I leaped to my feet, spilling brandy down the front of the new crimson dress.
Phil stood up in alarm. “What is it, Vic?”
“That’s the man who’s been calling me. Who is that?”
“Who?”
“Didn’t you hear someone just promising the pope’s prayers? Who said that?”
Phil was bewildered. “That was Archbishop O’Faolin. Has he been calling you?”
“Never mind. No wonder you were so surprised by his accent, though.” The voice of a man whose English has been carefully taught to avoid an accent. Irish or Spanish or both. I rejoined the group around the archbishop.
He stopped in midsentence when he saw me.
“Never mind,” I said. “You don’t have to put the thick Spanish back on again. I know who you are. What I don’t understand is your connection with the Mafia.”
I found I was shaking so badly I could hardly stand. This was the man who wanted to blind me. I had just enough control not to jump him on the spot.
“You’re confusing me with someone else, young woman.” O’Faolin spoke coldly, but in his normal voice. The rest of the group around him stood like Stonehenge. Mrs. Paciorek swooped up from nowhere.
“Dear Archbishop,” she said. “Cardinal Farber is ready to leave.”
“Ah, yes. I’ll come at once. I must thank him for his most generous hospitality.”
As he got ready to leave I said coldly, “Just remember, Archbishop: No one is lucky forever.”
Phil helped me back to the couch. “Vic, what’s wrong? What has O’Faolin done to you? Surely you don’t know him?”
I shook my head. “I thought I did. He’s probably right, though. I must be confusing him with someone else.” I knew I wasn’t, though. You do not forget the voice of someone who wants to pour acid in your eyes.
Phil offered to drive me home, to get more brandy, to do anything and everything. I smiled at him gratefully. “I’m okay. Just, with the fire at my place and everything, I haven’t had much sleep. I’ll sit here for a while and then drive back to my apartment.” Or whatever the Bellerophon was.
Phil sat next to me. He held my hand and talked about general things. He was a very likable young man. I pondered again how Mrs. Paciorek could have produced three such attractive children as Agnes, Phil, and Barbara. “Cecelia’s your mother’s only success,” I said abruptly.
He smiled. “You only see Mother at her worst. She’s a fine person in a lot of ways. All the good she does, for example. She inherited that huge Savage fortune, and instead of turning into a Gloria Vanderbilt or Barbara Post, she’s used it almost exclusively for charity. She set up trusts for us kids, enough to keep us from want-mine paid my medical-school tuition, for example. But most of it goes to different charities. Especially to the Church.”
“Corpus Christi, perhaps?”
He looked at me sharply. “How do you know about that?”
“Oh,” I said vaguely. “Even members of secret societies talk. Your mother must be pretty active in it.”
He shook his head. “We’re not supposed to talk about it. She explained it to each of us when we turned twenty-one, so we’d know why there wasn’t going to be much of an estate to inherit. Barbara doesn’t know yet. We don’t even discuss it among ourselves, although Cecelia’s a member.”
“But you’re not?”
He smiled ruefully. “I’m not like Agnes-haven’t lost my faith and turned my back on the Church. It’s just, with Mother so active, I’ve had too much opportunity to see the venality of the organization. It doesn’t surprise me-after all, priests and bishops are human, and they get their share of temptation. But I don’t want them managing my money for me.”
“Yes, I can see that. Someone like O’Faolin, for example, getting a chance to play ducks and drakes with the faithful’s money. Is he part of Corpus Christi?”
Phil shrugged.
“But Father Pelly is,” I said with calm certainty.
“Yeah, Pelly’s a good guy. He’s hot-tempered, but he’s a fanatic like Mother. I don’t think anyone could accuse him of working for his own self-interest.”
The room was starting to shimmer in front of me. Too much knowledge, rage, and fatigue made me feel as if I might faint.
With Farber’s and O’Faolin’s departure the room was thinning rapidly of people. I got up. “I need to get home.”
Phil reiterated his willingness to drive me. “You don’t look in any shape to be on the road, Vic… I see too many head and neck injuries in the Emergency Room-let me drive you.”
I declined firmly. “The air will wake me up. I always wear my seat belt, and I’m a careful driver.” I had too much to sort out. I needed to be alone.
Phil retrieved my boots and coat for me and helped me into them with anxious courtesy. He walked me to the entrance of the lot where I was parked and insisted on paying the ticket. I was touched by his good manners and didn’t try to override him. “Do me a favor,” he said, as I turned to go into the garage. “Call me when you get in. I’m catching a train to the South Side-should be at my place in an hour. I’d just like to know you got home safely.”
“Sure, Phil,” I called, and turned in to the garage.
The Omega was parked on the third level. I rode the elevator up, keeping a cautious eye out for prowlers. Elevators are nasty places at night.
As I bent to unlock the car door, someone grabbed my arm. I whirled and kicked as hard as I could. My booted foot rammed his shin and he gave a yelp of pain and fell back.
“You’re covered, Warshawski. Don’t try to fight.” The voice came from the shadows beyond my car. Light glinted on metal. I remembered in dismay that the farts in the Skokie police had my gun. But a fight is no time for regrets.
“Okay, I’m covered,” I agreed levelly. I let my Magli pumps slide to the ground and judged distances. He’d have a hard time killing me in the dark, but he could probably hit me.
“I could have killed you as you unlocked your car,” the man with the gun pointed out, as if reading my thoughts. He had a heavy, gravelly voice. “I’m not here to shoot you. Don Pasquale wants to talk to you. My partner will forgive you for kicking him-he shouldn’t have tried to grab you. We were told you were a good street fighter.”
“Thank you,” I said gravely. “My car or yours?”
“Ours. We’re going to blindfold you for the drive.”
I picked up my shoes and let the man take me to a Cadillac limousine waiting on the far side of the floor with its motor running. There was no point in fighting. They wrapped a large black silk scarf around my eyes. I felt like Julius Schmeese waiting for the firing squad.
Gravel Voice sat in the back with me, his gun held lightly against my side. “You can put that away,” I told him tiredly. “I’m not going to jump you.”
The metal withdrew. I leaned back in the well-sprung plush seat and dozed. I must have fallen asleep in earnest; Gravel Voice had to shake me awake when the car stopped. “We take the blindfold off when you’re inside.” He guided me quickly but not roughly along a stone path and up a flight of stairs, exchanged greetings with a guard at the entrance, and led me down a carpeted hallway. Gravel knocked at a door. A faint voice told him to come in.
“Wait here,” he ordered.
I leaned against the wall and waited. In a few moments the door opened. “Come in,” Gravel told me.
I followed his voice and smelled cigar smoke and a fire. Gravel untied the scarf. I blinked a few times, adjusting to the light. I was in a large room, decorated in crimson-carpet, drapes, and chairs all done in matching velvets and wools. The effect was opulent, but not unbearable.
In an armchair by a large fireplace sat Don Pasquale. I recognized him at once from his courtroom appearances, although he appeared older and frailer now. He might be seventy or more. He was thin, with gray hair and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a red-velvet smoking jacket and held an enormous cigar in his left hand.