God's Favorite (12 page)

“Look at your number, Father,” Teo said in a moment. “Maybe you won.”

Father Jorge looked under the bottom of his Pepsi cup as Teo had done.

“What does it say?”

“It says, ‘The Force is with you. You win a free action figure.' ”

“How about that, Father? You going to cash it in?” His voice betrayed a bit of envy.

“I don't need an action figure. Why don't you get it?”

Despite himself, Teo's eyes brightened. He returned in a moment with a small plastic doll. “Which one is it?” Father Jorge asked.

“Boba Fett.”

Teo set the doll on the table and studied it closely. He is still such a child, Father Jorge thought, feeling a surge of anger at the world that Teo lived in, which had so little space for innocence.

“I'm afraid you can't come back to the parish,” said the priest. “We have a policy—”

“They told me the rules, Father. I know all about it.”

“I'm sure your mother wants you to come back home.”

Teo didn't answer. He seemed to be weighing the truth of that statement. “Will you take something to her?” he finally said. He took a wadded-up bill from the watch pocket of his Levi's and carefully smoothed it out. It was twenty dollars. “Tell her this is for Renata. She's going to need a dress for her First Communion.” He seemed to be very proud as he placed the money on the table.

If Teo had given that money to the policeman, Father Jorge thought, he might not have gone to jail.

“What shall I tell her about you? She'll want to know where you are.”

“I got friends. They'll take care of me.”

The priest stopped himself from responding. He knew who Teo's friends were—delinquent boys, like Teo himself, who ran the gangs in the street. He wanted to save the boy, but he knew that Teo had to be willing. That might never happen, but if it did, Father Jorge hoped he would be ready for him. There was something about the child that called to him. He was still capable of love, unlike some of the toughs that Father Jorge had dealt with. But the more the priest tried to close the distance between them, the farther away Teo seemed to be. It was like running after a train. The child was on his way to some awful destination, and Father Jorge was unable to pull him back.

A
T LEAST HE
'
S ALIVE
,” Gloria Sánchez said, when Father Jorge appeared at her apartment. She wasn't surprised to learn that her son had been arrested. She took the twenty dollars without a word and placed it in a plastic glass in her cupboard. As she did so, Father Jorge allowed himself a glimpse of her legs, which were slender and shapely. Now that he had seen her as a prostitute, he couldn't keep his eyes off her body. She had already been the subject of several memorable dreams.

“Who cuts your hair, Father?” Gloria asked unexpectedly.

“I suppose I do.”

“That's what I thought.” She laughed lightly.

Father Jorge touched his hair self-consciously. It was long and disorderly—in fact, the Nuncio had recently made some critical remark about the need to maintain a tidy appearance. “I guess you think I should give it a trim.”

“Let me do it. I need the practice.”

“Are you planning to be a barber?”

“That's my dream. I'm saving to open a shop.”

The priest hesitated.

“Look, I've already got the tools,” said Gloria. She showed him a kit with an electric trimmer and several pairs of scissors.

“Well, it's one thing they didn't teach us in seminary,” Father Jorge admitted.

She made him take off his glasses and bend over the sink while she washed his hair. Her fingers were firm and sure, and his scalp tingled with pleasure. Then she toweled him off and sat him in a kitchen chair with paper napkins tucked into his collar and spread over his shoulders. “How long do you want it, Father?”

“Whatever you think is right.”

Gloria stood in front of him and sized him up. “I think shorter is better.”

Father Jorge had not had his hair cut professionally in years—not since Spain, in fact. It was such a small service, he thought, but disarmingly intimate. There was no mirror for him to look into, but he could sense Gloria standing behind him and imagine what she was doing and the look of concentration on her face. His damp hair fell like fronds from a tamarind tree. He struggled against the erection that announced itself with a rude lurch.

“Your hair is very thick,” Gloria said admiringly. “It's got a lot of body also. I would kill to have hair like this.”

“Your hair is okay.”

Gloria laughed. “ ‘Okay.' ”

“I mean, you have beautiful hair,” he said, feeling deeply embarrassed by the erection, which was now quite obvious.

“Well, it's not my best feature, but it doesn't embarrass me.” She moved to his right side and began trimming around his ear. He was extremely conscious of her skin and her breasts, which were so close to him and somewhat more exposed because of her bent position. She was wearing shorts and a halter top. She smelled like coffee and cinnamon. His nerves were so acute that he could feel her touch even before her fingers actually reached him. He could feel her hands moving in the air. He could also
feel the throbbing in his penis, which was like a gorilla pounding its chest. He closed his eyes and made a quick plea to God to put the beast to sleep.

“Did I hurt you?” Gloria asked.

“No, no,” he said faintly. “I was just wondering where you got this talent for barbering. I can tell you have a gift.”

“Well, thank you. Hugo used to tell me I was born to make men happy, which I guess is also a talent.”

“Hugo?” the priest said in surprise. “Did you cut his hair as well?”

“Yeah, you could say that, Father.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be indiscreet.”

“I don't mind. He was a wonderful man. He was always very good to me, and he often sent money for Teo. Don't you think he favors him?”

“Is Hugo his father?”

Gloria set her scissors aside and brushed the hair off the priest's neck. Her manner seemed a little brusque. “Hugo didn't claim him,” she said. “I don't blame him, it wasn't possible to know for certain. But I always believed it was Hugo, and I think he didn't mind. I just wish Teo could have known him. Maybe he would have a little pride, you know what I mean? Instead, he's so hurt inside and so angry at the world. He thinks I'm responsible for all the bad things that happen.” Her voice broke, and she turned away.

“I'm sure he loves you, he just can't show it,” Father Jorge said. “It's obvious to me. He just doesn't want to be a child anymore. He wants to take care of you. Give him a couple of years, you'll see.”

Gloria took the electric trimmer and began to buzz the back of his neck. The cool metal made him shiver. “I'm going to tell you a fashion secret, Father,” she said. “When you start getting gray hair, you should grow a beard. It'll make you look like a saint.”

“Appearances don't always tell the truth.”

Gloria put some lotion in his hair and combed it back. Then she stood back and looked at him. “You better be careful, Father,” she said. “I may have done too good a job.” She said it as a joke, but he noticed that her eyes lingered on him as she put her scissors back in the sheath.

G
ILBERT
B
LANCARTE
, the famous Argentine psychic, was in a trance. Tony could just see the whites of Gilbert's eyes through the peroxided braids that draped the witch doctor's face. Gilbert wore a red chiffon scarf over his naked shoulders, which glistened with sweat in the small, still room. The scene was a little spooky, even to Tony. Sometimes he thought it was all so ridiculous, but whenever Gilbert entered the spirit world, Tony felt surrounded by ghosts.

In the legends of the Afro-Cuban gods of Santería, Tony found a divine echo of his own life story. His personal orisha, or guardian angel, was Oshún, the yellow goddess of the rivers, who was primarily worshiped by women because she looked after childbirth. But she was also the goddess of beauty and sexual power. Vain and amorous, she gave away her children to her younger sister, Yemayá, just as Tony's dying mother had given him away to his godmother, Mama Luisa. Tony revered Yemayá, but he wore the amber beads of Oshún. In the end, he had to worship beauty.

Few people knew about Tony's secret studio in Chorrillo, but
then it was a district where people didn't ask many questions. Tony could be alone here when he needed to conjure. On the walls were bottles of special potions, herbs, exotic medicines. A chicken carcass was being drained of its blood in the corner, plop-plop-plopping into a mayonnaise jar to be used later. Obviously Tony was going to need all the help he could muster to counter the massive Cuban wanga that the Colombians were putting out. A shrine to Shango and to Saint Barbara dominated one corner, and on a low altar before it was a soup tureen filled with polished stones and cowry shells. Facing the tureen were the pin-filled dolls of Tony's enemies, a pudgy Pablo Escobar and bespectacled Jesse Helms, which Tony had personally constructed out of burlap and papier-mâché.

“A fat man from Colombia,” Gilbert muttered in his high-pitched trance voice, which sounded as if it were floating on helium.

Tony looked at the Escobar doll. “What does he want?”

“He wants to have you killed.”

Tony shuddered. “You've got to protect me, Gilbert.”

“Are you wearing your ribbons?”

“Of course!” Tony raised his pant leg to show Gilbert the red ribbon tied above his ankle. But Gilbert's eyes were focused inward, on another plane entirely.

“There is another disturbance.”

“What? Who?”

“A rival.”

“I have many rivals.”

“This man is a slave to women.”

“Is his name Roberto?”

“Roberto,” the witch doctor repeated. “This could be.”

“Roberto is a problem, I agree. But he is useful to me.”

“He can cause you much trouble. Beware of him.”

Perhaps Japan, after all.

“Who is this?” said Gilbert. “Another powerful figure arises in the spiritual realm. He is wearing robes.”

“Robes? Like a priest?”

“He is a very high priest.”

“The papal nuncio? He provides refuge to the opposition, but I did not think of him as an enemy.”

“He is big,” said Gilbert.

“He is very tall,” Tony agreed.

“I mean, spiritually, he is big,” said Gilbert, sounding a little vexed despite his trance. “Much mojo.”

“Really? We're talking about the Nuncio? Old man with bushy eyebrows? I thought he was harmless.”

“He can be treacherous, like the tides. Do not go over your head with this man—he will sweep you away!”

With that pronouncement, Gilbert suddenly coughed up a wad of black goo. Then he sprang back into present reality, delicately wiping the foam from his lips. “So, bad reading, huh?” he said in his normal lisping voice. “Sometimes it goes like that.”

“You can help me, though?” Tony tried to keep the pleading tone out of his voice. Gilbert was so vain about his powers that it wouldn't do to let him know how much Tony depended on him. There were so few people he could trust.

“I can help you, Tony, but you have to be careful. Lately, you've been up to a lot of tricks. You're going to have to simplify, my friend. These enemies, they gain power as they multiply. Spiritual geometry. It works against you.”

“I know,” Tony said miserably.

“Look, don't be so worried. We'll put you on a special program, an enemy-reduction plan. We'll keep on casting the usual spells, but in the meantime I want you to try to imagine what you personally can do to make your enemies into your friends.”

“But Escobar and Helms, they are crazy people.”

“I'm not saying you can reason with them. But perhaps there is some thoughtful gift you can give them. Something personal. Something that says, ‘I hear you and I understand.' ”

“Money,” said Tony. “Money says that.”

“If I were in your place, I would get someone to speak for me.
An intermediary who will talk to the fat Colombian. I think this is your main piece of work right now, Tony. Because really, this guy has a lot of juice. And oh, man, he's very fucking angry.”

Tony grimaced and rubbed his temples.

“The headache again?” Gilbert asked.

“Make me a potion, Gilbert. It's killing me.”

“Tony, you overdo the potions.”

“Why does everyone want me to suffer? I'm hurting and I need treatment.”

“You should listen to me. It's not a gin and tonic, you know.”

“Gilbert . . .” Tony said, the pleading now apparent.

Gilbert reached over victoriously and patted Tony's hand. “I'll make you a special. You'll feel like a king.”

Tony sighed and closed his eyes. Total defeat. But he also felt relieved. Gilbert was powerful. Gilbert was wise. His advice was sound: offer a gift. Tomorrow morning, Tony decided, he would release the twenty-six Colombians who had been captured in the DEA raid in Darién. That should appease Escobar. Okay, the Americans would be upset, but some jurisdictional excuse could be offered. They were Colombians, after all. Tony could release them and tell Colombia to extradite them, which would never happen. In the meantime, the men would disappear. In a few weeks, they'd be forgotten about entirely.

“Where do you keep the powdered rooster toenails?” Gilbert asked as he thumbed through the glass vials in Tony's cabinet.

“In the left-hand drawer. All the ingredients are alphabetized.”

“You are so organized,” Gilbert said admiringly. “That's how you got where you are, I guess.”