“Now what?” Phan asked as the limo forced its way out into traffic.
“Follow her,” Demise said. “She’s not thinking straight. She’ll head straight for the stuff. We get the money, get the drugs, and snuff the bitch.”
“Sounds good,” Phan said. “But I get to kill her.”
Demise raised an eyebrow.
“You enjoy it too much, man,” Phan said. “It’s not healthy.”
Joey stood on the street outside Our Lady of Perpetual Misery shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Mazzucchelli had been pretty clear-the only calls coming into the apartment in the last few days that looked off were from the church. It only made sense to check it out.
Just take a look around, Mazzucchelli had said. If it looks like that’s where they’re working from, call me and we’ll send in a team.
The stone building loomed across the street, grey and impassive. He didn’t see any Shadow Fist operatives walking in or out. Didn’t see any heroin blowing down the street with the snow. It occurred to Joey for the first time that he wasn’t sure exactly what it was he was looking for.
Since when did the Fist work with jokers anyway? Fuck, since when did they work with Catholics? The whole thing didn’t make sense. The confusion nauseated him a little. He should have worked with Lapierre. This was a job for someone smart.
The urge hit him to take another pill like he was hungry and the pills were food. He took the bottle out and considered it. His arms didn’t really hurt-hell, they hadn’t really hurt in weeks-but the pills made him feel better. Some part of him knew that wasn’t good-even felt guilty about it. But that didn’t make him want the stuff any less.
Something huge and bright blue swooped overhead, shrilling like a flock of birds. Joey shrugged deeper into his jacket, pushing the drugs away. He hated Jokertown.
“Just go in and look around,” he muttered to himself. “Like you were just gonna go light a candle for some dead joker motherfucker. That’s the thing.”
Joey squared his shoulders, crossed the street and walked up the steps. He held the door open for a nice little piece of ass-definitely not a joker-who was heading in right after him. Dark eyes, dark hair. She would have been really pretty if someone hadn’t been beating the crap out of her.
Of course he expected her to be upset. He’d have been naïve to think she wouldn’t. But he’d rehearsed what he’d say, some of it standing in front of the bathroom mirror so he could try out the facial expressions too.
He’d planned to start by scaring her. Then he’d take the moral high ground-she’d misled him, lied to him even, betrayed his trust in her. If she didn’t walk out on him right then, he could forgive her and explain why he’d gotten rid of the drugs and that the church would still protect her.
He’d also hidden the money, figuring it made it more likely that Gina’d be in the mind to hear him out.
“You get it back!” she screamed, leaning over him. “You crawl in the fucking sewer and get it back, you fat fucking sonofabitch!”
He lay on his back, his arms up to protect his face. Gina knelt on his chest, her weight making it difficult to take a breath. The cot was on its side where she’d thrown it, and his left ear hurt pretty bad where she’d hit him.
“Now, you… my trust…” he tried.
“You shit-sucker! You fuckbrained joker asshole! That was my fucking life!”
She swung at him again, her hands in claws. Then she stood and kicked him in the small of the back-she didn’t quite get his kidney, but it still smarted pretty good-and started pacing the length of the small room, shaking her head, arms crossed. Carefully, Father Henry raised himself up to sitting and picked his glasses back up from the floor.
“Now, Gina,” he said. “I think you need to just calm down a mite.”
“Shut up before I kill you.”
He rose slowly to his feet. That kick was going to leave a bruise. He could already feel it. He straightened his shirt.
“I didn’t do what you’d have wanted, maybe,” he said, “but it was right. You can try beating on me if you want, but that won’t make keeping folks hooked on drugs a good thing. And these people you’re messing with, now, they’re not the sort of folks a girl like you should be… you know… messing with.”
Since she didn’t respond, he figured he’d gotten the moral high ground after all. It didn’t seem to have all the weight he’d hoped for. She muttered something, paused at the foot of the stairs, her eyes narrowed and calculating.
“I need the money,” she said. “I’ve got a few hours to make a run for it.”
“You’ve accepted the protection of the church,” he said, feeling a little better for being back on-script. “We’ll take care of you, but that means no more lying and playing fast and loose with the truth. I didn’t go to the police and you should see…”
“If you’d gone to the cops, I’d be dead already. I need the money, Father.”
She was looking at him now with a deathly calm. Her face was bruised, her mouth thin and bloodless. She’d never looked less like a child.
“Come on, then,” he sighed and walked up the stairs.
Quasiman was sweeping the aisles and between the pews, his hunched back moving irregularly as bits of him vanished and reappeared. Father Henry nodded to him as he walked up the pulpit and took out the duffel bag. Gina snatched it from him and slung it over her shoulder.
“Thanks,” she said and strode for the main doors. Father Henry sat down and watched her go, rubbing his sore ear.
It wasn’t how he’d seen things going. He’d had a scenario in mind where Gina would have been safe, where maybe he’d bring a little light into her life. A little hope. A chance, maybe, for salvation. Instead, the most he could really hope for was the existential appreciation of a city’s worth of drug addicts thanking him for thinning down the supply. He was out of his depths in Jokertown. That was all.
“Father Henry?”
Quasiman stood before him, broom in hand. He wore an expression of concern.
“Yes?”
Quasiman beamed.
“I thought I remembered you,” he said, and vanished. Father Henry shook his head and levered himself back up to his feet just as Gina came back down the aisle. Her face was ashen, her footsteps unsteady.
A blocky man in a black coat walked beside her, carrying the duffel bag full of money. He also had a gun to her neck.
The priest stood up with a wobble, his face going paler. Joey felt something like pleasure and dug the barrel into the girl’s neck. She flinched.
“Well now,” the priest said, tugging at his collar. “And how can I help you, son?”