The Prodigal Son Page 8

  “Excuse me, sir,” Jack called out to the worker. “Could you direct me to the church office? I’m looking for Father Edward Brennan. I was told he might be here this afternoon.”

  The old man looked at the younger man standing in front of him, sizing him up. He glanced at the coat, the tie, the nice haircut, and the briefcase he was holding so tightly in his left hand. He’d seen so many of his kind before.

  “Young man, if you’re here to sell somethin’ to Father Brennan, then you’re here at the wrong time. First of all, he ain’t here right now. Second, he ain’t got no money to buy whatever you sellin’. But you look like you ’bout to try anyway.” The old man turned away from Jack, back toward his work. With his left hand, he motioned to an open doorway directly opposite where he stood. “You can go on if you want. The office is through that side door. Down the hall, first door on the right.”

  “Thank you,” Jack said as he turned toward the open doorway. After a couple of steps, he stopped and turned back to the old man. “Not that it matters, but I’m not a salesman. I’m here to deliver some important legal papers to Father Brennan on behalf of my law firm.”

  He didn’t know why he felt the need to say that; after all, it was a lie. Just another in a series of lies. Jack was good at them—very, very good at dishing them out. The trick was in keeping them straight, in not getting them mixed up like some amateur would. Doing so would trip him up, and so he worked hard at staying one step ahead of them. Later, if the police got involved, there would be so many confusing, contradictory stories told by witnesses to the investigators that it would take months to unravel what they were being told. Jack wondered how many cases went cold on his behalf. Did they just throw up their hands in disgust and frustration as a result of his skill at stretching the truth over the years?

  * * *

  Jack entered the church office and found a twenty-something black woman sitting at the receptionist’s desk. She looked much younger than Bernice back at the Catholic Charities Office. By about twenty years. Maybe this one will be more helpful, he thought. He would try a different approach.

  She looked up and saw Jack and said, “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you today?”

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Richard Pittman,” Jack said. “I represent the law firm of Jacobs, Anderson, McNaulty, and Braswell of Houston, Texas. I’m here to see Father Edward Brennan. I understand he is the associate parish priest here. Is that correct?”

  “That’s right,” the receptionist answered. “However, he’s not in today. Is there something I can help you with?”

  Jack saw the nameplate on her desk. Shalanda Jackson. “Ms. Jackson, my firm represents the interest of his family, most notably his mother, and I have some very important legal documents to review with him,” Jack lied. “I was hoping to find him here this afternoon.”

  “His family, you said? His mother—is she all right?” Shalanda asked.

  “Everyone’s fine. No need to be alarmed.”

  “That’s good. I was afraid his mother got sick again. Last time she did, Father Brennan flew all the way up to St. Louis. Found her in the hospital. Later on he told me she’d been there three days before anyone called him to come see her. He was real upset about that. Anyway, I’m glad she’s okay. You had me worried there for a minute.”

  “Yes, well, I do apologize for that misunderstanding,” Jack said. “At any rate, I do need to see him so I can show him the papers I have with me. It’s very important that I meet with him soon.” He paused, then said, “My job won’t be finished unless I do that.” This time he wasn’t lying.

  “Well, Mr. Pittman,” Shalanda began, “as I said, Father Brennan’s not here today. He should be back tomorrow morning. When I see him, I’ll be glad to tell him you came by.” She waited a moment; sensing this wasn’t what the man in front of her wanted to hear, she asked, “If you want, I can make an appointment for you in the morning.” She glanced down at the appointment book on her desk. “How about 9:30?” she said when she looked up again.

  “Normally that would be fine, but I’m booked on a flight back to Houston much earlier than that. If you could tell me where he is, I’ll just go see him and get these legal documents reviewed and signed. Then I’ll be on my way.”

  “I’m not able to do that, Mr. Pittman,” she said. “He’s not on official church business. That means I’m not able to tell you where he is.”

  “If you can’t tell me, Ms. Jackson, could you get someone who can?” Jack replied. “Your supervisor, perhaps? Is he in today?”

  “She is in, sir. Hold on. I’ll get Sister Margaret for you.”

  Jack watched as Shalanda got up from her chair, turned, and entered an office behind her desk. Jack heard a muffled conversation between her and another female in the office. He assumed it was Sister Margaret, whom she had mentioned. A few minutes later a petite, rather pretty young woman appeared through the opened doorway of that office. She was dressed in a black knee-length skirt and a white blouse that was buttoned tightly around her neck. A small silver cross dangled from a thin chain hanging around her neck. She wore no other jewelry—no earrings dangled from her ears, and she wore no rings on any of her fingers. Her thin, light-brown hair was cut shoulder length and complemented her hazel eyes. Jack noticed she wore no makeup, but he noticed, too, there was no need for her to do so. A natural beauty, he thought. And a nun! They didn’t make them that pretty when I was a kid.

  He recalled the images of Sister Angela and Sister Catherine from St. Michael’s School back in Pensacola. Sister Angela was rugged looking, built like a linebacker. Sister Catherine was as tall and rail-thin as Timmy Murphy, the center on the school’s eighth-grade basketball team. No broken hearts when those two hit the convent, Jack remembered joking to his seventh-grade friends.

  He was certain that was not the case with this nun. Sister, you must have caused a few young men to cry themselves to sleep when you went in, he thought.

  “Good morning,” she said to Jack. “My name is Sister Margaret,” she added as she extended her hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Sister Margaret,” Jack said. “My name is Richard Pittman and—”

  “Shalanda told me your name,” Sister Margaret interrupted, “and she also told me you have come from Houston to speak with Father Brennan about some legal business to attend to with him. She also told me she mentioned to you that Father Brennan is not here this afternoon, and yet you still needed to speak with me. Am I correct, Mr. Pittman?”

  “That is correct, Sister Margaret,” Jack replied, wondering why she was so curt with him. He withdrew a business card from his right outer coat pocket. One from another set printed by Eddie Trask. He extended the card to Sister Margaret. She took the card and inspected it carefully.

  “Sister Margaret, as I told Ms. Jackson—Shalanda—I represent the law firm of Jacobs, Anderson, McNaulty, and Braswell of Houston, Texas. It’s imperative that I meet with Father Brennan today.”

  Sister Margaret looked up from the business card she was clutching and affixed her gaze on Jack. Jack returned the look, again noticing the hazel-colored eyes. He found himself staring at her. He was embarrassed by it, but he couldn’t stop looking at her. God, you’re so pretty, he thought. And then it dawned on him how he was supposed to act and feel. Stop it, Jack. She’s a nun, for God’s sake.

  “Well, Mr. Pittman. You may have some legal matters to discuss with Father Brennan, but you won’t be able to do that today. He’s not returning to the office until tomorrow morning. Shalanda said she offered to schedule an appointment for the morning, but it appears you have other ideas, which seem to me to include my telling you where he is so you can see him anyway? Would that be correct, as well, Mr. Pittman?”

  Man, she is a tough little thing, Jack thought. Feisty, as well as pretty. Careful, Jack. You’re walking on thin ice here. One misstep and you’ll fall through. “Look, Sister Margaret. I’m not trying to do anything underhanded,” he replied aloud, ly
ing again. “Or to get you or Ms. Jackson into any trouble. I just need to conclude my business with Father Brennan and then I’ll be on my way.” He wasn’t lying when he said that. “I flew all the way in from Houston so I could meet with Father Brennan, and get him to review and sign the papers I have with me. Then he and his family can sell the property in question and they’ll have enough money to take care of Mrs. Brennan up there in St. Louis. He’s the last member of the immediate family that I have to see for his signature and agreement.”

  Jack was on a roll now. The lies were rolling off his tongue. He was hoping to seal the deal soon with Sister Margaret. Get her to come around to his way of thinking. She appeared to be listening quite carefully to what he had to say; the expression on her face told him she was, in fact, at least interested in what he was saying. The question posed itself in Jack’s mind, Yeah, but does she believe me?

  Sister Margaret nearly floored him when she spoke again. “Why didn’t you say so sooner, Mr. Pittman?” she asked. “I’m aware of the situation with Father Brennan’s mother in St. Louis. It’s touch and go, to say the least. He told me just a few days ago that her health has not improved as dramatically as he had hoped. He said the family needed to come up with a substantial amount of money required for her proper care. I’m very concerned about this matter myself.” She paused briefly before adding, “I suppose the sale of this property you speak of may be a solution to his dilemma. I’d like to do what I can to help. I hate to see Father Brennan so discouraged. It’s so unlike him.”

  “Well, Sister Margaret, I don’t know the man very well, but I do know if it were my own mother’s health that was at risk and I could get my hands on the money needed for her care, I would certainly do so. Perhaps now you understand the rather urgent nature of my business with him. The sooner I find him the sooner the property can be sold and the money from the sale of said property can be made available to her up in St. Louis.”

  “Said property,” Jack recalled saying. Boy, you are good. You’re beginning to sound just like a lawyer.

  “In that case, Mr. Pittman, I will tell you where to find him,” Sister Margaret replied. “But you must promise to use discretion in your dealing with him when you do locate him. You see, his former housekeeper’s son was killed last night in a drive-by shooting, a block from her apartment unit in the Desire Projects. Father Brennan is with her and her family right now. He was very close to the boy and the family when he served at St. John’s out there on Louisa Street. He nearly fainted when he took the call from her and heard what had happened. He told me right away about it. Then he left immediately. So, Mr. Pittman, do you see why I am asking you to be brief and leave him once you have concluded your business with him? Please, let him comfort the family without too much interference. You will do that, won’t you?”

  “Oh yes, Sister, I most certainly will,” Jack replied. “I will definitely leave once I have concluded my business with Father Brennan. You can count on it.”

  * * *

  Jack walked back to the Cutlass, unlocked it, got in, and sat down. He placed the briefcase on the passenger seat and reached over to the glove compartment and opened it. He pulled out a City of New Orleans map he had placed there, unfolded it, and looked again at the address on the piece of paper Sister Margaret had given him. He found the Street Index on the lower left corner of the map and ran down the list of names until he found the one he was looking for. He pulled out a pen from his coat pocket and circled Abundance Avenue, and familiarized himself with the general area surrounding the street. It was well to the northeast of his present location. Out by the canal and the Intracoastal Waterway, south of the Lakefront Airport. He studied the map carefully, noting that he could take St. Charles back to the Pontchartrain Expressway, get on it, and take it north until it merged with I-10 near the Superdome. From there it looked like he had to take the interstate toward the east and get off at the Franklin Street exit. A couple of zigs and a few zags later I should be there, Jack thought. Where I find the housekeeper, I find the priest.

  He folded the map to show the area around the Desire Projects and placed it on top of the briefcase next to him. He started the engine and was shifting into drive when he remembered what Shalanda had said to him as he was leaving the church office.

  “Be careful, Mr. Pittman,” she said. “A white man going into the ‘Dirty D’ needs to be extra careful. Don’t go getting yourself killed in there.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Traffic was heavy along St. Charles and it took Jack nearly thirty minutes to make the drive from the church to the Pontchartrain Expressway. He waited for the light above him to change, crossed under the southbound bridge, signaled, and made a left turn onto the northbound ramp. He accelerated quickly up the ramp and the Cutlass soon merged with the flow of traffic on the crowded highway. Within a few minutes, he spotted the Superdome on his right and a moment later he was merging with the flow of traffic headed east on I-10.

  The sight of the Superdome jogged his memory—he still needed to purchase his Saints season tickets. Since he landed back in Pensacola a couple of years ago, he made it a point to get them in the spring for each upcoming season. Here it is, almost the end of April, and I haven’t gotten around to it, he thought. Despite their poor win-loss records each year, Jack enjoyed watching the Saints play, especially when those despicable Falcons came to town. He loved being in the Superdome on a Sunday afternoon, cheering for Archie and the rest of the team. Like other Saints fans, he was hoping the upcoming season would be at least as good as it was two years ago, when they went 8 and 8. Nothing could be as bad as last year’s 1 and 15 record, Jack thought. Anything would be an improvement on that.

  He remembered reading a recent article in the sports section of the Pensacola News Journal that predicted with Bum Phillips as the new head coach and George Rogers, last year’s Heisman Trophy winner from South Carolina, on the roster things were looking up for the Saints for the 1981 season. Let’s hope so, Jack thought. I don’t want to join those Aints fans and go into the Dome with a paper bag over my head.

  He glanced to his right and saw the old St. Louis Cemetery below him, and he made a mental note to visit there again. It had been a while since he walked through the cemetery, looking at the crypts and tombs that sat above ground there, trying in vain to find the names of Jacques and Yvette Devereaux. He remembered his mother telling him her great-grandfather and great-grandmother were buried there, along with several of her other ancestors. He couldn’t find the tomb the last time he was in town and he thought he’d try again tomorrow. After I leave the Superdome box office with my Saints tickets. First things first.

  Seeing the cemetery below him brought back other memories. After he and his brothers were released from St. Michael’s Catholic School for the summer, his parents would load up their black Ford station wagon, somehow squeezing themselves and their four boys and all their luggage in the car, for their annual trip to New Orleans each June.

  His father, Frank Brantley, had been stationed at NAS New Orleans during World War II and had met and married Edith Devereaux when the war ended. He had taken her away from New Orleans back to his own hometown of Pensacola and that little house on W Street in Brownsville. She had cried when they left New Orleans, but he promised his new bride he would take a week of vacation each summer and they would go back so she could see her brother, sister, and old friends and relive her memories of growing up in the city.

  Jack remembered they would stay at the home she grew up in; her brother Barry, being the eldest, had inherited the family home and he lived there with his wife Ellen. They didn’t have children but they had that huge house in Old Metairie and didn’t seem to mind having six additional people in their home for a few days. From there they would make the short drive each day to Gentilly, to see his mom’s younger sister Colette.

  Aunt Colette and her husband Dennis lived with their six children in a cramped four-bedroom, two-bath house in one of the older neighborhoods off
Paris Avenue. Jack often thought how ironic it was that she missed out on inheriting the larger house; if she had, she and Uncle Dennis would have had much more room to house their large brood.

  He remembered when they were at Aunt Colette’s house in Gentilly, he and his three brothers would be forced to spend the morning and afternoon in the backyard with their six cousins while the grown-ups got to stay inside and enjoy the cooling effects of the recently installed central air-conditioning unit. The cousins would pout, saying, “It’s not fair. It’s so hot out here!” Jack and his brothers listened to it as long as they could, which was about thirty minutes. Being the eldest—as well as the most brazen and impatient—child in his family, Jack would turn to his cousins and tell them, “Grow up and quit whining. My brothers and I play outside in the summer all the time. You get used to it.”

  He thought of those trips fondly, remembering how exciting it was when they would all pile into their automobiles and head over to the amusement park at Pontchartrain Beach. There he and his brothers and their cousins would escape the heat of the day by changing at the bathhouse and plunging into one of the park’s swimming pools. Later, when the sun would sink in the western sky and the air would cool down a little, the parents of the two families would head over to one of the park’s concession stands and fill their kids up on their choice of hamburgers or hot dogs, fries or onion rings, and Cokes or a milkshake for dinner and then they would let the kids ride the roller coaster, the Ferris wheel, the carousel, and the other rides in the park.

  A delivery truck cut in front of him unexpectedly and brought him out of his past. He saw that he was nearing the juncture with I-610 and he began looking for the Franklin Street exit. A minute or two more passed and then he spotted the sign for it. He moved over to the far-right lane and got on the exit ramp. He followed its long, sweeping curve until it ended and dumped him southbound onto Franklin. Traffic was heavy along the street and Jack drove in the bumper-to-bumper congestion looking for the crossroad of Florida Avenue. He saw it up ahead, and signaled to turn left. He waited for the oncoming traffic to clear, turned onto Florida, and went through the light at Almonaster. He ran parallel to the railroad tracks on his right and came to the intersection at Louisa. And another traffic light. He made a left turn quickly and found he was headed north, back toward the interstate. He wished there had been a closer exit than Franklin to have gotten him here, and wondered why it was planned that way.