The Prodigal Son Read online

  Well, well, Father Edward Brennan, Jack thought. Looks like you’re one of those “touchy-feely” types. A “people” kind of guy.

  As he glanced at the handwritten note again, Jack was reminded of Father De Marco back home in Pensacola, at St. Michael’s Church downtown. If he wasn’t at the church he was at the school up on the hill on Palafox Street, visiting the classrooms and sharing the mysteries of the Catholic faith. What a talker! Jack remembered. He looked once again at the photo of Father Brennan, then he placed the report and photo inside the briefcase and closed it.

  Bless me, Father, I’m about to sin, he thought.

  CHAPTER 6

  Jack turned off the engine to the Cutlass, opened the front door and stepped out. He immediately felt the afternoon heat, and was certain the temperature had made it to the predicted high of 92 for the day. May have made it to 95, from the way it feels right now, he thought. Must be this god-awful humidity making it feel hotter.

  He felt himself starting to sweat already under the blue blazer; he couldn’t chance taking it off as he was still wearing the shoulder harness and carrying the .45 in the holster underneath his jacket. He closed the door and checked his appearance in the glass. He had loosened the tie and had left his collar unbuttoned until now; he quickly re-buttoned the shirt collar and pulled the knot of the tie tighter. He walked around to the right front door, opened it, and extracted the briefcase from the front seat, pressed the AUTOMATIC LOCK button to secure all the doors to the vehicle, and turned to walk up the short sidewalk to the building.

  Jack was carrying the briefcase securely in his left hand when he opened the front door and walked through it into the Catholic Charities Office. He immediately noticed how cool it was inside. Cold, actually. There was no doubt it was hot outside and the office staff had to run the A/C, but running it so low this early in the year. . . Wow, the Archdiocese’s gonna hate to see this month’s electric bill, he thought. They keep this up in here and somebody’s gonna flip out when they have to pay the bill.

  Attempting to locate the receptionist, Jack looked to his left, didn’t see anyone, and turned to his right. He spotted an attractive, middle-aged black woman wearing a light-pink blouse. She was seated behind a desk that sat perpendicular to the front door. Jack wondered why the desk was off to the side like that, instead of right in front of the door as most offices were set up. Missing little, his eyes found the answer. He looked at the ceiling and saw that she sat under an overhead A/C vent; that vent was blasting cold air into the room and she was the initial recipient of its cooling effects. He noticed the pink blouse she was wearing was short-sleeved and made of a thin material, and wondered how she could function in such a cold room.

  Jack noticed she was on the phone and, although he hated to invade her privacy, he walked toward her desk anyway. She was speaking at the time when she looked up at Jack as he approached her. She cupped her hand over the phone and said to him, “I’ll be with you in a moment, sir.” She then removed her hand and spoke again into the receiver. Jack stood quietly in front of her desk and listened.

  “That’s right, Mrs. Sanders. You can come here today if you’d like, and I’ll be glad to assist you with the forms, but as I said, Father Brennan won’t be here today to speak with you personally. He’s away for the afternoon. His former housekeeper’s son died and he’s with her and her family right now. He assured me he’ll be in tomorrow. You’re welcome to try back then.”

  Jack glanced at the sign that sat on her desk. Bernice Abernathy. He continued waiting as Bernice spoke into the phone again.

  “I don’t know how it happened, Mrs. Sanders. I just know Father Brennan called from his office at the church this morning and told me he wouldn’t be in this afternoon. He told me the young man was dead but he wouldn’t give me any details. He just said for me to tell anyone who asked that he would be here tomorrow afternoon.”

  Another minute, maybe two, ticked by. Bernice was silent, obviously listening to Mrs. Sanders ramble some more. Jack began drumming his fingers on his briefcase. Bernice looked up and winked at Jack as she spoke into the phone again. “I do understand your situation, Mrs. Sanders. Believe me, I do. . . Yes, ma’am, I’ll make sure Father Brennan sees you tomorrow. . . At two. . . Yes, ma’am. I’m putting you down on his schedule. He will speak with you privately in his office just as you request. Good-bye, Mrs. Sanders.”

  Jack watched as Bernice finished penciling in the appointment on the calendar that sat on her desk. She hung up the phone and looked up at Jack again. He was no longer drumming his fingers on the briefcase.

  “Now, how may I help you, sir?” she asked.

  Jack looked down at the nameplate again on the desk. “Well. . . Mrs.? Miss? Abernathy. . .” Jack said. “May I call you Bernice?”

  “It’s Mrs. Abernathy when I’m here, Mr.. . .? I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name, sir.”

  “Richard Pittman, ma’am,” Jack said as he reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a business card. “Richard Pittman, with the Northern Gulf Coast Life Insurance Company of Baton Rouge.” Jack handed Bernice one of the business cards Eddie had created for him.

  Bernice inspected the card, then placed it on her desk pad in front of her. “How may I help you, Mr. Pittman?”

  “You can call me Richard,” Jack said.

  “I’d prefer to keep it businesslike, sir. So, Mr. Pittman, how may I help you today?”

  “Well, Mrs. Abernathy, I had hoped to meet with Father Brennan this afternoon,” Jack said. “But according to what I just heard—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop—I don’t think that’s going to happen now, is it? And I came here, all the way from Baton Rouge to meet with him.”

  “Did you have an appointment with Father Brennan?” she asked while looking at the calendar on her desk. A few seconds later she looked up at Jack. He noticed a slight smile was beginning to form on her face. “I see that your name doesn’t appear on his appointment calendar for today, Mr. Pittman.”

  “No, ma’am, I didn’t have an appointment. I was told yesterday by someone at the archdiocese office that it wouldn’t be a problem to drop by and catch him here this afternoon. You see, I have Father Brennan’s new policy with me and I wanted to deliver it to him personally. He has to sign it for it to be in force.”

  “Well, Mr. Pittman, as you have heard, his former housekeeper’s son is dead, and he won’t be in until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Yes, ma’am, and I’m so sorry to hear that. You said you don’t know any of the details. I do hope the boy’s mama had him insured and all. You never know when a tragedy will occur and take a loved one away. The cost of funerals these days, well. . . Oh, I’m so sorry. There I go again. I bet you think I’m terrible, what with the boy’s sudden demise and all, but I just can’t get the life insurance side of me to ever shut up.”

  To Jack, the initial hostility in Bernice’s voice seemed to have faded away, and her demeanor changed, as well. “That’s all right, Mr. Pittman,” she said. “I’m sorry you’ve missed Father Brennan on what seems to be to be an important personal matter for him. I agree insurance is very important, and if you have a policy to go over with him, well. . . I’m sorry but you’ll just have to wait until he’s back in the office tomorrow.”

  Jack saw the corners of Bernice’s eyes tear up when she finished speaking. She reached over to her right and pulled a tissue out of a Kleenex box that sat on the upper corner of her desk. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes, drying them with the tissue.

  “Did I say something to offend you, ma’am?” Jack asked. “I’m sorry if I was out of line or spoke inappropriately a moment ago. I know I may have come across as flippant about the boy’s death, and I am sorry to hear such news. It’s just that I. . . I strongly believe in what I do. Life insurance isn’t just about us making money, you see. It’s really about providing for those you love and leave behind after you’ve gone. To make sure they’re provided for and don’t go on struggling financially.
It’s hard enough on the emotions. It doesn’t need to be so hard on the purse strings.”

  You’re such a dog, Jack, he thought. If you weren’t so good at what you really do, you could do this. Hell, selling’s right up your alley. You could sell ice to an Eskimo in the middle of the winter.

  “Mr. Pittman, you didn’t offend me,” Bernice replied. “Not at all. I’m just a little emotional right now. You see, it was just a couple of months ago that Ernie—my husband—died. He never got any insurance on himself. Said it was ‘nothin’ but a rip-off by them big companies,’ and then he went and died and left me with so little. I’ve got my job here and all that, but it barely pays the bills. Half the time I have to ask Father Brennan for some help. And bless his heart, he does help. I get most of my groceries through here, but there are some things I can’t buy that I need. Like my blood pressure medicine. And then Father Brennan’s former housekeeper’s son gets killed, and I don’t remember Father Brennan saying if that family had a policy on the boy or not. Life’s just so hard, you know. . . I’m sorry, here I am going on like this, telling you all my troubles, when that poor woman has enough of her own. What with her boy getting shot down like he did.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Abernathy,” Jack replied. “I thought I heard you tell that lady on the phone—Mrs. Sanders, was it?—that you didn’t have any of the details.”

  Bernice winked again at Jack, then said, “Well, it was just a little white lie I told her, that’s all. That Mrs. Sanders is such a busybody. Probably the city’s biggest gossip. I figured it was best for everybody that she didn’t know much about what happened last night to the boy. Keep her from spreading it all over this side of the city. Making that boy’s poor mother even more upset when everybody would hear about it. Before she even has a chance to properly grieve for him.”

  “You know Mrs. Sanders is just going to go and dig the details out of Father Brennan when she meets with him tomorrow,” Jack said. Then he added, “I can’t say I blame you. Really I can’t. I’d probably do the exact same thing. Some of my clients are just like her. They buy their policies, and pay their premiums to my company on time and all, and they think that entitles them to go and ask me what kinds of policies their neighbors bought. And how much their coverages are. Nosing into somebody else’s business. I guess maybe to keep up with the Joneses and all that. Of course, bound by my professional ethics, I can’t tell them anything. But they sure do ask.”

  “I’m sure they do. And I’m glad to hear you guard your clients’ privacy so well.”

  “That I do, Mrs. Abernathy, that I do,” Jack replied. He realized he needed to change the direction of this conversation rather quickly. As good as he thought he could be as a salesman it wasn’t what he was here for. He needed to find Father Brennan for the real business he had with him. “I’d appreciate it if you could be so kind as to tell me, Mrs. Abernathy, where I can find his housekeeper so I can then find him. So I can deliver this policy to him. He has to sign it. You see, I have to return to Baton Rouge tomorrow and I’d like to wrap this up today. He’s the last of my clients I have to see on this trip over here. I’m sure he’d understand my sense of urgency.”

  “Mr. Pittman, I really can’t do that. Like you, I have my job to do, and I’m not at liberty to tell you where he is right now.”

  Jack noted the change in her voice again and the almost defensive posture she was now taking. He figured she was just protecting the priest, out of loyalty to him.

  “This really isn’t a good time anyway, with what happened,” she continued. “I’m sure you’d agree. Besides, I don’t know where she lives, and even if I did, Father Brennan wouldn’t want me to go and tell you where he is.”

  “You sure are making it difficult for me, ma’am,” Jack stated. “I just want to get this policy to him, review it with him, answer any questions he may have, and get him to sign it. I’ll simply leave him his copy after all that’s done and then I’ll be on my way. I promise I’m not as insensitive as you think, with what’s occurred. But I do have my job to do and I won’t be back in New Orleans for another month or so.”

  Bernice leaned forward in her chair and said, quite emphatically, “I told you I can’t tell you.” The tone in her voice changed even more, as did her demeanor. “Now, Mr. Pittman, of the Northern Gulf Coast Life Insurance Company, is there anything else I can do for you today? Because if there isn’t, I have a phone call I need to return. To one of my clients.”

  “No, ma’am, I guess there isn’t anything else,” Jack replied. “I suppose I’ll have to call the archdiocese office and tell them Father Brennan’s policy can’t be put in force because he hasn’t signed it.” He was trying one last time to play on her emotions, to make her feel guilty for being so reluctant to help him.

  “What, for him to die without a life insurance policy, Mr. Pittman?” Bernice said. “Don’t you know Catholic priests take vows of poverty? Money doesn’t mean anything to them, Mr. Pittman. They do what they do because of God’s calling in their lives. And God surely called that man. I’ve never seen anyone like him. He loves to serve others, and it pains him to know someone might die and not make it to heaven because they didn’t know the Father or His Son. That, Mr. Pittman, is what Father Brennan is all about. No life insurance policy is going to make that big a difference to him.” She paused, then added, “I always thought the Church would take care of him anyway. It’s really none of my business, but I don’t see why he bought a policy in the first place.”

  Bernice had folded her arms across her chest and was glaring hard at Jack. He had the distinct impression that she saw right through him. That he was a charlatan or some kind of con artist. Maybe she was thinking something like, Lecture’s over. Now beat it, mister. He figured it was best to drop it and move on. He’d have to find another way to locate the priest. He remembered the warning in the intel report, but he’d have to ignore it and go to the church anyway. Maybe he’d get lucky and find someone there who was a little more cooperative. And a little less protective of the priest.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Abernathy,” Jack replied. “I’ll just have my office call him and set an appointment for some time next month. Good day to you, ma’am.” He picked up his briefcase, turned, and walked out the door into the bright sunlight. He set his mind on the task ahead, determined to find out where Father Brennan’s former housekeeper lives.

  Find her, Jack, and you find the priest, he thought. Put an end to this and then go have a nice meal.

  CHAPTER 7

  Jack made his way from the Catholic Charities Office, first southward down Howard Avenue, then briefly onto the roundabout at Lee Circle. He followed its curve to the right until it released him back onto St. Charles.

  He was headed west again, and drove quickly out of the Warehouse/Arts District. It was stop and go now, but finally the traffic signals changed and allowed him to pass under the wide, elevated U.S. Highway 90, known to locals as the Pontchartrain Expressway. When he was clear of the overpass he entered into the blissful surroundings of the Garden District. He found himself accompanied by a steady procession of the tourist-laden green-colored St. Charles streetcars as he drove past the manicured lawns and the stately houses that stood guard along the tree-lined avenue, preserving and protecting their long-held secrets of the western side of the sprawling city. He drove past the few businesses and an occasional church or school that served to break the steady westward march of those houses.

  After passing the campus of Loyola University on his right and the huge city park and zoo on his left, he saw the spires of the Sacred Heart of Jesus Catholic Church rising upward toward the cloudless blue sky. Nearing the church Jack couldn’t help but notice its impressive gothic architectural style and the well-manicured lawn and shrubbery surrounding the building. Lots of money being poured into this one, he thought. He pulled into the east-side parking lot, found an empty space there, pulled into it, and shut off the engine to the Cutlass. He reach
ed over to his right, picked up the briefcase that was lying on the front passenger seat, and got out of the car. He pressed the LOCK button on the driver-side door, closed it, and walked toward the front of the church.

  Jack hurried up the concrete steps leading to the front entrance to the church and entered the cool, dimly lit sanctuary. He noticed the small, stainless-steel bowls mounted on the walls at the entrance to the church. Subconsciously—like a golfer whose muscle memory automatically takes over when swinging a club for the first time in years—he reached out with his right hand and dipped his fingertips into the water in one of the bowls. He placed his fingertips to his forehead, then on his chest. He continued with his hand to his left shoulder and ended on his right. The sign of the cross, he reminded himself. I haven’t done that in years. I guess some things you never forget how to do.

  He entered the sanctuary and glanced toward the front of the church; he spotted an elderly black man at work on one of the kneelers at the foot of the altar. As he walked forward other memories of his own childhood church came back vividly. In his mind’s eye he saw himself going forward, at the proper time in the service, to kneel on the hard wooden steps of the altar, waiting for the priest to come; Jack remembered watching and waiting breathlessly for Father De Marco to step in front of him and reach into the gold chalice and gently extract a small, round wafer from it. He remembered extending his tongue to receive that wafer, which he was taught to believe was the actual body of Christ; rising from the kneeler, he made his way slowly, quietly, reverently back to his seat to reflect on what sacrifices the Son of God made on his behalf. Stop it, Jack, stop it, he thought. Quit thinking of all that. Remember why you’re here.