“I understand,” said Father Banigas. “So is that Jose’s secret?”
“Well,” Marla hesitated, “not all of it.”
“Go on then.”
“Well, you see, Father Banigas, I’m confessing today for Jose because my brother was a mar—a homosexual.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he told me he liked boys instead of girls—but only after I found out and asked him and promised never to tell Mama and Papa and Diego.”
“How did you find this out?”
“Jose had a job after school at Best Buy in the computer section, but on Wednesday and Saturday nights he worked at this other place where he said he made more money. He never told me where—said it was a Mexican restaurant downtown. But one day I overheard him talking on the phone when he thought I was playing outside and, well, he told the person that they could pick him up after the show at Angel’s and then gave them the address on West Hargett Street. I googled the words ‘angels’ and ‘show’ and ‘West Hargett Street’ in the library at school, and I found out that Angel’s is a club in Raleigh where the homosexuals go for drag shows. I didn’t know what a drag show was until I looked it up. It’s a show where boys dress up as—”
“Yes, yes, yes, I know what a drag show is—but did you tell your parents?”
“Oh no! I didn’t want to get Jose into trouble. But I did ask Jose about it when we were alone. And at first he was mad at me and said he didn’t know what I was talking about and told me to mind my own business. But after I told him that I didn’t care if he was a homosexual, that I would keep it a secret and I would still love him more than Diego no matter what, he started crying and told me everything. He told me about the drag shows, too, and made me swear on Mama’s Bible that I would never tell anyone.”
“But, my child, you should have told the police this after he was killed.”
“I couldn’t, Father Banigas. Papa and Mama would kill me if they knew I knew Jose was a homosexual and didn’t tell them. And they have both been so upset with him dying, this would kill them, I just know it. Why do they or the police need to know anyway? They said they thought it was the pandilleros. And even though they say they don’t know now, everybody still thinks it was. I can’t have Papa throw his memory of Jose out of his head the way he would’ve thrown Jose out of the apartment if he’d known he was a homosexual.”
Father Banigas heaved a heavy sigh and asked, “What else did Jose tell you?”
“Well, after he told me he liked boys, after he confessed to me about working at Angel’s, he told me how much money he made there. Fifty dollars plus tips—sometimes over a hundred dollars a night! He said they let him keep his costume and his makeup at the club. Leona Bonita, he called himself, and the makeup and his wig and stuff sort of made him look like a lion, he said.”
“I see,” said Father Banigas.
“So that’s why you have to help me, Father Banigas. Because I know if Jose had gotten the chance before he died, he’d have asked God to forgive him for being a homosexual. He told me so in my dreams. He said he was sorry. He said he didn’t like being in Hell and wanted me to help him get into Heaven.”
The priest was silent for a long time.
“I conditionally absolve Jose of his sins,” he said finally. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”
“Thank you!”
“Say ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys, and Jose will be able to ask God for forgiveness himself. Then say another five of each for wishing the death of your brother Diego.”
“Thank you! Thank you, Father Banigas!”
Marla ran back to her pew, knelt down, and said her Our Fathers and Hail Marys as fast as she could. And when she was finished, the pretty eleven-year-old in the big yellow sweatshirt got up from her seat and dashed down the aisle to the side door. The children gasped, and Sister Esperanza called after her, but Marla didn’t stop—didn’t care if she would have to sit in the corner or write on the blackboard a hundred times.
No, as she ran outside into the courtyard, all Marla Rodriguez cared about was waving good-bye to Jose. For now that she’d fixed things, she was certain she’d be able to see his spirit flying up to Heaven.
Chapter 6
Special Agent Andy Schaap was starving. It was his own fault, goddammit. Should’ve snagged one of those stale donuts before he left. However, if there was one thing he’d learned from the boys at the Raleigh Resident Agency, it was that the steaks at the Dubliner Hotel were the best-kept secret in town.
But now it was getting late, and an appetizer would spoil his experience of a well-earned fourteen-ounce hunk of wet-aged rib eye. Eating. The only thing in his life other than forensics that Andrew J. Schaap had developed into an art form—especially when it came to stretching every penny of the Feds’ strict voucher program. And if he’d been waiting for anybody else, well fuck it, he’d have ordered his steak half an hour ago. But he couldn’t do that to Sam Markham. Sure, Andy Schaap didn’t want to appear rude; but more than that, Andy Schaap didn’t want to appear weak.
The forensic specialist knew all about Sam Markham and his little dance with Jackson Briggs down in Florida. He’d seen the pictures of the citation ceremony and heard the stories of how he’d taken that big motherfucker down. Schaap pegged Markham to be about his age—mid to late thirties—but whereas a ten-year marriage and a bitter divorce had left Andy Schaap with a bald spot and a nicely developed gut, Markham looked young and lean. Still, there was nothing physically remarkable about him; and certainly nothing in his background that would indicate him being able to take down a six-foot-four monster like Briggs.
He looked at his watch. 7:30. His stomach groaned, and he answered it with a sip of warm beer. It was only his second bottle, but after he’d been nursing it for half an hour, the beer tasted stale and sour. The craving for steak, the determination to enjoy and savor the experience were perhaps a bit of subliminal suggestion, he thought, from all that business with those other kind of stakes.
Fucked up the way the mind works.
Schaap replayed his examination of Donovan over and over again in his mind—the glowing pink symbols scrolling across the backs of his eyeballs like an electronic stock ticker. Yeah, they were going to have a problem with this dude. Schaap could feel it. “Vlad,” the boys at the Resident Agency were already calling him. “Vlad the Impaler.”
Just wonderful.
Schaap sighed, swigged the last of his beer, and reminded himself not to take it personally that Markham was a half hour late. He took off his wedding ring and began bouncing it on the table. He’d been divorced for over a year now, but for some reason he still couldn’t part with it—wore the thick platinum band on his right hand instead of his left, and often found himself fiddling with it when he was agitated.
Platinum. His ex had insisted on them getting his-and-hers platinum rings. It was the strongest of all the metals, she said, and symbolized the strength of their bond. Lot of fucking good it did them. She just woke up one morning and said she didn’t want to be married anymore. He tried to get her to go the counseling route, but she didn’t want to hear it. He wondered if she’d been two-timing him, but could never prove anything. In a way he wished she had been screwing someone else. At least then he’d know what happened. That was the hardest part. Not knowing what the fuck he did wrong, not knowing exactly what made her fall out of love with him.