He was always waiting for somebody, something.
But, as always, it was the thrill of the hunt that energized him, the thought that he might actually pull it off. This time, a story from the dealer’s point of view.
He closed his eyes, leaned against the window, imagined his byline in Esquire, GQ, Playboy, The New Yorker . . .
Six twenty-five. Gil Strauss entered the back door of the rectory at St Francis, as he had every autumn and winter weekday for many years, and prepared to heat the sacristy for the priest offering seven-o’clock mass. The sky was leaden, promising snow, and Gil brought with him a chill that seemed to follow him down the long, dark hallway that led to the church.
Dark, as always, except . . .
Except this morning there was a wedge of light from one of the vacant rooms, a room that was going to be Father Angelino’s when he arrived. Gil walked around the corner, pushed open the door, and saw a figure standing near the window.
‘Good morning, Gil,’ the figure said, without turning around.
‘Good morning, Father LaCazio. How come you’re—’
‘A priest doesn’t leave this earth with much, Gil.’
‘Excuse me, Father?’
Joseph turned toward him, slowly, a cigarette in hand. He gestured toward the two large cardboard boxes on the bed. They were unsealed, either just arrived and opened or ready to be taped and shipped.
Gil asked: ‘Are those Father Angelino’s belongings?’
‘Yes. They came from St Michael’s yesterday.’
‘Is that everything?’
‘Yes,’ Joseph said. ‘Two boxes. That’s what he accrued in this life. He lived forty-two years, helped thousands of people, and he got two boxes of junk for it.’
‘But a priest isn’t supposed to—’
‘Two boxes. You could fit his whole life into the trunk of a car.’ Joseph opened the window slightly. A frigid breeze stole across the room. ‘It all goes to his sister, Carmen.’
‘Do you want me to take them to UPS?’ Gil asked.
Joseph was silent for a few moments. He flicked his cigarette out the window, closed it. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Or maybe I’ll go. Maybe I’ll take a drive after mass. I’ll let you know.’
‘You should let me do it, Father,’ Gil said. ‘Your bad back and all. You shouldn’t be—’
Gil made a move toward the boxes, but Joseph froze him with a glance. ‘I’ll let you know, Gil,’ he said softly. ‘After mass.’
‘Okay, Father,’ Gil said, stopping in his tracks. He tapped his watch. ‘Speaking of mass.’
Joseph waved, absently, in Gil’s direction. ‘I’ll be right up.’
Gil hesitated, then left the room. The last thing he heard as he ascended the steps to the sacristy was the low-volume hum of a spiritual, ‘Just a Closer Walk with Thee,’ one of Father LaCazio’s favorites.
At six-thirty Nicky looked up from his Plain Dealer and saw Beverly attempting to cross the street, lithely sidestepping traffic, almost balletic in her movements, waiting, now, for a bus to pass. Beverly was tall and arrogantly statuesque, and this morning wore a mauve satin bolero jacket, short white skirt, seamed stockings, and perilously high heels. Her thick black hair was swept dramatically back from her face and secured by a pair of huge African-ivory barrettes. Her makeup was gaudy and theatrical; her legs, perfect.
Beverly Ahn was biracial, a stunning transvestite in her early thirties, one of the thousands of exotic Vietnam war hyphenates populating the large cities of the eastern United States. She had just come off duty as a hostess in a club called Shangri La on West Twenty-fifth Street, a mostly transvestite bar that served the city’s fairly active cross-dressing population, but also one that drew a large tourist clientele – gay, straight, and everything in between. Nicky had once done a series of ‘City Streets’ pieces on alternative bars, and Beverly had been his unofficial guide to subterannea. They’d been friends ever since, running into each other
But, as always, it was the thrill of the hunt that energized him, the thought that he might actually pull it off. This time, a story from the dealer’s point of view.
He closed his eyes, leaned against the window, imagined his byline in Esquire, GQ, Playboy, The New Yorker . . .
Six twenty-five. Gil Strauss entered the back door of the rectory at St Francis, as he had every autumn and winter weekday for many years, and prepared to heat the sacristy for the priest offering seven-o’clock mass. The sky was leaden, promising snow, and Gil brought with him a chill that seemed to follow him down the long, dark hallway that led to the church.
Dark, as always, except . . .
Except this morning there was a wedge of light from one of the vacant rooms, a room that was going to be Father Angelino’s when he arrived. Gil walked around the corner, pushed open the door, and saw a figure standing near the window.
‘Good morning, Gil,’ the figure said, without turning around.
‘Good morning, Father LaCazio. How come you’re—’
‘A priest doesn’t leave this earth with much, Gil.’
‘Excuse me, Father?’
Joseph turned toward him, slowly, a cigarette in hand. He gestured toward the two large cardboard boxes on the bed. They were unsealed, either just arrived and opened or ready to be taped and shipped.
Gil asked: ‘Are those Father Angelino’s belongings?’
‘Yes. They came from St Michael’s yesterday.’
‘Is that everything?’
‘Yes,’ Joseph said. ‘Two boxes. That’s what he accrued in this life. He lived forty-two years, helped thousands of people, and he got two boxes of junk for it.’
‘But a priest isn’t supposed to—’
‘Two boxes. You could fit his whole life into the trunk of a car.’ Joseph opened the window slightly. A frigid breeze stole across the room. ‘It all goes to his sister, Carmen.’
‘Do you want me to take them to UPS?’ Gil asked.
Joseph was silent for a few moments. He flicked his cigarette out the window, closed it. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Or maybe I’ll go. Maybe I’ll take a drive after mass. I’ll let you know.’
‘You should let me do it, Father,’ Gil said. ‘Your bad back and all. You shouldn’t be—’
Gil made a move toward the boxes, but Joseph froze him with a glance. ‘I’ll let you know, Gil,’ he said softly. ‘After mass.’
‘Okay, Father,’ Gil said, stopping in his tracks. He tapped his watch. ‘Speaking of mass.’
Joseph waved, absently, in Gil’s direction. ‘I’ll be right up.’
Gil hesitated, then left the room. The last thing he heard as he ascended the steps to the sacristy was the low-volume hum of a spiritual, ‘Just a Closer Walk with Thee,’ one of Father LaCazio’s favorites.
At six-thirty Nicky looked up from his Plain Dealer and saw Beverly attempting to cross the street, lithely sidestepping traffic, almost balletic in her movements, waiting, now, for a bus to pass. Beverly was tall and arrogantly statuesque, and this morning wore a mauve satin bolero jacket, short white skirt, seamed stockings, and perilously high heels. Her thick black hair was swept dramatically back from her face and secured by a pair of huge African-ivory barrettes. Her makeup was gaudy and theatrical; her legs, perfect.
Beverly Ahn was biracial, a stunning transvestite in her early thirties, one of the thousands of exotic Vietnam war hyphenates populating the large cities of the eastern United States. She had just come off duty as a hostess in a club called Shangri La on West Twenty-fifth Street, a mostly transvestite bar that served the city’s fairly active cross-dressing population, but also one that drew a large tourist clientele – gay, straight, and everything in between. Nicky had once done a series of ‘City Streets’ pieces on alternative bars, and Beverly had been his unofficial guide to subterannea. They’d been friends ever since, running into each other
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