their doors open, even at night, as a place where the desperate and cold could get in out of the dark-but to do so anymore would be to turn the church immediately into a homeless shelter. Remember to wave good night to the police officers out front, he thought as he walked toward the front of the church. He wasn’t very happy with their presence, but Karp had convinced him that the threat was real.
Dugan winced as he stepped awkwardly on his way up the aisle to the front of the church. His arthritis had been acting up a lot lately; but that was to be expected of a seventy-year-old man who’d once played middle linebacker for the Fighting Irish at Notre Dame. He had the ruddy, rubbery face of the stereotypical Irish peasant, but he was no stereotypical priest. He’d worked in Latin American war zones and inner-city ghettos; he also ran the foundation created by Marlene Ciampi from millions she’d reaped in a stock market deal when she sold her security firm.
Lost in thought, he didn’t see the beautiful young woman slip into the church at first. When he did, his initial thought was that she was awfully good-looking for a streetwalker-not just the body, which even the priest in him couldn’t ignore-but she looked strong and vital, not the usual spent look of even formerly attractive hookers.
This ought to be quite a confession if that’s why she’s here, Dugan thought. “Good evening, my child,” he said, “I’m afraid we’re closing for the night. But if there’s something I can help you with quickly-”
The young woman didn’t reply except to stoop and quickly withdraw a thin double-edged knife from her boot. Recognizing the danger, Dugan showed some of the old athleticism by turning on a dime and running for the back of the church. But about five steps into his flight, his knee buckled and he stumbled. Immediately after there was a heavy blow and a sharp pain in his shoulder. As he fell forward, he saw a man step out of the shadows with a gun.
Azzam cursed:
Unfortunately, the priest had stumbled at the exact moment she’d thrown the knife, so what should have been a mortal blow stuck into his shoulder blade. She started to spring forward to finish the job when she, too, saw the man at the back of the church step out of the shadows. Then she saw the gun, just in time to throw herself behind a pew as it fired. The bullet, which would have caught her in the chest, tore into a column behind her. The next bullet chewed into the wood of the pew behind her.
“THAT’S RIGHT, BITCH, YOU BETTER RUN, ‘BOOM’ IS IN THE HOUSE,” Alejandro Garcia shouted as he began a game of cat and mouse with the woman. He’d come looking for Father Dugan in time to see his friend turn to run and the woman throw the knife. He’d pulled the gun out from under his sweatshirt and shot.
Marlene Ciampi had been right when she called to tell him Dugan was in danger and she wasn’t sure all the police could be trusted. A former gangbanger from Spanish Harlem turned rap musician in Los Angeles, Garcia had sworn off guns and changed his life. Central to that had been the support of Dugan, whom Garcia regarded as both Father figure and father figure. Arriving in New York City that morning, he’d checked in with some of his former running mates back in the ’hood and borrowed his weapon of choice, a Colt.45, whose loud report was the impetus for his nickname Boom.
“Come on out, bitch,” he yelled. “You stuck the wrong priest. Now, I’m gonna cap your sorry ass.”
Garcia had to make a choice which side of the row of pews he was going to cover best. He’d seen the woman’s act with the knife and knew she was no one to take lightly, especially because he didn’t know if she had another. He listened for a moment, then chose the side closest to the stone wall.
Four pews away, Azzam cursed herself for getting rid of the gun. However, her information was that only two police officers would be in front of the building and that the old priest, who would have chased other visitors out by then, would be by himself in the church. Now, the only weapon she had left was a razor-sharp throwing star; she was going to have to make it good as her adversary had another ten rounds at least in his clip. She listened for the stealthy approach of the man’s feet and at the moment she expected him to come around the end of the pew she stood, ready to throw.
He wasn’t quite where she expected him to be. Cunning, this one, she thought, he came forward and moved back. And he was aiming at her. She threw at the same moment, he fired.
Dodging to the side, Alejandro saw his bullet strike the woman on her upper shoulder, spinning her to the side and down. At the same time, he felt a sting on the side of his neck. Instinctively, he reached up and felt a surprising amount of blood. He jumped up on a pew to try to see her but wasn’t prepared when she stood up ten feet farther down the aisle than he’d expected and sprinted for the church door. He felt faint as he aimed and fired, but she was fast and his hand was growing less steady by the moment. She reached the door and was gone into the night, even as he sank to his knees on the pew.
The next moment, he was lying on the floor looking up at Father Dugan, who leaned over him and was pressing something against his neck. “Lie still, ’jandro,” he said.
“Am I going to die?” the young man asked.
“You don’t hear me giving you last rites, do you?” Dugan said. “No, you got a pretty good cut, but I don’t think she got anything major. And help is on the way. Do you feel strong enough to keep this pressed against your neck? I want to check on our police guards.”
Alejandro nodded though at that moment he would have preferred that the priest stay with him. Dugan patted him on the shoulder and got up, a groan escaping his lips. Alejandro saw that the knife still protruded from the priest’s back. “You okay?”
Dugan glanced over his shoulder at the weapon. “Hurts,” he conceded. “But I’ve had worse.” He hurried to the front of the church, but was back in a minute.
“I’m afraid the police officers are dead. There’s no sign of the woman, except a trail of blood. I think you got her pretty good.”
“Shoulder,” Alejandro said. “She took off running like Reggie Bush on first down. That was some tough, bitch…oh, sorry, Father.”
“An extra Hail Mary on the way to the hospital,” Dugan said and smiled as he sank down onto one of the pews, the sound of sirens drawing nearer. “You saved my life, Alejandro. You are truly a blessed soul.”
Alejandro’s round face was split by his trademark ear-to-ear grin. “Denada, Padre,” he said. “You saved mine a long time ago. Besides, it’s not every day a gangster gets to shoot up a church and it’s okay.”
“Well, let’s not make a habit of it.”
“Nah, once in a lifetime, Father, once in a lifetime.”
16
Marlene was in bed with Butch, negotiating the terms of a quick romp before sleep when the telephone rang. It was Fulton calling to tell them about the attack on Dugan and Alejandro, as well as the deaths of the two officers.
The detective could scarcely contain his rage when he arrived at the loft with a driver to take them to the hospital. “The two feds who were supposed to be backing them up said they got a call from NYPD that the stakeout had been called off. I’d like to know whose cluster fuck that was, ours or theirs.” But he was also angry at the two NYPD officers as well.
“They knew this was a hot assignment and that people had already been killed. But they let themselves be lulled to sleep, and now they’re dead.”
When Fulton, Marlene, and Karp arrived at the hospital, Dugan was in surgery to repair damage to his shoulder. “Nothing too serious,” said the surgeon, when he came out to announce he was finished and the patient would be back in his room soon, “mostly, ligament and bone. But he lost quite a bit of blood, probably more because of the blood thinners he’s on for his heart, and at his age everything is more dangerous than it was forty years ago.”
The cut on Alejandro’s neck had required fifteen stitches, but the doctor had released him. He was sitting in Dugan’s room when they got there. The short, barrel-chested young man greeted Marlene warmly, embracing her with his heavily tattooed arms. He was more reserved with Karp, shaking his hand and then stepping back and crossing his arms in the instinctive manner of a gangbanger in the presence of The Man.
