The Prodigal Son Page 9

  The street map indicated there was an entrance into the projects somewhere up ahead and on his right. He drove a couple of blocks and then spotted the large sign for the Desire Housing Project. He turned right onto Abundance Avenue and immediately thought he had entered another world.

  As he drove slowly along the street, Jack reached under his blazer, removed the .45 automatic from the holster, and laid it on the seat next to him. He was looking at the dilapidated, two-story brick-and-veneer buildings, searching for unit and apartment numbers, when a basketball suddenly shot out in front of him from the left. He turned his head to see where it came from and noticed a shirtless black boy darting in front of the Cutlass, running after the loose ball. Jack hit his brakes hard to avoid striking the boy. The boy looked like he was about fourteen, maybe fifteen, and his black skin glistened with sweat. He had not bothered to look at Jack’s Cutlass; he just kept running after the ball, which was now rolling across the blacktop toward the curb on the other side. Jack looked again to his left; three other boys were standing on the half-court. One was shirtless and sweating profusely, while the other two were clad in sweat-stained, short-sleeved white T-shirts. They were yelling at the first boy, urging him to retrieve the ball and return to continue their pick-up game.

  Two on two. Shirts versus skins, Jack thought. It was all too familiar to him. The same way he and his brothers had played their games on the small court at the public elementary school close to their house in Pensacola. They played rough, hard games that lasted all afternoon under a hot sun, and sweated profusely, just like these boys. He had always played shirtless, proud of his tan, muscled upper body.

  After picking up the loose ball and cradling it under his left arm, Shirtless Boy turned and walked slowly as he crossed the street in front of Jack’s car. Jack watched as the boy flashed a toothy grin and made a thumbs-up gesture, signaling to his buddies he was about to mess with the white man in the shiny silver car. Cradling the basketball under his left arm, Shirtless Boy walked over to the driver-side window of the Cutlass and rapped on the glass with his knuckles. Jack rolled down the window.

  “Dang, mister,” the boy said, staring at the white man inside. “You know you almost kill me? Nearly scare me to death. Like to give me a heart attack.” He flashed his toothy grin at Jack. “What my momma say if you went an’ run me over and send me to the hospital?”

  “I don’t know,” Jack replied, “and I really don’t care. If she was smart, she might thank me, just to get you out of her hair for a few days.” Jack wasn’t smiling.

  “Oh, man. Why you got to go and say somethin’ like that?” the boy said. He looked at Jack with defiance. Jack knew the look. “My friends ain’t gonna like you talkin’ to me like that.” He held up his hand and motioned for the others to come over. Jack glanced their way and saw they had started walking toward his car.

  Jack returned his gaze and stared hard at Shirtless Boy. “That isn’t the only thing they won’t like,” he said as he raised the .45 and leveled it at Shirtless Boy’s face. “Now beat it, you little punk.”

  Shirtless Boy’s mouth dropped open as he stared into the barrel of the gun in his face. Jack smiled as the kid suddenly turned and ran toward the basketball court and his waiting friends. They noticed the gun in Jack’s hand and stopped walking, wanting no part of this encounter. Jack watched a moment longer to ensure the kid was indeed back with his friends and was well out of his way. Then he let off the brake and continued driving down Abundance Avenue.

  He was looking for the address on the piece of paper Sister Margaret had given him and was interested in far bigger prey than those four kids.

  * * *

  Jack spotted Building E on his left and pulled into a parking lot directly across from it. He left the engine running and turned the air-conditioner setting to low and the fan switch on high. Soon it was nice and cool inside the Cutlass, and from where he sat he could see the front door of Apartment 232. It was a downstairs unit, uncluttered and clean-looking. Unlike the ones next to it. Several well-tended potted plants sat on the stoop to the left and right of the door. No grass grew in the dirt in front of the apartment, nor in front of the rest of the building; its dark soil had been swept clean, however. Jack looked to the left of the unit, at Building D, then to the right, at Building F, and noticed the grassless soil in front of those buildings was littered with empty soda and beer cans, cigarette butts, and wind-blown papers and candy wrappers. He looked back at the housekeeper’s building and noticed all the stoops and door fronts both upstairs and down had been recently repainted and their own potted plants were well-tended. The adjacent buildings looked old and decrepit with their sagging, weather-beaten fronts. It appeared to him Father Brennan’s former housekeeper and the others in her building worked hard at making this hellish place a little more tolerable.

  All he could do now was sit and watch and wait for signs of life coming from Apartment 232. He didn’t want to be here any longer than he had to; he was looking forward to the Shrimp Amandine at Galatoire’s tonight.

  * * *

  Jack glanced down at his watch. Twenty minutes had passed and there was still no sign of the former housekeeper or her family, let alone the priest. Maybe he had the wrong address and was looking at the wrong building. He reread the information on the slip of paper Sister Margaret had handed him. The Desire Projects. Abundance Avenue, Building E, Apartment 232. Assuming she had provided him with the correct address, he formed two conclusions: A, they weren’t at home right now, or B, they were in there but weren’t ready to come out anytime soon. Only one way to find out, he thought.

  He shut off the engine, put the .45 back in the holster beneath his blazer, grabbed the briefcase from the passenger seat, and opened the door to the Cutlass. He stepped out into the glare of the bright sun and immediately felt the heavy, humid air envelop him. He loosened his tie, gripped the handle of the briefcase, pressed the LOCK button, and closed the door to the Cutlass and walked across the hot parking lot.

  * * *

  Jack stepped off the asphalt onto the grassless soil surrounding Building E. As he walked toward Apartment 232 the image of Attucks Court on Cervantes Street in Pensacola flashed in his mind. It had been built by the Pensacola Area Housing Commission as a single-level, low-income housing unit, and each time Jack entered it he felt the despair and hopelessness his friend Marcus Robinson must have felt. He wondered if the same despair was felt by the residents here.

  He began to think back to the time, thirteen years ago, when he had become friends with Marcus at the beginning of the summer entering their senior year. Scrimmages had been held at Pensacola’s Catholic high school, pitting the area’s best athletes—black and white—against one another; the county school superintendent wanted the point made to everyone concerned that the federally mandated integration order for the upcoming fall was here to stay. The economy of the city and county was heavily dependent upon the United States Naval Air Station, and the constant ebb and flow of the many educated and progressive-minded pilots and their families persuaded the school board to concede to the forced integration of its schools with little fanfare. Some instances of racial animosity popped up from time to time after that, but for the most part any ill will between blacks and whites was put aside that fall. Money, and King Football, had a way of doing that, Jack thought when he looked back upon it all a few years later.

  September’s games came and went, and with the cooler weather of October came the Game between the city’s rival schools. While Jack played defense and was the starting free safety for the Tigers of Pensacola High, Marcus was the first-string fullback for Washington High’s high-octane offense. The Tigers entered the contest confident victory was theirs for the taking, but Marcus and his Wildcats teammates thrashed Jack and the Tigers before a packed house at Tiger Stadium. The next day Jack’s body still ached from the numerous blows he received from Marcus each time he broke into the Tigers’ secondary and ran over and through Jack on his way t
o scoring his five touchdowns that evening.

  Jack and Marcus had become good friends, as close as the society of that deep-South city would allow a white and a black to get, and he came to the Court looking for his friend. Jack remembered how cool and windy the weather was that mid-October Saturday afternoon as he walked up to Marcus’s apartment. He also remembered the shock and anguish when Marcus’s mother came to the door and told him that her son had been killed earlier in the morning by an angry teammate who had accused Marcus of running off with his girlfriend after the game.

  Jack knocked on the door of 232 Abundance Avenue and was wondering why the housekeeper’s son had been gunned down when the door to the apartment opened. A young black girl of about fourteen, maybe fifteen, years of age stood in the doorway. She appeared to have been crying for quite some time. Jack noticed she was wearing a white blouse and a navy-blue-and-green plaid skirt. He glanced at the patch that was sewn onto the left pocket of her blouse. St. John’s Catholic High School. She must be the daughter of Father Brennan’s former housekeeper, the same housekeeper Sister Margaret told him about while he was at the church office at Sacred Heart.

  “May I help you?” she asked. She dabbed at her eyes with a very damp, very wadded-up tissue she held in her right hand.

  “Good afternoon, miss. I was wondering if I may speak with your father or mother,” Jack replied.

  “My daddy’s not here right now, but my mama is. May I tell her what this is about?” She dabbed the tissue at the corners of her eyes.

  Jack pulled a business card from the lower left pocket of his jacket and handed it to the girl at the door. It was from another set Eddie had prepared and given him. “Would you let her know that I represent the Tri-State Insurance Company out of Jackson, Mississippi? I’d like to discuss how my company may be of service to her. And her husband, of course.”

  “This may not be a good time, Mr.. . .” the girl replied.

  “Patterson. Raymond Patterson,” Jack said, pointing to the card in the young girl’s hand.

  “. . .Mr. Patterson,” the girl said as she looked at the card. “My older brother was killed last night and my daddy is at the funeral home, and mama is with Father Brennan in the kitchen. She’s been crying an awful long time.”

  A male voice suddenly called out from somewhere in the apartment. “Cassandra, who’s at the door?”

  Cassandra turned to reply. “Some man saying he’d like to speak to my mama, Father. He said he’s from some insurance company.”

  “The Tri-State Insurance Company,” Jack reminded her.

  Jack saw a middle-aged, slightly balding white man come to the door, dressed in the all too familiar black business attire of a Catholic priest. He spoke quietly to the young girl.

  “Thank you, Cassandra,” he said as he took the card from her hand. “Why don’t you go into the kitchen with your mother while I speak to this young man?”

  Cassandra walked away from the priest toward the back of the apartment. The priest examined the card and read it aloud.

  “Raymond Patterson. Sales Agent. Life, Health, and Annuities. The Tri-State Insurance Company. Jackson, Mississippi.” The priest looked up from the card he held in his right hand. “How may I help you, Mr. Patterson?”

  “Well, sir. . .” Jack started to say. “I’m sorry, I should address you as Father, shouldn’t I? Are you Catholic or Episcopalian?”

  “Catholic,” the priest replied. “Unlike you I don’t have a card on me, but allow me to introduce myself. I’m Father Edward Brennan, of the Archdiocese of New Orleans,” he added. “The Sacred Heart of Jesus Catholic Church on St. Charles Avenue. Tell me, Mr. Patterson, what brings you to this neighborhood?”

  “Yes, well, Father Brennan, my company is doing a survey in this area, trying to ascertain the insurance needs of its residents. But it would appear I have called upon this apartment at a very unfortunate time. The young lady—Cassandra, I believe that’s her name—informed me her brother had been killed last night. I am so sorry to hear that. I don’t mean to be callous at such a time as this.” He paused for effect. “I only hope the family had insurance to cover his final expenses.”

  “Young man, you have indeed come at a very inconvenient time. I know you have a job to do, and you must make a living. But a tragedy has struck this home and I must ask you to please leave. Now, if I may, I need to get back to them,” Father Brennan said as he stepped back from the door and began to close it.

  “I will, Father. I will leave. And you will accompany me,” Jack said as he pulled the .45 automatic from the holster and leveled it at the priest’s chest. “Now, I’ll ask you to be very calm and quiet in doing so.” He paused, motioning to the interior of the apartment, and said, “Just tell the girl and her mother that you have an urgent business matter to attend to back at the church and you must leave unexpectedly. Please. Father.”

  The priest looked down at the gun pointed at him, then looked back up incredulously at Jack. “There must be some mistake, young man,” he calmly stated. “Can’t you see I am a priest? What do you want with me? Get that thing out of my sight!”

  “I can’t do that, Father,” Jack replied. “Now, as I said before, please inform them of your need to leave and let them know you will talk to them later. Do it now, Father. Do not underestimate me or force me to do something that will be very unpleasant for you. Or them.”

  “You really aren’t ‘Raymond Patterson,’ are you?” Father Brennan asked.

  “Just do as I say.” Jack stepped closer to the priest. “Or do you want me to involve them in this matter between the two of us?”

  “No, son, there is no need for that,” Father Brennan replied. He turned toward the interior of the apartment. “Cassandra, would you please come into the living room?” he asked.

  Cassandra appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. “Yes, Father?”

  “Cassandra, would you tell your mother I have some rather urgent business to attend to back at Sacred Heart? Please tell her I may not return until. . .” Father Brennan turned to face Jack. “Until. . .?” he asked Jack.

  “Just tell her you’ll get back with them as soon as you can,” Jack whispered, glaring at the priest. “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be, Father.”

  “Cassandra, tell your mother I will talk to her tomorrow,” Father Brennan continued.

  “Okay, Father,” she said as she turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

  The priest turned back to face Jack. “Now, young man, I don’t know what your business is with me, and I will do as you ask. Not for my sake, but for theirs. There will be no need for anything, as you said, unpleasant to occur to them. I will go with you. Now, if you will be so kind as to step aside, you and I will be on our way,” Father Brennan said as he closed the door to the apartment behind him.

  The priest walked in front of Jack and stepped off the small porch of the apartment onto the grassless soil. Jack moved in behind him, holding the gun level at the small of the priest’s back. He heard the door to the apartment open behind him and heard a female voice.

  “Father Brennan,” the voice cried out. “I know Fred is going to ask me if you agreed to say Mass at the funeral for Marcus. You will, won’t you, Father?”

  Father Brennan continued to walk in front of Jack. He turned his head slightly in the woman’s direction and replied, “Of course, Estelle, of course I will.” He then said to Jack, “Now, young man, I assume you have a vehicle somewhere in the vicinity. Where is it, and where are we really headed? I know it’s not to my church.”

  Man, the kid’s name was Marcus, also. Jack was lost in thought for a moment. “What?” he replied aloud. “Oh yeah, Father. Head toward that silver Cutlass in the parking lot across the street.”

  “Father, is everything okay?” Jack heard the woman yell as he and the priest continued toward the car.

  “Just keep moving, Father,” Jack stated.Father Brennan did as Jack ordered and continued to walk
toward the parking lot.

  Estelle and Cassandra stood on the front stoop of their apartment and watched the two men walk away from them.

  “What did you say was the name of that young white man, Cassandra?” Estelle asked.

  “He said his name is Raymond Patterson. Some kind of salesman,” she replied. “Insurance, I think it was. Why do you ask, mama?”

  “Well, child, don’t it seem kinda strange to you here comes some white man into this place and off he goes with Father Brennan?” she asked. “Where is that card of his? Salesmen always got a card on them.”

  “He gave me one, and I gave it to Father Brennan when he asked for it,” Cassandra said. “I guess Father Brennan still has it.”

  “Strange, that’s all I can say, child,” Estelle said. “Real strange.”

  They watched a while longer as Father Brennan and the young man stood at the left side of the vehicle. They saw the young man reach into his pocket, pull out a key, and unlock and open the driver side door of the silver car. They saw Father Brennan get in and sit down in the driver seat, and they watched the young man push the door shut; he walked around to the other side of the vehicle, got in, and pulled his door shut. They heard the engine start and watched as Father Brennan backed out of the parking space and pulled forward onto Abundance Avenue. The silver car turned left, rounded the slight curve in the road, and disappeared.