, leering at me not
with lust, but with power, was a priest. A priest who made my skin
crawl. I tried not to think “asshole” and “Father Bruno” in the
same thought because doing so would probably guarantee an eternity
in hell, but it was tough.

Small talk wasn’t coming easy for me, but
Bruno didn’t seem to mind. He paid little attention to anything
other than the massive plate before him and his coffee, which he
drained at least four times while he shoveled the pork roast and
dressing in, at an impressive clip. He asked me once where Sophie
was staying, but I didn’t answer and he didn’t press.

He cleaned his plate, using the last bite of
a sesame seed roll to sop up the remaining gravy. Tiny bits of
cooked pork goo remained near the inside curve of his platter and
he stamped at them with the bun, trying to pick up every last one,
before shoving the arrangement into his mouth. His bottom lip was
droopy in the center, I noticed. Like a baby pout, the middle
hinged downward. With bits of food that he worked from between his
teeth, the lip got lots of exercise.

I dropped my fork into my unfinished salad.
Now that he was done, we could talk and I was more interested in
that than cleaning my own plate. Our server, in a bit of
waitress-understanding, moved up to clear the plates right away,
then swung back moments later to refill our beverages and drop off
the check, which I grabbed. This girl was good, and I’d have to
remember to tip her well.

I brushed crumbs off the end of the table
with the side of my arm. “So,” I said, prompting, “the reason for
our meeting today?”

This time he kept the briefcase on the seat
next to him as he opened it. “Alex. Alexandrine.”

I waited.

“
Lovely name. Alexandrine
P. Szatjemski. What does the P stand for?”

“
My middle name,” I said
without humor.

“
Yes. Yes,” he said, taking
his sweet time, his eyes focused downward, to the side. On
something inside the briefcase, no doubt. He had my attention,
that’s for sure.

After a few moments of noisy shuffling, he
looked up at me. Gone was the beatific smile and kindly demeanor.
“You’re an intelligent young woman, Alex. And a beautiful girl. You
have the potential to go far in this world.” His eyes never left
mine. “If you make good choices.”

The ranch dressing began to curdle in my
stomach. I cleared my throat. “What kind of choices am I looking
at?”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes as he
answered. “Now, now. Not to worry. There’s nothing sinister in what
I’m about to propose.”

The restaurant seemed almost to fade away,
and I was unaware of any movement or sound beyond Father Bruno’s
sonorous breathing as he settled his girth in the booth and leaned
forward to explain. He pulled his head low, and arranged his voice
even lower. “I told you that I protect my children, did I not?”

He got me to nod.

“
And I
sometimes do so at great personal risk.” The timbre of his voice
suggested this was an “important point” he needed me to grasp.
“If
Midwest Focus
does the story I envision, then many, many good
people will get hurt.”

“
Many good people are
getting hurt, now,” I reminded him.

“
There’s a lot you don’t
understand.”

“
Why don’t you enlighten
me, then?”

Leaning back, he expelled a breath that
could have been frustration. “Oh, Alex,” he said, shaking his head
and taking a long drink of his coffee as he glanced around,
grimacing. His voice changed—petulant. “I really do wish we’d sat
in the smoking section.”

“
Why?” I asked. Anger and
frustration got the best of me. Unable to stop myself I added,
“Getting nervous?”

That brought him back to the table, in a
hurry. His eyes blazed. “No. I’m not nervous.” His words were
quiet, precise. “Because I know who, and what, I’m dealing with.
These girls come over from the old country and they’re not going to
make it. Not unless they get help. And so I help them.” His voice
rose. “And if they make choices that aren’t … ideal, that’s their
decision. What I do is ask myself, do they have a better life
because of me? I like to think they do. No. … I know they do.”

I pulled away a little at the tirade, taken
aback by his vehemence. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a
couple of other diners sneak a peek our direction. I doubt they
heard his words, but his body language was clear.

With a protracted downward glance, Bruno
pursed his lips, gathering his poise, it seemed. A smile twitched
at his mouth before he raised his face to look at me again. “My
apologies. I’m sure you can tell that I care deeply about these
young people and that I am passionately concerned for their
well-being.”

I wanted to laugh in his face. My back
straightened and I sat up, restraining myself from spitting an
argument back at him. Realizing I’d learn nothing by fighting him,
I waited, every nerve in my body taut, wound like a spring ready to
attack.

“
You’re a woman of good
character, Alex. I can tell these things.”

“
You can.” I said. Not
phrased as a question.

He ignored me. “I know you would be a woman
of your word. Am I right?”

A web began to spin around me, but I
couldn’t find a way to prevent it. I gave a reluctant nod.

“
Good.” He smiled a genuine
smile for the first time since we’d met at the door. “You and I are
in a position to help one another.” His voice had lowered. There
was no way anyone else in the restaurant could hear him. I had to
bring my face closer to the table to catch everything,
myself.

“
Do you know what would
happen if you run your television program?” He wasn’t looking for
me to answer, so I kept silent. “Sophie, who escaped the harshness
of destitution in the old country, would be deported.” He squinted
at me. “In an instant. Her life would be ruined. Do you understand?
Ruined.”

“
But you’re
sanctioning—”

“
Alex. Listen. Jesus
forgave Mary Magdalene. What you’re suggesting is that one of my
children is committing sins as grave as hers.”

“
You obviously haven’t paid
attention to all the news programs lately,” I said with some
enmity. “Mary Magdalene wasn’t a prostitute after all. She’s of
royal descent.”

He heaved a theatric sigh. “Oh yes, all
that. The big Catholic Cover-up.” He rolled his eyes. “My point,
however, is still valid. Jesus forgives. Who am I to second guess
Jesus, if indeed any of this is true?”

“
It is true. You know it
is.”

“
I know that Sophie is a
good Catholic. I also know that she works hard in her job. There’s
nothing I can do to stop her from pursuing other means of support
when she’s out of my sight.”

“
But Sophie trusts you. I’m
sure all the girls trust you. You could be their
champion.”

“
All the girls?” he asked
and I couldn’t decide if the surprise on his face was genuine or an
affectation.

“
Yes, all the girls. The
girls you placed at Lisa’s salon. If you would confront Lisa
Knowles, it could make all the difference to them. It could change
their lives.”

He stared at me for a long moment, with eyes
I couldn’t read. “You think you have a story here, don’t you?”

“
I think a lot of innocent
people are getting hurt.”

He heaved a sigh. “You aren’t listening with
the right attitude. You don’t know Sophie the way I do. I know
what’s right for her. All I’m asking is for you to look the other
way. Just for a little while.”

“
You must be
joking.”

“
No,” he said drawing the
word out.

“
I can’t do
that.”

“
Like I said earlier, Alex.
We are in a position to help one another.”

I shook my head, not understanding.

Bruno reached down, pulling a slim manila
folder from his briefcase. He placed it on the table between us,
his fingertips poised atop it like a spider as he pressed it firmly
in place. The message was clear. “Don’t touch.”

“
I’ve done my homework on
you Alexandrine Szatjemski. And I’ve been able to pull some
strings. Some very important strings.”

I waited.

“
I would be willing to hand
you this folder, right now, if you give me your word that you’ll
kill the story.”