Pagan Babies

  It was a show. Johnny comes in yelling for his money and Terry meets him with a machete and tells about death in Africa.

  Two buddies from cigarette-smuggling days. Terry in Levi’s and a blousy white starched dress shirt that had to be Fran’s. Johnny in a long black-leather jacket, collar turned up behind his thin dark hair slicked into a half-assed ponytail. He wasn’t bad-looking. He was shorter than Terry, five eight or nine, one of those skinny tough guys with a slight stoop to his bony shoulders. He said, “You’re a priest, huh? I don’t fuckin believe it.”

  Which could mean, the way Debbie heard it, he did believe it. She watched Terry make the sign of the cross over Johnny, saying, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti . . .”

  Johnny waved the machete at him, saying, “Get outta here, for Christ sake. I want to know what you did with my money, ten grand, and Dickie’s.”

  “Dickie gave his to an orphanage.”

  It stopped Johnny and he got with it saying, “Oh, is that right? And who’d I give mine to?”

  “Some lepers.”

  “Oh, some lepers.”

  “They bought booze with it,” Terry said, “to relieve their suffering. I told them it was okay, you wouldn’t mind. But then when the money started to run low they switched to banana beer.”

  Johnny said, “Banana beer.”

  Terry said, “You know when you change your oil and you see it drain out of the crankcase? That’s what banana beer looks like.”

  “You try it?”

  “I was never tempted.”

  “But the lepers drank it, huh?”

  “They couldn’t get enough. It took their mind off of being lepers.”

  Johnny said, “Terr, fuck the lepers. You spent my money, didn’t you?”

  Debbie watched Terry shrug, a helpless gesture, and hold up his empty hands.

  “I was over there five years, Johnny. What do you think I lived on?”

  “What do other missionaries live on?”

  “Contributions. Don’t you remember at Queen of Peace giving to the missions? You gave to the St. Martin de Porres Mission in Rwanda. You can deduct it on your income tax.”

  “You think I pay income tax?”

  “If you ever do. You put down ‘ten grand to the lepers.’ Johnny, you kept me alive during those five long years. I was able to buy sweet potatoes, meat once in a while. Mostly goat, but that’s all I could afford. If you can look at it as your gift to the mission, Johnny, then I can forgive you for what you did.”

  Debbie loved it. What a cool move, turning it around on Johnny, no match, Johnny frowning now.

  “Forgive me, for what?”

  “Dragging me into it, saying the whole thing was my idea.”

  “Man, you were gone. Me and Dickie’re in the Wayne County jail, for Christ sake. That place is so bad you can’t fuckin wait to get sent to prison. I’m telling you, man, almost six months they’re trying to decide should it go state or federal.”

  “Yeah, but Johnny, I’m not off the hook. I gotta go down this afternoon and see the prosecutor about my indictment, Gerald Padilla.”

  “That’s the same fuckin guy put us away.”

  “And now he’s got a chance, because of what you told him, to put me away.”

  “But you’re a priest, for Christ sake.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Terry said. “I’m gonna have to tell Mr. Padilla you lied, all I did was drive the truck.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is that okay with you?”

  “Tell him anything you want, I’m out, man.”

  Terry said, “Was it pretty bad?”

  “What, Jackson? Live with five thousand morons screaming and fuckin with each other? Watch your back every minute you’re outta your cell? You fuck—was it pretty bad. I ran a sports book in Four East, hired two of the biggest boon coons in the block keep me from getting robbed. I still got shanked, in the gut. Sewed it up myself.”

  “How’s Dickie making it?”

  “He practically lives in Five, the Hole, in and out on account of his attitude. Dickie keeps selling his radio to fish, new guys. Takes fifty bucks off ’em but never gives ’em the radio. I told him, ‘You’re gonna sell it to the wrong guy one of these days.’ He says, ‘Fuck it.’ ”

  “Is he ever coming out?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  “How’s Regina?”

  “You know she’s born again. She’s got a bumper sticker now on the car says my boss is a jewish carpenter. You two oughta get together, sing some hymns.”

  “What about Mercy?”

  “She’s a senior at Wayne State, wants to get into computer programming.”

  “You never know,” Terry said, “do you?”

  Johnny said, “You never know what?”

  On the way downtown, Debbie driving, she said, “Last night when we were talking about Johnny, I said I wouldn’t want to owe him ten grand, and you said don’t worry about it. I guess you knew you could handle him.”

  “Get him confused enough,” Terry said, “he’ll believe whatever you tell him.”

  “Like your being a priest.”

  “You could see he didn’t want to believe it, but he does.”

  “Will you ever tell him you’re not?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe someday,” Terry said. “In the meantime let’s keep Johnny in mind. We might be able to use him.”

  They had lunch at the Hellas Café in Greektown: calamari in olive oil, lamb shanks that Terry said tasted a lot like goat, and rice pudding Debbie swore was the best in town. The diners in the café wearing I.D. tags were jurors from Frank Murphy courtrooms, like tourists here for the first time, looking up wide-eyed when they heard “Opa!” and would watch a waiter present the flaming cheese dish to a table. They walked the two blocks from the Hellas past the back end of 1300 Beaubien, Detroit police headquarters, and past one of the newer county jail buildings to the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice, all criminal courtrooms and the offices of the Wayne County prosecutor.

  Terry went in to ask about Gerald Padilla. He came out and said to Debbie, “He’s either out to lunch or in a courtroom on four; he’s got a trial going.”

  They took the stairs to the fourth floor and passed groups of people waiting along the corridor.

  “It sounds like he’s working me in during his lunch hour,” Terry said, “so it shouldn’t take too long. Get me out of the way and back to sending some poor asshole to the joint.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Why? Fran says the guy’s an usher at Queen of Martyrs.”

  “You’re too much. Is it okay if I go in with you?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Good,” Debbie said, “I like to watch you.”

  It was another show.

  Terry, with the black parka, his gaunt face, his beard, takes on the suit, a navy blue one, the prosecutor pushing his glasses up on his nose, a neat-looking gent who turns this way as Terry announces:

  “Mr. Padilla? I’m Fr. Dunn, from Rwanda. Sir, I understand you want to see me.”

  From Rwanda. Like he’d come all the way from Africa for this, Terry’s voice subdued but level, a touch of humility in his tone, completely at this guy’s service.

  Debbie hung back.

  She watched the prosecutor drop papers on the table where he stood and come out through the gate in the railing to the rows of benches that were like church pews, Gerald Padilla saying, “Father, I’m so glad you were able to make it. I won’t take up much of your time.” He gestured. “Let’s sit down, anywhere here, and get this business out of the way.”

  Terry moved into the second row from the railing, then half turned and extended his arm. “Sir, this is Miss Dewey, an associate of my brother Francis, here to represent me.”

  Making her a lawyer on the spot.

  Padilla nodded as he took a long look, smiling in a nice way. He said, “Gerry Padilla, Miss Dewey, it’s a pleasure. You’re welco
me to sit in, though I don’t see that Fr. Dunn needs legal representation.”

  Debbie smiled. She said, “That’s good to hear, but I’m really only his chauffeur. Fr. Dunn’s been so busy working on mission appeals he hasn’t had time to renew his driver’s license.”

  Terry said, “Believe me, Gerry, I’m in good hands with this young lady.”

  Getting on a first-name basis right away.

  But then he said, “I wish I could take her back to Rwanda with me.”

  Debbie said, “Father, please,” sounding mildly shocked, but with a smile to show he was kidding and she was going along with it.

  Padilla said, “I don’t blame you, Father.”

  And she had to smile again, this time as Padilla winked at her—the rogue.

  She sat in the same row but left space to show she didn’t intend to become involved. Terry sat turned away somewhat, his back to her, while Padilla could look right at her over Terry’s shoulder. Debbie kept her gaze on the judge’s bench now, straight ahead, giving the prosecutor a good shot of her profile, her cute nose, the pert way she tilted her head as she gazed about, lips slightly parted. She could hear them okay.

  From the start talking about Rwanda.

  Padilla saying he had read an account of the genocide, a fascinating book with the chilling title We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families. Asking Terry if he’d read it. Terry saying no, Gerry, being there was enough, seeing dozens of his parishioners hacked to death as he watched from the altar. Padilla taking this in and then wanting to know why the victims accepted death in such a fatalistic manner. Terry saying they were a very serious people, Gerry, who bowed to authority and would always abide by the fact of whatever was happening to them. Terry saying nonetheless he knew in his heart they were martyrs, welcomed by Our Lord that very day into Heaven.

  Nonetheless?

  Padilla would raise his head to steal a glance this way and Debbie would show him a solemn look, almost but not quite sorrowful. Now the prosecutor was asking about the Rwandan legal system’s ability to deal with the more than one hundred thousand alleged perpetrators being held in prisons, saying he’d read about a system of tribunals on the village level they might try in order to speed up the process, the prosecutor saying he believed it was called Gacaca. Terry saying yes, it was being considered, “But if you don’t mind my correcting you, Gerry, it’s not pronounced ka-ka in their language, Kinyarwanda, but cha-cha, like the dance. So it’s Gachacha.” Gerry Padilla was smiling, shaking his head . . .

  As Debbie, smiling back at him, was saying to herself, I’ve got to get out of here.

  She took the elevator down to the main floor and stepped outside the front entrance to have a cigarette. It was cold out here, bleak, a few other smokers waiting to go in. Jurors coming along St. Antoine, back from lunch, got Debbie thinking about a jury bit. She heard her voice playing it to herself:

  “I served on a jury once. It was a murder trial, like Twelve Angry Men only this one was eleven pissed-off guys and me. They all wanted to convict and I was the holdout. They’d say, ‘The guy was caught with the fucking gun in his hand. Why can’t you see that?’ And I’d go, ‘But he couldn’t have done it.’ Beat. ‘He’s so cute.’ ”

  Work on it. You can’t vote to convict. You can’t even kill a fly. Why not? Because you are a fly. A fly on the wall. Buzzing around, buzz buzz—it’s what you see out of your huge fly eyes. “I’ve been walking around on dog shit out in the yard. Hmmmm, why don’t I take a stroll on that lovely lemon meringue pie? My purpose in life is to be annoying, fuck with people and get them waving at me and cursing. Oh, there’s a couple getting it on. Why don’t I land on—”

  Her phone rang.

  “—that big white butt.”

  Her cell phone, a faint sound coming from her handbag. Debbie got it out and for the next few minutes listened to a lawyer, a good friend of hers, answer a question she had left with his assistant two days ago. As she listened she said, “Yeah?” a number of times. She said, “Oh?” thinking oh no. She listened and said, “Oh,” a few more times. Listened again and said, “No, I’m outside, on Frank Murphy’s front steps,” and looked up at the building against a dead-pale sky. “I’m with a friend, a smuggler.” Had to explain that, then listened for more than a minute and said, “Get out of here. Really? You think he could be called up?” She said, “Ed, I appreciate this more than I can tell you. And I’ll think about what you said, I promise.” She said, “Anytime. Give me a call.”

  Not more than a few minutes later Terry was coming out of the building, a happy Saint Francis in his beard and parka, grinning at her.

  “I’m off the hook.”

  “Did you ever get around to the indictment?”

  Terry hugged her. “We ran out of time. He told me not to worry about it—I must have enough on my mind with the business of saving souls.”

  “Saving your ass,” Debbie said. “What did you do, call him ‘my son’ a few times?” Debbie talking, filling in, still in her mind with Ed Bernacki, a lawyer who gave her confidential information with confidence, but seemed hesitant this time. She was anxious to tell Terry what she’d learned and would watch him to get his reaction. But it wasn’t something to talk about here.

  Terry was saying his very dear friend Gerry Padilla had turned out to be a good guy. “He even gave me a hundred bucks for the orphans. A check.”

  “Made out to you?”

  “No, I had him make it out to the Little Orphans of Rwanda Fund. I’ve already opened an account; Fran took me.”

  She said, “That’s where you want to put the check?”

  “Yeah, and get a drink.”

  She saw him looking down St. Antoine now, toward Greektown, and said, “There’s nothing much around here. Why don’t we go back to your brother’s house? We can get comfortable—if you catch my drift.”

  It put a smile in his beard. “Anything you say.”

  Which was just what she wanted to hear.

  14

  * * *

  IT WAS FRAN’S LIBRARY THAT reminded her of the home where she grew up: the distressed paneling and the sets of leather-bound books no one had ever read. She told Terry and it led to a short version of her life:

  Really, a lot like the home she left to go to Ann Arbor and only came back for holidays and the summer her mom and dad divorced and that was the end of pre-law and the idea of following her dad into what was possibly the world’s most boring fucking profession. She never really wanted to be a lawyer. Switched to psychology, hated it and switched to English Lit, since she’d be reading anyway, she might as well get credit for it. Dug Restoration comedy, nutty stuff like Love in a Tub, and thought she might want to act. No, dance. In a chorus line. Do funky Bob Fosse numbers in a derby. No, do stand-up comedy because her friends thought she was funny and Goldie Hawn became her idol till she trimmed her goal to a comedy tap routine, telling jokes while clickety-clicking. Shit, but that was vaudeville. Strip and tell jokes. That was burlesque. There was good money in go-go dancing, dirty guys stuffing your G-string with dollar bills, but it was too scary, crack a major threat. So after her dad’s funeral, where she met the legal assistant who’d become his second wife and liked her and agreed to stay in touch, and her mom moved to a condo in Florida, pre-Alzheimer’s, she never went back to go-going, saved the tap shoes she finally gave her mom, took the advice of her dad’s second wife and went to work in the murky fringes of law doing investigations, stand-up on the side, “Minding my own fucking business when that snake slithered into my life, cost me three years and all my money.”

  Terry said, “You’ve done a lot without really doing anything, haven’t you?”

  “All I want now,” Debbie said, “is a normal life.”

  He went out to the kitchen, came back to the library with a bottle of beer, a double Scotch neat and her vodka on a silver tray. They sat down in the sofa to talk, Debbie saying, “There’s something I better tell you.”


  “You’re married,” Terry said.

  “No, I’m not married.”

  “Well, since you’re telling me everything there is to know about you, were you ever?”

  “I came close, but realized in time the guy was a control freak. He’d try to tell me how to dress, how to fix my hair, how much makeup to use. He’d buy me tailored outfits, a polo coat with the little belt in back? I looked like I was from Grosse Pointe. He was a doctor, so my mom loved him. The whole time I went with Michael I think he laughed maybe twice and we saw one movie.”

  “What was it?”

  “Rain Man.” Debbie said, “You’re acting frisky ’cause you’re off the hook. If you’ll shut up for a minute and drink your drink—” This time he didn’t interrupt and she said, “I’ve been in touch with a friend of mine, a lawyer I’ve done investigations for, Ed Bernacki. I asked if he knew anything about Randy.”

  “Why would he?”

  “Ed’s big time, he knows what’s happening downtown and likes to gossip, as long as it isn’t about his clients. His law firm represents the two top guys in the Detroit Mafia. Or I should say the alleged Detroit Mafia. When Ed Bernacki uses the term he always qualifies it with, ‘If in fact such an organization exists.’ He got back to me while I was waiting for you, outside the Frank Murphy.”

  “Why didn’t you mention it then?”

  “I didn’t want to talk about it on the street or in some bar or while I’m driving. It’s something we have to discuss. Then you decide if you still want to help me.”