The Iron Will of Shoeshine Cats by Hesh Kestin Page A

your sister and your sister fucked him right back. Do you want me to bring in the two witnesses to these repeated acts of carnal congress or will you take my word? Because if you don’t take my word I’m going to be offended.”
    “I take your word.”
    “Good,” Shushan said. “Are you ready therefore to confess your sin?”
    “I may confess only to Jesus Christ.”
    “He’s not in the room?”
    “I may confess only to a priest.”
    “Ira,” Shushan said, so conversationally it was like a suggestion to go out and pick up a pack of smokes. “Go out and see if you can’t round up a priest.”
    “No!” the priest said. “All right. We were angry. We struck out. We punished your... friend.”
    “Damn right,” Shushan said. “Now how about my pound of flesh?”
    Silence. This was no radio drama. Still, with every stretch of blank air would come, I knew, another critical point in the narrative. As an old-time radio narrator might have put it, I was riveted to my pew.
    “Father Bill, how about it?”
    “I don’t know what you want. Whoever you are, please. I don’t know what you want.”
    “Shushan Cats.”
    “Shushan Cats,” the priest said. Apparently he read the papers. “Sir, you have no idea. This is a mistake.”
    “A pound of flesh, that’s about the weight of an adult hand. I’ll take a hand.”
    “A hand?”
    “Right, left. No matter. Or a foot. No, better a hand. Either from you or from your brothers, or from all of you. How about you sit down and come up with five fingers between you?”
    “Five fingers?”
    “Technically that’s probably going to work out to less than a pound, but what the hell, father. Consider it a sheenie discount. You are familiar with the term sheenie? How about kike? Hebe? Hebe is good. A hebe discount. The regular price is one whole hand, but for you five fingers. Practically half price. What do you say?”
    Silence.
    “Father? You still with us, father?”
    “Your friend attacked us.”
    “Yeah, he hit you in the boot with a couple of ribs. Father, we’re getting close to cross-time here. Work with me.” He paused. “Russy!”
    “I’m here.”
    “You been following this theological conversation?”
    “From the beginning.”
    “What do you think?”
    “Think?” Was I allowed to think? “I’m sure the father is sorry,” I said.
    “You do? Does he repent, do you think? Father, do you repent? I mean, three big micks on one little kike kid, that’s probably a sin. It’s for sure a crime. If you think about it, more than one actually—aggravated assault, conspiracy, maybe even attempted murder. Do you repent, father?”
    “I repent,” the priest said quietly.
    “Louder, please, father.”
    “I repent.”
    “You know about the Second Vatican Council? In Rome? Of course you do. They may actually allow the liturgy to be in English. Or Spanish. Very democratic. If you don’t mind me saying so, a shrewd move. But probably it won’t bring in more clients. People like the mysteries. If you make everything too clear you lose them. It’s uncertainty. People are fascinated by uncertainty. But hey, it’s your fucking religion, father, not mine. I’m just speaking as an observer. Anyway, in whatever language, did you sin in busting up my friend?”
    “I sinned, Mr. Cats.”
    “So as I understand it, you have to do three things, right? You have to be sorry, deeply sorry. You have to seriously intend never do anything like that again, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you have to do penance according to the decision of the priest. Is that right?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m your priest, father. I want that hand.”
    “I don’t... I don’t know what...”
    “Father, it’s like five Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys. It’s something you have to do. I suggest you discuss this with your brothers and in a month or so get back to me with your decision. What is it, November? Come back to me January. After Christmas. That’s probably a busy season for you,