True Confessions (27 page)

That same night, at Dan T. Campion’s house in Hancock
Park, Peg Campion served corned beef and cabbage for dinner.

“Dan’s favorite, Monsignor,” Peg Campion said. She was a thin, nervous woman who always seemed to have a cold. She was never without a sweater around her shoulders and a handkerchief balled in her hand. Desmond Spellacy suspected that Peg Campion cried a great deal. “Every Wednesday he wants his corned beef and cabbage.”

“Friday’s Boston cream pie day,” Dan T. Campion said.

“Because the tuna fish casserole’s not very fattening,” Peg Campion said. She blew her nose and through the handkerchief added, “That’s Friday’s dish.”

“She’s a grand girl, Des,” Dan T. Campion said. He had scarcely opened his mouth since they sat down to dinner. He had just stared into space and left Desmond Spellacy to talk to his wife. They had discussed the Holy Days of Obligation one by one. Peg Campion said that her favorite was the Feast of the Assumption because it was the only one in the summer. “A creature of habit,” Dan T. Campion added, “just like me.”

“Twenty-nine years come May thirty-first, Monsignor,” Peg Campion said. “I’ve been thinking of a prime rib.”

“Birthdays and anniversaries, it’s always the prime rib,” Dan T. Campion said. “When Peg says she’s having the prime rib, I know I better get a present.”

Dan Campion’s laugh competed with Peg Campion’s blowing of her nose.

“You said you wanted to be alone with the monsignor,” Peg Campion said.

“A grand idea,” Dan T. Campion said. “In the study, Des.”

The study. Desmond Spellacy had bad memories of the study. The study was where Dan T. Campion got down to brass tacks. Coffee and brandy in the study meant that Dan T. Campion had something on his mind. The last time Desmond Spellacy had gone into that study, Peg Campion had been crying. It was before their daughter Maureen was married. Maureen was Peg and Dan Campion’s only child. Pale was the only way Desmond Spellacy could think of describing Maureen Campion. Pale eyes, pale hair, pale complexion. She didn’t leave much of an impression. She was like a very large Boston cream pie. Pale and two months pregnant. Which was why Peg Campion was weeping in the hallway outside the study.

“It’s not her being in a family way I mind,” Dan T. Campion had said. “It’s a harsh thing to say about your own daughter, Des, but the only way she was ever going to get married was to get in a family way first. She might look like a jelly donut, Maureen, but she’s no dummy.”

“No,” Desmond Spellacy had said. He had not been quite sure exactly where he fit in, and under the circumstances no seemed the safest thing to say. Until he got the lay of the land. Which considering why he was there was perhaps an unfortunate cliche.

“She gets married, she knows I’ll take care of her,” Dan T. Campion said. “Her and that numbskull which got her this way. He’s a pump jockey.”

“A what?”

“A pump jockey. In a gas station. Signal Oil. He doesn’t even own the goddamn thing. The guy who wipes the bird shit off your windshield, that’s him.” Dan T. Campion had slammed his fist down on his desk. “You’ll have to excuse me, Des, I’m upset.”

“Yes.” Another perfect answer. He had said no and he had said yes. He had maybe left.

“I need your help, Des.”

Not on annulment procedures. Nor on the logistics of placing the child out for adoption in a Catholic agency. The marriage would take place. Dan T. Campion would see to that. And the marriage would survive, if the numbskull knew what was good for him. It was how to announce the marriage in the newspapers that worried Dan T. Campion. What was the best way to proclaim the son-in-law of Dan T. Campion, Knight of Malta, noted coun-selor-at-law, civic leader, chairman of commissions, advisor to bishops.

“You got to think of something to call him, Des. Besides dumbbell. Besides Signal Oil pump jockey.”

“Something that’ll look good on the society page is what you mean,” Desmond Spellacy said.

The irony in his voice had escaped Dan T. Campion.

“That’s it,” he had said.

The awful thing is, Desmond Spellacy thought, Dan knows his man. He’d never ask my opinion on a matter of dogma or an interpretation of papal encyclicals. The very thought struck him funny. If Dan T. Campion had been at the Council of Trent, his only interest would have been who got the building contracts.

“I think I have it,” Desmond Spellacy had said. “A franchised retail representative for the Signal Oil Company.”

“What the hell does it mean?”

“It’s a fancy way of saying he pumps gas.”

“Jesus, that’s a grand help, Des.”

The study.

The study meant trouble.

Dan T. Campion poured two brandies. Desmond Spellacy noticed that he spilled some on the silver tray.

“I been thinking about Jack,” Dan T. Campion said. “It’s a terrible thing, his using the Protectors like that.” Beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead. “You got it on good authority, did you?”

Desmond Spellacy nodded.

“Your brother, the policeman, I suppose.”

Desmond Spellacy sipped his brandy.

“It’s grand the way he looks out for the Church, your brother, the policeman. He’s a grand Catholic, I’m sure. Where is he now, Perpetual Help?”

Desmond Spellacy nodded again.

“A grand parish. And a grand pastor in Vinny Pellegrini. It was a grand thing, His Eminence giving a parish to an Italian type. They need someone to look up to, your Italians.”

Desmond Spellacy said nothing.

“She’s mental, his wife, isn’t she?”

Sometimes I think Mary Margaret is saner than anyone, Desmond Spellacy thought.

“In Camarillo, I’m told.”

“Yes.”

“They do a grand job taking care of the fruitcakes, is what I hear,” Dan T. Campion said. “In Camarillo.” And then suddenly he blurted out, “I know your brother’s friend. Mrs. Morris. At the Jury Commission. She does a grand job with the venire.”

Desmond Spellacy warmed the brandy in his palms, holding it up so that he would not have to look Dan Campion in the eye. He stared at the mahogany-colored liquid until his anger abated. So that was her name. Mrs. Morris. He was sure it was Mrs. Morris whose confession he had heard. Scared, pregnant, ready to abort. He had tried not to push her over the edge. I should have gone after her. I could have done more. Even talk to her about Tommy. Tommy would have loved that. No wonder he was upset about Mary Margaret getting out. I wonder how he’s going to manage that with Mrs. Morris. And I wonder how Dan Campion knows about her. Dan has to be desperate about something, even to mention Mrs. Morris at the Jury Commission. He can’t really expect to pressure the department about Tommy and Mrs. Morris. The last I heard adultery wasn’t a felony. If they started firing policemen for adultery, you could fit the whole force into a telephone booth. That’s one thing you learn hearing confessions before the department’s annual Communion Breakfast. There wasn’t any edge, Dan’s mentioning Mrs. Morris at the Jury Commission.

Dan T. Campion’s hands were shaking.

“You’re spilling your brandy, Dan.”

Dan T. Campion wiped his hand off on his pant leg. “I did a little checking for you, Des. With the DA. They’ll keep the Monsignor Aguilar thing under wraps, I’ll promise you that. A solemn promise. They don’t want to embarrass His Eminence, you can count on that.”

Too many promises, too much fast talk. Get on with it.

“That’s swell, Dan. His Eminence will appreciate it.”

“And you don’t have to worry much about them Mexicans the Protectors were involved with.” Dan T. Campion splashed some more brandy into Desmond Spellacy’s glass. “They don’t snitch much, the Mexicans. It’s part of their nature. It’s why they’re so good in the house. You won’t find a better maid than a Mexican, Des. They don’t snitch. Your average jungle bunny is a snitch.”

“That’s nice to know,” Desmond Spellacy said. He wondered why Dan Campion was pretending to be drunk.

“Keep it in mind when you get to be bishop.”

That has to be one of the worst-kept secrets in the world, Desmond Spellacy thought.

“Are they still checking out how she got into the Protectors?” Dan T. Campion said.

“Who?”

“What’s-her-name.”

“I would guess they are.”

Dan T. Campion sucked in his breath. Then the words tumbled out. “You remember her, don’t you, Des? Coming up from Del Mar?”

“Who, Dan?”

“Last summer. She was hitchhiking. We picked her up.”

“I took the plane up last summer. I had to speak at the Junior Chamber of Commerce’s annual dinner. So I took the plane up. And you drove.”

“No, the time before that. She was hitchhiking. Around San Juan there. We picked her up. She was Christian Science, she said. You asked her about it, remember?”

Desmond Spellacy remembered. There was no surprise. He thought, I’ve lost my capacity for surprise. Tommy. Jack. The Protectors. Now Dan. Now me. Even that thought did not startle him. He wondered if anything ever would again. He felt trapped in a web of circumstance. One thing was clear. It explained why her photograph in the newspaper had always seemed so familiar. Like the picture of a girl whose confession he would hear at the House of the Good Shepherd. “I’ve read a lot about Mary Baker Eddy,” he remembered telling her. “Who?” she had said. Which ended that discussion. It was easier talking to Dan about Chet Hanrahan. He had no other memory of the girl. Just the voice saying, “Who?” Was the voice as blank and empty as he remembered?

“We were friends, her and me,” Dan T. Campion said.

It suddenly occurred to Desmond Spellacy that Dan Campion’s grammar was shaky only when he wanted it to be, when he wanted to appear one of the boys. It was impeccable when he was talking to the Cardinal. Who was in a position to do him a favor. Or Devlin Perkins. Or Norman Chandler. Ten years it’s taken me to figure that out. He raged in silence: you patronizing hypocritical bastard.

“And who would you be talking about now, Dan?” With just a hint of a brogue. Sink it in and give it a little twist. See how much he likes that leprechaun crap.

“Herself, Des.”

He can’t even bring himself to say her name.

“Peg, you mean then.” Still with the brogue, as if he had just stepped off the boat. “The corned beef was swell. And the boiled potatoes, too. A Jew dish like that. It’s not every girl from Kildare can cook the Jew food. Unless it’s the Mexican in the kitchen which done the cooking. She don’t snitch and she cooks grand.”

Dan T. Campion stared levelly at him. His hand had stopped shaking. No more blarney, Desmond Spellacy thought. He knows the jig is up. I wonder how much Peg Campion knows.

“Lois Fazenda.”

“I know who you mean.”

“I got her into the Protectors,” Dan T. Campion said. “She needed a job. I called Jack.” He kept rubbing a finger around the rim of his brandy snifter, causing a weird, echoing sound, but he seemed oblivious to the noise. “I was in San Diego the night she was killed.”

Desmond Spellacy did not say anything.

“With Peg,” Dan T. Campion said. “We were at the western regional meeting of the K of C, Peg and me.”

Poor dumb Peg Campion. Kept around for the K of C conventions and the Altar Society communion breakfasts. The perfect alibi for the prominent Catholic layman with the wandering eye. Sweet Mother of God, the Knights of Columbus convention. Where in the name of Christ will it ever end.

“It happens, Des.” There was a note of pleading in Dan T. Campion’s voice. “I’m sixty-six years of age, a girl like her—”

Desmond Spellacy cut him off abruptly. “This isn’t confession, Dan.” He was barely able to keep his voice under control. “I’m not interested in any squalid little stories about life passing you by and how you get Boston cream pie every Friday.”

Dan T. Campion looked away from him. After a moment, barely audibly, he said, “I’m clean, Des.”

“After a fashion.”

“I’m sorry, Des. I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t want to see Peg hurt, is all.”

“I don’t believe you. It’s your own picture you don’t want to see in the papers. Holding a hat over your face, when they bring you in for questioning.”

Dan T. Campion seemed to shrink in his chair. “If it comes out . . .”

“You should’ve thought of that.”

“If you could talk to your brother, the policeman . . .”

Desmond Spellacy slammed the brandy down so hard on the side table that the glass broke. “Don’t you ever call Tommy your brother, the policeman.” His hand was bleeding and the brandy was spilling onto the carpet. “Ever. Again.”

“You were with me, Des, remember, the day we met her?”

Desmond Spellacy paused at the door of the study. “We met her, Dan,” he said. “You fucked her.”

A touch of Boyle Heights. Dan T. Campion shuddered. He thinks it’s worse my saying it than his doing it, Desmond Spellacy thought.

“Des.” Dan T. Campion almost shouted the name. “It’s Jack I’m worried about.”

Desmond Spellacy turned away from the door. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his hand.