Applaud the Hollow Ghost (18 page)

A little more proud. But a lot more scared for him, too.

CHAPTER
23

“Y
OU'RE JOKING
,” R
ENATA SAID
.

“Nope. He's gone, all right.” I offered her one of the Cokes I'd bought at the newsstand in the lobby and taken back up with me to her office.

“No thanks,” she said, waving her hand vaguely and walking over to the windows. She stared down as though she'd be able to spot Lammy on the sidewalk—which wasn't even in sight from her floor. “Gone where? Home?”

“Home if we're lucky. But your talk about getting indicted and going back to jail frightened him. Maybe he's running away.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Running away when you're scared is a pretty time-honored practice.”

“What I mean is he doesn't have … well … the ambition or something, to run off. Besides, it won't help any—”

“Easy for you to say. You're in his mother's position.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You're not facing going to jail, anymore than his mother is.” I took a long swig of my Coke. “You don't know, Renata, how bad it is in there for him.”

“Oh, I know how bad—”

“You've visited lots of clients in lots of jails, but you've never been a prisoner. You don't know what it's like from the inside. Lammy does, and he's scared to death.”

“If he's so afraid, why didn't he jump at the chance to plead guilty?”

“That surprised me, too. Maybe there's something inside Lammy that people don't often see. He's terrified. But you can't be brave if you're not scared in the first place, so he made a very courageous choice.” I waited for a long time, but she didn't say anything. “Then, as soon as he makes it, you tell him he'll probably have to go to jail anyway, and he knows he'll
stay
there if he doesn't come up with more bond money—which he doesn't have.”

She spun around and glared at me. “Don't blame
me,
for God's sake. He should have spoken up. We could have talked about it.” She stopped, then heaved a tired sigh. “I should tell you what he wanted to ask me with you out of the room. He wondered if I knew how he should act around you, to make sure you don't go away.”

“Jesus.”

“I told him it didn't matter how he acted. I said I didn't know why, but I didn't think you'd leave him alone even if he wanted you to—or even if I asked you to back off.” She paused. “Anyway, he's probably on the el right now, headed home. You'll find him there.”

“Maybe. Meanwhile, you'll just have to stall Heffernan, tell him Lammy's thinking about the plea agreement. Even if he takes that as a ‘no deal,' it'll be a few days before he can get an indictment, if he's not bluffing about that. And, if Lammy really has run, I'll have to find him.”

“But there's a status hearing on the case tomorrow, at two o'clock,” Renata said. “Lammy has to be in court with me.”

“I'll have him there, I hope. Otherwise, you'll have to make an excuse for him, get a new court date.”

“Not a chance. You heard the judge when he set the bond. Lammy's to be there every time the case is up. Otherwise, the bond is revoked and he'll be arrested.”

Renata took me to a phone in an empty office next to hers. I called the only place I could think of, other than the two-flat, where he might go.

“Hullo?” A female voice, sounding like a teenager, a bored teenager.

“Mrs. Baranowski?”

“Just a minute.” There was a bang as she set the phone down. “Hey, ma!” she called. “It's for you.”

“Hullo?”

I'd have sworn it was the same bored person, if I hadn't heard the other voice in the background saying, “How do
I
know who it is, ma?”

“Hullo?” she repeated.

“Elaine Baranowski?” I said.

“Yes?”

I gave her my name and said I was an investigator, helping Lammy's lawyer.

“Lammy?” She sounded confused. “Oh. You mean my brother, Lambert?”

“Yes. He … uh … he's not at home and I'm looking for him. I thought if he shows up at your house and asks to stay there, would you please—”

“Here? You mean Lambert, come by here? Why would he come by
my
house?”

“Well, he's your brother, isn't he?”

“Yeah, sure, I guess so. But he can't stay here. No room here for him. And besides, what'll the neighbors…” She paused. “Anyway there's no room here. I told Lambert that already. He won't come by here.”

She finally agreed to call me if she saw him, and took down my phone number. But she was convinced—and managed to convince me, too—that Lammy wouldn't even consider asking her for a place to stay.

He couldn't have had much more than carfare on him, so undoubtedly he'd show up back home in time for supper.

*   *   *

E
XCEPT HE DIDN'T
.

I'd gotten to the two-flat at two-fifteen and there was a note on the kitchen table from Casey, saying he'd gone for groceries. It was an hour later when he came in the front door, lugging several large bags.

Five minutes into stowing the food in various cabinets and refrigerator compartments, Casey suddenly said, “Hey! Where's Lammy?”

“I think he's run away,” I said.

“Oh.”

“You don't sound surprised.”

“Actually, I wondered if he might try something like that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was gonna tell you not to let him outta your sight if he got bad news from the lawyer, but I figured you'd know enough to…” He caught me glaring at him. “I mean … not that I'm criticizing you or—”

“I just wish you'd said something. The thought of him running off never entered my mind.”

“He's scared to death, you know?”

“Yeah, but like Renata said, he doesn't seem to have enough ambition or something to actually run off. He's never been anywhere in his life but here.”

“And a few days in jail, don't forget.” He went back to storing food. “Jesus, that'd sure as hell scare the crap outta me, I tell ya.”

“Casey,” I said, finally not able to resist, “did anyone ever tell you you don't talk like a priest is supposed to talk.”

He laughed. “Lots of people probably think that. Most of 'em don't say it. They just figure I'm a little loony or something. Which is fine with me. I don't care.” He bit into one of a half dozen apples he'd dumped out of a small paper sack. “Nobody ever made it explicit, but I'm sure that's what got me transferred out of the first parish I was assigned to, after just a few months. Jeez, I don't know who had the goofy idea to send me into the belly of the posh North Shore. I mean, I liked the people, but I know a lot of 'em thought I'd be a bad influence on their kids. Ha! That's a good one. Those kids didn't need to look as far as
me
to find a bad—” He stopped. “Well, I could go on and on about my illustrious priestly career, but what about Lammy?”

“I called his sister. She'll call if he shows up there, but she doesn't think he will.”

“She hopes he doesn't anyway, I bet.”

Casey made baked chicken for supper and I spent the time on the telephone. There was a place set at the table for Lammy, but he didn't show. Casey said a blessing before we ate. He always did, and it was never something memorized, but whatever came to him on the spot. This one included prayers for Lammy—“wherever the hell he is, Lord”—and for the people at Saint Ludella's, for Trish Connolly and her family, for Lammy's sister and mother, and for all kinds of other people, including me. He ended with something like, “… but anyway, God, we know it's all working out perfectly. So thank you very much for all that … and for the food, too. Amen.”

I felt a little sorry for everyone in that first parish who'd missed Casey's bad influence. But that didn't mean I had to stick around and help him with the dishes. I had work to do. I'd left the car down the street for my tailing friends to watch, and I was going to leave it there and use the alley.

Grabbing my parka from a hook by the back door, I turned to Casey and asked, “You have bingo at Saint Ludella's?”

He was hunched down over the sink, massive hands and forearms plunged deep into the sudsy water, humming to himself tunelessly. He turned around and wiped his hands on a dish towel. “Nah. I don't like bingo much.”

“I'm surprised,” I said. His parish was in the heart of the west side, about as poverty-stricken as anywhere in the city. “I hear bingo's a moneymaker.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So? You don't approve of gambling?”

“It's not that. No one loses too much at church bingo, unless they're addicted to gambling and … well, don't get me started on addictions. And bingo does give a lot of people something fun to do.” He leaned over the table and swept some crumbs off into one of his palms. “What I never liked about bingo in a parish is it's too big a temptation for some people.”

“Except you already said no one loses too much.”

“I don't mean a temptation for the players. I mean for the workers. You got bingo, you have to go out and recruit people to work at it. You get mostly men. Good guys, too. Guys that are active and involved. But, you know, week after week they're handling all this money. Looks like a fortune to most of 'em. Sooner or later, unless you got a system that's foolproof—and I never found one—somebody starts dipping in a little. Hell, people just can't resist, what with their bills and all. The other workers kinda catch on, and even if they don't join in they keep quiet, 'cause they're all friends, y'know? Sometimes the priest even suspects what's goin' on. But the money's coming in, and the parish has bills to pay, too. So the priest just kind of—”

“Jesus, is that ever depressing.”

“So I never had bingo in my parish. Shoot, when I was drinking and short on cash, I mighta found myself dipping in, too. Jeez,” he added, grinning, “I hope you never hear about some of the stuff I pulled in those days.”

“Oh, I doubt—” I put a hand in my parka pocket and felt the car key. “Oh, by the way, you still have the extra key to the Intrepid?” He nodded. “Good. Use it whenever you want. I usually park a couple blocks south of here, near where they're tearing down an apartment building.”

“I'll find it if I need it,” he said. “Anyway, why you asking about bingo?”

“Just because that's where I'm headed right now. To bingo, at Our Lady of Ravenna.”

“Oh, yeah. Ravenna's. They're famous around the archdiocese for their bingo. They run it two nights a week.”

“I know. Monday and Wednesday. I'm told Trish's grandmother goes both nights. I'm gonna try to talk to her.”

“Hope you can find her. They say they get huge crowds there for bingo. Make a ton of money.”

“Think their workers are ripping them off?”

“Oh, I don't think so, not at Ravenna's. It might be just a rumor, but they say that's one place that
does
have a foolproof system to keep everybody straight.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. That's still pretty much an Italian parish, you know. Story is, nobody'd dare take anything. 'Bout a year ago one of their most faithful bingo card sellers got attacked on his way home from the games. ‘Muggers,' is what he told the cops. Thing is, they didn't really beat him up.”

“Oh?”

“Nope. They just lopped off both his little fingers. Whammo—one from each hand. ‘Puerto Rican punks,' he said. But nobody believed him. People think it was because of the head of the parish bingo committee, the one who runs the whole show.”

“You mean this guy was stealing from church bingo so the chairman of the committee had somebody chop off his fingers? Come
on.
”

“Well, it made a great story at the annual priest's retreat, anyway. And who knows? Maybe it's true. Besides, it's not a chair
man.
It's a chair
woman.
This older Italian lady. No one thinks she had anything to do with it personally, of course. They say she's personally like a saint, y'know? Mass every day and all that. But it's her brother. They say her brother's this big-time Mafia guy and, well, you know…”

CHAPTER
24

R
OSA WAS MY BEST
lead on Karen Colter, Dominic's girlfriend, so I trotted down the steps and out to the alley, thinking I was lucky I'd mentioned bingo to Casey. The pastor at “Ravenna's,” as Casey called the parish, was someone he'd known in the seminary, a Monsignor Borelli. Casey had gotten him on the phone, and he verified that it was Rosa Parillo who ran the parish bingo. He also agreed to ask her if she'd meet with me. Since it was Rosa who'd reached out to me in the first place, I was certain she'd talk to me again.

“He claims Rosa's tough as nails,” Casey had said, after he hung up. “He's sure she won't wanna talk to a friend of the creep who went after her granddaughter.”

“I think she will. I just hope he actually asks her—and keeps quiet about it, too.”

“He
said
he would. And if Bobo says—”

“Bobo?”

“Yeah. Bobo Borelli. Funny little guy. He's had two bypass surgeries, so he's not as active as he used to be. But Bobo's tough, too. He does what he says he'll do.”

It was a six-block walk to Ravenna's, where a short east-west street, Ravenna Court, cut one rectangular city block into two roughly square halves, with the parish buildings filling the southern square. Seen from a block away, the cluster of buildings loomed up like a massive fortress in the cold, dark gloom, overshadowing the neighboring buildings, making them appear smaller than the substantial brick bungalows they actually were.