Chapter 13

 

Blood and I showered up and made our way back to Latham and The Light of the Earth church. I was feeling a little better about myself after getting in a full workout, but I was still hungover and still a little sad over Val. Okay, a lot sad. Would you believe that I actually felt guilty over messing around with Tracy? I decided then and there to put it out of my mind before I started convincing myself I needed to see a shrink.

I pulled onto the massive parking lot. It was empty, other than a scattering of vehicles owned by church employees. Most of the cars were expensive and new. A couple were Mercedes Benz, a few were Volvos. There were also a couple of Toyotas parked near a Jeep Wrangler. In the far corner, I spotted an old brown Honda SVU that likely belonged to the custodian. Making note of vehicles was an occupational necessity. But now, I needed to focus on how Steve Long was going to react to my handing him a check for one-hundred-thousand clams. Tax free.

I wasn’t too optimistic about the whole thing. Then again, my client had issued orders, and I intended to fulfill those orders. I had a reputation to think of. I parked, turned off the engine.

“Let’s do this, Blood,” I stated.

He looked at his watch.

“It’ll be lunch soon,” he said. “Wonder what you buying me today?”

“Always thinking about your stomach,” I said, closing my door.

“I think about other things, too,” he said, closing his door, walking in the direction of the church entry. “I think about women a lot, for instance. So many women, so little Blood to go around.”

Blood was irresistible to women—black, brown, and white. Didn’t matter the race or skin color. They all loved him. He was a babe magnet, and he knew it. That was the main reason he never entered into a serious relationship. Because in foodie terms, why stick with one main entrée when you can feast at the buffet?

We entered the church. It was empty except for someone shredding loud licks on an electric guitar on stage. It didn’t take us long to see that it was Pastor Ian. He didn’t notice us at first, and he kept on making his Les Paul sing. I played drums way back when, and I knew a thing or two about music. This guy was good, as in legit pro-rocker good. Suddenly, he caught sight of us, and he stopped. As if acting on cue, Blood and I clapped.

“Thanks for that,” Pastor Ian said, pulling the guitar off his shoulder and setting it down onto a stand. “What can I do for you fellas?”

He jumped down from the stage like he was still an agile teenager, and he approached us.

“We need to see Mr. Long again,” I said. “Is he in?”

“I can certainly inquire,” he offered, his expression serious if not agitated for a hippie dude with crazy hair wearing a getup of a black t-shirt—the letters CBGBs emblazoned across the front, ripped Levi jeans, and bare feet. He ran both hands through his hair, not like it would make any difference in its appearance, but like he was proud of sporting so much of it. “You know, Mr. Marconi, I don’t have to tell you, he was pretty upset last time you were here. Steve’s been through the shit, so maybe whatever business you have with him can conclude today.”

“Shit,” I said. “In a house of God. But Jesus used to curse, too, because he was a construction worker. Am I right?”

I glanced at Blood. He pursed his lips, shook his head.

“Jesus don’t curse in my book,” Blood said. “He too good for that.”

“Jesus was a human being, Mr. Blood,” Pastor Ian pointed out. “Flesh and blood, just like you and Mr. Marconi here.”

“Don’t make it right that you use foul language in a house of God,” Blood went on.

“Even if it was a supermarket at one time,” I added. “You can say shit in the produce section, but not in church.”

I smiled. Father Ian didn’t.

“I’ll go get Steve,” he grumbled. “Wait here.” As he was walking. “This . . . whatever it is . . . it ends today? We clear?”

“Gee,” I said, “and to think I was going to become a parishioner.”

The pastor grabbed the interior door opener, snatched the door open, stepped on through.

“He uptight for a Jesus hippie,” Blood said.

“He doesn’t like people pissing in his pool is what he doesn’t like,” I said.

“He got something to hide.”

“Possibly,” I said.

The interior door opened again, and tall Steve Long appeared wearing tan slacks, leather shoes, and a denim button-down under a blue blazer. No tie. His hair was a little too long for a man his age and the fact that it was receding rapidly.

“You gentlemen wish to see me again?” he asked, shoving both hands in his trouser pockets.

I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out the envelope.

“Have you considered our last conversation, Mr. Long?” I said. “Regarding Mr. O’Connell’s wish for you to keep quiet about the . . . well, let’s call it the matter.”

“Listen, Marconi,” he said, his face tight as a tick. “I told you last time, you and the big black brother don’t scare me one bit. I’ll do whatever me and Jesus want me to do. That clear?”

“He call me a big black brother?” Blood said. “This church the most un-Christian place I ever been, next to the pool hall.”

“Come off it,” Long said. “I know your type. How many men you fucked up in your life, Mr. Blood? How much time you do in the can?”

“Now you stereotyping,” Blood went on. “You keep on being rude, Long, you gonna end up a notch on my pistol grip.”

“Easy, Blood,” I said. “I’m sure Mr. Long is about to come to his senses.”

I handed him the envelope. He stared at it for a minute, then opened it, pulled out the check. His eyes went wide as he pondered the zeros. This was the crucial moment. Would he tear up the check, scatter the confetti all over the carpeted ex-supermarket floor? Or would he fold it up, place it inside his wallet?

Another glance at Blood. He caught my glance, nodded subtly. He knew precisely what I was thinking. If Long were to tear up the check, it was end of story. It meant for certain he was going to the press—or the cops, or both—with what he knew about that fateful November night in 1982. If he kept the check, then at least there was the possibility that O’Connell’s secrets would remain secrets.

Long cleared the frog from his throat, then carefully folded the check in half and slid it into his pocket.

“Don’t forget the contract, Mr. Long,” I said. “It’s also inside the envelope.”

He pulled it out. He tried to speed read it. I’m not entirely sure what it said, but if I had to guess it was a tight as all hell non-disclosure agreement that, if it were to be violated, left Long open to all sorts of legal jeopardy.

“Blood,” I said, eyes on Long. “Pen.”

I heard the sound of Blood reaching into his jacket pocket, pulling out his ballpoint. He handed the pen to me and I, in turn, handed it to Long. He thumbed the little device on the back of the pen that produced the ballpoint and, placing the document on his thigh, signed it.

“Don’t forget to date it,” I added.

He made a noise that sounded like a grumble. But he dated it as requested, then handed me back both the contract and the pen.

“Mr. O’Connell will be sure to forward your copy of the contract ASAP, Mr. Long.” I said ASAP like a word instead of reciting each letter. It sounded more professional.

“Whatever,” he mumbled.

“You may assume our business together is concluded, Mr. Long,” I assured him.

“Now, that’s a miracle,” he shot back, looking not at Blood or me, but down at the floor.

He was humiliated for having to take the money, there was no doubt about that. The only question that remained was, would he keep his end of the bargain? Or would he violate it and face the wrath of God? The legal God that is.

Turning, he slowly made his way to the interior door and yanked it open so hard the opener slammed against the wall. People were testy at The Light of the Earth church today.

I looked at my watch.

“Well, Blood,” I said. “Soon it will be lunch hour. But let’s make another stop first.”

“Where too?” he said.

“I think it’s time we paid Mark Mastrullo’s widow our respects.”