Authors: Francis Porretto
A massive surge of Tiny's hips tossed Rusty ass over teakettle against the square. Rough hands thrust him back into the ring. He staggered aside just in time to evade another bull rush from the enraged biker boss. Tiny tried to check his momentum, failed, and crashed into the square. The watching bikers shoved Tiny back into the fray, and Rusty was standing behind him at the ready.
He hammered his right fist into the small of Tiny's back with all the force left in him. The chieftain screamed and stiffened, and a third great roar went up from the assemblage. Rusty cocked for a killing blow to the same spot, but when he swung, he stumbled forward and connected with nothing. Tiny had gone to his knees.
Rusty tried to retarget, to deliver the
coup de grace
he had intended, but his arm trembled and his aim point wouldn't hold steady. It was a moment before he noticed that he had fallen to his own knees, and still couldn't hold himself upright. His hands went to protect his streaming nose as the floor rushed up to meet him.
***
The bikers had divided into three groups. One clustered around Tiny, who was recovering from the battering he'd received. A knot of four stood with Rusty, who'd soaked three dishtowels before his nasal hemorrhage had ceased. He clutched a fourth against the possibility that it might return.
The Vikings stood apart from both until Tiny rose and looked to have at Rusty again. Jake Bonham interposed himself.
"Enough."
Tiny began to shoulder his old friend out of the way, then thought better of it. "He's going to get his."
Bonham glowered at him from under lowered brows. "Maybe, but not from you, and not here, and not today."
Tiny looked him full in the eyes. "What are you telling me, Jake?"
"You're hauling stakes. Tonight. You think I want this shit in my barracks? I don't need this, from you or anyone." The Viking boss shook his head in exasperation. "I coulda had a dead body to get rid of, and it coulda been
yours
!"
Something in Bonham's voice struck deep into Tiny, touching nerves he didn't want to hear from. He scowled and tried to shrug it off. "His, maybe."
Bonham shook his head. "You were within a cunt hair, man. You got in one lucky shot, and it saved your ass. He
took you,
Tiny. Deal with it. You ain't staying here. You got your own pack and your own haunt, and I got my own troubles. Go back to Onteora and get your shit together." The Viking leader spun and strode away.
Tiny gaped at the Viking commander while what remained of his killing rage subsided. It left him close to clarity, for the first time in four months.
He's right. That little shit isn't my real problem. I've got to get back into motion before I forget what it's all about.
He took a few more seconds to compose himself before he spoke.
"Listen up, Butchers. We ride tonight."
He had everyone's attention after that. Hans was first to speak. "Where to, Boss?"
"Onteora, where else?" Tiny glowered murderously at the handful around Rusty McGill. "Our welcome's just been withdrawn here. Seems we don't match the decor. So we'll go where we know we're wanted, and where certain other little turds know they're not."
He hoisted himself to his feet and took a few steps toward Rusty, stopping well before anyone could interpret it as the prelude to a new brawl.
"Don't come near Onteora, faggot. I don't care if your whole family lives there. If I see your face within ten miles of my barracks, I'll crush you like a grape. You and any of your little gang of cocksuckers I happen to see."
Rusty threw his dishtowel aside. The group around him parted to allow him to step forward a pace. He carried himself like a leader.
"I keep my travel plans to myself, motherfucker. And I ain't done with you."
Tiny started forward again, then checked himself.
Jake's right. This isn't the time.
"You know where to find me, faggot. I'll be looking for you."
==
Chapter
33
Christine pulled her little Chrysler to a stop in front of the rectory. Helen sat in the passenger's seat, eyes forward, as silent as she'd been since they rose that morning.
She still doesn't look good. How long will it take her to get her grip back?
Hell, it's not as if I'm in such great shape.
Christine had read Louis's farewell letter barely twenty-four hours ago. Somewhere inside her was a grief bomb with an unknown time to go before it burst. She was getting from one step to the next on pure momentum. Even so, it was Helen she feared for.
I knew she loved him. I didn't know how much. More than me, maybe?
When Christine suggested a visit to Father Schliemann, Helen had nodded and gone to her bedroom to dress. She emerged twenty minutes later, dressed and made up in her usual style, but there was something missing that went deeper than grooming could affect.
She was right about vitality being the wellspring of beauty.
"Come on, Helen, it's time to be sociable."
Helen nodded and began to unbuckle her seatbelt. Christine was at her door and holding it open before she'd finished. The older woman climbed out of the little car with a weary air.
Christine slipped an arm around Helen's shoulders and guided her up the walk to the rectory steps. Perhaps it wasn't necessary, but it felt right. The older woman's forlorn silence suggested that Christine had better take the lead in anything they did that day. Before they mounted the rectory steps, Helen spoke, taking her by surprise.
"What's that on the door?"
Christine looked up. The black-bordered sheet of paper on the door registered on her consciousness for the first time. She uncurled her arm from Helen's shoulders and strode up the steps to read it. It was in an ornate blackscript.
On Friday, October the seventh, Father Heinrich Schliemann of the Society of Saint Dominic, for forty-seven years Onteora's beloved Pastor, returned to Our Father in Heaven. He was seventy-four years old.
There are no words adequate to express Father Schliemann's love for and dedication to Onteora Parish and its parishioners. It is difficult to imagine how the parish will function without him. He will be sorely missed by all who knew him.
The Archdiocese will dispatch a new pastor to Onteora Parish within the week. In the interim, Onteorans are welcome to attend services at any of the surrounding parishes, all of whose members and clergy send their most heartfelt condolences.
Father Patrick Keaveney, Pastor, Broome Parish
Oh God, no. Now what do I do?
Trying her best to feign mild irritation, Christine retreated down the steps, turned Helen about and walked her back to the car. She bundled Helen back into the passenger's seat and got them into motion at once.
"Weren't we going to visit Father Schliemann, dear?"
Shakes and sobs were struggling to wrest control of Christine's body. How she kept them locked down, she could never have said.
"The Father isn't receiving visitors today."
***
The day wore on. Helen remained silent. Christine refrained from trying to draw the older woman into talk. Helen would answer when spoken to, but no more. Boomer sat on the sofa with her for much of the day, his head in her lap, as if the Newfoundland could sense her need for quiet, uncritical affection.
It was late in the afternoon before either of them thought of food. Not wanting to press her friend, Christine went through Helen's refrigerator herself. There wasn't much in it. She assembled a sketchy ham and cheese omelet. With toast, it would approximate a meal.
They ate in silence. When they had finished, Christine cleared the dishes and Helen returned to the sofa, where Boomer still sat. The Newfoundland put his head back into her lap, and she stroked it absently.
I probably don't need to really worry about her. She's upset, but she's strong. She loved Louis, she'll miss him a long time, but she has so many other friends and responsibilities and things to occupy her. I don't have anything but Boomer, and I know I'll be okay, in a hundred years or so.
She seated herself next to Helen opposite from Boomer, and put her arms around her friend. Helen leaned into her. Christine pulled the older woman's head to her bosom. "Are you going to be okay to work tomorrow?"
"I suppose so, dear." There was little animation in Helen's voice. "Sooner or later, so why not sooner?"
"Would you like for me and Boomer to stay again tonight?"
"No, dear, that's all right. You must have a thousand things to do at home. You mustn't spend all your time looking after me. It's time for me to be an adult again."
Thank you for not making me say it.
"We both loved him, Helen. Probably everyone who ever met him loved him. Don't be ashamed to miss him."
"Of course not, dear." Helen looked up into Christine's face. "Will you still come to see me, now and then?"
"Helen! Of course I will. Probably more than ever."
The older woman smiled wistfully. "Somehow I don't think so, dear, but we'll see. I just hope you won't forget me completely."
Christine hugged her friend. "I could never forget you." She pondered for a moment. "You could move in with Boomer and me."
"No, dear, it would never work. I'll just be content to see you when you have the time. You're going to be so terribly busy."
There was an undertone of foreknowledge in Helen's voice. Christine groped for reassuring words to string together for her friend, found none, and kissed her instead.
***
The shadows were deep when Christine and Boomer returned to 633 Alexander Avenue. Nothing seemed amiss, but the house was no longer the secure, welcoming place it had always been for her. She unlocked the front door tentatively.
I wonder how long it will take before it feels like it's mine.
Boomer preceded her into the kitchen, bounded to his food bowl and looked up at her with expectation. She snorted, squatted, and scooped a generous helping of kibble into his bowl from the nearby sack. He set to his dinner with enthusiasm.
Nice that life is so simple for some of us.
She went to make coffee, discovered that there were no filters left, and poured herself a glass of water from the tap. Louis had always done the grocery shopping. Louis had handled so many of the details of their life together, silently and reliably. She'd be finding out about all of them, now. With luck, she wouldn't overlook anything critical.
Grocery shopping can't be too hard. If I can buy clothes, I can buy food.
She had a pang when she realized that she had yet to present herself to Malcolm Loughlin. Louis had expected her to do it first thing, and it hadn't entered her head since the previous morning, she'd been so focused on Helen.
Whoever he is, he's waited this long, he can wait a week longer. Next Saturday or Sunday will be good enough.
Are you sure about that, Christine?
I'm sure, Nag. Go away.
For a change, the inner advisor didn't pester her. She drained her glass, set it down in the sink, and began to wander around the main floor of the house. She was too tired to do anything of consequence, but she knew that sleep was still a distance away. It wasn't until her third circuit of the floor that she noticed the Message light blinking on their answering machine. It was another detail Louis had always attended to, but the calls would be for her from now on. She punched the Play button and groped for a pencil and paper.
"Hello, this is Sergeant Roger Carroll at the First Hamilton Precinct. A teenager brought in a wallet she took from a corpse earlier today. The body's in our morgue now, and the address on the drivers' license cross-lists to this number. If Louis D. Redmond has any kin at this number, would you please call as soon as possible? It's area code 518, 867, 9970. Thanks."
As the message petered out, the synthetic timestamp voice chimed in:
"Sunday, four-thirty-three PM, end of messages."
==
Chapter
34
Rolf Svenson couldn't say how, but for the whole of the work week just past, Christine had been off-center. His new prize software engineer looked and sounded just as she had the previous week, excepting different outfits. She did seem to be mistreating her keyboard more than usual, and her usual was bad enough. He had to watch her for a while to be certain that he wasn't imagining things. She appeared not to notice.
She's got something on her mind, something big and unpleasant.