The young man got up again, though Joe waved him down, and flapped his wallet open for Joe to read.
“George Z. Barnhart,” Joe read, aloud, and asked, “What’s the Z for?”
Mr Barnhart, saying “Mind if I close this?” closed the door between the offices.
Whereupon Joe said, “No, go right ahead,” but couldn’t see that this had any effect on the man, obviously one of the new prehistoric types. “What’s it all about, sir?”
Mr Barnhart had sat down and unzipped his briefcase, from which he took a document. “I am authorized to read you the following regulations. ‘Gonorrhea, syphilis, and chancroid, hereinafter designated venereal diseases, are hereby declared to be contagious, infectious, communicable, and dangerous to the public health. It shall be the duty of every person who makes a diagnosis of, or gives treatment for, a case of gonorrhea, syphilis, or chancroid, to report immediately to the State Board of Health on a form supplied for the purpose, the name and address, age, sex, color, occupation, marital status, and probable source of infection of such diseased person together with such other information as may be required. Local health officers are hereby directed to use every available means to ascertain the existence of, and immediately to investigate, all known or suspected cases of gonorrhea, syphilis, or chancroid, within their respective districts and to ascertain the sources of such infections. In such investigations said health officers are hereby vested with full power of inspection, isolation, or quarantine, and disinfection of all infected persons, places, and things. It shall be a violation of these regulations for any infected person knowingly to expose another person to infection with any of the said venereal diseases or any person knowingly to perform an act which exposes another person to infection with venereal disease. All persons reasonably suspected of having a venereal disease shall submit to an examination as shall be deemed necessary by the State Board of Health, provided that where such examination is of a personal nature it shall be made only by a licensed physician. All persons infected with a venereal disease shall continue under treatment or proper observation until no longer able to transmit the infection. In the case of chancroid this shall be until all ulcerations are completely healed. Whenever a case or suspected case of venereal disease is found on premises used for immoral purposes, or whenever a case of venereal disease is found upon premises where it cannot be properly isolated or controlled, or where the infected person will not consent to removal to a hospital or sanatorium where he or she can be properly isolated or controlled during the period of infectiousness, the health officer or representative of the State Board of Health shall put in a conspicuous place on the entrance to the premises where such venereal disease exists, a notice in words as follows: Warning, Venereal Disease Exists on These Premises, Posted by order of Health Officer (name and date). Such notice shall be printed in black boldface type upon a red card with the words Venereal Disease in letters not less than three inches high.’” Mr Barnhart produced such a red card from his briefcase and flashed it at Joe. “Any questions?”
“Many. If you’re talking about somebody else, why are you talking to me? And if you’re talking about me, what’s it all about?”
“I’m talking about you.”
“You think I have VD?”
“You’re a suspect.”
“And why’s that?”
“Your name came up in connection with another case.”
Joe sniffed. “Another case, huh?”
“We have to follow all leads.”
“Somebody with VD mentioned me as a likely prospect?”
“Suspect.”
“Who?”
“That has to remain confidential. The Board has to protect all cases, or they wouldn’t cooperate. You can understand that.”
“Not quite. What if you’re wrong? What if I’m not ‘another case’?”
“We have to follow all leads. It’s the law. I’m just doing my job.”
Joe sniffed. “I’ll put it another way. What if this is a dirty trick, somebody’s idea of a joke?”
“It’s no joke.”
“I agree. I’ll put it another way. Has the Board ever been sued?”
“Sued?”
“For causing people needless, grievous embarrassment?”
“It can’t be helped.”
“Can’t, huh? Why not write a letter? What’s wrong with that?”
“Some people wouldn’t answer a letter.”
“O.K. Then go and see ’em. Why come out here and throw your weight around? Some people would feel insulted, as I do, but wouldn’t be so polite. The Board could be sued. You could get your ass kicked. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened before now, if it hasn’t.”
“I am authorized to inform you that you are suspected of having a venereal disease, and that you have forty-eight hours to provide the Board with medical proof to the contrary.” Mr Barnhart then got up with his briefcase and left his card on the edge of Joe’s desk. “What’s wrong with your hand?”
“Thumb,” Joe said. “Ulcerations.”
After the young man departed, which he had immediately, without a word, Joe sat on at his desk, wondering Who?
So that evening, by appointment, Joe visited Dr Wylie. After an X ray was taken of Joe’s thumb—he wouldn’t have to wear the splint but would have to be careful—he stripped down to his shorts and was given a physical.
“That’s it,” Dr Wylie said, blowing smoke in Joe’s face. “Get dressed, for God’s sake.”
“What about VD?”
“What about it?”
“I thought I’d be tested for it.”
“Whyn’t you say so?”
“I thought, the way things are today, it was part of having a physical.”
“You thought wrong. If you’re worried about syph, it’ll show up in your blood test. You worried about clap, or what?”
“No, I just want medical proof that I’m A.O.K.”
“A.O.K.? You? You want to see A.O.K., look at me.” Dr Wylie, that evening, wore overall cutoffs and cowboy boots (with, Joe thought, elevator heels), and as before was bare above the waist except for his lavaliere.
“I want medical proof I haven’t got VD, in case I decide to become a chaplain.”
“Do that, you should have your head examined.” Dr Wylie kicked a metal stool over to where Joe was standing, and sat down. “O.K., let’s see what you’ve got. Whip it out.”
Joe exposed himself, saying, “If this and the other—the blood test—are negative, would you put it in writing?”
“Sure, for the Commander in Chief. Milk it down.”
Joe did as directed, wondering again, but more poignantly than ever before, who had caused him this needless, grievous embarrassment.
“Again.”
Joe did as directed, wondering again, Who?
Dr Wylie said, “What you should be worrying about is this corporation of yours. It’ll only get worse, you know. You guys are always going on about the primrose path and the wages of sin. Boy, this is it. Give the horse any thought?”
“Horse? Oh, yes. Some.” Humor the man.
“One more time.”
Joe did as directed.
“Clean as a whistle. Get dressed.” Dr Wylie turned away in disgust and lit a cigarette. “Tell you what. The wife’s home, and she hates the Catholic Church, but we’ll go up to my den and have a few. I’ll show you my horse. Maybe let you try it on walk or canter.”
“Thanks a lot, but some other time,” Joe said, wondering again, Who?
27. AUGUST
THEY TOOK A few nights off from their mendicancy to watch the Democratic Convention on TV. This was educational for Bill, with Joe there to tell him who was who, what was what, and to comment on the fashions of the day—these at an all-time low. “Walter Cronkite’s wearing a four-in-hand bib.” “Get a load of the pimp sideburns on Sander Vanocur.” By the end of the second night, the realities of political life, the effects of original sin, were emerging in Chicago, and
Joe, who’d been hoping that a groundswell would somehow develop for Gene, was drinking more than usual (Bill too, not, however, the same thing) and feeling mean. “Is this the best we can do?” he’d inquire from time to time, and exclaim, “Get those hillbillies out of the government!” His stock of booze, which he’d let run down—wisely or unwisely, depending on when he thought about it, in the morning or in the evening—had been liquidated the second night. The next morning, with a head of lead, he had resolved to swear off, or anyway cut down, if only for Bill’s sake. So that evening they were drinking beer.
“Actually,” Bill said, “I prefer it.”
“In hot weather,” Joe said, and reached for the phone, on the floor beside his BarcaLounger. “St Francis.”
“Father Schmidt, please.”
“One moment.”
While Bill, who’d turned down the TV sound, took the call, Joe viewed without comment (more hillbillies) and listened in on Bill.
“My fault, Herb. We’ve been so busy here. No, I’ll ask him tonight and get back to you tomorrow. Right. G’night, Herb.” Bill turned up the sound and went to his chair. “That was Mr Lane, Joe.”
“Herb?”
“He wants me to call him that.”
“What else does he want?” Both kids in the school?
“That was about the Cheerleaders.”
“The what? Oh.”
The Cheerleaders, whose sole purpose it was to have their picture taken with the principals of new enterprises and construction in Inglenook, and who showed up in beanies and sweaters with “I” on them, with megaphones, pennants, pompons (if female), and a bass drum with a smile painted on it, were in reality Mall-based merchants and professional people, invariably described in the Universe (where the pictures ran when space permitted) as “that congratulatory group.”
“They’d like to come here, Joe.”
“What for?”
“Joe, you know what for.”
Yes, to congratulate him on his new rectory. Either it hadn’t occurred to them to do so before, or they’d known better before Lane came along. “Sorry, Bill, but the answer has to be no. Nothing doing.”
Bill appeared to question his pastor’s judgment. “All right, Joe. I didn’t promise anything. But I didn’t think you’d mind, actually.”
Joe sniffed. “Actually,” he said, reaching down for the phone, “I’d rather bite the head off a chicken. St Francis.”
“Joe, you doing anything?”
“No. Not much.”
“Like to talk to you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Not on the phone. If it’s all right, I’m coming out. I’m at Horse’s, so I won’t be long. I won’t stay late, Joe.”
“O.K., Left.”
Joe searched his bedroom and the bathroom for bottles possibly mislaid, and returned to his chair, his beer, and the convention. He was troubled, however, by thoughts and pictures of the Cheerleaders. “Bill, if Lane wants to know why not, tell him you don’t know—which you apparently don’t. Or tell him to ask me—which he won’t.”
“All right, Joe.”
“If Father Beeman comes before I get back, tell him I won’t be long.” About to depart, Joe waited for the convention to be gaveled to order by the chair, a Southwesterner, said, “Get those cowboys out of the government,” and left.
Backing out of the driveway, Joe was almost sideswiped by a dented black Impresario, and spoke to the driver. “The back door’s unlocked. I won’t be long. Bill’s in the study.”
“Bill? Want to talk to you.”
“Ride along then.”
Lefty squeezed into Joe’s car and was still gasping from the effort when Joe turned the corner and Big Mouth and Patton came into view, the latter heavily engaged on the rectory lawn.
Lefty yelled out the window: “Church property!”
Big Mouth, nodding and smiling, waved.
“How about that?” Lefty said to Joe. “Parishioner?”
“What else?”
“Kick ass, Joe. That’s what I did when—whenever—I was a pastor. I still do, but not as much.”
“You’re learning, Left. What’s on your mind?”
“Oh.” Lefty opened and shut the glove compartment. “Joe, I don’t know how to tell you this. But maybe you already know.”
“You’ve been offered a parish. Cathedral?” Cruel.
“Joe, this is serious. You sure Bill didn’t tell you?”
“What could Bill tell me?”
“Plenty.”
Joe turned onto the highway, into the slow lane. “Like what?”
“Joe, remember the day I phoned to ask if Airhead was at your place—or Bill?”
Joe was silent.
“The day you came off retreat, Joe. Remember?”
“Not all the details.”
“Did you know those clowns were with this creep Conklin?”
“Not when you phoned. Bill told me later. He told me Conklin was bitter about the clergy—something about losing his mustache, half of it.”
“Joe, I’m sorry about that, and so’s Horse. We got carried away. Conklin’s really hard to take, though I will say this for him—Airhead’s worse. Joe, did Bill tell you where they went that day?”
“More or less.”
“He tell you what they did—maybe not Bill but Airhead and Conklin?”
“Not exactly, no.”
“Airhead was lucky, but Conklin caught a dose.”
Joe shook his head, turned into the Great Badger’s parking lot, came to rest near the liquor store, and shook his head again. “It’s a crazy world, Left.”
“There’s more, Joe. Some shit from the state department of health wanted to know if I had VD. Said my name came up in another case. ‘What case?’ I said. He wouldn’t tell me. That’s how it works, Joe—the burden of proof is on the innocent. You’re supposed to offer to take a physical. ‘You think I’ll do that, that’s where you’re wrong,’ I said. ‘You don’t, there’ll be a sign on the front door,’ this shit says, and shows me the sign. It got kind of wild then. I got carried away, Joe.”
“It’s a crazy world, Left.”
“That’s not all, Joe. I now know the same thing happened to Horse. Only he caved in and took a physical.”
Joe was silent.
“Poor Horse. Instead of keeping it to himself and eating his heart out—they say he’s a slob, and he is, but he’s a sensitive slob—he should’ve come to me.”
“Come to you,” Joe swiftly replied. “How was he to know he wasn’t alone? Why didn’t you come to him?” And me?
“Joe, I did, but by then it was too late.”
“Look. What if Horse had come to you?” Or I had?
Lefty, from the breast pocket of his black summerweight suit, produced a rubber cigar. “Joe,” he said, speaking around it, through his teeth, “I broke the case.”
Joe just looked at him and the cigar.
“Blew it sky high, Joe. The same day this shit called on me. At dinner that night—and, fortunately, Airhead was present—I told Nijinsky I’d sue the state if the sign went up. You know how pale the man is anyway, Joe. Well, he got paler. I felt sorry for him in a way. (This is only his first pastorate, you know.) I offered to take a physical if the case went to court, doubting, I said, that it would. I even offered to take a physical the next day, the result, though, to be my secret until, and if, the case went to court. But nothing seemed to help. Nijinsky was still what I guess you might call speechless. He got up and left the table. So did Airhead then, and drove off. It was around midnight when he knocked on my door. (I was in my skivvies having a nightcap and soaking my dogs—Joe, I have one of these Massagic foot-baths.) Well, Joe, Airhead came clean, told me what I already told you, Joe, about Conklin catching a dose and himself being lucky (not that he won’t have to take a physical now) and also why Conklin brought Horse and me into it: on account of his mustache, Joe, half of it.”
Joe nodded, wondering, though, why he’d be
en brought into it.
“You know what else, Joe?”
“What?”
“Conklin asked Airhead to beg my forgiveness. ‘Ask him to beg it himself,’ I said, ‘and then we’ll see.’ I’d still like to kick his ass.”
“What about Horse’s forgiveness?” And mine?
“Also Horse’s. And you know what else, Joe?”
“What?”
“Airhead’s under the impression he laid down his life—his spiritual life—for his friend, than which there is no greater love.”
Joe was what he guessed you might call speechless.
“Some shit, huh? And you know what else, Joe?”
“What?”
“Airhead says Conklin was also out to get you. Why, I don’t know. Do you?”
“No.”
“I’ll try to find out if the creep comes around to beg my forgiveness.”
“Don’t bother. Forget it.”
“‘Forget it,’ he says. You wouldn’t talk like that, Joe, if this’d happened to you—and I’m not thinking of myself so much as I am of poor Horse.”
“I know.”
“Joe, it’s odd Bill didn’t tell you any of this. Well, maybe not.”
“Far’s I know, Bill hasn’t been in touch with Potter and Conklin lately.” Joe opened the door of the car. “I’ll be right back, Left.”
“I’ll trail along, Joe.”
When Joe opened the door to the liquor store, he saw two youths go out the other door and heard one of them yell, presumably at the sight of clergymen in clerical attire, “Spooks!”
Lefty went after them.
“No, no,” said Joe, thinking there was reason to be annoyed, as he was, yes, but not to kick ass, and, following Lefty, was in time to see an old car, one of those with its rear end obscenely cocked up, roar off.
“Gone,” said Lefty.
“Good,” said Joe.
Lefty glanced at Joe and then away in disgust. “Wake up, son. That was a heist.”
They went inside where Mr Barnes, who’d been standing at the cash register before, was releasing three customers—two middle-aged men and an older woman—from the walk-in cooler. Mr Barnes and the customers, particularly the woman, were grateful to Lefty and Joe, in that order, to the former, the real hero if there was one, more than to the latter, for coming on the scene when they had—in the nick of time, Mr Barnes said, because the robbers, as he called them, had got nothing, “thanks to you gentlemen.”