John Sandford: Escape Clause

“What’s the Father Bill stuff?” Frankie asked.

“I’m a priest,” Bill said, shaking his head like a wet dog. “Part-time, anyway.”

“He’s a priest nine months of the year, and a bartender and libertine the other three,” Sparkle said.

“I work over at the Hanrattys’ Resort during the summer, tending bar,” Bill said. “I’m a fill-in priest for the Archdiocese of St. Paul and Minneapolis the other nine.”

“Must be nice for you,” Frankie said.

“It’s convenient all the way around,” Bill said. He had a mild, low-pitched voice that came out as a growl. “The Hanrattys are always hard up for seasonal help, and the bishop gets a fill-in guy and only has to pay him for nine months.”

“And you get laid,” Frankie said.

“A fringe benefit,” Bill said.

“Hey! I’m a fringe benefit?” Now Sparkle was clouding up, or faking it, pushing out her lower lip. Virgil hadn’t seen the family resemblance before: Sparkle was tall and slender, Frankie was short and busty. They clouded up exactly the same way.

“Okay, a major fringe benefit,” Bill said.

“That’s better.”

“Aw, for Christ’s sakes,” Frankie said again. To Sparkle: “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I thought I’d stop by and see my beloved sister-and I’m also doing the last bit of research for my dissertation.” She rolled over on her back and paddled past Virgil, a not uninteresting sight. “I’m interviewing migrants at the Castro canning factory. I thought Bill and I could share your spare bedroom.”

Frankie scrutinized her for a couple of heartbeats, then asked, “Does old man Castro know about this?”

“I haven’t made what you’d call appointments, no,” Sparkle said.

“You’re going to get your ass kicked,” Frankie said. “He’s a mean old sonofabitch. When it’s about to happen, give me a call. I want to come and watch.”

“I was hoping Virgil could have a chat with the line manager over there… you know, about prisons and stuff.”

“You don’t be dragging Virgil into this,” Frankie said.

“What’s your problem, Frankie? Virgil’s a cop, it’s a part of his job,” Sparkle said.

“He investigates after the ass-kicking, not before,” Frankie said.

“What’s this all about?” Virgil asked. “Why is… Sparkle?… going to get her ass kicked?”

–

Sparkle, back-floating between the cop and the priest, explained: she was working on her PhD dissertation about seasonal migrant labor, both the social and economic aspects, at the University of Minnesota. She’d spent two years among the vegetable-growing fields of southern Minnesota and was now moving upstream to the factories. When she had incorporated the factory material, she’d have her doctorate.

“Why would that get your ass kicked?” Virgil asked.

“Because old man Castro has a deal with this village down in Mexico,” Sparkle said. She dropped her feet to the bottom of the pool. “They provide him couples to pick the cucumbers and work in his pickle factory. He pays the man a buck or two above the minimum wage, which makes him look like a hero, but the wife also works and doesn’t get anything-so his pickers and factory workers are making a little more than half the minimum wage, when it’s all said and done. He would rather not have this documented.”

“And you’re going to write that in your dissertation?” Virgil asked.

“I am.”

“Okay. I can see why you might be headed for an ass-kicking,” Virgil said.

“See? Crazy shit,” Frankie said to Virgil. “You should introduce her to Lucas, since Lucas likes crazy shit so much.”

“Who’s Lucas?” Sparkle asked. She’d turned to her sister and stood up in waist-deep water, her back to Virgil. He noticed that she had an extremely attractive back, tapering down to a narrow waist. Backs were largely unappreciated in women, Virgil thought, but not by him.

“Another cop,” Frankie said. “Actually, ex-cop. He’s the one who saved Michaela Bowden’s life down at the Iowa State Fair last week.”

“Really!” Sparkle said. “I would like to meet him.”

“Ah, for Christ’s sakes,” Frankie said a third time.

Father Bill had ducked his head under water and had come up sputtering. “I don’t mean to be critical on such short acquaintance, but do you think you might find some way to employ vulgarity or obscenity, rather than profanity, at least when I’m around?” Father Bill asked Frankie. “A nice round ‘Oh, shit’ or ‘Fuck you’ is much easier to accept than your taking of the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Ah, Jesus,” Frankie said.

Virgil said quickly, “She means the Puerto Rican, not the Lord.”

–

The two women paddled up the swimming hole, where the creek came in, nagging at each other. Virgil stayed at the bottom end of the pool with Bill, and Bill apologized for their abrupt entrance, saying, “Once Sparkle starts to roll, there’s not much you can do about it.”

“Is her name really Sparkle?”

“No, but it’s what everybody calls her,” Bill said. “Somebody at Hanrattys’ told me that her birth name was Wanda.”

They looked after the women, who’d gotten to the top of the pool, where the water was shallow. They floated there, still arguing, then Frankie stood up and dove forward. Bill’s eyebrows went up as she did it, and he said, “Oh, my. When the Good Lord was passing out breasts, it looks like Frankie went through the line more than once.”

Virgil said, “Yeah, well… I guess.”

Bill: “You’re embarrassed because I’m a priest and I’m interested in women?”

Virgil said, in his quotation voice, “‘Kiss and rekiss your wife. Let her love and be loved. You are fortunate in having overcome, by an honorable marriage, that celibacy in which one is a prey to devouring fires or unclean ideas. The unhappy state of a single person, male or female, reveals to me each hour of the day so many horrors, that nothing sounds in my ear as bad as the name of monk or nun or priest. A married life is a paradise, even where all else is wanting.’”

“Really,” said Bill, sounding pleased. “Who said that?”

“Martin Luther. In a letter to a friend.”

“Luther. I don’t know much of Luther, other than he had horns, a forked tale, and cloven hooves instead of feet. But he said that? You’re the religious sort?”

“Not so much-at least, I’m not that big a believer in institutions,” Virgil said. “My old man is a Lutheran minister over in Marshall. He used to soak me in that stuff and some of it stuck.”

“Good for him, good for him,” Bill said. “You’ll have to send me a citation for that letter, so I can read it all. Martin Luther, who would have thought?”

“Is this relationship with Sparkle… a long-term thing?” Virgil asked.

“No, no, it isn’t. I’ve spent time with her the last two summers, but of course, the other nine months I’m celibate and she doesn’t put up with that.”

“That seems very strange to me,” Virgil said.

“It seems fairly strange to me, too, but I find both sides of the equation to be rewarding,” Bill said. “Of course, I may go to hell.”

“No offense, but I don’t think the Church gets to decide who goes to hell,” Virgil said.

“I’m not offended,” Bill said cheerfully. “In fact, I agree. Don’t tell the Church I said that.”

–

The two women came paddling back and Frankie hooked an arm around Virgil’s sun-pinked neck and said, “Sparkle’s going to be here for a while. You keep telling me you’re going to get a queen-sized or a king-sized bed, and this would be a good time to do it, because I’m going to be sleeping over a couple times a week.”