Johnny got the wad out of his side coat pocket and handed it over. The Mutt took it still pointing the gun at him, Johnny watching him now, watching the gun, the guy making up his mind, Christ, and right on the edge of what he was going to do. Johnny slipped his hand from the steering wheel, the left one, and laid it on the door handle. He said, "Okay, then the deal's off, you got your money ...You find your other gun? Look under the seat."

The Mutt reached down between his legs, head bent, and Johnny shoved against the door, going out as it swung open and the window shattered with the sound of that .38 going off inside the car and Johnny was running back down the street into the dark, thanking Jesus, Mary and Joseph it was the snubby the Mutt picked up off the floor, one shot left in it, and not the other one.

By the time the Mutt had the Glock in his hand his ears were ringing, he couldn't hear nothing, he couldn't see nothing looking through the rear window at the dark street back there. No sign of Johnny, so no sense in chasing after him. What he should do, the Mutt decided, was get on the freeway and head north. Get to the priest before Johnny called him up and said he was coming.

25.

VITO BROUGHT TERRY INSIDE. He said to a young guy in sungla.s.ses standing in the hall, "Put your car around back." He said to Terry, "Wait in there."

The living room. Debbie turned from the fireplace as he went over to her. "You been here long?"

"A few minutes. Tony stuck his head in and said hi."

"He did?"

"I was surprised, too. He said, 'Be with you soon as the photographer gets set up.' "

"We're gonna have a ceremony, huh, the presenting of the check?"

Debbie's gaze drifted off. "What do you think of the decor? Nothing's been changed or moved in forty years. Fake logs in the fireplace."

Terry put his finger to his lips and Debbie hunched her shoulders and made a face. Terry stepped in close. "The room could be wired. I mean by Tony, so he can hear what people think of his house. They don't like it, he has 'em whacked."

"It's lovely," Debbie said out loud. "They have some beautiful pieces." Then dropped her voice. "Like my grandmother's place."

"Mary Pat wanted to know if you liked their house. I told her you loved it. Then she asked, did I think you'd stand by me if I f.u.c.ked up. Would you?"

"What kind of a question is that? Of course I would. But how can we f.u.c.k up? We've got it made."

"That's what I told her."

"She guessed about you?"

"She knew. She said for whatever the reasons guys become priests, I don't fit any of 'em. She called Fran and told him. He didn't get home before I left, so I haven't talked to him yet." Terry said, "On the way here," and paused to glance at the door.

"What?"

"Vito asked when I was going back to Africa. I said I think pretty soon, and he said, 'I think so, too.' "

"Yeah...?"

"Like they're gonna make sure I go back. I told Vito I flew out of Congo-Zaire with a guy who smuggles in guns. Vito wanted to know if there was any money in it. I explained to him I got the hop to Mombasa, and then bought one-way tickets after that 'cause I was low on money. So I don't have a return ticket back. And Vito said don't worry about it."

"What's that mean?"

"What I just told you, they're gonna make sure I go back and spend the money on the orphans." He watched Debbie thinking about it.

She said, "They're not gonna send a guy with you, are they? We could meet somewhere like Paris-why not? And play it from there."

"Yeah, we could."

Vito appeared in the doorway motioning to them. They crossed the front hall with him to Tony Amilia's study.

Debbie looked at the ornate seventeenth-century desk-Oh, my G.o.d-and gave the mob boss a perky smile. She said, "Mr. Amilia, I can't tell you how much we appreciate what you're doing."

Tony was standing now, wearing a dark suit and tie for the photograph. He said, "We're ready, let's get it done," and turned to the photographer testing his strobe, bouncing the light off a white umbrella on a stand. He looked over and said, "Hi, I'm Joe Vaughn," and edged toward them to shake hands, a young guy in his thirties, Tony Amilia's height; he seemed pleasant but maybe a little nervous. He said, "Father, if I could get you and Mr. Amilia to stand right against that wall-"

Debbie moved aside. She watched Joe place them in front of a commemorative plaque mounted on the wall: The University of Detroit Mercy honors Anthony Amilia as a patron member of the Ignatian Circle in recognition of his generous financial support and dedication to higher education in the Jesuit and Mercy traditions.

"You see this?" Tony said to Debbie. "I went there when it was just U of D, before they went in with this other college and tacked the Mercy on. I don't think it helps the basketball team, you're U of D Mercy t.i.tans. I was there they played football, Oklahoma, Kentucky, some good teams." He looked at the plaque again. "I want it to be part of the picture, show I do this kind of thing and it's not fake photography. Joe'll give it to the News News and the and the Free Press Free Press and they'll run it. Joe takes my family pictures, different events, birthdays." and they'll run it. Joe takes my family pictures, different events, birthdays."

Debbie heard Terry say he went to U of D, too, but Tony didn't comment. He said, "Come on, take the picture."

Joe said, "You want the check in the shot, don't you?"

Tony motioned to Vito. "On the desk."

Vito brought Tony the check and Debbie watched Terry trying to read the figures, Terry smiling, taking the end of the check between his fingers as Tony presented it and then pulled it away from him.

"You don't need to touch it I'm handing it to you. All you have to do is look grateful. Joe, take the picture."

"I want to shoot a Polaroid first," Joe said. "See what we're getting."

"You're getting me and him and the check's what you're getting. Now take the picture."

Joe went to work shooting, the flash popping, Joe getting warmed up, five shots in the camera, and Tony said, "That's enough. Vito, help Joe with his equipment. Pack it up out'n the hall." He walked over to his desk with the check.

Debbie said, "Well, that was quick. We are grateful, Mr. Amilia, more than I can tell you."

He was looking at Terry. "All right, Father, you all set? Vito's gonna take you back."

Debbie said, "Well, if that's it," standing at the desk now, waiting for Tony to hand her the check.

He turned to her saying, "Father's going home, you're staying awhile. I want to talk to you."

Debbie said, "Would you mind if Father waited? So we can go back together?" She beamed a smile at him. "We're pretty excited."

Tony said, "Do what I ask, all right? I would like you to stay."

She gave him a cute, wide-eyed shrug, all innocence. "I just thought it might be easier-"

The man's expression did not change. He'd spoken and that was it, end of discussion. Debbie said, "No, if you want me to stay, I'd be happy to." G.o.d, overdoing it. She heard Terry, behind her, thank Mr. Amilia.

He said, "I'll call you later, Deb."

And she turned in time to see him going out the door, Vito closing it behind them. She thought of what he'd said in the other room, about their making sure he went back to Africa.

The first thing Tony said was, "Don't be nervous. Come on over here and we'll sit down, have a talk."

He brought her to a grouping of white leather chairs around a slate c.o.c.ktail table, a phone there, a floor lamp turned low, but she didn't sit down right away. Debbie walked a few steps past the chairs to a gla.s.s door that looked out on water, the wide expanse of Lake St. Clair narrowing in the dark to enter the Detroit River. She stood close to the gla.s.s, hands shielding her eyes against the light in the study, to see what was out there. Nothing. Gray shades of night. His voice asked if she wanted a drink. She said without turning to him, "I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"Yes or no."

"Okay, but only if you're having one."

"I don't think I will, Miss Manners, so you don't get one."

Even as he said it she was thinking, Do you hear yourself? He even caught it. She remained at the gla.s.s door looking at nothing, into herself in the dark, wanting to get back to being herself and stop acting cute and so f.u.c.king grateful. She'd gone over the top thanking him and that was enough. Now there was a pinpoint of light out there in the gray that was a darker gray than the sky, two lights, moving. She said, "Is this where you used to bring in liquor from Canada?"

"Me?"

"During Prohibition."

"How old you think I am? No, that was mostly the Jews, the Fleisher brothers and Beeny Bernstein, the Purple Gang. Before my time."

She turned from the gla.s.s and sat down with him, the slate table between them. She said, "What's the catch?"

"What're you talking about?"

He reminded her of Ben Gazzara, maybe a bit older and heavier, but that type. She said, "What do I have to do?"

"Oh, you think I want to have s.e.x with you. Pop a few v.i.a.g.r.as, listen to Frank Sinatra while we give the pills time to kick in. And you know what? I think it'd be terrific, even with Clara upstairs saying her beads." He said, "Are you f.u.c.king the priest?"

Out of nowhere.

Like a heckler in a comedy club, something she could handle. She said, "No, are you? Does he get the check or not?"

Tony brought it out of his inside coat pocket and looked at it, a pale-green check. He said, reading it, "Pay to the order of The Orphans of Rwanda Fund," looked straight at Debbie and tore the check in half.

She said, "Well, that's that. You've got your picture and you'll come off looking great in the paper. I should've known."

"You should've known what?"

She said, "Considering how you make your money."

"You don't know what I do."

"I'm following your trial."

"The feds don't know half of it. I don't talk about what I do, I don't advertise. I don't put on a show. You see these pro backs, these jitterbugs, they score a touchdown and do their dance, the funky chicken? Larry Csonka, one of the greats, said if he ever did that in his time, Howie Long, another one of the greats'd punch him in the head. That's my style, do the job without calling attention to yourself. You say you should've known, like you know what you're talking about. What do you do? You work for lawyers, right? Personal injury stuff, but you want to do comedy. That's what Ed tells me. He says you're funny. He's never seen your act but that's what he says. Are you funny?"

"I'm working on it."

"How serious are you?"

"I'm trying seriously to do comedy. How's that?"

"I touched a nerve there. Maybe you have trouble making up your mind what you want. Or how you want to do it. I don't think you have to be that funny to get by. Most of the clowns doing comedy these days're stupid. They come on the stage like they got shot out of a f.u.c.kin cannon, and that's as good as it gets. Who's your all-time favorite comic?"

"Richard Pryor."

"Jesus Christ, the jig with the filthy mouth. What about Red Skelton? You ever see him do the Guzzler's gin skit?"

"Gimme a break."

"You don't like Red Skelton?"

"I put him right up there with Milton Berle."

"Now you're the tough kid, uh? On your own turf."

"You have your style," Debbie said, "and I have mine. If I make it, it'll be on my terms."

"Do whatever you have to, uh?"

"Whatever."

"You know I can help you."

She said, "How, write my material?"

Tony smiled at her. "You take chances, don't you?" He got up from his chair saying, "Don't move," walked over to his desk, brought something out of a file folder and came back with it. A check. This one a pale blue. He handed it to Debbie and sat down again.

"What's the amount?"

"Two hundred fifty thousand."

"Made out to?"

"Cash."

"You notice," Tony said, "it's a cashier's check, not like the other one for the newspaper picture. This one's good the minute you put it in the bank or you cash it. You don't have to wait for it to clear."

She looked up at him. "You're giving this to me?"

"It's all yours."

"Why? Is this like a test?"

"You mean see if you do the right thing? Sweetheart, there isn't any right or wrong about it. I'm giving it to you 'cause I don't care one way or the other about the mick priest and his orphans. There's always orphans around, it's the way it is."

She said, "But the whole idea, what we talked about, you know, his mission-"