Madman's Thirst (5 page)

“That bastard loves coming here.
Why do you think my church survived the last round of diocesan cuts?”

“Do you always have a bartender?”

Jarecki laughed.

“No. The Rosary and Altar Society
is meeting later.”

“Listen, padre,” Mack interrupted,
grabbing a cigarette from the priest’s pack. “I’d love to stand here all day
and talk religion, but why don’t you tell Jake why you called me.”

CHAPTER 6 – ONE FOR THE AGES

It had been a typical Saturday.
Fewer people came to confession nowadays, but Jarecki, a stickler for
tradition, put in the time: 2 to 4 PM. Of course, it was now called the
“sacrament of reconciliation,” which didn’t help matters. The more the church
compromised the less respect it got. Jarecki had revered the first Polish Pope
and still mourned his death. He had a hard time getting past the fact that his
new leader was a German. But, he acknowledged grudgingly, the fellow was made
of the same stuff as his predecessor, and would protect the sanctity of the
church’s teachings. 

Jarecki had heard only a half
dozen confessions in almost two hours. Thank God for Mrs. Dumbrowski! Without a
little comic relief, he’d go stir crazy. (“Is it a mortal sin, Father? I mean,
it’s the only thing that makes it bearable. Joe is so fat now, he hardly moves
anymore, let alone vibrates. Only thing, does he have to be there when I use
it?”) Ethel would have a stroke if she knew he’d recognized her voice. As head
of the Rosary and Altar Society, she spoke to him almost daily. At least he
hadn’t laughed out loud.

The priest looked at his watch,
barely making out the numerals in the light from the tiny 15-watt bulb in the
ceiling:
3:50
. Ten more minutes. It was a gorgeous fall day, temperature
in the mid-60’s. Maybe he could slip out for a couple of holes at Silver Lake
and get back in time for the evening mass. Jarecki opened the confessional’s
door and peeked out. The church was empty. I’m in like Flynn, he thought. The
Lake’s “twilight” golf rate was the best kept secret in the city. Not that it
mattered for him. The God-fearing woman behind the cash register at the club
never charged a man with a collar.

A fanatic golfer, Jarecki’s initial
disappointment with his transfer to Staten Island from Pittsburgh evaporated
when he found out the borough contained four of the six golf courses in New
York City. He was flirting with a single-digit handicap (well, 14 is flirting,
he told himself) but his putting needed work. Until recently the weather had
been lousy and he had been restricted to a makeshift putting green in the
sacristy, where the carpet, while not much bumpier than the greens at Silver
Lake, was a poor substitute for the real thing. Besides, the sound of a golf
ball rolling into a chalice (unconsecrated!) just didn’t cut it.

 He looked at his “atomic” watch
again.
3:55.
It  was a gift from his sister, who was always ordering
gadgets from in-flight airline catalogues. The damn thing was accurate to one
second every thousand years, or some such nonsense. If it said
3:55
,
then, by God, it was
3:55
. He got up and stood outside the confessional
and stretched.

Jarecki was a bullet of a man,
tough-looking even in a cassock; with a sloping nose that seemed to push down
on his upper lip. His coarse dark brown hair was styled in a modified flat top
that gave him the look of a Roman centurion, a visage that served him well in
his other sporting avocation, the touch football he played with reckless
abandon in the Staten Island Flag Football League. His team, Flynn’s Inn, had a
fair number of tough Poles representing the tavern – thanks to his recruitment
efforts after Sunday mass. Jarecki asked – and gave – no quarter on the field. He
was known as “Last Rites” Jarecki for asking flattened opponents if they needed
them. Now, he was halfway through an imaginary golf swing when the front door
to the church opened and a hunched figure walked in slowly. He returned to the
confessional, hoping whoever it was just wanted to light a candle.

A moment later someone slumped
heavily into the seat on one side of the confessional. Jarecki looked at his
watch:
4:00
. Damn it! He sighed, pulled back the slide and waited. He
heard heavy, labored breathing. His nose twitched. No stranger to visiting
hospital rooms, Jarecki recognized a faint, but distinct, odor, more medicinal
than unpleasant. Whoever was in the booth was getting to a priest in the nick
of time. The silence dragged on.

Finally, “Bless me Father, for I
have sinned….” That was followed by, “I can’t believe I just said that.”

Jarecki heard rustling. The man
was apparently leaving. Jerry Jarecki was a hard case, but he was still a
priest.

“Wait, my son. I can help you.
What is it you want to say?”

There was no response, so he
started to repeat himself in Polish, but a raspy voice cut him off, in English.

“I haven’t been inside a church in
a long time.”

“It’s never too late to come back.
God doesn’t….”

“Listen, Padre. I don’t have time
for the religious speech.” The man coughed again. “I’m covering my bases. Always
felt comfortable here. Used to come before I left the Island. Hasn’t changed
much in 40 years. I don’t really believe in this crap, but no atheists in
foxholes, right? So let me cut to the chase. I want to get something off my
chest. So just sit there and listen.”

“You’re in the wrong foxhole, my
friend.” Jarecki always had a short fuse. “I’m not a psychiatrist. Unless you
are sorry for what ever it is you’ve done, I can’t help you. Go to Sacred
Heart. Father Duffy is a rum ball. He’s probably still asleep in the confessional.
He’d give you three Hail Marys if you told him you were the second gunman on
the grassy knoll.”

The man was silent. Shit, the
priest thought, now I’ve done it.

“Son of a bitch,” the man said,
laughing. The laughter dissolved into hacking coughs, but he finally continued
good-naturedly. “You’re sure nothing like Father Krupinski. The fat bastard
would give me absolution if I brought him a dozen of my old man’s pączek. Can
we start over?”

They did. After the man finished, they
sat in silence for several minutes.

“For I have sinned,” Jarecki
thought. Mother of God! The understatement of the century. The shocked priest
was the first to speak. He told the man what had to be done. They argued. The
man was adamant. Finally, a compromise, of sorts, was reached. Not one Jarecki
would like to run by the Vatican’s Ecclesiastic Office, but probably the best
he could do under the circumstances, given his vows. This was not an instance
for a “three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys” penance. Or a boxcar of
pączek. There might not be a penance short of Hell. But Jarecki insisted
on one thing.

“C’mon Father. Give me a break.
What good will it do?”

“Just humor me. Do you remember
the words?”

“I was in Vietnam, padre. I said
it daily. Sometimes twice. I’ll never forget the words”

The man began in rote, but ended
subdued:

“O MY GOD, I am heartily sorry
for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of
Heaven and the pains of Hell; but most of all because they offend Thee, my God,
Who art all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help
of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen.”

***

After the man left, Father Jarecki
sat quietly in the confessional for a full half hour, all thoughts of golf
gone. He needed a drink badly, but he’d have to wait until after the evening
Mass.

Later, the sparse crowd that
attended the Saturday vigil mass noticed that Father seemed distracted. His
sermon was perfunctory, if a bit harsh. What had they done? After the service,
Jarecki stood, as usual, at the back of the church and shook hands with
parishioners. There was little of his famous small talk.

“Must have missed his tee time,”
the widow Grabowski said to her friends.

As the congregation filed out, the
priest whispered something to a burly man who told his wife to wait in the car
and then drifted back into the vestibule. After the last parishioner departed,
Jarecki went over to the man.

“Do you still do some work for
Dudley Mack?”

CHAPTER 7 – PATHS NOT TAKEN

“I can tell you that the man
wasn’t particularly sorry for most of his murders, but this was an exception.
It had really gotten to him. It was undoubtedly the imminence of death that
stirred what little conscience remained in him. That and the fact that his
partner raped the Pearsall girl before killing her. I tried to convince him
that all his murders were mortal sins and must be repented to gain forgiveness
from God. He vigorously argued the point, only reluctantly admitting that
perhaps some of his previous victims hadn’t deserved to die. With that much of
a breakthrough, and with his genuine remorse for the girl’s murder, I felt
comfortable enough to grant him absolution.”

Of course, it hadn’t been that
easy, Jarecki thought.

“I’m warning you,” he told the
man. “God’s forgiveness is based on your contrition. You should turn yourself
in to the police. The crime in ongoing, even if you won’t be.”

That was blunt, but Jarecki, bound
by the sanctity of confession, knew his options were limited. Deep in his
heart, he had always thought it a weakness of his Church that sinners were let
off the hook so easily. He suspected that it had more to do with keeping people
in the pews, and the collection plates full, than genuine theology. But he had
taken the vows, and Jarecki, though cynical, was a man of his God, and his
word.

“Don’t push it, Jarecki,” the
killer had replied. “I’m not going to rat anyone out. What do you think I am?
That’s got to count for something with the man upstairs. I’m banking on that.
The cops? In this borough? You must be hitting the communion wine a little too
heavy. Haven’t you heard anything I said?”

But then he threw the priest a
rope, frayed at best, but it was something.

“I’ll make you a deal that
shouldn’t bend you collar out of shape. You don’t know my name, and I’m not
giving you anyone else’s. But this might have had something to do with that
proposed stock car track they’re planning out by the Goethals Bridge. I ain’t
even sure about that, but it’s all I’m saying. Whatever it is, you figure a way
to stop these bastards, be my guest.” The man groaned. “Listen, I ain’t feeling
so good. You want me puking in the confessional? We got a deal? For the girl,
and, uh, some of the others?”

***

“So you called Dudley,” Scarne
said.

“If you can’t go to the cops,”
Mack said, “try the robbers.”

The priest poured them all more
shots. They were on their fourth.

“I would have thought it was
connected to the nursing home story,” Scarne said. “Pearsall must have frosted
a lot of people with that story.”

“Water under the bridge,” Mack
said. “Those guys are in enough trouble. This must be bigger.”

“Do you think NASCAR is that big a
deal? Who stands to gain the most? The mob? Unions?”

“Yeah. Sure. Contracts. Jobs.
Patronage. All the usual suspects. But I know a lot of these people and I can’t
think of anyone who would pull a stunt like this for a project that might not
get approved even if the
Register
supported it. There’s a new dynamic
out here. Hell, even the Russians wouldn’t risk it.” 

 “So it’s something else entirely
and the killer was wrong.”

“He said he wasn’t sure,” Jarecki
said. “I got the impression that it was an informed guess. All he said specifically
was that the killing was designed to stop something from happening. The people
who gave the orders thought it was too dangerous to go after the girl’s father
directly, because of his position.”

“As bad as killing a cop,” Mack
said.

“I imagine you feel that you’re
pretty close to the line on this,” Scarne said.

“But it’s a line I won’t cross,
Jake. He gave me some leeway with the sanctity of confession, but made me
promise I won’t go to the police. So, this is where it ends for me. The crime
was an abomination. I hope justice is done. But I can’t do more. Are we clear
on that?”

“Sure, padre. I know the drill. I
had the benefits of 16 years of Catholic education.”

“A lot of good it did you,” Mack
remarked. “Do you think the guy still lives here, Jerry?”

“No. He said he was brought in for
the job, or hit, or whatever you call it. Even mentioned how much the Island
has changed in 40 years.”

 “Did the scumbag tell you what
kind of cancer he had?”

“Pancreatic.”

“That might not leave us much
time,” Mack said under his breath. Scarne caught the “us” and decided to let it
lie.

“I agree,” the priest said. “The son
of a bitch said he went to the best doctors in the city but the disease is very
advanced. He’s on the back nine.”

Scarne shook his head.

“Is that all you know about this
guy? He lived on Staten Island 40 years ago and is presumably Polish?”

“And his father was probably a
baker.”

Scarne and Mack looked at each
other.

“He said he used to get absolution
for a bag of pączek,” Jarecki explained. “It’s Polish pastry, like a jelly
donut, only deep fried and filled with a sweet filling like Bavarian cream or
custard. He said it was his father’s pączek. It’s not something you make
at home.”

“I didn’t know there was such a
thing as a Polish bakery,” Mack said. “Italian, German, Jewish, maybe, but not
Polish. At least on Staten Island.”

“There’s none that I know of now,”
Jarecki said. He looked down the bar. “Stash, you ever hear of a Polish bakery
in the neighborhood? In the old days.”

“My grandmother used to talk about
Gadomski’s out in Travis. Been closed for years, I think.”

“Well, it’s a start,” Mack said.

Jarecki walked them out the front
of the church.

“Good luck. I think I’ve done all
I can. Maybe more than I should have.”

As Mack and Scarne got into the
car, the priest called out to them.

“One more thing. If you come
across any place to get some good pączek let me know. I’ll give you more
than absolution.”

***

“What did you think of Pontius
Pilate’s story back there?”

They were back on Richmond
Terrace, heading to Brooklyn. Despite Scarne’s protests, Dudley had insisted on
taking him back to Manhattan, with a stop for dinner at Peter Lugar’s in the
Williamsburg section of Brooklyn.

“That’s not quite fair, Deadly. The
guy’s in a tough spot.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m just pissed
that they killed the girl to get to the old man. Fucking animals. You remember
Bobby Pearsall? He was a lot older than us. I know you remember his wife.
Ronnie. Ronnie Kane? Used to hang around with my sisters.”

“Cute blonde? Pearsall married
her?” Scarne could picture Ronnie Kane immediately. She was one of those girls
a boy of a certain age never forgets. “She was quite a catch. Thought she’d go
for a jock, not the bookish type.”

“Bobby was a real good baseball
player in his day. Star pitcher on the Wagner College baseball team. Sneaky
little lefthander. Played into his 30’s in the local leagues on weekends. Used
to humiliate me with his curveball. Couldn’t touch it.”

“You couldn’t hit a fastball, either,
Duds. I don’t think I ever faced him. You ever see Ronnie? I seem to remember
you were sweet on her.”

Mack looked out the window.

“Died two years ago. Cancer, of
course. Like everyone on this goddamn Island.” Scarne knew that Mack, like many
people, was convinced that Staten Island’s high cancer rates were the direct
results of its being downwind from northern New Jersey’s chemical plant belt,
and half a century of hosting the world’s largest garbage landfill. But he was
surprised by the bitterness in his friend’s voice. “That’s why Pearsall was
vulnerable. Bastards counted on that.”

 “What’s got you so riled? You of
all people know what goes on out here.”

They were driving over the Verrazano-Narrows
Bridge. Mack lapsed into silence, looking out the window. Finally, he turned to
Scarne.

 “I liked Bobby. In fact, I helped
him win his Pulitzer. Those nursing homes were rivals of mine. I supplied him
with a lot of dirt on them. Not that they didn’t deserve to get hammered. Goddamn
cesspools. Gave him a second wind after Ronnie died. I liked his kid, too. I
thought maybe you could look into this thing, if you’re not too busy.”

This last was said casually, but
Scarne caught the dig. Dudley had been bugging him in recent months to get his
act together after the Ballantrae case.

Scarne bridled, but then said,
offhandedly, “I don’t know. It’s a crappy situation, I’ll admit, but I don’t
like working on Staten Island. I know too many people.” He left unsaid what
Dudley Mack knew: Staten Island, with its pleasant memories, was a refuge for
Scarne. In fact, he was surprised his friend even suggested that he get
involved. “Besides, why don’t you let the cops handle it? I’m sure they’re not
taking the murder of a young girl lightly.”

“What are you the fucking CIA, Jake? Can’t work domestically? The Island isn’t a foreign country.” Mack relented. “Hell,
maybe it is. I know how you feel. But there is something else going on here I
can’t put my finger on. The cops are stumped. Even if they weren’t pissed off
by the nature of the crime – and I know they are – it would be a coup for them
to solve the murder of an editor’s kid. They found DNA. Nobody in the system.
I’ve asked around. Pulled some strings. Nada. Brick wall. Be a miracle if they
get anybody for it.”

“We could tell them what we know
now. We’re not priests. We’ll leave Jarecki out of it. You could say some
lowlife told you.”

“They’d pump me for info, and then
hit me with an obstruction charge when I clam up. I’m one of the bad guys
remember.”

“I could let them know. Tell them
I got an anonymous phone call. Just doing my civic duty.”

“If it comes to that, do it, if
you think it will help. But I doubt it will. They’ll probably file it under
crank calls.”

“Then what could I reasonably do
that they can’t?”

“Maybe nothing. But listen, I know
you think you fucked up on your last case, or whatever that colostomy bag was,
but you took some real maniacs off the board. I got a feeling that one of your creatively
destructive investigations is just what this deal needs. Besides, there’s
something else. Personal.”

What came next surprised Scarne.

 “I was more than just sweet on
Ronnie. We had a thing going, back in the day. While she and Bobbie were
dating. He never knew. I guess she wasn’t sure about him. Sometimes women get cold
feet and warm them with a final hot fling. At least that’s been my experience”
He smiled, and shrugged. “But, hey, what the fuck do I know?”

Scarne couldn’t help but smile
back. Dudley ’s conquests were the stuff of legend. One day he finally felt
compelled to ask him how he did it.

 “Assuming they are of legal age,”
Mack told him blithely, “I ask every woman I meet if they would like to fuck.
Sometimes I phrase it more delicately, although my experience is that the word
‘fuck’ works best, especially if there is booze involved. I figure that I’ve
asked way more than a thousand broads. I occasionally get slapped or have a
drink tossed in my face, which to tell you the truth I find refreshing – not
the drink – but the morality. But I have about a 10 percent success rate. Do
the math.”

Scarne had wished he’d never
asked. Now, Mack read his mind.

“I know what you’re thinking. But
Ronnie was different. She turned me down at first – a woman of rare taste – but
called me when she and Bobbie were going through a rough patch. I really fell
for her. Pulled out all the stops. Flowers, dinners, stuff I don’t do. But she
saw through me pretty quickly. She made the right choice. Married Bobbie a
month after we broke up and never looked back. I never forgot her, though.” Mack
looked away again. “You know I’m not exactly the romantic type, but there was
something about Ronnie. I think I would have married her, given the chance.
Maybe we would have had a daughter that age.” He saw the look on Scarne’s face.
“Yeah. I know. It’s possible the kid is …. was mine. The timing would be close.
Not likely, but possible. But it don’t matter. Paths not taken and all that
bullshit.”

The two friends were again quiet
for a moment and then Dudley said, “You know the worst thing in the world is to
love someone who only likes you. Anyway,  I wouldn’t mind sticking it to the
pricks who killed the girl. An Act of Contrition may cut it for the Church, but
not me.”

Nothing else was said until they
pulled up to the famous steakhouse abutting the Williamsburg Bridge. The East
River glimmered in the moonlight.

“So, what do you say? A little pro
bono sleuthing to get your act together after your recent vacation? You must be
getting tired of snooping around hotel lobbies trying to catch some hedge fund
guy with his zipper down.”

Scarne and Mack had been close
since their college days at Providence, where, after trying to beat the hell
out of each other, they learned they had a lot in common. And like most good
friends, they knew how to push each other’s buttons. Which what was Mack was
doing now.  

 “OK, Deadly,” Scarne said with a
resignation that was nevertheless tinged with intrigue. “But you’re buying
dinner.”

“What’s new? Look on the bright
side. It’s a goddamn miracle that we even have the chance to do something. If
the scumbag hadn’t gotten cancer... If he didn’t go to Jarecki…. If Jerry
didn’t call me…. If I didn’t know Ronnie…. Coincidence? Serendipity? Whatever. It’s
meant to be. The bastards who did this don’t know we’re coming. Now let’s eat.
You haven’t lived until you’ve seen Bobo order Lugar’s porterhouse for two,
just for himself.”