The meeting with Marshall has been pushed to Thursday to accommodate the many administrative tasks necessary when sending your business unit leadership on a perp walk. Brian Wilkinson, our CEO, will be joined on the company plane by representatives from Legal and Human Resources to facilitate the termination. Jim Horsch, the second lieutenant in CoGenCo’s coal fleet, will take on Marshall’s responsibilities on an interim basis until a new president can be hired. All of this is very hush-hush, and Sandy and I will stay in San Francisco and then fly back with Mark and the executive team Thursday evening.
Sadly, Sandy and I are not invited to watch Doug and Marshall get put through the Vitamix. We were the warm-up act, and now the main performers have arrived to take the curtain call. I can imagine the scene at Westwind: Connie nervously alerting Marshall and Doug that the reception area has been infiltrated by faces she’s only seen in our annual report. The executives will be serious but cordial when Phyllis escorts them to Marshall’s office. The scene will be reminiscent of Mafia hit men who are all jokes and smiles until they strangle the guy in the front seat of the Cadillac, all while eating a pastrami on rye. Security will escort the two out of the building as Phyllis breaks down crying. Marshall will lawyer up, but I suspect Boomer will try to make a deal, ratting out Gerard and Marshall to avoid jail time. Maybe the guy from IT will alert the media, and they will be the lead story on the six o’clock news. People who know them will gasp in disbelief. “I never thought them the type,” they will say.
I’m sorry to miss it. But in practical terms, it means I have a free day, which I plan to spend renting a car and going, alone, to visit Spiro Cosmo and see if he can give me some ammunition on Mauriello.
Fresno is a three-hour drive southeast of San Francisco and is smack in the middle of California’s Central Valley. It is a town burdened with intense summer heat, polluted air, and street gangs that rival LA in quantity and brutality. On the plus side, there are farm-fresh produce, affordable real estate, and terrific Mexican food. Spiro has agreed to meet me for lunch at a taqueria just off the Yosemite Freeway.
Alejandro’s appears to have been a KFC establishment at one time, but the perky red-and-white exterior is now faded and peeling. The pole, upon which a bucket of fried chicken once perched, has been painted over with dancing jalapeño peppers wearing broad hats and colorful serapes. The molded plastic booths are long gone, replaced with wooded tables and ladder-back chairs. Colorful paper streamers crisscross the ceiling. The place is loud and packed with locals, but I spot Spiro sitting at a rear table by the bathrooms. He sees me as I approach and stands up to give me a hug hello.
There aren’t many diet-friendly choices on the menu at Alejandro’s, so I order a single chicken taco, while Spiro opts for some sort of all-of-the-above combo plate that arrives on a massive Talavera platter. He tells me that he loves his new parish, St. Anthony’s.
“My Spanish is coming along,” he says. “The downside is that I’ve put on ten pounds in this first week.”
“Well, you look fine to me,” I say, electing not to make any judgmental statements about the correlation between large meals and larger waistlines. “Look—there’s something I need to ask you,” I tell him, “and it’s not about Tina McCrery. I know you can’t discuss that, but I need to know anything else you can tell me about—”
He cuts me off. “Tanzie, I cannot discuss any of this with you.”
“I understand,” I say. “That’s why I’m not asking you about Tina. I need to know about Mauriello. I’m not sure we have a solid case, and I was hoping there was something else you could tell me,” I say.
“Tanzie,” Spiro pleads. “I really can’t discuss any of this with anyone.”
He begins playing around with his food nervously. Spiro appears to have lost his appetite. Why is he so closemouthed about this?
We sit in silence, and I take a forkful of Spiro’s enchilada while I think. Then I guess it.
“You’re not worried about violating the sanctity of Tina’s confession,” I tell him. “You’re worried about violating Mauriello’s.”
Spiro stares at his food and says nothing.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” I ask. “Mauriello confessed to you—all of it, the embezzling and Tina—so that you couldn’t ever talk to anyone about it, and then he sent you down here in order to make sure you wouldn’t.” I’m more disgusted than ever by this archbishop. “I understand. You don’t have to say anything, Spiro. We’ll find another way to get the goods on Mauriello. Maybe there’s something we’ve overlooked, or maybe the FBI will eventually get him on the evidence we’ve given them. But don’t worry about it. I won’t ask you about it again.”
“I didn’t realize the FBI had become involved,” he says cautiously and then chuckles. “Sister Agnes? Did she call her brother again?”
I nod. “I don’t think he took it very seriously,” I add.
“Never does.”
“Those nuns really don’t like the archbishop, do they?” I ask.
Spiro shakes his head. “I think the feeling may be mutual,” he says.
To lift his spirits, I tell him about Sandy and the pagan baby episode, and Spiro has to work hard to stifle his laughter.
“Are you really okay?” I ask. “I saw your mother the other night. She’s really upset about the transfer.”
“There’s nothing I can do, Tanzie,” he tells me. “I plan to drive up to San Francisco a couple times a week to see her, once I get settled in. It’s the best I can do. And please thank Blondie for looking out for her. Your sister is truly the kindest person I have ever known. In fact,” Spiro continues, “all you O’Leary girls are special. All of you, with such different talents and gifts.”
I let that remark settle in a bit, wondering what my special talent is. Vanity? Dishonesty? Manipulation?
“Spiro, I really think I can reason with Mauriello and get you transferred back to San Francisco,” I plead. “I have enough on him. Shoot, just him shacking up with Sandy is probably ammunition enough for a little blackmail.”
“Tanzie,” Spiro says suddenly in a low voice. “Look at me. It’s not violating any confessions I may or may not have heard to tell you this: Do not interact with Archbishop Mauriello. You have no idea what he’s capable of.” His eyes are tearing up, and I can tell he is trying to stay balanced on some sort of ethical tightrope. “Promise me you won’t talk to him.”
I watch him carefully. “All right, I promise,” I tell him, but I’m not entirely sure I mean it.
“Super,” he says, and I take the final bite of his enchilada.
It’s close to five when I make my way back to the Hyatt. Valet parking is a whopping $70 a day, a relative bargain when compared with room service. I have plans to meet Ted for dinner at six, so I dash up to the suite to get ready. The place seems so empty, with all the laptops and files from the Mauriello investigation gone. No nuns busting in at odd hours.
I’m a bit compulsive about being on time. The traffic is still at a crawl, so I decide to hoof it over to North Beach. The little restaurant on Stockton is completely empty, and at first I wonder if I got the directions right. I tell the hostess I’m meeting someone, and she shows me to a nice little table by the window so that I can see Ted before he comes in.
By six twenty, the place is filling up. I feel a little pressured to order something, since I’ve been nursing my glass of water while people are at the hostess station waiting for a seat. I don’t mind eating out alone; in fact, I do it quite often in Houston or when traveling. This is different, though. The table is set for two, and it’s clear I am waiting.
I send a text: Just checking in. Traffic is miserable.
By seven, I’m on my second glass of Chardonnay, and there’s still no word from Ted. I’ve called and left messages, and I’ve sent more texts. Negative thoughts generated by middle-age insecurity and mean emails percolate in my head. Did I misinterpret things? Is he upset about me canceling yesterday? Maybe he didn’t kiss me goodnight because he found me unattractive. That’s it, I conclude. I thought he was being gentlemanly, but he was repulsed. I think about Marshall and Rich mocking me in those emails. I think about Winston catting around. Just once, I’d like to be Sandy. She will never understand this pain I feel. Neither will Honey, for that matter. This pain is mine alone to bear. Perhaps it’s a continuation of my penance.
By seven thirty, I’ve paid the check and decide to walk back to the hotel.
I break into a jog as I cross Broadway, dodging traffic Frogger style. A loud honk from a cabbie startles me, and I have to catch myself to prevent an embarrassing fall. I find a spot on a Muni bench to settle myself.
That’s when I see him. The man with the Giants cap. He’s looking into a Starbucks window, so his back is to me, but I know it’s him. There is a confluence of emotions: fear, embarrassment, and (most of all) sadness. But all of it sparks recklessness, and I run back across the four lanes of Broadway traffic to confront him, dodging more angry motorists along the way.
“Who are you, and why are you following me?” I demand.
The Giants fan turns around. To my utter horror, he’s a teenage boy. Pimply and awkward, he can’t be more than sixteen.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I tell him, but my apology comes too late. I can tell he’s terrified of the crazy woman standing in front of him. He bolts, making a run for it up Broadway and turning left into the darkness.
If this isn’t the worst day of my life, it’s certainly close. Emotionally drained, I flag down a cab to the Hyatt Embarcadero. I see at least ten men wearing Giants hats during the ride back to the hotel, and I feel completely ridiculous.
The suite is empty. After all my complaining about never being alone out here, I finally am. I hate it. I call Ryan and order dinner, not because I’m particularly hungry but because at least Ryan is someone to talk to. He arrives with a bottle of wine and Crab Louis, and I sit at the dining table, ready to enjoy it.
“This was really so nice of your boss to entertain me like this,” I say.
“Did you not know the story?” he asks. “Your sister is something of a patron saint to Mr. Rodriguez, our manager. He tells all the employees about it. I think he thinks it’ll inspire us, or something.”
“So, what did Honey do for him?” I ask.
“Back in the early seventies, Mr. Rodriguez was involved in a gang, the Sureños. He was maybe fourteen or fifteen but was a tough guy. Anyway, one afternoon he came running into St. Peter’s Elementary School, where your sister was teaching third grade. He’d been in her class a few years before. He ran into her classroom after school while she was grading papers, and he hid in a closet.
“A few minutes later, four or five other gang members came looking for him. They put a gun to your sister’s head, and they asked if she’d seen Hector—Mr. Rodriguez.”
I nod, totally engrossed in this story.
“She told them she had not and asked them respectfully to leave the school, because there were younger children still on the premises. The way Mr. Rodriguez tells it, the way she talked to these gangbangers was just so cool—very calm, not angry. Anyway, they left, and she went to the cloakroom. She brought Mr. Rodriguez over to the convent and fed him dinner. The nuns told him he could stay in the caretaker’s quarters if he was too afraid to go home. He was.
“The next day, he found out his four-year-old sister had been killed. It was those same guys, in a drive-by. They didn’t intend to kill her, but it was still horrible. Mr. Rodriguez was in a rage—he was going to get even with these guys, he said, kill them and their families.
“But your sister sat him down. Somehow, she convinced him that he wouldn’t honor his family if he perpetuated violence. Instead, he should make his life matter.
“She didn’t just talk—she made some calls. She got him a spot at Woodside Priory, the boarding school down in the Peninsula. He went on to college and studied hotel management, and eventually he wound up running this hotel. He’s a lay minister at St. Peter’s, where he works with at-risk youths—that’s where I met him. Mr. Rodriguez is such a wonderful man—it’s so hard to believe he was involved in a gang when he was a kid. But anyway, meeting your sister the other day was pretty cool. She’s a legend around here.”
“I had no idea,” I say. I really hadn’t. All my life, I thought Honey had escaped our chaotic family to live a more comfortable life, sequestered from life’s hard choices and harder consequences. But she hadn’t done that at all; she’d left to make a difference, to change lives.
And I realize that while I’ve been listening to Ryan’s story, thinking about all of the hard things Mr. Rodriguez had been through, all of the negative thoughts I’ve had since being stood up at the restaurant have gone away.
“Were you in jail?” I suddenly ask. I almost immediately regret my question.
Ryan rubs the faded tattoo by his eye. “Yeah, I was. I’ve been out five years, though.” He looks at me sheepishly. “I tried to have this removed, but it’s going to take a few more treatments. I put makeup over it in the morning, but it wears off by the end of the day. I know what you’re thinking: A tear means you murdered someone.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t. I was in for drugs; just got the tattoo so I could look tough.”
I nod. Thank goodness.
“What’s prison like?” I ask, just in case I wind up there myself one day.
“Awful. Scary,” he says. “It’s funny, though. I wasn’t in a gang, and honestly, no gang wanted me, a big nice white boy with a decent education. But I helped in the computer lab, and they all wanted help in the computer lab. And I’m nice and personable, and eventually I just made friends—friends with some of the worst badasses around. Anyway, Mr. Rodriguez gave me a shot working at the front desk when I got out, and then I worked my way up to valet,” he says proudly.
“Good for you, Ryan,” I say.
“And,” he adds, with a laugh, “if you ever find the need for a hit man, I know several guys who could do it.” He gives me a quick wink and refills my wine glass.
I laugh. “I got stood up at dinner tonight, but I’m not ready to resort to murder just yet.”
After I finish eating, Ryan takes my plate away and tidies up before leaving the suite. I take my wine and head out to the balcony for a smoke. The night air is damp and clear tonight, and I find myself thinking about Ryan’s story and how easy my life has been. Why have I been so ungrateful? What if I’d been caught at my old job in Tulsa? I’d have wound up in jail, just like Ryan, and I would have had to work my way up from a hotel front desk.
I’m still a bit on the fence about God and Catholicism, but I clearly need to rethink my life’s purpose. I need to help people. Spiro needs my help; he just doesn’t want it. He’s a chicken. Yes, I made a promise to Spiro, but I also made promises to Kathy Westmoreland and Mrs. Cosmo. Two against one.
I’m not worried, either. You don’t know what Mauriello’s capable of. I’ll be back in Houston in a couple of days. What’s he going to do? Travel to Houston and beat me up like he beat up Doug? Let him try. Rocky will eat him for breakfast. He likes Italian food.
I know how to deal with a fraudster. I know how they think. And Archbishop Mauriello, I know, is no match for me.