2. Mario
2
MARIO
W ednesday nights are when the confessional booth is the busiest. I sit behind the divider with my identity obscured by the mesh through which the parishioners speak, listening to their pleas for absolution and forgiveness. I’ve recognized some of the voices over the years, but I’ve managed to keep my identity hidden for the most part. My brother doesn’t know where I am, so that much is good.
This evening, so late at night after ten o’clock mass, I listen to the woes of a line of people. Tom Haberdash tells me he returned his neighbor’s lawn mower broken and never told the man. Lindsay Young tells me she lied to her boss about being sick when she was just going to a concert and skipping out on work. If these are the worst sins these people commit, the world is in a better place than I once thought. But I know others have much graver sins.
Like me.
My past is full of them, my former self buried in the red stain of guilt that can never be washed away by praying over the rosary or confessing my unrighteous acts to a priest in a confessional booth. That knowledge keeps me here, planted on this hard wood bench for hours every day. Father Grieshop delivers the homily, and I receive the confessions, absolving any and all parishioners of their sins.
It's no different whether it be two o’clock in the afternoon or just after midnight mass. My penance is to serve these people who would otherwise waste away in their own guilty consciences and live a substandard life.
The door slides open as one parishioner exits and another walks in. This one is crying, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s a female.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” She sniffles more and lets out a few sobs. “It’s been… God… three years since my last confession.”
“I see…” My tone is not laced with judgment at all, only understanding. A lost sheep has come home, and it’s my job to guide her on the straight and narrow. “What troubles you, my child?”
No doubt, this woman carries guilt over not having done her sacraments for years. This sort of situation makes me feel like I’m finally doing something of worth, that my life has meaning beyond what I can see or feel. I lean in, ready to listen carefully to her, though I know she’ll only feel better if she can absolve herself from the sins she is carrying. That’s the part I’ve had trouble with.
“I killed him…” As she utters the soft spoken words, the hair on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end. I don’t say a word. I let her continue her confession of guilt. “He was coming after me, and I shot him, and I know the police are going to come after me, but he was in my house and…” She breaks down sobbing, and I give her some time to let it all out. She cries for ten solid minutes, but I’m patient. I understand this exact feeling of guilt.
Murder is one of the seven deadly sins—well, a derivative of one, wrath—one that if left unatoned for would sentence her to a life in hell. I’m not sure I believe in this so much as I know the folks who come to this parish do. If she didn’t, why would she be sobbing and feeling guilty enough to plead her case in a confessional? A place where secrets are kept and mercy is handed out. That’s my job—it’s my duty.
“Child, please take a deep breath. Nothing is hidden from God. All things are open before him and he sees all. Now, please tell me what happened.” I don’t need to know any more to absolve her, but I find that letting the confessor get things off their chest is helpful for them. There aren’t many places someone would feel comfortable confessing to murder, even if it was self-defense. I try my hardest to accept her truth without passing judgment. How can I? I’m guilty of murder too.
“Uh… so…” She sniffles and blows her nose, then continues. “My husband was messed up with some bad people. Wait. You can’t tell anyone any of this, right?”
“Of course not. You are free to speak your mind. My oath to protect your secret is sacred.” How many times have I been asked that? Even when I want to rat out the bastards who are cheating on their wives and want to clean their conscience… Still, this oath I’ve taken is sure.
“So, my husband was messed up with some really scary people. They, uh… He stole from them. Like, a lot of money, almost half a million dollars.” Those pesky hairs on the back of my neck continue to stand erect as she speaks. Not many people have bank accounts like that. This confession is hitting a little too close to home. “He, uh… Well, he took their money and they found out.”
“Who is ‘they?’” My question lingers in the air for a moment, but she clears her throat and answers.
“The Gatti Family.”
If I weren’t already very familiar with that name, I’d be shocked. But I know them all too well, their maleficence, their debauchery. This poor woman has no clue what she’s up against.
“They murdered him in our home, just north of LA. I’ve been terrified this would happen, that they’d come for me. I’ve been seeing this therapist, and they tell me it’s in my head, that it’s just paranoia. But tonight, they broke into my home and they were coming after me. They want to kill me too. They think I have their money. I don’t know what Tom did with it. I don’t have it.”
She sobs again, harder this time. This isn’t just a case of needed absolution. This woman needs real help, real protection. My chest is on fire at the mere mention of the name Gatti. They will stop at nothing to get what they want, and a half-million dollars is a lot of “want”.
“Have you gone to the police?” I’ve completely dropped the priest act. While my penance may be to serve others, it is self-inflicted. I need to make amends for my sins, the grievous ones that I committed in my past life. And this woman needs salvation in more ways than one.
“No, Father. I haven’t. You don’t know these people. They have their fingers in everything. They have police they pay off. They ruled Tom’s death a suicide. He didn’t kill himself.” Between the huffing and the blubs of tears, the stutter-breathing, it’s hard to make out what she’s saying. This calls for more than just a penance and absolution. I have to do something.
I know exactly who killed her husband, and I know by whose orders it was handled. My brother is merciless and cruel. If he thinks this woman’s husband stole his money, he will stop at nothing to get it back. Which means she isn’t safe even if she flies to Russia to hide. They’ll find her. That’s way too much money for Paolo to ignore.
“I want you to take a few moments to calm yourself. I know it’s difficult, but I need you to. There are tissues in front of you. I’m sure you’ve seen them. Try to dry your face, clean yourself up a little. And I will pray.”
My mouth utters the prayer I’ve spoken a dozen times just tonight, but my mind is on high alert. I know what has to be done here and I know who has to do it. My brother is going to kill this woman, if not for the stolen funds, then for the man she took out. I’m shocked she even got the chance to pull her gun. Those men are ruthless and highly trained. It’s a miracle she’s even alive.
“Amen,” I say, ending my prayer, and then I continue before she even has a chance to speak. “I would like to speak to you further, please, Miss…?”
“Uh, Alice. My name’s Alice Darling.”
The words fall off her lips in a deafening accusation against her. There is and will always be a target on her back simply because of that name. Tom Darling—finance guy for my older brother—was in this game long before I even stepped away. How coincidental that his widow happens across my path. Is this fate leading me back?
I scowl at the correlation and bite my lip to stifle the curse words trying to escape my lips. My past haunts me at every turn.
“Alice, I need you to sit in the front pew and wait until confession is over. I don’t think you’ll be safe to return home, or anywhere else, for that matter. Could we talk when I’m done here?” I don’t show my face to these people often. Even two hours outside of Los Angeles, I know my brother will find me if the wrong face crosses my path.
“Uh, I really should be on my way. I need to get out of here. They’ll find me.”
“Alice, I’m telling you. They will find you no matter where you go.” I don’t even hesitate to allow the concern to lace my tone. She has to know who she’s dealing with. “Please. Just talk with me for a few minutes.”
There is a pregnant pause, and then a loud sigh. “Alright. I’ll wait.”
Alice leaves the confessional, and I take no fewer than seven more parishioners before they stop coming. I’m on edge as I exit my post and walk into my office on the back side of the wall. I have to appear to Alice as her priest, not as Mario Gatti, brother of the most powerful organized crime head in all of LA. I’m Father Clemmons now, an alias given to me by the archbishop after my pleas for safety and sanctuary were finally heeded.
When I step into the sanctuary, I see her there, head bowed in prayer, eyes shut. She isn’t what I expected. Tom’s typical pick for a woman back in the day when I knew him was a whore—skimpy outfits, ratty hair, large jewelry, and gaudy makeup. Alice is different, plain. She wears a plain white T-shirt and a pair of baggy shorts. Her soft brown hair is cut in a shag, framing her delicate features, which are devoid of cosmetics. She’s only a child, so young, maybe early twenties. What the hell was Tom doing with a woman this young?
“Alice?” I say as I approach, not even certain this is her. Her entire persona is the polar opposite to anything I’ve ever seen from Tom. But at the name, she looks up.
“Father Clemmons,” she says as she stands. Her purse clutched to her stomach, she looks fidgety and flighty. Her hands shake. Her eyes dart around. “I really want to get on the road. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have stopped here. If they’re following me, it will cause problems.”
“Please,” I tell her, gesturing, “sit down.” I sit in the pew behind her to refrain from any appearance of evil, and she huffs and shakes her head, but she sits back down. When we’re comfortable, I continue. “Alice, before I say anything else, I want you to know what you did was self-defense. If you hadn’t killed that man, he’d have killed you. You are innocent, my dear. And secondly, you cannot outrun these men. They will find you no matter where you go.”
She scoffs and scowls at me, rolling her eyes. Then her head drops. “What do you know? You’re just a priest. You don’t know them. I’ll take my chances. I’m not calling the police.”
“I’m not suggesting you do.” She is correct for having not bothered with authorities. They’d have locked her up immediately to face trial, and even if my brother never spun it to make her look guilty to go to prison, he’d have found a way to get back at her for Tom’s mistakes. She’d be dead by week’s end. “You’re right. These men have a reach that you can’t fathom. You need sanctuary.”
Alice looks up at me with fear in her eyes. “Like… here? In a church?”
I nod and wait for a further response, but it doesn’t come, so I make an offer to her. “You can stay here in the church rectory until we figure out a way to get you to safety. We can consult a lawyer or?—”
“Are you nuts?” She scoffs again. She must enjoy that particular expression because her bright green eyes seem to cloud over with a storm. “I can’t live in a church. How long, anyway? You think I just want to be a nun?”
I hold up a calming hand and she stills. “Alice, please trust me. I only want to help you.” Need to help her is more like it, and she doesn’t even know how badly. My conscience will never allow me to turn this woman out to the streets where she’ll surely be killed.
“Fine, but only for a night. I feel like the more space I put between me and this town, the better.” Her head drops again, and I sense her unease, but I know what I’m doing—sort of.
I know who I’m dealing with and I know how to hide her. How to get her out of this mess is another story. For that, I’ll need help.
“Come with me,” I tell her, standing, and she follows.
My life just got really tricky again. Call it the ultimate penance, but I think I’ve found my calling.
Saving Alice Darling.