"Soon as I give you your penance," Terry said.
He pulled Chantelle's pistol out of his cassock and shot Bernard, shattering the bottle he held against his chest. He shot the one next to Bernard trying to get up, caught between the wall and the plywood table. He shot the one in the chair tilted against the wall. And shot the one by the back hall as this one brought a machete out of his belt and shot him again as the blade showed a glint of light from the open door.
The shots left a hard ringing sound within the closeness of the brick walls. Terry held the pistol at arm's length on a level with his eyes--the Russian Tokarev resembling an old-model Colt .45, big and heavy--and made the sign of the cross with it over the dead. He said, "Rest in peace, motherfuckers," turned, and walked out of the beer lady's house to wait at the side of the road.
Pretty soon the Volvo appeared, coming around from the front of the sector office.
They stood in the rectory kitchen, Chantelle watching Laurent taking things from the deep pockets of his combat fatigues, a mist showing in the window behind him, the light fading.
"The keys to the Volvo and the house and, I believe, the church." Laurent laid them on the kitchen table. "Your pistol. I can get you another one that holds twice the number of bullets. There are only two in here now." He laid the Tokarev on the table. "Four men with five shots tells me he concentrated, this priest of yours. He knew he could not waste the shots."
"How do you report it?"
"Unknown assailant."
"No one will question it?"
"The witnesses are dead. As always." Laurent's hand went into the big pocket of his tunic. "Sabena Air tickets, he said to give you. I told him even the Belgian ambassador will do anything to avoid flying Sabena. I drove the priest to Goma and introduced him to a man who runs arms into Congo-Zaire, a friend of everyone. He'll take the priest to Mombasa. From there he can fly to Nairobi and take British Air to his home."
Chantelle said, "He could have exchanged the tickets."
"He wants you to have them, to cash in or go to Brussels for a holiday. Why not?"
"He was always generous," Chantelle said, "giving me money to spend."
"A priest," Laurent said, "who took vows to be a holy man. Or maybe he forgot to take them. I always said he was different to any priest I ever knew."
Chantelle seemed about to speak, perhaps to give her opinion, defend her priest. No--she pulled the cord to turn on the electric light in the ceiling, brought an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker black, not the red, from the cabinet above the refrigerator she reached into now for a tray of ice. When she spoke again the priest was gone. She said to Laurent, "Have you had your supper?"
Chapter
7.
"HEY. EVERYBODY HAVING A
good time tonight? . . . Yeah? Well, come on, let's hear it, okay? We're up here working our asses off. No dogs or ponies, man, just us."
The comic acting as MC, the bill of his baseball cap funneled around his face, got a pretty good response: half the tables filled this evening, the back part of the big room dark; not bad for an open-mike night.
"Right now it's my pleasure to welcome back to Mark Ridley's Comedy Castle a chick who's smokin', so fucking hot that I ask myself, 'Rich, why would a killer chick like Debbie ever stoop to doing stand-up?' And the answer that flashed immediately in my tired brain, 'Because she's funny, dude. Because she's a very funny chick, fast on her way to becoming a headliner.' You with me? . . . Yeah? Then give it up for . . . Detroit's own Debbie Dewey!"
She appeared out of the center-stage door in a gray-green prison dress, extra-large, ankle-high work shoes and white socks, the outfit keeping the applause up. The right thing to do now was point to the comic-as-MC in his baseball cap leaving the stage and shout in the noise, "Richie Baron! Yeah! Let him hear it!" But she didn't. When the room was quiet enough she said: "Hi. Yes, I'm Debbie Dewey," and turned to show herself in profile. "Or, eight nine five, three two nine." Then, facing the room again, "That was my Department of Corrections number while I was down most of three years for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. True story. I was visiting my mom in Florida and happened to run into my ex-husband . . . with a Buick Riviera."
She paused, getting a pretty good response, and said, "It was a rental, but it did the job."
More laughs this time, the audience warming up to her conversational delivery, Debbie holding back, not giving it too much.
"I was stopped for a light on Collins Avenue, Miami Beach, and there was Randy, Mr. Cool in his yachting cap and shades, he's crossing the street right in front of me as the light turned green."
A few laughs now in anticipation.
"I said to the arresting officer, 'But I had the right of way.' " More laughter and she shook her head at the audience. "Randy's another story. He seemed like such a sweet, fun guy, a real free spirit. How many people do you know have a pet bat flying around the house?" Debbie hunched her shoulders and ducked her head, waving her hand in the air. Now she stood with her eyes raised, a cautious expression, until she shook her head again.
"By the time the bat disappeared I'd come to suspect Randy was a snake. There were certain clues . . . like his old skin lying on the bathroom floor. So when I noticed the bat was no longer around, I thought, My God, he ate it."
Some laughs, but not the response she'd hoped for.
"But his molting wasn't the worst." She waited for the few laughs that came from people who knew what molting meant. "Finding out he had another wife at the same time we were married didn't sit too well. Or the fact he used up my credit cards and cleaned me out before he skipped. So when I happened to see him crossing the street . . . I thought, Where can I get a semi, quick? Like an eighteen-wheeler loaded with scrap metal. You know, do it right. Or do it again--I thought about this later--as soon as Randy's out of his body cast. But by then I'd been brought to trial, convicted, and was one of six hundred ladies making up the population of a women's correctional institution, double-fenced with razor wire."
Debbie held the sack dress away from her legs as though she might curtsy.
"This is the latest in prison couture. Can you imagine six hundred women all wearing the same dress? You're also given a blue-denim ensemble--shirt, jacket, and slacks with a white stripe down the sides. You can wear the jacket with the dress if you like to mix and match. You're given underwear and two bras that come in one-size-fits-all. . . . Honest. You knot the straps trying to get the bra to fit, and you keep knotting till you get your release."
Debbie had reached into the dress to fool with the straps and could feel the audience with her. Especially the women.
"I thought of stuffing the cups, but you're only given four pairs of socks. The dress, by the way, comes in small, medium, large, and extra-large." She held the skirt away from her legs again. "This is the small. I made a suggestion to the superintendent one time, a nice guy, I said, 'Why don't you offer more smaller sizes, even a petite, and send all the ladies who wear extra-large to a men's facility?' As you might imagine, large women have a way of making the prison experience more to their liking. The kind of thing that can happen . . ."
Debbie raised her face, eyes closed, and moved her hands over her arms and shoulders, her breasts.
"Imagine luxuriating in the shower, rubbing yourself all over with the industrial-strength soap they give you . . . the water soothing, rinsing the blood from your abrasions, and you hear a voice murmur, 'Mmmmmm, you pretty all over.' You think fast, knowing what you'll see when you open your eyes."
Debbie turned her head to one side and looked up, way up, as if gazing at someone at least seven feet tall.
" 'Hey, Rubella, how you doing, girl?' You want to keep reminding Rubella she's a girl. 'Girl, you feel like a cocktail? I've got some hairspray if you have the Seven-Up.' Or, 'You want me to fix your hair? Get me a dozen pairs of shoelaces and I'll make you some cool extensions.' "
Debbie had been looking up with a hopeful smile. Now she turned to the room with a solemn expression.
"And if you can't think of a way to distract a three-hundred-pound sexual predator, you're fucked. Literally. Whatever way Rubella wants to perform the act."
It was working and she felt more sure of herself, the audience laughing on cue, waiting for the next line.
"Actually, though, being molested or raped by some tough broad isn't as common as you might think. Girl prison movies like Hot Chicks in the Slammer, with inmates running around in these cute Victoria's Secret prison outfits? It isn't anything like that. No, in women's facilities chicks form family groups. The older ones, usually in for murder, are mothers . . . Really. There may be a father played by a dyke senior citizen. There are sisters and what pass for brothers. And there are, of course, chicks with chicks. Hey, even in the joint love is in the air. What I did, whenever one of the chicks found me attractive, I'd go, 'Oh, hon, I hate to tell you this but I'm HIV positive.' And it worked until this one grins at me and goes, 'I am, too, sweetie pie.' No, my most serious problem inside . . . What do you think it was?"
A male voice called out, "The food."
"The food's another story," Debbie said, "but not my number one complaint."
Another male voice said, "Standing in line."
And Debbie smiled, one hand shading her eyes as she looked out at the audience. "You've been there, haven't you? You know about standing in line. And what happens to anyone who tries to cut in? You can buy your way in, give someone in the canteen line a couple of cigarettes and she comes out and you take her place--that's okay. But if anyone tries to cut in . . . ? Listen, since I'm home I do all my grocery shopping at two a.m., so I won't have to stand in line. If I happen to shop during the day, I never buy more items than the express checkout will take, like ten items or less. I watch the woman in front of me unloading her cart and I count the items. If she has more than ten? Even one more? I turn the bitch in. I do, I blow the whistle on her, demand they put her in a no-limit checkout line. I know my rights. Listen, even if the bitch picks up some Tic-Tacs or a pack of Juicy Fruit, and it puts her over ten items? She's out of there--if I have to shove her out myself."
Debbie had struck a defiant pose. She began to relax and then stiffened again.
"And if some guy in a hurry tries to step in front of me? . . . You know the kind. 'Mind if I go ahead of you? I just have this one item.' A case of Rolling Rock under his arm. Do I mind? All he has to do is make the move I've got a razor blade off the rack ready to cut him . . . and I'm back with the ladies on another aggravated assault conviction. Let me just say, you haven't waited in line till you've waited in line in prison. But even that wasn't the worst thing. To me, anyway."
Debbie paused to look over the room and the audience waited.
"I should tell you, a number of my dorm mates were in for first- or second-degree murder. Brenda, LaDonna, Laquanda, Tanisha, Rubella you've met, Shanniqua, Tanniqua and Pam, two Kimberleys who went bad and a Bobbi Joe Lee, who played a couple of seasons with the Miami Dolphins till they found out she was a chick. There are ladies you don't want to mess with unless you're behind the wheel of a Buick Riviera, with the doors locked. So in the evening when it's time to turn on the TV? Guess who decides what we watch. Me? Or bigger-than-life Rubella. Me? Or the suburban housewife who shot her husband seven times and told the cops she thought he was a home invader . . . coming in the back door with a sack of groceries, four in the afternoon?" Debbie paused. "To me, the worst thing about prison was a sitcom the dorm ladies watched every evening on local cable TV. Guess what it was."
Chapter
8.
DEBBIE CAME OUT TO THE
lobby bar wearing jeans and a light raincoat, her prison dress and shoes in a canvas bag. She saw Fran waiting and was sure he'd say something about the set--nice going, anything. No, her first gig in more than three years and Fran goes, "Here, I want you to meet my brother."
The one turning from the bar with a drink in his hand, Fr. Terry Dunn, black Irish in a black wool parka, the hood hanging about his shoulders. Now she saw him as a friar, the beard, the gaunt face, giving him kind of a Saint Francis of Assisi look. He came right out with what she wanted to hear: "You were terrific"--with a nice smile--"really funny, and you made it look easy, the conversational style."
"That either works," Fran said, "or it doesn't." Fran serious about it. "You have to have the personality and be naturally funny. You know what I mean? Not just recite punch lines." He said, "Debbie, this is my brother Terry."
He held her gaze as they shook hands, still with the nice smile. She glanced at Fran and back to the priest.
"I don't have to call you Father?"
He said, "I wouldn't."
Now she didn't know what to say. How was Africa? But then wondered if they were there for the whole set. "I didn't see you before I went on."
"You'd just come out," Fran said, "giving your DOC number as we sat down, in back."
Terry was nodding. "You were about to run into your ex with the Buick."
"The Buick Riviera," Debbie said.
He smiled again. "I wondered if you tried other makes. A Dodge Daytona?"