Page 31 of Priestly Sins
“Pretty cool, Henry. Glad you know you can trust me. Who’s the dude you’re working for and why do you need to get out of it?”
“Calabars shipping. Something like that. I’m doing deliveries right now.”
“Calabrese Freight?” My blood runs cold. No. Fuck no!
“Yeah. That’s it. Big company around here.”
“I’ve heard of it.” Understatement of the damned century. “So, why are you confessing that? And why did you want it to be so formal? Just a job, right?”
“The two dudes I work with are whacked in the head. You know how you know? I just know. They do whack shit. Shit. Sorry I said ‘shit.’”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“They don’t trust me, so they try to talk in code, but I ain’t stupid.”
“You’re far from stupid, Henry. Stay sharp and keep your head in the game. You know you can always call me, right?”
“Okay.”
I give him my cell number, but mention if he doesn’t trust the guys he’s working with, he may want to save it under an alias. I don’t know those meatheads. But I know Calabrese and I don’t want to be on his radar. I may already be if the tracker on my car means anything, but I don’t want any more interest from him.
“Anything else you want to talk about?”
“Nah. Sorry about the other night and thanks.”
“Anytime. You know that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I mean it. Anytime. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.”
“Amen.”
He leaves and I’m left with my thoughts. Henry wrapped up in this is just another reason to kill Calabrese. Now, though, the potential collateral damage is higher.
As I’m walking out of the booth, I’m struck by something else. Something worse. Sirona is wrapped up with Calabrese too. Motherfucker! Why are deliveries being made from a shipping company to a bakery and why wouldn’t she stop it? Is that why she was so pissed the other morning?
* * *
My morning runs continue,and I keep my head on a swivel. There are too many pieces in play here. Enzo, Zera, Henry, and Sirona all entangled doesn’t make any sense. How can this many people I know be enmeshed? It’s like a web stretching to ensnare me.
My runs vary more than they ever have. Times, routes, clothing. Occasionally I’m in shorts, sneakers, and ball cap. At times, joggers, tees, and bandana. Always with sunglasses. I need to see, but be seen as little as possible. I do mornings, lunchtime, and evening. No pattern, no way to track. I come and go from all angles. Something’s far from right, and I need to keep my distance so I can think.
I drive my car with that damn tracker, but, each time, I weave my own web. Same gas station every single time. Same grocery store over and over again. I never exit the car. I’ve never shopped there. I have my groceries delivered, but I go anyway and sit. I drive to a park the same time every Thursday night, wait for twenty-two minutes, and leave. Always taking the same path.
When I go anywhere on my own, I Uber or I remove the device and place it in the same spot in the garage of the rectory.
I remove it when I go to Petites Fleurs one afternoon, just to pop in. I never want whomever is watching to connect me with the Dugas’. No clue what her mom is up to or if she’s clean, but Clara doesn’t deserve any blowback from my shitty life or from any fucker who would try to come after me.
The bells chime out my entry. They’re rendered useless with Clara’s squeal.
“Poppa Sean!” Clara flies at me, dark hair sweeping out behind her, until she plows into my knees.
“Clara Bell,” I return the same enthusiasm.
“Up!” She lifts her arms straight up and wiggles her fingers. Who am I to deny her? Who am I to deny myself?
“Up you go,” I say, as I hoist her onto my hip. From this vantage point, we both stare down at the curved glass display case. She eventually falls over, pressing both hands onto the glass.