Part 54 (1/2)

Now instead of handing over the reins of the biggest operation in the city to his son, Papa was left in charge of a family that was considered, for the first time, as vulnerable. What had taken him a lifetime to build had been put at great risk, if not destroyed, over dinner. A voice inside him wanted to blame Raven Milhone and the others who had sided with O'Hara, but he shook his head and drove it away.

It was his fault, his own ego that had caused his error. He pounded a hammy fist into his thigh and swore under his breath. Regaining control, he peeked over at Mama to make sure she was still asleep. He then looked at the clock on the nightstand next to him.

Five o'clock.

Two more hours and The Confessor would be at the church. Papa accepted counsel from very few people, but Monsignor Rossi was a man on whom he could depend for sound advice, perhaps the one man who could help him avoid the war that now seemed inevitable.

Pus.h.i.+ng himself to his feet, Papa padded to the bathroom. He cleaned up and dressed in a brown suit, his favorite. His white s.h.i.+rt felt a little snug at the collar, but Papa ignored it. Being careful not to wake his wife, he crept through the bedroom and downstairs to the kitchen. After he brewed the coffee, he sat alone at the table, contemplating the steam that rose from the mug.

The Tongs and the Triads would probably stay in line as long as they were sure that he remained in charge. And though Raven Milhone had secured her position at the table by being an independent thinker, it was clear to Papa that O'Hara was the wild card in the deck. He hoped that between Rossi and himself they could come up with a plan that would allow this to truly be a Good Friday.

He sipped from the mug and worked to clear his mind. Over the course of his reign, Papa's ability to dispa.s.sionately view a situation had been the key to his survival. No matter what the circ.u.mstances or the people involved, Papa never let his emotions get in the way of making the right business decision.

His son, Paulo, had been proof of that.

O'Hara, though, was making that a difficult proposition. Papa's gut was telling him to have the crazy Irishman whacked, the consequences be d.a.m.ned, but his head told him that there had to be a another way.

Papa took a deeper swallow of coffee. The heat felt good as it trailed down his throat, taking away the chill of the kitchen. He needed to get through today, just today, then he could rest over the weekend. Even O'Hara wasn't crazy enough to start anything on Easter weekend. Papa would talk to Father Rossi, get some rest, then make his decision with a cool head and a clean soul. Unenc.u.mbered by his anger at O'Hara, Papa knew he could come up with a plan that would keep his business in order and maintain the peace.

Rising, Papa shuffled to the front door. The morning newspaper was on the porch. Papa picked it up, took a moment to stretch his stiff back, then returned to the kitchen to read the paper over his second cup of coffee.

He barely glanced at the front page before turning to the editorial section. After O'Hara had stormed out of the meeting last night, Papa cornered Leonard Ford and called in a favor owed him by the newspaper editor.

”I think,” Papa had told the jittery little man, ”that the City Times is due for an editorial on the growing drug problem, don't you?”

”I was thinking that myself,” Ford said with a grin. ”I was even thinking that it might be a good time for the paper to take a stand against organized crime. Maybe do an expose on O'Hara? You know, the city's biggest racketeer sort of thing?”

Papa shook his head, no.

Ford nodded. ”Might cloud the issue. Later on, perhaps . . .”

Papa had nodded back. It had been that simple. He grinned slyly as he read Ford's editorial. First Ford praised the police for keeping drug use to a minimum in the city, then in the next breath railed against them to not allow junkies and drug sellers to proliferate the streets.

Swigging his coffee, Papa re-read the final paragraph.

”And let us not forget the warning of the noted Irish judge John Philpot Curran who said, 'The condition upon which G.o.d has given liberty to man is eternal vigilance.' Words for our intrepid police department to live by.”

Papa wondered if O'Hara was reading the editorial even as he was. Though O'Hara would know that Papa was behind Ford's rantings, there was nothing the Irishman could do about it. And Ford had outdone himself. His editorial would have people talking all weekend. Papa made a mental note to speak with his friends within the clergy. Easter weekend might be the perfect time for a scathing rebuke of drug use from the various pulpits of the city.

His plan was simple. Turn the city against drug use before O'Hara and the others could get the product to the streets. Simple economics might well succeed where Papa had been unable to. The size of O'Hara's supply would be inconsequential if there was no demand.

Noting the time on the kitchen clock, Papa finished his coffee, laid the newspaper on the table, and reached for his overcoat. Monsignor Rossi would be at the church by now. It was time for Papa to make his confession and confer with the family priest.

His driver, Sonny, had not yet arrived so Papa decided to walk the half-mile to Sacred Heart Cathedral. The late March wind whistled in from the north, whipping Papa's overcoat around his legs. Heavy dark clouds announced Old Man Winter's intention to lay one more load of snow on the city before abandoning it to spring.

Despite the temperature, Papa did not hurry. Winter, which signified a state of hibernation to so many others, invigorated Papa Ghilini. His body didn't adjust to the cold as easily as it had when he had been a young man, but he still enjoyed a winter walk as much as he ever had.

He pa.s.sed few people as he made his way toward the cathedral. It wasn't just because of the weather. Papa knew, through his friends.h.i.+p with Monsignor Rossi, that although the city had a rich, storied Catholic history, many of the younger people considered it the tired religion of their grandparents.

Perhaps that was part of the reason that His Eminence Cardinal Vincenzo Micelli would be presiding over tonight's celebration of the Lord's Pa.s.sion service. Nothing like having a Cardinal in the church to drag the paris.h.i.+oners out of the woodwork.

The frosty air nipped at Papa's ears and nose. He looked up and could see the cathedral looming two blocks ahead. It was a stately brick building rising three stories, dwarfing the houses and duplexes of the old residential neighborhood. Papa was approaching from the east. On his right was the former rectory, a two story brick house, that now served as offices for the parochial school. A concrete portico connected that building to the side of the cathedral. Two black street lamps flanked the sidewalk that led to the front doors. Each was draped in purple ribbons that signified the season of Advent.

Papa's shoulders hunched inside the overcoat; he looked like a turtle drawing its head inside its sh.e.l.l as he trudged up the walk. The wind had turned even more biting. The large doors were at least twice Papa's six foot height, but they moved easily as he tugged on the handle. He stepped into the vestibule and shook off the chill. Maybe, he thought, it was time to reconsider his feelings about winter. Though the walk had done him good, the cold seemed to have penetrated to the bone.

The church was quiet as a mausoleum as Papa stepped to the door of the sanctuary. On either side of the door were sculpted angels. Each angel's face reminded Papa of the Madonna. They were beautiful women in blue and white robes. Each was kneeling and holding a punch bowl-sized ceramic clam sh.e.l.l that normally contained the holy water; however during this week they stood empty, representing a world without Christ. Papa made the sign of the cross.

He entered the sanctuary and glanced toward Rossi's confessional. The door was closed; someone was with the priest. The vaulted ceiling of the cathedral rose thirty feet over Papa's head. Gilded conical shaped lights hung from the open rafters; stained gla.s.s windows depicting the apostles lined the sides of the church. Between the windows, engraved in marble, were scenes portraying the stations of the cross. The pews were divided into four sections separated by three aisles that led to the altar. Papa looked toward the fifteen-foot wooden cross that hung behind the altar. Shrouded in purple satin, it would remain so until Easter Sunday.

Just behind the last row of pews, on a small table, sat a bowl filled with pebbles. Each had a black cross painted on it. The bowl of stones replaced the holy water during Lent. Papa picked up one from the bowl and kneaded it between his fingers as he took a seat in the last row.

He noticed a few paris.h.i.+oners praying silently in the pews nearer the altar. An old woman was in the front corner of the sanctuary lighting a votive candle. Papa watched as the crone blew out the match and made the sign of the cross. She folded her hands, prayed silently for a moment, then genuflected toward the altar before she started up the aisle in Papa's direction. As she approached, Papa hoped that she wasn't coming back to take confession. He needed to speak to Rossi as soon as possible, but he knew that if the old woman sat down in one of the pews he would allow her to go first. Manners and respect, he told himself, these were still important things, whether Lou O'Hara and his mob thought so or not.

As she finally neared Papa, she smiled and nodded. He didn't recognize her, but he returned the greeting. She paused for a moment next to his pew, caught her breath, then left the sanctuary.

Papa's attention had just returned to the large cross on the wall at the far end of the church when he heard the confessional door open behind him. Papa turned his head slightly and from the corner of his eye saw his neighbor Tomasino LaPaglia come out. When Tomasino, bent and aged, saw Papa, a grin formed on Tomasino's wrinkled face and a twinkle appeared in his rheumy eyes. The men shook hands and exchanged brief greetings. Tomasino complained about the cold weather and how it angered his Lombago, then exited as Papa entered the confessional.

Papa closed the door and sat down, still worrying the pebble between his thumb and middle finger. ”Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been . . .” his voice trailed off. Papa ran a hand over his face, and was startled by the looseness of his withered flesh. ”It has been . . . a long time since my last confession.”

”That's all right, my son.”

Having his old friend on the other side of the screen made Papa feel more at ease.

”Go ahead, my son.”

”I come . . .” Papa hesitated, feeling a catch in his voice. He swallowed and took a deep breath before continuing. ”I come to you today, Father, with a heavy heart.”

Monsignor Rossi remained silent.

”Over the years I have confided many things to you, my friend. But there are many more things that I have kept to myself.” Papa strained to see the priest through the screen separating their cubicles. All he could make out, though, was Rossi's shadow. ”Last night's meeting, for instance. I intended to announce my retirement.”

Papa waited for a response. There was no movement in the far cubicle.

”I thought if I stepped down, and Vito took over, that things would . . . even out. I know that O'Hara and some of the others think I am getting weak. I don't believe that to be true, but I thought that perhaps they still had enough respect for Vito's strength that he could ascend and maintain the position of the Ghilini family. I see now that I misjudged.”

The priest said nothing for a moment, then finally, ”We are not young men anymore, old friend. Those running things today, they don't understand respect. All O'Hara and his kind understand is greed.”

”There is more to life than money, Father. This much I have learned from the church.”

Papa could see the priest nodding.

”Of course,” Rossi said. ”But it isn't just the money. O'Hara is greedy for power. And who has the power?”

The question hung heavy in the confined s.p.a.ce. There was no need for Papa to speak they both knew the answer.

Monsignor Rossi continued, ”Maybe it is time for your way of doing business to change.” He paused, giving Papa a chance to digest this before he went on. ”Look at our friend Freidkin.”

”Freidkin,” Papa blurted, louder than he would have liked, the pebble tight in his fist. He regained control, and said, ”It was Freidkin who helped put me in this position. If he had supported me last night everything would be right in my world. Vito would be running the Ghilini family and there would still be peace.”

”Do you not see why Josef made the decision he did?”