Pagan Babies (11 page)

"Another five minutes," Fran said, "I'd be out of here. You wouldn't be able to get in the house."

He had on white poplin warm-ups that gave him a puffy look, Terry seeing a snowman in elaborate tennis shoes.

"I thought you were going to Florida."

"I am, I got a limo service takes me to the airport."

He didn't seem happy about going. Or something else was bothering him.

"That's what you wear on the plane?"

"For comfort," Fran said, "it's a three-hour flight. You have your breakfast?"

"I wouldn't mind a cup of coffee. All Debbie has in the house is instant."

"She's a kid," Fran said. "Her idea of coffee is cappuccino, in a restaurant."

"How old would you say she is?"

"I know exactly how old, she's thirty-three, still a kid."

"What're you trying to tell me," Terry said, following Fran inside, "even if I wasn't a priest she's still too young for me?"

Fran brought him from the foyer past a curving staircase, through the formal dining room and butler's pantry to the kitchen before he spoke, Fran facing him now from across a big butcher-block table. "Somebody sees you leaving her apartment, seven in the morning, what're they supposed to think?"

"We grilled hot dogs last night, kosher," Terry said, "with the skin. After that we sat around talking. It got late, I could see she was tired--"

"I told her on the phone, call me, I'd pick you up."

He thought Fran would ask where he'd slept--it was a one-bedroom apartment--but didn't seem to want to touch that. So Terry said, "You worried I might've gotten laid?"

No smile, Fran's tone almost grim saying, "I'm talking about appearances."

No, he wasn't, but Terry went along. "I appear, seven in the morning or whenever, who knows who I am? Do I look like a priest in this?"

"You told me you bought a suit."

"I did." Fran had given him his Brooks Brothers credit card and he'd driven to the mall in Mary Pat's Cadillac--Fran having a fit when he found out and had to inspect the car for dings. "I pick up the suit today, after five."

Fran said, "Aw shit," sounding worn out. "Your meeting with the prosecutor's at one o'clock."

"I'll be there."

"One o'clock sharp at the Frank Murphy. I know I told you."

"You did, I just don't have a suit. I have the Roman collar, one of Uncle Tibor's, and one of his Mandarin shirts--has a little notch up here to show the collar. I tried on his suit. It was so shiny you could use it as a mirror to comb your hair."

Terry grinned, hoping Fran would, but he didn't.

"Fran, I could wear a dress, I'm still a priest."

"You scare me sometimes, you know it? Mr. Casual."

"Fr. Casual. I'll speak to him in Latin."

"You're not funny." Fran seemed about to say something else, but then looked at his watch and hurried out of the kitchen.

Terry had already spotted the coffeemaker. He found a can of Folgers in the first cupboard he opened and was running water from the tap, waiting for it to get cold, when Fran appeared again.

"My car's here."

"How'd you know?"

"It's supposed to be here at seven-fifteen and that's what time it is. Listen, Terr. Don't fuck up, okay?"

"I won't."

"The wrong attitude alone could keep the indictment active." Fran paused. "Buddy, I went way out on a limb for you. I said the Pajonnys hired you to drive a truck, ten bucks an hour. You were going to Africa and needed some extra expense money. I offered to give you whatever you needed, but you wanted to work for it--it's the kind of guy you are, hardworking. Yes, you knew you were transporting cigarettes but had no idea it involved tax fraud or you wouldn't have taken the job. You don't know who bought the cigarettes or what they did with them. That's your story and you stick to it. You nervous?"

"Why? I've got nothing to hide."

"That's good," Fran said, "that's the attitude to have. Any questions?"

"I can't think of any."

"You gonna walk me out?"

Terry said, "Sure," and turned the water off.

Fran hadn't moved. "I forgot to tell you, Johnny called. His number's by the phone in the library. Call him--you don't want to piss him off. But you also want to hold your ground. By that I mean you don't owe him anything, not a dime. You can't admit to anybody you received a payment. Johnny tries to get tough, back off, you're not kids in the schoolyard now. He threatens you, tell Padilla, the prosecutor. You don't want that asshole on your back."

"Johnny or the prosecutor?"

Fran said, "You can't help it, can you? Your normal reaction is to be a smart-ass. I imagined coming back from Africa, all you've been through over there, you'd have changed, become more serious . . ."

Terry nodded, waiting.

". . . show a sense of responsibility, and gratitude. You know how much I sent you altogether, counting what I paid for the T-shirts? Over twenty thousand dollars. You write and tell me about the weather and, 'Oh, thanks for the money.' "

Terry said, "You wrote it off, didn't you, as a contribution?"

"That's not the point. What about the cigarette money? With the three trips you must've taken off with fifty grand, counting the Pajonnys' cut from the last one. You spent all that?"

Trying to find out if he had any money. Terry said, "Fran, I was over there five years." And that was all he wanted to say about it.

"I read one of your letters to Mary Pat, the one you opened up in a little more than usual, that had all the smells in it. I commented that you were starting to sound like your old self again. You know what Mary Pat said? 'Is that good or bad?' " Fran said, "You see what I mean?"

Terry wasn't sure, but nodded again, squinting just a little, showing Fran he was giving it serious thought, while Fran seemed to stare at him as long as he could before looking at his watch again.

"I gotta go."

Terry waited on the front steps until the Lincoln Town Car was out of sight. He went into the library, saw two numbers for Johnny on the message pad--his home and what looked like his cell phone--as he dialed Debbie's number. As soon as she answered Terry said, "He's gone."

Man, last night. Late night decided his future for him. It would have to come one day at a time, but the trip looked full of promise all the way.

Just talking about it, Debbie telling stories . . . First offering to twist one if he wanted. "A yobie? Sure, why not." She appreciated his name for it and said that's what she'd call a joint from now on, a yobie. See? Looking into the future together. They sat on her secondhand St. Vincent de Paul sofa toking and grinning at each other, sipping their drinks, getting high while they looked for a way to score off Randy. Now loaded. A fact she hadn't mentioned before. Married a wealthy woman, divorced, but left in good shape, with a few million and a restaurant downtown.

"We'll get to that," Debbie said. "I think I told you, the first time he asked to borrow money he showed me a picture of his boat?"

"The one he didn't own," Terry said.

"That's right, but what I didn't mention, it had my name lettered on the back end, debbie, and under it, palm beach. He said he renamed it because he was so crazy about me. And oh, by the way, could I spare a couple of grand."

"How'd he do it?"

"Wait. Okay, now this is later, after he wiped me out and took off. It's been a couple of months and I'm in Florida visiting my mother. I stopped by the marina Randy was always talking about, looked around and there it was, a forty-six-foot cutter named debbie with palm beach under it. I asked in the marina bar if anyone knew a guy named Randy Agley. The bartender goes, 'You mean Aglioni?' A salty old guy sitting at the bar goes, 'Randy, that's the creep went around taking pictures of the boats. We ran him off.' I asked if they knew where Randy hung out. The bartender tells me to try the Breakers, where guys like Randy troll for rich broads. The old guy says try Au Bar, he saw him there a couple of times. Okay, at the Breakers I find out Mr. Agley is not allowed on the premises and Au Bar isn't there anymore, it's something else. I thought I'd struck out. But then right after, I have my mom out to dinner at Chuck and Harold's, we're almost finished and there's Mr. Wonderful himself. He has a drink in his hand and his sights on two women at a table. They're dressed casually but you can tell they're Palm Beach, the hair, simple jewelry but the real thing. Randy waits till they've ordered their drinks before moving in, the cheap fuck. I'm watching--it's obvious they don't know him. He gives them some bullshit for a couple of minutes, something like, 'Didn't I see you charming ladies at the Donald's last week? No? Then it must've been . . . ' He joins them. Pretty soon the women are laughing and he's not even funny, has no sense of humor at all. I used to throw lines at him, ideas, off the top of my head? Like I'd say, 'My boyfriend is so good-looking, when he goes out he has to wear women's clothes,' beat, 'or else he gets mobbed by babes.' Randy would think about it with a blank look on his face, then turn on this fake laugh that sounds like ha ha ha. He wasn't fun. He had no idea how to get into a goof."

"He joins the ladies," Terry said.

"And I'm with my mom. What do I do, warn the ladies? Pour a drink over his head and cause a scene? Not with my mom there. I told you she thinks she's Ann Miller? While I'm watching Randy, Mom's telling me how much fun she had making On the Town with Gene and Frank, but that cute Vera-Ellen was a pain in the ass the whole time."

Terry said, "I'd like to meet her."

"She's still there. What I ended up doing, I took Mom over to the table and said, 'Mother, this is Randy, the bullshit artist who stole all my money.' My mother says to him, 'How do you do, Andy, I'm pleased to meet you.' She thought he was Andy Garcia. I got her out, raced across the bridge to the nursing home--it's right on Flagler--dropped her off, and raced back to Chuck and Harold's. I was sure he'd still be there because he'd have to clear himself, make up a long, involved story. Did you see My Dinner with Andre, the snob who bores the shit out of Wallace Shawn for an hour and a half? That's Randy."

"He was still there."

"I checked to make sure, peeked in. Then schmoozed the valet parking guy to let me sit there and wait, double-parked. Randy comes out, finally, with the two ladies and stands there talking to them while they wait for their car. Randy, I was sure, parked on the street, he never spends his own money if he can help it. He gets the ladies into their car, still bullshitting them. They drive off and he walks along the streetside of the cars parked along the curb. I creep up next to him, my windows down, and go, 'Hey, asshole,' to get his attention. I told him I'd hound him, I'd keep showing up and make his phony life miserable until he paid back every cent he stole from me. But without any idea how I'd do it. He came around to my side of the car, the Ford Escort, and tells me with his face in the open window, 'Don't fuck with me, kid. You're not in my league.' "

"That did it," Terry said, "calling you kid, huh?"

"That and his tone of voice, Mr. Fucking Superior. I see him walking away, across the street to where he's angle-parked against the median, Royal Poinciana Way, lined with palm trees. I had to go after him. I floored it. I saw his face as he looked back and saw me coming and I plowed into him, bounced him off a couple of cars and drove off."

"You left the scene?"

"That was my mistake, a premeditated hit-and-run, witnessed by everybody standing in front of the restaurant."

Terry was sympathetic. "That's a shame, have all those people watching. You hurt him much?"

"He had to have a hip replaced."

"I hear that's a common procedure now."

"He fractured his other leg, punctured a lung. There were lacerations, I think thirty-five stitches in his scalp. The state's attorney wanted to bring me up on attempted murder. I had a court-appointed lawyer who did what he could. He tried for man two, where I'd get maybe a year; we settled for aggravated assault, three to five."

"You poor thing," Terry said, slipping his arm around her shoulders. "Being locked up with all those offenders. It must've been awful."

She looked up at him with sad eyes, holding the yobie away from them, and he kissed her for the first time, a tender kiss, Terry seeing what it was like, then putting a little more into it to see where it would take him, then glad to feel Debbie getting into it with him. When they came apart he took the yobie from her and put it in the ashtray on the coffee table. But then when he turned to her again there was a different look in her eyes. Not quite sure about this.

He said, "I'm not HIV, honest."

"You swear?"

He raised his right hand. "Scout's honor."

"You don't have any, like, weird African diseases you might've caught?"

"Not even malaria."

She kept staring at him and pretty soon the look in her eyes softened. She smiled and he believed he was home.

He was.

They went in the bedroom and kept on kissing and now touching each other as they took off their clothes, Terry holding her from behind as she pulled down the bedspread. They left the lamp off but could see each other in the light from the hall, where the bathroom was. She said, "It's been so long for me." And said, "I know, it's like riding a bike."