Father Whelan sits in the back of the black Cadillac and watches the man in the driver’s seat ignite his cigarette with a gold-plated Ronson that flames red and gold in the darkness. The man breathes out a plume of smoke and gives the priest a smile that accentuates his delicate features. He’s pretty, this Sicilian. Has delicate fingers, too. Thick black hair and pleasant brown eyes. He looks harmless enough. But Father Whelan has been taking his confession for the past three years and knows the man who drives the car is anything but.
“He’ll listen to you. You’ve got the juice. Tell him it will look good for him on Judgment Day. That’ll mean a lot to him, because if he don’t play ball, Judgment Day’s going to come a lot faster than he thinks. We can make a donation to one of your good causes,” continues Paulie Pugliesca softly. “You know how this can go. Whatever you like. Just tell this prick he’s a lost sheep. He’s a good boy. Just made a mistake. The girl will be okay. We’ll buy her something expensive.”
Father Whelan wishes he could better explain to this man why he cannot simply walk into the Sixteenth Precinct and demand they release the young man they picked up tonight for grabbing a thirteen-year-old girl as she walked home from school. He drove around with her for an hour. Dropped her off two blocks from home, scratch marks on her face and bloody down to her bare feet.
“He’s a ball breaker, this one,” says the driver to his large, silent partner in the passenger seat. “I do everything he asks and he denies me this courtesy. I move the Dummy to a nice place upstate. I pay for his therapy. I let him come home. I give him a job and a family. I give money to the Church, to the poor, I have my guys digging gardens and painting windows each feast day. And he won’t even show me some love on this one. What’s with this guy?”
Father Whelan casts around for the right words. He hopes he is a good priest. He loves his flock. Loves his church, with its great pillars and columns and its beautiful blue glass. He never wanted to get to know these men. But circumstances brought him into their lives. He begged a favor from the guardian of a scared boy in a filthy hospital and the cost is higher than he ever imagined. He gives the man in the driver’s seat absolution for his sins and carries around the knowledge of his misdeeds. It weighs heavily upon him.
“Supposing it’s not a misunderstanding,” says Father Whelan. “She’s just a girl.”
Paulie gives him a knowing look. He’s growing tired of having to be persuasive. Both men know that Whelan will acquiesce. He’ll do what Pugliesca asks because Pugliesca owns a part of him now. He has already done far worse for this bright, ambitious man who has risen to become underboss of a New York crime family before the age of forty-five. His son, now twenty-two years old, is expected to become even more successful. Whelan had always known him to have a mean streak, but he did not expect the young man’s tastes to run to such excess. The things he did to that poor young girl. At the hospital they said she would never be able to have children . . .
“Some of these girls ain’t no girls,” says Paulie. “Some of these girls are women. They’re tramps. They lead you on and then bitch when you try to give them what they’ve asked for. He’s young. He’ll learn. I’ll beat him till he knows how to behave, but he ain’t gonna do time for this.”
Father Whelan clutches the tumbler of whiskey between his knees. “She was thirteen,” he mutters.
“He didn’t know that. She led him on.”
“He may not listen,” protests Whelan. “This policeman, I mean.”
“You’re a priest, Father. A good man. And this prick is one devout motherfucker. You vouch for the boy and I swear, I’ll keep him on the right path.”
“His brother . . .” begins Whelan.
“Tony ain’t no goddamn brother,” says Paulie, anger flashing in his eyes.
“He was there, wasn’t he? Watching. Helping.”
“Sal was showing him the ropes.” Paulie shrugs. “How to be a man. How to take control.” He smirks. “Y’know, like a big brother should.”
“I want Tony away from his influence,” says Whelan, his voice shaking. “A nice place. A place of his own.”
“My home not good enough, huh? You weren’t so high and mighty when you was begging, Father.” Paulie twists his jaw, then forces himself to relax. “I understand, Jimmy. I’m fine with whatever you say. Sal’s got plans anyway. A nice house for Tony. Pretty place upstate, where he can watch the birds fly and the flowers grow and roll about in his own shit like a fucking lord.”
Whelan thinks quickly. Tries to turn this situation into something positive. “And one of my flock—a man working so hard to become a better person. He’s bright. Creative. I want a job for him. Something with a future. Something he can feel proud over.”
“You hear this guy?” asks the driver. “The Church don’t like blackmail.”
“This isn’t blackmail. It’s a contract.”
“Whatever you say, Father. Just get him out of there. He’s not a bad boy. He just made a mistake.”
Father Whelan climbs from the car. It’s a cold night but sweat makes his dog collar stick to his neck.
As he walks toward the lights of the station house, he finds himself making the sign of the cross.
Despite his bargain, he knows there is no such thing as a moral calculus. There is no equation or algorithm that can bring him comfort for tonight’s work.