Madman's Thirst Read online

  Crider grimaced. “Up yours.” (It came out, “Uproars.”)

  Mack laughed good-naturedly as Scarne got in the back seat. Behind the wheel Bobo Sambucca, now Dudley’s official driver, smiled a hello in the mirror and pulled away.

  “Give it a rest, Duds,” Scarne said. “Abel’s a good guy. He’s off that detail now.”

  “What a surprise.”

  All three men had known Crider since college, but had lost track of him until Scarne spotted an article in the Post about a hostage situation in a Queen’s Hooter’s. A man put a gun to the head of a waitress and demanded to see the manager. The girl had previously dumped the gunman for said manager, who wisely locked himself in the freezer. The restaurant was soon surrounded by police, accompanied by a hostage negotiator, who went in to talk to the distraught suitor. Minutes later there was a shot and the hysterical girl ran out. The frozen manager, smelling like shrimp, soon followed. A SWAT team found the hostage negotiator standing over the gunman, who had taken his own life. The negotiator was Abel Crider and it was suggested, half in jest, that the poor bastard killed himself so he wouldn’t have to listen to Crider talk.

  Scarne and Mack laughed at the memory.

  “All the Criders talk like that,” Bobo said from the front seat. “I knew Abel’s mom. Talked faster than him. When they argued it sounded like dueling machine guns. Pentagon should draft them to run our communications. Enemy would go batshit trying to figure anything out. They could talk on regular phones, for Crissake! Be like them Iroquois code talkers the Marines used against the Japs.”

  “I think they were Navajos,” Mack said.

  “I screwed a Nava ‘ho’ once,” Bobo said. “She was awesome.”

  ***

  “Is this one of your new funeral cars?”

  They were driving along Richmond Terrace.

  “Can’t get anything by one of the city’s top private dicks. Like it?”

  “Yes,” Scarne said. “It still has that new dead body smell.”

  Unlike many funeral home operations, the Mack-Sambuca chain (now up to four sites on Staten Island and one in Sea Girt, New Jersey), had its own fleet of limousines and hearses. Dudley Mack was proud of his modern fleet and was famous for occasionally using the cars for his non-funeral enterprises, most of which were illegal. Mack believed the vehicles “set the right tone” for conversations in the back seat. Being taken for a ride in one of them was an unnerving experience for even the toughest of men. It was a home field advantage that turned many a deal in Mack’s favor.

  They drove past the abandoned U.S. Gypsum plant that stretched almost a quarter of a mile along the Kill van Kull. Before its closing, the huge facility had provided some of the filthiest and highest-paying jobs on Staten Island’s waterfront.

  “Remember that bar, Jake,” Dudley said, pointing to a small stand-alone shack across the street from what had been the main entrance to the plant. The bar’s windows were boarded up and graffiti was scrawled along its entire length. The roof was fire-scorched. “I worked at Gypsum one summer. The old man thought it would do me good. Guys coming off their shift would go across and drink a few million beers to get the dust out of their throats. I can still taste those beers. There was a hooker from Port Richmond who would come up on payday and some of the hard cases would bang her right on the pool table in the back. Maybe ten guys a night. She was a good sort, and made a fortune, but she’d be so covered in gypsum she looked like a ghost when she left.”

  “Great story. I can’t wait to tell my grandkids.”

  “I was going to buy the place, just for old time’s sake. I don’t have enough gin mills on the North Shore. But the guy who owned the building, a lawyer, torched it for the insurance.”

  “They catch him?”

  “Nah. He’s a judge now. But he knows I know. I bankrolled his campaign. He’s a better investment than the bar would have been, if you think about it.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “St. Stan’s, on York Avenue. Ever been there?”

  “No.”

  “You’re in for a treat. By the way, how’s the façade thing working out?”

  “Not too well. But some people are being dunned two, three times as much as I am.”

  “You need help with the assessment?”

  “No, but thanks, anyway.”

  “I know some union guys. Maybe get you a deal.”

  Just what he needed, Scarne thought.

  “Pass.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  They pulled up to Saint Stanislaus Roman Catholic Church, a red brick building that fronted York but sloped down a steep hill to Jersey Street.

  “You know, this does look familiar,” Scarne said.

  “You probably saw the movie, Working Girl. Used St. Stan’s for a wedding scene.”

  They walked to the front entrance, where Scarne stopped to look at the inlaid stones and art work framing the doors.

  “Are these swastikas?” He pointed at several small bent crosses that were mixed in among other strange looking symbols.

  “Yeah, but that stuff isn’t supposed to be political. All those symbols and signs predate the Nazis. Something to do with Eastern influence on the Polish church. At least that’s what Jarecki, the pastor, tells me. Who knows? Poles had pogroms long before the Krauts.”

  “Are there that many Poles still living around here?”

  “Nah. Most of the original parishioners moved to the south shore or Jersey years ago. The neighborhood is full of Hispanics, Haitians and Jamaicans now. A few Indians, of the dot, not feather, persuasion. But the old folks come from all over for the Polish-language mass on Sunday. I hear they sometimes get a thousand people. It’s followed by a great pot-luck luncheon. Kielbasa heaven.”

  They entered the beautiful, dark church and Scarne followed his friend to a door behind the altar. It opened to reveal a long spiral staircase.

  “What is this,” Scarne said after they descended two stories. “The road show of Angels and Demons?”

  “Oh ye of little faith,” Mack said over his shoulder.

  Scarne didn’t say anything else. Dudley liked his little surprises and rarely disappointed. They reached the bottom. Mack pressed down on a heavy brass latch on a thick wooden door and pushed it open. Scarne didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t the sight of a beefy Catholic priest sitting on the nearest of a dozen wrought-iron swivel stools lining an oak and mahogany bar, smoking Marlboros and drinking from a tall, thin double shot glass. It was a real tavern bar, which ran almost the length of the room. Behind it stood a small forest of beer taps: Budweiser, Heineken, Amstel, Harps, Miller, Sam Adams. An old-style cash register was flanked by dozens of liquor bottles. There was a large man wearing a white apron standing under a TV at the far end watching the local news.

  “How’s it hanging, Jerry?” Mack said.

  “Celibately,” the priest responded, with mock sadness.

  Mack laughed and slapped the priest on the back.

  “Jerry, this is my pal, Jake Scarne. If he looks spooked it’s because he came close to the altar upstairs. Expected a bolt of lightning. Jake, this is Father Jerry Jarecki.”

  Scarne shook hands with the priest, who called down the end of the bar.

  “Stash, my friends are thirsty.”

  The bartender walked down to them. He had the crumpled face of a man who had spent too many unproductive hours in a ring.

  “Stash?” Scarne said.

  “You have a problem with that?”

  “No. What’s your real name?”

  “Stash.”

  Without asking, he put out two more double shot glasses and poured Polish vodka for the new arrivals from a bottle in an ice bucket below the bar.

  “You want a twist?”

  He made it sound like a form of excrement. When they declined he nodded, put the bucket and bottle on the bar and went back to the TV, which he turned up to give them privacy. The three men raised their glasses to
each other and downed the shots. The ice cold vodka was superb. Scarne said so.

  “My parishioners bring it back from the old country.”

  Scarne looked at the array of liquors behind the bar.

  “Your parishioners get around.”

  “He’s got a better selection than most of my joints,” Mack said.

  Jarecki laughed and said, “This used to be a speakeasy in the 30’s, with an entrance on Jersey Street, right out that door over there. Prohibition was against the laws of both God and nature. The police agreed. Particularly those that drank here.” He poured another round. “We’re not open to the public, of course. That door was sealed closed years ago. But after parish functions people are allowed down here. And, of course, certain friends.” He nodded at Mack. “I trust you will keep our secret, Jake.”

  “Who would I turn you in to, the bishop?”

  “That bastard loves coming here. Why do you think my church survived the last round of diocesan cuts?”

  “Do you always have a bartender?”

  Jarecki laughed.

  “No. The Rosary and Altar Society is meeting later.”

  “Listen, padre,” Mack interrupted, grabbing a cigarette from the priest’s pack. “I’d love to stand here all day and talk religion, but why don’t you tell Jake why you called me.”

  CHAPTER 6 – ONE FOR THE AGES

  It had been a typical Saturday. Fewer people came to confession nowadays, but Jarecki, a stickler for tradition, put in the time: 2 to 4 PM. Of course, it was now called the “sacrament of reconciliation,” which didn’t help matters. The more the church compromised the less respect it got. Jarecki had revered the first Polish Pope and still mourned his death. He had a hard time getting past the fact that his new leader was a German. But, he acknowledged grudgingly, the fellow was made of the same stuff as his predecessor, and would protect the sanctity of the church’s teachings.

  Jarecki had heard only a half dozen confessions in almost two hours. Thank God for Mrs. Dumbrowski! Without a little comic relief, he’d go stir crazy. (“Is it a mortal sin, Father? I mean, it’s the only thing that makes it bearable. Joe is so fat now, he hardly moves anymore, let alone vibrates. Only thing, does he have to be there when I use it?”) Ethel would have a stroke if she knew he’d recognized her voice. As head of the Rosary and Altar Society, she spoke to him almost daily. At least he hadn’t laughed out loud.

  The priest looked at his watch, barely making out the numerals in the light from the tiny 15-watt bulb in the ceiling: 3:50. Ten more minutes. It was a gorgeous fall day, temperature in the mid-60’s. Maybe he could slip out for a couple of holes at Silver Lake and get back in time for the evening mass. Jarecki opened the confessional’s door and peeked out. The church was empty. I’m in like Flynn, he thought. The Lake’s “twilight” golf rate was the best kept secret in the city. Not that it mattered for him. The God-fearing woman behind the cash register at the club never charged a man with a collar.

  A fanatic golfer, Jarecki’s initial disappointment with his transfer to Staten Island from Pittsburgh evaporated when he found out the borough contained four of the six golf courses in New York City. He was flirting with a single-digit handicap (well, 14 is flirting, he told himself) but his putting needed work. Until recently the weather had been lousy and he had been restricted to a makeshift putting green in the sacristy, where the carpet, while not much bumpier than the greens at Silver Lake, was a poor substitute for the real thing. Besides, the sound of a golf ball rolling into a chalice (unconsecrated!) just didn’t cut it.

  He looked at his “atomic” watch again. 3:55. It was a gift from his sister, who was always ordering gadgets from in-flight airline catalogues. The damn thing was accurate to one second every thousand years, or some such nonsense. If it said 3:55, then, by God, it was 3:55. He got up and stood outside the confessional and stretched.

  Jarecki was a bullet of a man, tough-looking even in a cassock; with a sloping nose that seemed to push down on his upper lip. His coarse dark brown hair was styled in a modified flat top that gave him the look of a Roman centurion, a visage that served him well in his other sporting avocation, the touch football he played with reckless abandon in the Staten Island Flag Football League. His team, Flynn’s Inn, had a fair number of tough Poles representing the tavern – thanks to his recruitment efforts after Sunday mass. Jarecki asked – and gave – no quarter on the field. He was known as “Last Rites” Jarecki for asking flattened opponents if they needed them. Now, he was halfway through an imaginary golf swing when the front door to the church opened and a hunched figure walked in slowly. He returned to the confessional, hoping whoever it was just wanted to light a candle.

  A moment later someone slumped heavily into the seat on one side of the confessional. Jarecki looked at his watch: 4:00. Damn it! He sighed, pulled back the slide and waited. He heard heavy, labored breathing. His nose twitched. No stranger to visiting hospital rooms, Jarecki recognized a faint, but distinct, odor, more medicinal than unpleasant. Whoever was in the booth was getting to a priest in the nick of time. The silence dragged on.

  Finally, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned….” That was followed by, “I can’t believe I just said that.”

  Jarecki heard rustling. The man was apparently leaving. Jerry Jarecki was a hard case, but he was still a priest.

  “Wait, my son. I can help you. What is it you want to say?”

  There was no response, so he started to repeat himself in Polish, but a raspy voice cut him off, in English.

  “I haven’t been inside a church in a long time.”

  “It’s never too late to come back. God doesn’t….”

  “Listen, Padre. I don’t have time for the religious speech.” The man coughed again. “I’m covering my bases. Always felt comfortable here. Used to come before I left the Island. Hasn’t changed much in 40 years. I don’t really believe in this crap, but no atheists in foxholes, right? So let me cut to the chase. I want to get something off my chest. So just sit there and listen.”

  “You’re in the wrong foxhole, my friend.” Jarecki always had a short fuse. “I’m not a psychiatrist. Unless you are sorry for what ever it is you’ve done, I can’t help you. Go to Sacred Heart. Father Duffy is a rum ball. He’s probably still asleep in the confessional. He’d give you three Hail Marys if you told him you were the second gunman on the grassy knoll.”

  The man was silent. Shit, the priest thought, now I’ve done it.

  “Son of a bitch,” the man said, laughing. The laughter dissolved into hacking coughs, but he finally continued good-naturedly. “You’re sure nothing like Father Krupinski. The fat bastard would give me absolution if I brought him a dozen of my old man’s pączek. Can we start over?”

  They did. After the man finished, they sat in silence for several minutes.

  “For I have sinned,” Jarecki thought. Mother of God! The understatement of the century. The shocked priest was the first to speak. He told the man what had to be done. They argued. The man was adamant. Finally, a compromise, of sorts, was reached. Not one Jarecki would like to run by the Vatican’s Ecclesiastic Office, but probably the best he could do under the circumstances, given his vows. This was not an instance for a “three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys” penance. Or a boxcar of pączek. There might not be a penance short of Hell. But Jarecki insisted on one thing.

  “C’mon Father. Give me a break. What good will it do?”

  “Just humor me. Do you remember the words?”

  “I was in Vietnam, padre. I said it daily. Sometimes twice. I’ll never forget the words”

  The man began in rote, but ended subdued:

  “O MY GOD, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell; but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who art all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen.”

 
***

  After the man left, Father Jarecki sat quietly in the confessional for a full half hour, all thoughts of golf gone. He needed a drink badly, but he’d have to wait until after the evening Mass.

  Later, the sparse crowd that attended the Saturday vigil mass noticed that Father seemed distracted. His sermon was perfunctory, if a bit harsh. What had they done? After the service, Jarecki stood, as usual, at the back of the church and shook hands with parishioners. There was little of his famous small talk.

  “Must have missed his tee time,” the widow Grabowski said to her friends.

  As the congregation filed out, the priest whispered something to a burly man who told his wife to wait in the car and then drifted back into the vestibule. After the last parishioner departed, Jarecki went over to the man.

  “Do you still do some work for Dudley Mack?”

  CHAPTER 7 – PATHS NOT TAKEN

  “I can tell you that the man wasn’t particularly sorry for most of his murders, but this was an exception. It had really gotten to him. It was undoubtedly the imminence of death that stirred what little conscience remained in him. That and the fact that his partner raped the Pearsall girl before killing her. I tried to convince him that all his murders were mortal sins and must be repented to gain forgiveness from God. He vigorously argued the point, only reluctantly admitting that perhaps some of his previous victims hadn’t deserved to die. With that much of a breakthrough, and with his genuine remorse for the girl’s murder, I felt comfortable enough to grant him absolution.”

  Of course, it hadn’t been that easy, Jarecki thought.