“You of all people, Father Yuri, should understand the concept of a calling.”
He slipped into the lane for the last exit in Hartford. It would deposit us at the border of Wethersfield, a mile away from the Uke National Home.
“Fair enough. We’re about ten minutes away from church. For those ten minutes, in appreciation for allowing me to use this sublime piece of machinery, I’ll discuss those things I’m permitted to discuss with you. I won’t discuss anything else, and you won’t mention this subject ever again once we get back to the church. And we will do so against my better judgment, as tribute to your generous heart and kind soul. The parish and I remain grateful for your donations.”
His thanks only served to remind me I was unemployed. I was glad it was dark and he couldn’t see me blush. I wondered if my financial situation would ever allow me to be generous again. Then I asked him if he’d seen any evidence of a surge in my godfather’s disposable income or a change in lifestyle.
“The church never saw any of that money, if that’s what you’re asking me.”
“So you knew he’d become rich?”
“He took me to Fleming’s Steakhouse once.”
“Where he had a regular table and the waitress knew his name.”
Father Yuri looked shocked. “How did you…”
“The church never saw the money?”
Father Yuri shrugged. “I didn’t say I didn’t get a free meal out of it. Porcini-rubbed filet mignon. Definitely heaven-sent. I think he wanted me to know he was doing well. Which meant he wanted the community to know he was doing well, but I didn’t see any increase in our collections.”
“That was rather inconsiderate of him.”
“I should say so.”
“You’d think he’d understand even spiritual enterprises run on cash.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?”
“I love a pragmatic priest.”
“As well you should. Believe me when I tell you, religion is a business, too. Prayers don’t pay the electricity bill. You mind if I pass this lollygagger?” He downshifted into third and blew past a late-model BMW, glaring at the driver as he passed. “Why buy a sports sedan if you’re going to drive ten miles below the speed limit?”
“Did you ask him how he’d come by his good fortune?” I said.
“I don’t pry. I remember telling him, ‘Business must be good,’ and he said ‘Never better. If you live long enough, anything can happen. Ukraine can gain independence, you can turn a profit on the past, and even an old scrounger can get lucky.’”
The last two lines caught my attention. “You’re sure that’s what he said? ‘You can turn a profit on the past and an old scrounger can get lucky?’”
“My memory is infallible once fortified by a steak and a good Napa cabernet. He wanted to order French but I told him it was unpatriotic.”
“Says the priest driving the German car.”
“It’s not my name on the registration.”
The light turned, he mashed the pedal and turned right onto Wethersfield Avenue headed toward Hartford.
“Did he offer any other clues?” I said. “About how he was earning the money.”
“No, but there were rumors.”
“What rumors?”
“It’s hard to keep a secret in a small community.”
“Such as?”
“There were rumors he was making money along the lines of his usual business. Art and antiquities. But that he had a connection in Ukraine. And he was getting rare artifacts into the country with the help of some questionable characters and selling them for big money.”
“Questionable characters?” I said. “Anyone I know besides Bohdan Angelovich?”
“You have enough to worry about with him, don’t you?”
I couldn’t argue with Father Yuri on that score. The rumor he’d shared with me jibed with Mrs. Chimchak’s revelation about his life changing since he’d visited Crimea. I imagined a dispute arising about profit. I could picture my godfather demanding a higher cut, or Donnie Angel insisting on part of my godfather’s cut. Donnie could have pushed him down the stairs himself, or had an accomplice do it. The horror was that I couldn’t be sure my brother wasn’t that accomplice.
A minute later, Father Yuri pulled into my original parking spot in front of the church. He slid the gear into neutral and lifted the emergency-brake handle, but left the engine running. It was his way of telling me he wasn’t inviting me into the rectory to answer any more questions. Instead he turned toward me with a stern look.
“Walk away,” he said.
I avoided his eyes and stared at the glove box.
“Walk away while you still can and go to the police. Ask for their protection.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? I’m still not clear on that. I know you loved your godfather and all, but please. Be real.”
“I can’t walk away. That’s all I know.”
He sighed, closed his eyes, and said a quick blessing, making the sign of the cross in my direction as he spoke. It was a quick request for God to watch over me. I crossed myself and thanked him.
He pushed the seat back as far as it would go and flung the driver’s door open. I stepped out of the passenger seat while he hauled himself out of the vehicle.
“Anything else you can tell me, Father?”
He hesitated.
“Anything?”
Father Yuri considered my request. “I still remember when we were left with one altar boy. When your father suggested a girl, I thought, why not? You, with your excellent Ukrainian, perfect manners, and that boyish haircut. Will I see you at the blessing of the Easter baskets tomorrow?”
I hadn’t even stopped to think about it. I remembered Donnie Angel telling me he used to attend with his mother. Of course, his mother had passed away and he was now a completely unrepentant criminal. The odds he’d be there were zero. Still, I couldn’t see how attending the ceremony was going to help me find my godfather’s killer.
“I’m sure your mother would be thrilled if you and your brother came,” Father Yuri said, before I could answer. “And it would be a great opportunity for you to talk to your brother.”
Father Yuri’s words struck fear in my heart. I’d asked him if he could tell me anything else that would help me, and he’d just done so. He’d told me to talk to Marko. It was the advice I needed but didn’t want to hear.
“Yes,” I said. “You’ll see me tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 23
I tried to find my brother before returning to the motel. First I called Brasilia. A woman told me he wasn’t working, which I found strange. I assumed Friday night was a profitable night in the strip club business, and that an owner-operator would want to be present. When my call to his house rolled to the answering machine again, I decided to drive to Willimantic and see both places for myself. My drive was for naught. The lights were off in his house and no one answered the doorbell. Meanwhile, Brasilia overflowed with breasts, butts, and beer-guzzling revelers, but Marko wasn’t among the men maintaining order.
On Saturday morning I called my mother at 7:00 a.m. sharp. I had a personal rule not to call anyone before 8:00 a.m., but I’d long since passed the point of worrying about etiquette. Much to my shock, my mother welcomed the call. She’d been up all night baking paska—the special Easter bread — and babkas. Yes, she said, Marko had promised to be at the school hall behind the church for the blessing of the Easter baskets at 2:00 p.m. I told her I was coming over to her house and driving her to Hartford, and hung up before she could answer.
I got to within a mile of her house when I saw the white Honda parked discreetly beside a Dumpster at a twenty-four-hour food mart. It was one of the two modified cars I’d seen idling outside my godfather’s house. Then, after visiting my mother, I thought I’d spied it again as I’d raced up the entrance lane to the highway. The suspension had been lowered close to the ground, fiberglass skirts had been added to the body, and the wheels were black. I suppose there could have been a third such car in the Hartford area, but it would have been an incredible coincidence.