Sunday 12:21 A.M.
The night was warm for May, the temperature still at least in the mid 60’s. As he parked the car in his driveway, Paul saw that Rose Talucci was still in her rocking chair on her front porch. She wore a dark blue shawl she had knitted. Paul strolled over.
He sat on the top step and leaned his back against the pillar on the left. He looked up at Mrs. Talucci. She often said she couldn’t sleep well. On warm nights when she wasn’t in the mood to read and especially when the full moon was rising, she often sat on the front porch in her favorite rocking chair. When Paul was on evening shifts on warm nights, he often strolled over, and they would talk as the stars and moon twirled overhead.
They discussed minor gossip and the neighborhood and his sons and Ben and then she asked about his case. When he finished, she asked, “The Church giving you a pain in the ass?”
“Yeah.” He told her about his frustration with getting financial information about the Church or being able to interview personnel.
She agreed. “It’s a closed system, rife for abuse. They are answerable only to Rome.”
“But they go broke in bankruptcy court here.”
“You know that’s as big a joke as I do. You ever see a priest hauled away to a poor house? You ever see all the church property sold off to pay the bills? You saw how that diocese transferred millions from one fund to another to avoid having to pay.”
“There’s nothing we can do.”
“That’s often the case with the ways of the world. Maybe I can talk to some people.”
Turner was never quite sure about Mrs. Talucci’s connections. Her “talking to people” could mean anything from being connected to the most powerful mafia don in the country to gossiping with the neighbors. Often amazing things seemed to get done when Mrs. Talucci talked to people. Several years ago a gang of street kids had been harassing older women returning from the neighborhood grocery store on Harrison Street. One of the kids had been found hanging naked upside down from the front of the store the day after Mrs. Talucci had “talked to someone.” The problems at the store never recurred. The kid was fine, but never said a word about who attacked him. Turner also knew that the local alderman had Mrs. Talucci on speed dial. Politicians tended to recognize real power when they saw it.
Mrs. Talucci took off her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose with two fingers. Paul knew she was tired. She still hadn’t recovered from her trip up the Amazon, and she’d been back a week. Sometimes Paul forgot how frail his ninety something neighbor was. For a woman her age, she was remarkable, but nevertheless, she was that age, and time was nibbling at the edges of her life. When she took her hand away, Paul saw the indentions that the glasses made on each side of her eyes. He said, “Anything you can do, I’d appreciate.”