Applaud the Hollow Ghost (19 page)

Walking the snow-cleared sidewalks around the perimeter of Ravenna's, I passed first the church itself, where I'd spoken to Rosa. Facing north, it fronted on Ravenna Court and was directly across the street from a well-lighted, well-filled parking lot. Beyond the church, I turned left and walked past the convent and the parish school, side-by-side and facing west. On the southern boundary was the rectory, and then a large yard behind a high wrought iron fence.

Continuing around the corner and heading back north, I walked along the east side of the fenced-in yard, crossed a paved driveway leading into the interior of the property behind the buildings, and came to a rectangular stone building, easily thirty feet tall, with three sets of double doors that opened directly onto the sidewalk. Etched into the stones across the front, above the doors, were the words: “Our Lady of Ravenna Gymnasium and Community Center.”

Pulling open one of the center two doors, I stepped into a tile-floored vestibule. To my right and my left, matching sets of wide stairways led up several steps to landings, one on each end of the vestibule, and on each landing a set of doors. Straight ahead, another set of wide stairs led down to a lower level of the building. The doors on the landing to my left were open, and a voice poured out over a loudspeaker system. “
B … three.
That's
beeee … thuh-reee.
”

I went up those stairs and stood in the open doorway. The bingo hall was a large, high-ceilinged gymnasium, with basketball backboards at each end, and more sets of backboards and baskets on each side wall, making three shorter courts across the main court. All four walls were lined with retractable bleacher seats that were folded up against the walls and out of the way.

The room was jammed with people seated on folding chairs at long lunchroom tables, set end to end in rows running the length of the gym. Rubber mats were spread out everywhere, in a fruitless effort to protect the hardwood floor from maybe five hundred pairs of wet, dirty boots and shoes. The air was warm and humid, heavy with the odors of hot dogs, coffee, and popcorn, not to mention plenty of good old human sweat.

The huge area was strangely hushed, although filled with the whisperings and rustlings of hundreds of players concentrating on rows of bingo cards laid out on the tables in front of them. Bingo workers, the pockets of the carpenters' aprons around their waists stuffed with bingo cards, stood silently in groups of two or three, stationed around the room.

“
Nnnnnext
number … oh … seventy-two,” the invisible caller announced. “That's oh …
sevennnnty-tooooo.
”

“Bingo!”

“Bingo!”

Both shrieks came almost simultaneously, from opposite ends of the gym, and were followed at once by hundreds of soft sighs and murmurs of disappointment.

“I hear
bingo,
” the caller said, managing to sound as though this were an entirely unexpected phenomenon. “But remember, folks, do not—I repeat, do
not
—clear your cards, until the winning cards have been verified. This could be a false alarm.”

The groans and grumbling that greeted him indicated that no one but he believed in false alarms.

I had a sudden sense that someone was watching me. I swung around, fast, and when I did I smacked right into a solid stone pillar. It felt as if it were wrapped in padding, though, and on the rebound I saw that it wasn't a pillar at all, but a heavy-set, brown-skinned man in navy blue pants and a red nylon warm-up jacket over a light blue dress shirt. The words embroidered on the jacket said “Our Lady of Ravenna Parish,” but they might as well have said “Off-duty cop, and not taking any shit from mopes like you.”

He reached around me and pushed the door to the gym closed, shutting out the shouted calling of numbers to verify the winning bingo cards. A young man in a white chef's apron, who'd bounded up from the basement with an open carton of steaming hot dogs, started our way. When he saw us, though, he turned and went across to the stairs at the other end of the vestibule, leaving us alone.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Uh-huh.” He folded his arms and looked at me as though he were calculating my body-fat ratio.

“I don't suppose you work here, do you?” I asked. “Security, maybe?”

“You looking for someone?”

“It's that red jacket. A dead giveaway.” I paused. When he didn't hit me or pull out a gun, I finally said, “Monsignor Borelli.”

“You got a driver's license?”

I dug it out and showed it to him.

“Okay.” He seemed slightly disappointed. “The Monsignor said to expect you.”

I nodded toward the gym. “He in there somewhere?”

“Nope. The Monsignor never comes to bingo. He's at the priests' house.”

He led me down to the basement and through a series of hallways, then back up a few steps to an exit on the opposite side of the gym. Passing through a small, dimly lighted parking area in the center of the parish complex, we came to the back door of the rectory. He pushed the doorbell.

While we waited, he caught me staring at the .357 Magnum he held down beside his right leg. He shrugged. “Just in case some damn fool thinks this is one of the cash runs we make over here during bingo.” There was a click from the rectory door, and he said, “Here's the Monsignor now.”

A round, smiling face peered out, perfectly framed in a small square window set in the wooden door at about the height of my chest. The door swung inward and the round man standing there fit the round face perfectly. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said, each word rising in tone, the voice melodious. He spread his arms as though to embrace us, then brought them down quickly, slapping his hands against his thighs.

“Evening, Monsignor,” my escort said, with surprising formality. “This is the Mr. Foley you called over about.”

“Thank you so much, Charlie. Thank you.” He eyed me up and down with open curiosity. “Malachy. Malachy? Am I pronouncing it right?” When I nodded, he beamed with self-satisfaction. “Well, c'mon in. C'mon in.” He moved back to let me in, then looked past my shoulder. “See you later, hey, Charlie?”

“Oh yes, Monsignor,” the man said. He was already turning to go. “I'll be back.”

The smiling priest led me up four stairs, through two doors, and into a comfortable parlor that was obviously the reception area near the front door of the rectory. The man was round, but not really fat, and somewhere in his sixties. He wore the same outfit Casey so often wore—black shoes, black pants, white dress shirt with no collar. There was something smooth, almost feline, about the way he moved.

“Something to drink?” he said. “Coffee? Soft drink?”

“No thanks, Mon—” I paused, then finished the word. “Monsignor.”

“Strange word, huh? Just call me ‘Father' if it's easier.”

“Actually, I was just noticing how it's easier for me to say ‘Monsignor' than it is to call you guys—you priests, I mean—to call you ‘Father.' Strange, isn't it?”

“Interesting. Maybe it's got something to do with you and your own…” He didn't finish. “But I know you didn't drop by for amateur psychoanalysis. You want to talk to Rosa, right?”

“Yes. Is she—”

“I suppose I should exercise a little caution,” he said. “How do I know you're the one Father Caseliewicz said was coming?”

“Casey called you Bobo,” I said. “Bobo Borelli. The guy who got caught organizing the students to flush all the toilets in the seminary simultaneously, at midnight on New Year's Eve.”

His smile widened. “I didn't get caught, exactly,” he said. “The authorities got wind of it and and warned us off. Good thing, too. With that ancient plumbing, who knows…” He spread his arms. “Ah, well. Those were simpler days.”

“So,” I said, “is she here?”

“Yes.” His face turned suddenly serious. “Rosa's a good person. I hope nothing … that is, her family … well anyway, she said she'd talk to you, which surprised me.” He led me into a hallway off the parlor. “Since Rosa took over, I don't have to worry about bingo, thank God.” Light spilled out from an open door halfway down the hall. “The guys carry money over here three or four times throughout the evening and she counts it in an office down this way. Here's—” He stopped at the open door and turned back to me. “That's strange. She was here a little while ago. And her granddaughter, too. Rosa's been bringing Trish along, ever since … you know.”

I squeezed past him into a small office—crowded, but tidy. Against the wall to the right of the door was a gray metal desk, with nothing on it but a telephone. A desk chair on castors was pulled over to a table set against the opposite wall. There was a coin counting machine on the far end of the same table, back in the corner of the room. Ledgers were spread open on the table, and beside them a couple of yellow pencils, and a delicate-looking little blue-and-white teapot with two matching cups and saucers.

“Well,” I said, “they've been drinking tea. Probably went to the washroom.”

“I don't think so,” the priest said. “Both their coats are gone. And besides … look at the top of that desk.”

“I don't see anything.”

“That's the point. It oughta be covered with stacks of money.”

CHAPTER
25

A
QUICK SEARCH OF
the first floor verified it. Rosa and Trish were gone.

“I just talked to her … what … a half hour ago?” the priest said. “On the intercom line, when she said she'd meet you. Like I said, that really surprised me. And she swore me to secrecy about you, too. But—”

“Was anyone else around?”

“No. The doorbell didn't ring until you got here, and she wouldn't have answered it, anyway. I do that.” He paused. “But while I was talking to her, the phone rang. I answered it and it was a man asking for Rosa. I figured it was Trish's dad, although he didn't actually say so. Anyway, I patched it through to Rosa. That was it, until Charlie brought you over.”

“Well, I'm sure there's a simple explanation.” I struggled to sound matter-of-fact. “Maybe—”

A rasping buzz came from the back door.

“That'll be Charlie and the guys with the last batch of bingo money,” the priest said, and looked at his watch. “They're a little early tonight.”

“I better be going. Is the front door out through that way?”

“Uh … yeah.” He was a totally different man than when he'd met me at the door. He looked bewildered and unhappy. Deflated, very pale and very tired. “Rosa couldn't have … the money? I guess I should call the police, don't you think?”

“Yes,” I said. “Just to be on the safe—”

The buzzer sounded again. Four short, impatient bursts.

His round shoulders sagging, he turned to go to the back door. I hoped his heart was up to the stress, but I couldn't do much about that. I went out the front way, in a hurry.

The first place the cops would look for Rosa was the Connolly home. I ran, slipping and sliding on dark, icy sidewalks. I hoped I looked like a fitness nut, out jogging despite the cold. When I got there, the house looked deserted, but I rang the bell.

No one answered.

There was no reason for me to hang around there, especially since the cops would be pulling up any minute. I told myself what I'd told Monsignor Borelli, that there had to be a simple explanation. But it was far beyond me and, simple or complex, I didn't think I was going to like it.

I walked down the street a couple of blocks to Dominic's house. There were no lights on there, either. And if there had been, it wasn't likely Rosa would have gone there with Trish.

I walked the streets aimlessly, thinking all I want to do is help Lammy out in his criminal case, but that turns out to be the easy part. The prosecution offers a deal and I'm proud of him for not taking it, convinced Renata can't lose. But then Lammy runs off somewhere, while I end up suspected of murdering the wife of the ex-con who was Trish's real attacker. Meanwhile, another guy—a graying Outfit bum who should have been locked up for the rest of his life the day he was born—has me trying to find out who the ex-con's girlfriend is. So I try, and Rosa, my lead on who the girlfriend is, grabs Trish and the bingo money and runs off somewhere, too.

At least, I was hoping with all my heart that Rosa had run off.

I walked back to Lammy's, surprised to see no cops down the street at Steve's. I had no front door key, so I rang the bell and Casey let me in.

“Lammy here?” I asked.

“Nope. And he didn't call, either.”

“Damn.” I dropped down onto the couch in front of the TV and picked up the remote.

Casey waved a book at me. “I'll be in the living room,” he said.

I surfed until I found the Bulls, playing out in Seattle, but I dozed off before I even heard the score. I needed some rest. Hell, you never know when things might take a turn for the bad.

“Mal! Mal!” The calls came from a ghost of a boy, caught in the river again, his features indiscernible and the water rising. But the voice wasn't a boy's voice. “Hey!” The voice was Casey's. “Come look at this.”

“Yeah?” I opened my eyes and they were interviewing Phil Jackson on TV. “What is it?” I called.

“There's two cop cars just pulled up.” He paused. “Oops, now it's three. That Sanchez guy just got here. Come and look.”

“They're going to Steve Connolly's house,” I called back. “They're looking for—”

“Uh-uh. Looks to me like—” The doorbell rang. “That's what I thought.” The bell rang again, and this time didn't stop ringing. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Casey yelled. “You better call that lady lawyer. I mean, they're waving pistols around down there like they're ready to take back the Alamo.”