William Kennedy - Chango's Beads and Two-Tone Shoes

“I be slippin’ around in these,” Tremont said, and he walked a few steps. “Holy boots. St. Francis, here come Tremont steppin’ out.”

“Now they’re gonna shoot at me,” Matt said, and he raised his right foot and shook it for display.

“I got shoes like that,” George said. “Black and white, and brown and tan. And I got a pair of black and gray, dyed the toes black myself.”

“You a dude, Georgie,” Tremont said.

“Drink up, gents. We’ve got to move,” Matt said. And he went to collect Vivian, who was talking with two light-skinned prostitutes in panties and transparent blouses. Vivian was asking how they liked their jobs and saying how difficult it must be to go with total strangers.

“We make friends pretty quick,” one girl said.

Matt gave Trixie the exit gesture, gave Rosie a nod, and went with Vivian back to George and Tremont who were singing, “I’m gonna dance off both of my shoes,

When they play those Jelly Roll Blues. .”

Matt ushered them all down the back stairs to an alley that led to Franklin Street. Tremont picked up his gun and put a bottle of Stanwix in his coat pocket. Matt left the three of them standing in shadows on the corner and said he’d come back with the car. He walked on Franklin toward Bleecker and disappeared down the narrow, unlighted street.

“It’s so dark,” Vivian said. “Are you having a good time, George?”

“Life is just a bowl of cherries,” George said, and he put his arm around her.

“I haven’t had this much fun in years,” she said, and she gave George a long, soft kiss. Then she remembered Tremont and turned to give him a smile of chagrin at being caught kissing, but Tremont wasn’t there, and the alley was very dark.

Nick Brady, the Siena priest Matt was closest to, taught Tacitus and Virgil and booked horses ($2 limit) in class for his students, borrowed a car from the student who had led the campus protest against Matt’s silencing (of course take it, I’d do anything for Father Matt) and found Matt half a block from Trixie’s. Martin Daugherty, Matt’s father, was in the passenger seat, two canes between his knees. He looked like an old man but with young eyes. He squinted at his son.

“The sonsabitches kicked me out,” Martin said. “I can’t believe Patsy McCall would do this, but I know he could. But I can’t believe it.”

“I got the letter two days ago,” Matt said. “I told them I’d get you tomorrow.”

“They couldn’t wait. They put me out in the hallway with my valise. I had no money for a taxi.”

“A nurse called the friary twice looking for you,” Nick Brady said to Matt. “They wanted you to pick him up this afternoon. I took the second call tonight but I couldn’t reach you, so when I got the car I went out myself.”

“The bastards,” Matt said. “They did this to get back at me.”

“I know,” Martin said, “and I’m proud of you, son. You’ve done more for the church than Pope Paul. You’ve redeemed the goddamned priesthood.”

“What about you? How’ve you been feeling?”

“I sleep a lot. I’m tired but I’m not sick. I’m just old.”

“You’re no older than you were five years ago.”

“I’m older than most oak trees.”

“How are you walking these days?”

“I walk like that actor with rubber legs. Leon Errol. But I’m all right with the canes.”

“Did you have dinner? Did they feed you?”

“They gave me a cheese sandwich and an apple in a brown paper bag. I ate half the sandwich.”

“We’ll have to feed you. Do you need to lie down?”

“I’m all right. I slept in the chair in the hallway.”

“Where do you want to stay? I’ll set you up someplace tomorrow, but what about tonight?”

“Someplace that won’t break the bank.”

“We’ve still got some bucks in your account. I’ll figure out someplace. But right now we’ve got three people to pick up in the next block. George Quinn and his lady friend.”

“George. And a lady friend. He must be in good shape.”

“He’s a little spacey.”

“It’s going around,” Martin said. “George and I were in France together during the first war. We were having a drink in Aix-les-Bains when we met Sergeant York in a hotel bar. He had just captured a hundred and thirty-two German soldiers and thirty-five machine guns single-handed, greatest hero of the war. We bought him a drink.”

“George and his lady friend are going to the DeWitt for a jazz concert. We’re also picking up Tremont Van Ort. You know him?”

“Big Jimmy’s son?”

“That’s him. He’s in weird trouble. Somebody set him up to shoot Alex Fitzgibbon and they gave him an AR-15. He shot two thugs with it. They were beating up a woman he knew.”

“Why in the hell are you picking up somebody like that?”

“To help him. He’s a friend of mine.”

“He’s a trigger-happy felon with a gun.”

“I know, and he’s probably all over the police radio. Man with a gun. Dan Quinn and I want him to surrender himself, and the gun, to Doc Fahey, the Albany cop, before they kill him on the street. You know Doc Fahey?”

“Not as a cop. I knew him as a kid in North Albany.”

“You don’t get this kind of action out in the Ann Lee Home.”

“We’re all on the death watch out there. It’s quite exciting when you hear that the fellow in the next room didn’t wake up this morning. What do you mean they set Tremont up?”

“It’s political. I don’t think anybody wanted to shoot the Mayor. What they want is to bring down some local black radicals. Tremont’s not really a radical but he can pass for one, and he mixes with the Brothers, who truly are radical for this town. You know the Brothers?”

“I read about them. I don’t know their particulars.”

“It’s a good story. You’d be writing it if you were still working.”

“Maybe so. This actually was my old territory. The Times Union was a few blocks up at Beaver and Green. All the papers were there — the Knickerbocker Press, the Albany Evening News , the Argus , and the Journal was down on the Plaza. I knew every inch of these streets, including this one we’re on. This is Trixie’s street. Are you in front of Trixie’s for any priestly reason?”

“It’s a long story, but yes, I’ll tell you later. I like Trixie.”

“She’s the Queen Bee and has been for years.”

They drove down the block and picked up George and Vivian but no Tremont.

“Hello, George,” Martin said. “It’s Martin Daugherty. How the hell are you?”

“Martin Daugherty,” George said. “Wibble stu hobbleski, mox neex aus, I run with all mine shwiftness.”

“You haven’t forgotten your German,” Martin said. “ Voulez vous promenade avec moi ce soir, mademoiselle? Isn’t that Vivian Sexton?”

“It is, hello, Martin. I haven’t seen you in years.”

“So George, I was just saying that we met Sergeant York in France. You remember?”

“We bought him a drink. Great fella. He captured five hundred Germans and seventy-five machine guns, all alone. A hell of a thing.”

“You remember what he drank?”

“Coneyack.”

“Right.”

“He wanted a beer but they didn’t have any. The French don’t go for beer. All they get over there is grapes and watermelons.”

“Where’s Tremont?” Matt asked.

“I turned around and he was gone,” Vivian said. “That was ten minutes ago. He never said a word to us.”

“He’s playing hide and go seek,” Matt said. “Go around the block, Nick.”