Back in the World: Stories Page 3

  They were standing beside an empty greenhouse with most of the windows broken out. Shards of glass glittered at their feet. It had rained earlier and now everything seemed unnaturally bright: the grass, the blue of the sky, the white sails of the boats on Puget Sound. The sun was at Father Leo’s back, shining into Jerry’s face. Jerry squinted as he talked. Father Leo saw that there were little scars under his eyes. His nose was puffy.

  “I should tell you,” Father Leo said. “I’ve never raised funds before.”

  “Nothing to it,” Jerry said. “But first you have to make up your mind whether you really want the money. You ask yourself, Is it worth going after or isn’t it? Then, if the answer is yes, you go after it.” He looked at Father Leo. “So what is it? Yes or no?”

  “Yes,” Father Leo said.

  “All right! That’s the big step. The rest is easy. You don’t mess around. You don’t get hung up on details. You do whatever you have to do and keep going. It’s the only way. The question is, can you work like that?” Jerry brushed some brick dust off his jacket. He straightened his vest. He looked down at his shoes, then at Father Leo.

  “I think so,” Father Leo said.

  “You have to be a gunslinger,” Jerry said. “No doubts. No pity.”

  “I understand,” Father Leo said.

  “All right,” Jerry said. “Just so you know how I work. My philosophy.” He pulled a flask from his jacket pocket, drank from it, and held it out to Father Leo. “Go on,” he said. Father Leo took it. The flask was silver, half-covered with leather, and engraved with initials below the neck. They weren’t Jerry’s initials. The liquor burned. Father Leo became aware of the sun on the back of his neck, the sighing of the trees. They each had another drink, then Jerry put the flask away. “Cognac,” he said. “Napoleon’s brand. So, what do you think? Partners?”

  “Partners,” Father Leo said.

  “Bueno,” Jerry said. He slapped his leg and brought his hand up like a pistol. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s ride.”

  The plan was for Father Leo to go with Jerry and watch how he approached potential donors. Then, once he got the hang of it, he could go out on his own. Jerry coached him on the way to their first interview. He said that the big thing was to make it personal. Nobody wanted to hear about old furnaces. You had to do your homework, you had to know your man—in this case, your woman. Here they had a lady who went to Lourdes every year. She’d been to Lourdes more than twenty times. That meant she had a special interest in crippled people. She had a big heart and she had money. Going to France wasn’t like going to Mexico.

  The woman was standing at the door when they arrived. Father Leo followed Jerry up the walk, moving slowly, because Jerry had assumed what appeared to be a painful limp. He had endless trouble with the steps but refused the woman’s help. “I can manage,” he said. “There’s plenty worse off than me. I just think of them and it’s easy.”

  Jerry did all the talking when they got inside. Now and then the woman looked over at Father Leo, but he would not meet her eyes. Jerry was describing a number of projects that Star of the Sea had developed for the handicapped, all of them imaginary. He implied that most of the nuns were devoted to this particular work and that he himself had been rescued by their efforts. Jerry’s voice cracked. He looked away for a moment, then went on. When he finished, the woman served tea and wrote out a check.

  Not everyone they visited gave them money. One old man laughed in their faces when Jerry told him that the convent had been built on orders from the Blessed Mother, and that she was taking a personal interest in the fund drive. When the old man stopped laughing he threw them out. “You must take me for an idiot,” he said.

  Not everyone gave, but most people did. Jerry would say anything. He said that the convent helped orphans, lepers, Navahos, earthquake victims, even pandas and seals. There was no end to what he would do.

  Jerry had a saying: “If you want the apples, you have to shake the tree.”

  Father Leo knew that he should disapprove of Jerry’s methods, but he didn’t. That is, he felt no disapproval. The people they visited lived in Broadmoor and Windermere. They had plenty of money, too much money. It was good for them to share it. Anyway, Jerry was a performer, not a liar. Lying was selfish, furtive, low. What Jerry did was reckless and grand, for a good cause.

  Father Leo did not want to go out on his own. He would never be able to carry on the way Jerry did in front of complete strangers. Besides, he was having the time of his life. Jerry called him “Slim,” and he liked that. He liked getting into Jerry’s big car and driving through the convent gate with no idea what would happen that day. He looked forward to the lunches they ate downtown—club sandwiches, fruit platters, big salads covered with diced cheese and ham. Then the coffee afterwards, and one of Jerry’s stories about his days in the navy. Father Leo came to need these pleasures, most of all the pleasure of watching Jerry have it his way with people who were used to having it their way.

  As it happened they did not split up after all. Jerry tallied their take for the month and decided that they should stick together. The receipts were almost double the average. He said that as a team they were unbeatable. He had the blarney and Father Leo had the collar, which Jerry called “The Persuader.”

  They would go on as before. Father Leo’s job was just to sit there. He didn’t have to say anything. If someone should look at him in a questioning way, all he had to do was close his eyes. No nodding. No murmuring.

  “We’ll rake it in,” Jerry said, and they did.

  When they finished their rounds, Jerry and Father Leo usually had a drink at a fern bar on the wharf. They sat in a booth and Jerry told stories about his life. He’d sold cars and worked as a private detective. For two years he had been a professional fighter. He had been everywhere and seen everything. In Singapore he had witnessed a murder, one man shooting another man right in the face. “Just like you’d shoot a can,” Jerry said. Later he’d heard the men were brothers. He had seen men make love to each other on board ship. In Dakar he’d watched a woman with knobs where her arms should have been paint pictures of sailors, take their money, and give change all with the toes of her feet. He had seen children chained to a wall, for sale.

  So he said. Father Leo did not believe all the stories Jerry told him. Roughly speaking, he believed about half of what he heard. That was fine with him. He didn’t mind having his leg pulled. He thought it was the sort of thing men did in lumber camps and on ships—sitting around, swapping lies.

  Just before Thanksgiving they had a meeting with a vice president of Boeing. The man wore sunglasses during the interview. It was hard to tell what he was thinking. Father Leo guessed that he was trying to keep his temper, because in his opinion Jerry had chosen the wrong line to follow. Jerry was going on about missiles and bombers and instruments of destruction. He suggested that the man had a lot to make amends for. Father Leo wanted to get out. When Jerry was through, the vice president sat there behind his desk and stared at them. He said nothing. Father Leo became uncomfortable, then angry. This was obviously some technique the vice president used to bully his subordinates. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he said.

  The vice president suddenly bent over. He buried his face in his hands. “You don’t know the half of it,” He said. His shoulders began to jerk.

  Jerry looked at Father Leo and gave the thumbs-up. He went around the desk and stood behind the man. “There, there,” he said.

  The vice president stopped crying. He took off his sunglasses and wiped his eyes. “I needed that,” he said. “By God, I needed that.” He went into the adjoining room and came back with a plastic garbage bag. It was full of money, but he would not let Jerry count it in the office or give him a receipt. He insisted that the gift remain anonymous. As he showed them out of the office, he took Father Leo by the sleeve. “Pray for me,” he said.

  They counted the money in the car. It came to seven thousand dollars, all in twenties. Je
rry locked it in the trunk and they went to the fern bar to celebrate. Jerry’s cheeks were red and they grew redder as he drank cognac after cognac. Father Leo did not try to keep up with him, but he drank more than usual and became a little giddy. Now and then the young people at the bar turned and smiled at him. He could see that they were thinking, What a jolly priest! That was all right. He wanted to look like someone with good news, not like someone with bad news.

  Jerry held up his glass. “The team,” he said, and Father Leo said, “The team.” They toasted each other. “I’ll tell you what,” Jerry said. “We have a bonus coming, and I’m going to see that we get it if I have to break Vincent’s arm.” When Father Leo asked what kind of a bonus Jerry had in mind, Jerry said, “How about Thanksgiving in Vegas?”

  “Las Vegas?”

  “You bet. We’re riding a streak. We’ve made plenty for Vincent, why shouldn’t we make a little for ourselves?”

  Father Leo knew that Mother Vincent would never agree, so he said, “Sure. Why not?” and they touched glasses again.

  “Slim, you’re something,” Jerry said. “You’re really something.” He shook his head. “You’re as bad as I am.”

  Father Leo smiled.

  Jerry said, “I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone before. Maybe I shouldn’t even tell you.” He lit a cigar and blew smoke at the ceiling. “Hell with it,” he said. He leaned forward. In a low voice he told Father Leo that Jerry was not his real name. Royce, his last name, was also made up. He’d taken it from Rolls-Royce, his favorite car.

  It happened like this. He had been selling insurance in San Diego a few years back and some of his clients complained because they didn’t get the benefits he had promised them. It was his own fault. He had overdone it, laid it on too thick. He would be the first to admit that. Anyway, he’d had to change names. There was no choice, not if he wanted to keep working and stay out of jail. The worst of it was that his wife left town with their son. He hadn’t seen them since, had no idea where they were. That hurt. But in some ways, looking back on it, he thought that it was for the best. They didn’t get along and she was holding him back. Always criticizing. If she’d had her way he’d still be in the navy, pulling down a hundred and forty dollars a month. “She loved it,” he said. “So did I, at least for a while. We were just kids. We didn’t know from Adam.”

  Jerry looked at the people in the next booth, then at Father Leo. He said, “Do you want to know what my real name is?”

  Father Leo nodded. But just when Jerry was about to speak he interrupted. “Maybe you’d better not tell me,” he said. “It’s probably not such a good idea.”

  Jerry looked disappointed. Father Leo felt bad, but he didn’t want that kind of power, the power to send a man to jail. He was also afraid that Jerry would start wondering about him all the time, whether he could be trusted, whether he would tell. It would spoil everything. They sat for a while without talking. Father Leo knew that it was his turn. He should open up and talk about himself for a change. But there was nothing to tell. He had no stories. Not one.

  Outside the window it was raining. Cars went past with a hissing sound. Father Leo said, “Jerry?” His throat felt scratchy. He did not know what he would say next.

  Jerry moved in his seat and looked at him.

  “You’ve got to keep this to yourself,” Father Leo said.

  Jerry pulled his thumb and forefinger across his lips as if he were closing a zipper. “It stops here,” he said.

  “All right,” Father Leo said. He took a sip from his drink. Then he started talking. He said that when he was a senior in high school he had been waiting for a bus when he heard someone scream across the road. He ran over and saw a woman on her knees, hanging on to the belt of a man with a purse in his hand. The man turned and kicked the woman in the face. “I guess I went berserk,” Father Leo said. The next thing he knew, the police were dragging him off the man’s body. The man was dead. Father Leo said that they’d had to pry his fingers off the man’s throat, one by one.

  “Jesus,” Jerry said. “Is that the reason you became a priest?”

  Father Leo looked out the window. “One of the reasons,” he said.

  “Jesus,” Jerry said again. He looked young and amazed, wide-eyed as he must have been years ago, before his name was Jerry. His eyes were watery; when he tried to smile, his mouth wouldn’t hold the shape. He reached out and squeezed Father Leo’s shoulder. He squeezed it again, then got up and went to the bar.

  Oh, no, Father Leo thought. What have I done?

  Jerry came back with fresh drinks. He sat down and slid one over to Father Leo. His eyes were still misty. “Vegas,” he said, and raised his glass.

  “Vegas,” Father Leo said.

  Mother Vincent gave them the bonus. Thanksgiving weekend in Las Vegas, all expenses paid—air fare, hotel, meals, and a hundred dollars apiece in gambling coupons. The trip was arranged at discount by a nun who worked as a travel agent.

  “Something is going to happen,” Jerry told Father Leo as their plane banked over the desert. “I feel it. Something big. We’re going to come home with gold in our saddlebags. Hey, don’t laugh,” he said. “Don’t ever laugh about that.”

  “I can’t help it,” Father Leo said.

  “Be serious, Slim. We are two serious hombres on a roll and we are about to bust this town wide open. We’ll never work again. It is written.” He leaned past Father Leo and looked down at the cluster of lights that turned below them in the darkness.

  There was a commotion in the hotel lobby when they arrived. A woman was yelling that her room had been broken into. Two men in fringed leather jackets tried to soothe her and finally managed to lead her to an office behind the registration desk, where she began to yell again. Father Leo could hear every word from where he stood in line. He picked up the room keys and meal coupons and gambling chips, and turned around just in time to see Jerry win twelve dollars at one of the quarter slots by the Hertz counter. The coins slid out of the machine onto the tile floor with a steady ringing sound and rolled in every direction. Jerry got down on his hands and knees and crawled after them. Nobody paid any attention except a red-haired man in silver pants who went over to Jerry and touched his shoulder, then hurried away.

  They ate dinner at the hotel, the only place where their coupons were good. Jerry spent his winnings on a bottle of wine, to celebrate. He couldn’t get over it—a jackpot the first time around. “Figure the odds on that,” he said. “It’s an omen. It means we can’t lose.”

  “I’m not much of a gambler,” Father Leo said. It was true. He had never won a bet in his life. The chips they’d been given were negotiable and he intended to cash them in just before he left and buy his sister something nice for Christmas, something he would not usually be able to afford. For now they were squirreled away in the bottom of his suitcase.

  “Who’s talking about gambling?” Jerry said. “I’m talking about fate. You know what I mean.”

  “I guess I don’t,” Father Leo said. “Not really.”

  “Sure you do. What about the guy you killed? It was fate that put you there. It was fate that you became a priest.”

  Father Leo saw how the lie had grown. He felt tired of himself. He said, “Jerry, it isn’t true.”

  “What isn’t true?”

  “I never killed anyone.”

  Jerry smiled at him. “Come off it.”

  “I’ve never even been in a fight,” Father Leo said.

  Jerry leaned forward. “Look,” he said, “you shouldn’t feel guilty about it. It was that kind of a situation. I would have done the same thing in your shoes. That’s what I told Sister Gervaise.”

  “No,” Father Leo said. “You didn’t.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jerry said. “She promised not to tell anyone. The thing is, she made a smart remark about you and I wanted to set her straight. It worked, too. She went white as a ghost. She looked about ready to hemorrhage. You should have seen her
.”

  “She’s a gossip,” Father Leo said. “She’ll tell everyone. She’ll tell Mother Vincent.”

  “I made her promise,” Jerry said. “She gave her word.”

  “So did you.”

  Jerry put a coupon on the table. He ground out his cigar. “What’s done is done. We’re in Get Rich City now, and it’s time to start raking it in.”

  There was a small casino on the other side of the lobby. Jerry suggested that they start there. He sat down at the blackjack table. Father Leo moved up and watched the play. He was pretending to study Jerry’s tactics, but none of it made any sense to him. He could only think of Sister Gervaise turning white. He felt as if he must be turning white himself. “I’m going upstairs,” he told Jerry. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

  Father Leo sat on the balcony outside his room. In the courtyard below there was a turquoise pool lit by underwater lights. He gripped the armrests of his chair. He could not stop thinking of Sister Gervaise, stricken and pale. What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t have Mother Vincent and the others believing that he had killed a man. It would terrify them. On the other hand, he didn’t want them to think that he went around telling crazy lies about himself. In its own way, that was just as bad. He couldn’t think. Finally he gave up and went back downstairs.

  Another man had taken Jerry’s place at the blackjack table. Father Leo couldn’t find Jerry at any of the other tables and he wasn’t at the bar or in the lobby. On the chance that he’d gone to his room, Father Leo called upstairs on the house phone. There was no answer. He went outside and stood under the awning beside the doorman.

  A greyhound wearing a sweater and pulling an old woman behind him stopped and lifted his leg over a small border of flowers in front of the hotel. While the dog peed, the woman glared at the doorman, who clasped his white-gloved hands behind his back and looked up at the sky.

  Along the street colored lights flashed names and pictures. Farther down was a sign that must have been twenty feet high, showing a line of chorus girls in cowboy boots and bikinis. Every so often they kicked their legs this way and that. They were smiling, and each tooth was a little light. People spilled over into the street, moving in different directions. They shouted back and forth and ignored the cars that honked at them.