under the flaming arch, with his right foot resting on the back of a dwarfish figure that personified illusion and ignorance. She had learned this all at a meditation seminar months ago. Shiva had two sets of arms, and in one of his right hands was the small drum on which he beat out the rhythm of the universe and creation, while the flame in one of his left hands represented the burning, the destruction and purification, of all things worldly and temporal.
She looked up toward the god ’ s head, focused on his third eye, in the middle of his forehead, center of omniscience, and suddenly her psoas muscles, then lower back and hamstrings, released and opened. What felt like a wave of warm liquid poured through her hips. Her torso settled flat and she melted into the floor, going further than she ’ d imagined possible. Her every cell spoke to her now as she felt an onrushing of deep emotion breaking free from her hips. The pain of childbirth, every sickness, fear, and disappointment Jamie had faced in his life, washed over her. And then a great soaring of joy in her motherhood, the agony of her loss, it all seemed to spring forth from the seat of her being. Overwhelmed, she felt her stomach seize up and she began to sob quietly. She ’ d heard that this emotion-body connection was possible in deep practice but hadn ’ t imagined she would ever find herself weeping in class. But finally the tender pain was of a magnitude that she could not, did not even want to, stand in the way of any longer. It all just flowed.
Paul knew he ’ d run into Carol if he went home to change. It was unfortunate, but he had to. He had popped sweat the moment he and Behr had entered the jail and was drenched, sodden, by the time they ’ d left. He needed to wash off the filth of the day, and Behr had to go run down information on the name they ’ d gotten before they ’ d meet up again to go talk to this Oscar Riggi. He flexed his swollen hands and rolled his wrists. He ’ d learned some things about hitting a man that day that he wouldn ’ t soon forget. Distance was the enemy. Short punches, the way. He felt he was wearing stiff gloves, several sizes too small, so sore were his wrists and hands now. Wrong as it may have been, landing the blows had brought a measure of satisfaction. He ’ d have to thank Behr for that.
Carol got back from her class around midday and realized Paul was at home. When she had seen that he wasn ’ t wearing a suit that morning and that he didn ’ t go off to work, she felt sure he was having an affair. She wasn ’ t surprised that he was, considering the state of their life together, only that he ’ d waited so long to start one. He ’ d been out most nights for the past few weeks, with no explanation. For her part she hadn ’ t asked for one. It seemed he was unconcerned about hiding things. This hurt her in a place she didn ’ t know could still be hurt. The pain was brand new to her, and not unpleasant, but rather enervating. She went upstairs, expecting to find him with someone, and wondering what she should do about it. She hardly had the indignation or the energy for a scene. But in the bedroom she found Paul alone. He was uncommunicative and on his way to the closet after a shower. She was sitting on the edge of the bed when she got her next surprise — his hands.
She looked up from them, all puffy and red, to his towel-clad waist, across his naked torso, to his face. “Were you boxing again?” As far as she knew, the heavy bag had hung dormant in the garage for some time.
He didn ’ t meet her eyes. “Yeah. That ’ s right.” He went to the closet and dressed. Her eyes were clear and she recognized the lie immediately.
Something is going on, she thought, but she didn ’ t know what.
Paul left the room and went downstairs. She could hear him in the kitchen making something to eat. After a moment a car horn sounded. The front door opened, then closed behind Paul. She felt the house empty. She went to the window in time to see him, carrying two sandwiches, cross to Frank Behr ’ s car and climb in. Then they drove off. Something is going on repeated in her head.
O Loving Jesus, meek Lamb of God, I miserable sinner, Oscar Riggi incanted, kneeling in the mottled light of St. Francis Church, salute and worship the most Sacred Wound of Thy Shoulder on which Thou didst bear Thy heavy Cross, which so tore Thy flesh and laid bare Thy Bones as to inflict on Thee an anguish greater than any other wound of Thy Most Blessed Body. The church smelled of stale frankincense, an odor that brought him back to his youth, to his long hours spent in service as an altar boy. Mass had become routine for him on those endless, repetitive mornings, and it was only the old habit that kept him worshipping these days. He said the words to himself, but there was no longer any connection to what they meant. In fact, the words would hardly come anymore. He was a long way from the Church. Further than he ’ d ever been. I adore Thee, O Jesus most sorrowful; I praise and glorify Thee, and give Thee thanks for this most sacred and painful Wound…
As he stared up at the image of the mournful One in black brass hanging crucified before him, Riggi imagined their faces: the boys ’, bright and innocent. He only imagined them, as he ’ d never met or laid eyes on a single one of them, even after they ’ d fallen under his control. He wondered idly if he ’ d ever happened to have unknowingly seen one of them in passing before. He tried to calculate their number now, so far in, but could not. It had been twelve years, three cities, since he ’ d begun. There had been quite a few. He had encrypted records that held the answer and kept an accounting of all the amounts, but he had not consulted them in a long, long time.
…beseeching Thee by that exceeding pain, and by the crushing burden of Thy heavy Cross to be merciful to me, to forgive me all my mortal and venial sins, and to lead me on towards Heaven along the Way of Thy Cross. Amen. The ancient cadence of prayer ground to a halt inside his head.
He stood and felt the blood flow back through his knees. He couldn ’ t keep his thoughts on what he was doing, and lack of focus was the earmark of a poor manager. Tad Ford was dead. His main man, Rooster, was unreachable. His business was off the chain, and not in the way the niggers meant it — to describe something incredibly good. Rather the machinery he had painstakingly built was no longer functioning. It had seemed like a minor thing when Tad bowed out a few months back. The guy had been half a lummox, a burro who had merely followed orders, but replacing him had become surprisingly difficult, before he ’ d made himself an outright liability and had to go. It was the first killing Riggi had ordered. The only other death on his tab had been ten years back, a beating he ’ d assigned that had gone wrong. Now he ’ d closed the regular office, too, given everyone their two weeks ’ pay just to keep things nice and tight. As far as restaffing went, Riggi knew plenty of young men willing to do just about anything in order to get a wad of cash pressed into their palms. Several of them, two guys in particular, Wenck and Gilley, who worked together as a team, had proved sure enough to steal some cars and dump some others, but he ’ d found himself hesitating when it came time to broach the subject of making a run. Maybe he was getting too old and too cautious. He ’ d always listened to his instincts, though, and in turn they spoke to him in a clear, nearly audible way. Lately they ’ d been screaming wait. His heels rang off the stone floor as he headed for the door, pausing to bob and make the sign of the crucifix across his chest as he passed the font of holy water.
Outside, the air was steely with cold. He buttoned his cashmere coat, twisting his silk and cashmere muffler up around his throat to block any stray wind. The winter felt never-ending and he longed to get away to the Bahamas, to Paradise Island. His joints craved some warm, humid air. He envisioned a massage on the beach, tropical drinks and a bit of time in the casino at night, smoking the Havanas that were abundant down there. He could call the travel agent and head out for a couple or three days, the only decision being which young lady to take with him. He could afford it. He still had plenty of rental income from his properties, but it just didn ’ t feel like the right time. His work ethic was such that when things were faltering, his first reaction was to buckle down and apply himself until they were running well again. Of course, when things were cooking, he felt the urge to push the advantage and was reluctant to break the momentum with something so indulgent as a vacation. The result was accumulated tension that at the moment was beating him. He was a workaholic and he knew it. He slid into his car, the leather seat cold as a marble slab, and kicked over the engine. He drove out of the lot and headed for the office as if on autopilot.
“I ’ ve got two addresses so far. An office and a residence,” Behr said when Paul got in the car. He spent some rubber pulling out and drove across town. “This guy, Riggi, he comes up as a real estate broker. I ’ ve got his home on Heatherstone in Carmel.”
“He must be doing well,” Paul said, handing him a sandwich.
“Yeah. I say we try the office first.”
They finished their turkey and Muenster on seven-grain sandwiches by the time they reached the small stand-alone building of a faux Tudor style that housed Hemlock Point Realty. They approached the thick brown wooden door, which was locked. They peered in through a small glass square in the door. A main room held three desks, which bore computers and listings books, but were currently unoccupied. The whole place, in fact, including the waiting area, and what they could see of some back offices, was empty.
“It ’ s around midday. The office could be out to lunch.”
“They could be closed for the day. Or longer.”
“Yep.” There was no sign informing them as to which.
