"Did you happen to see any of the…"
Jack opened his mouth, closed it, then said, "You know, I was going to say yes, and boy were they hot, but I know it's not a joking matter for you. So the truth: no. He didn't keep hard copies. Why risk leaving evidence around when he could point and click and get a fresh print anytime he needed it?"
"I'm so glad, so glad."
Maggie closed her eyes. She had her life back. She wanted to drop to her knees right here on the bar floor and cry out her gratitude to God, but that would attract too much attention.
"But listen," Jack said, his voice grave. "Here's why I wanted to meet in person. I want you to realize that even though I've wiped out his files, you're going to hear from him again."
The wonderful, airy lightness that had suffused her drained away.
"What do you mean?"
"If I did my job right—meaning he thinks this was all a terrible accumulation of accidents—he'll assume that none of his victims know they've been wiped out. Which means they'll all be thinking they're still on the hook. You can't let him know that you know you're not."
"Okay."
"I'm serious about this, Sister. And you can't let your other half know either."
"Other…?"
"Whoever else was in those pictures with you. Do not tell him."
"But he'll be forced to go on paying."
"That's his problem. Let him fix it. You fixed yours, so—"
"But—"
"No 'buts,' Sister. There's a saying that three can keep a secret if two are dead."
"But we two know."
"No. Only you. I don't exist. Trust me on this, please. This guy's an ex dirty cop, so no telling—" .
"How did you learn so much about him so soon?"
"Past research from my first encounter with Mr. Slime."
"I…" She felt a sob build in her throat. "I can't believe it's over."
"It's not. Not yet. Like I told you, you've still got to deal with him, and very carefully. When he calls, tell him you're tapped out and will send him something as soon as you get it. Plead with him to be patient."
"But he wants me to… you know…" She lowered her voice. "The building fund…"
"Tell him you'll try, but it won't be easy. Because of the kind of neighborhood you're in, they watch it like hawks, yadda-yadda. But whatever you do, don't refuse to pay. You're not going to send him another damn cent, but you can't let him know that."
"But I am going to pay you. I promise. Every cent."
"No need. It's all taken care of. Financed by a third party."
Maggie was stunned. First the good news about the blackmail, and now this. But she couldn't help being a little put off that a third party was involved in this, her most private business.
"But who—?"
"Don't worry. You'll never know her and she'll never know you."
A sob burst free as tears trickled down her cheeks. What more proof did she need that God had forgiven her?
"Thank you. Thank you so much. If there's anything I can ever do for you, just say it."
"Well, there is one thing." He leaned forward. "How does such an uptight straight arrow like you let herself get involved in a situation that could ruin her life?"
Maggie hesitated, then figured, why not? Jack knew the bad part; he should know the rest of it.
She told him about the four Martinez children and how they were all going to have to leave St. Joseph's for public school by the end of the year. She explained what a tragedy she thought that would be, especially for naive little Serafina.
Without mentioning his name she told Jack about approaching Michael Metcalf for help.
"And somehow," she said, "I found myself in a physical relationship with him. But the Martinez children are the innocent, unwitting victims. The blackmailer drained away the funds that would have gone to them. But don't worry. I'll find a way."
Jack looked as if he was about to say something but changed his mind. He glanced at his watch instead.
"I've got someplace I've got to be, so…"
Maggie reached across the table and gripped both his hands. "Thank you. You've given me back my life and I'm going to do good things with it." She gave his hands a final squeeze, then rose to her feet. "Good-bye, Jack. And God bless you."
As she turned and started away she heard him say, "Did you hurt your leg?"
She stiffened. The burns on her thighs ached and stung with each step, but she offered up the pain.
"Why do you ask?"
"You're limping a little."
"It's nothing. It will pass."
Maggie stepped out into a new day, a new beginning—a redundancy she'd flag in one of her student's prose, but at this moment it seemed right and true.
Lord, don't think I'm forgetting my promise just because I'm free of my tormentor. Tomorrow, cross number six. And on Sunday, the seventh and last, just as I promised. And also as promised, I will devote every moment of the rest of my life to Your works and never stray again.
She headed for the subway, for St. Joseph's Church, to give God thanks in His house.
Life was good again.
7
Jack thought about Sister Maggie as he loitered in a doorway on Lexington Avenue and kept watch on the temple's entrance. He'd ditched Jensen's tail—he'd put two guys on him this morning—on his way to Julio's. After his meeting with the nun, he'd returned to Lexington and set up watch for Johnny Roselli.
Sister Maggie… he'd had an urge to grab her and shake her and try to convince her to get out and enjoy life. But he couldn't. It was her life, to live her way. His inability to comprehend her choices didn't invalidate them.
Still… he didn't get it. Probably never would.
His thoughts refocused on the here and now when he saw Roselli appear, pushing through the doors and then trotting down the steps of the nearby subway entrance. Jack had to do a little booking to keep from losing him.
He caught up on the downtown platform and followed him aboard a 4 train. Johnny was still in the grungy sackcloth-and-ashes mode and his mind seemed light years away as the car swayed and rattled and yawed along the tracks.
Jack's mind wasn't exactly locked onto the present either. It kept straying back to Brady's office and the hidden globe. He remembered that cold feeling in his gut as he'd stared at the red and white lights and the lines running between…
They rode the 4 down to Union Square where Johnny hopped the L to its terminus on Eighth Avenue and Fourteenth. From there Jack shadowed him into the meat-packing district.
When Jack first came to the city, this area had deserved its name—beef hindquarters and pig carcasses hanging in doorways, burly, cleaver-toting butchers in blood-stained white aprons hustling in and out, back and forth. A different kind of hustle at night: curb clingers in hot pants and microminis—not all of them women—hawking their wares to passing cars.
Creeping gentrification had wrought its predictable changes. Most of the butchers were gone now, replaced by art galleries and trendoid restaurants. He passed Hogs and Heifers, the inspiration for the bar in Coyote Ugly, a charter member of Jack's Worst Movies of All Time Club.
Johnny kept walking west. What was he going to do, jump in the Hudson?
The light was fading, the wind picked up enough to make people turn up their collars. Not the skateboarders, though. Dressed in nothing more than the de rigueur baggy shorts, T-shirt, and backward baseball cap, a bunch of them were doing kickflips and railslides as Jack passed.
Eventually Johnny stopped outside a bar called The Header on the ground floor of a ramshackle building in the far, far West Village. If it called itself a dive, it would be putting on airs. The dozen or so motorcycles lined up out front left little doubt as to the nature of the preferred clientele. A neon Budweiser sign glowed in one of the two tiny windows; a handwritten placard announcing FOOD was taped in the other.