I found myself in the kitchen area, and a nice one at that. Modern white cabinetry, black marble countertops, and a floating island to boot.
“They have an espresso machine?” I blurted out loud, then covered my mouth with my hand. Damn. Nice to know where all those collection plate tithes were going. I continued on and found an office area. The old-fashioned PC with its gigantic monitor proved to be no help at all. Access was password restricted, and I sure as hell wasn’t a hacker.
Fortunately, it looked like all the mail for the rectory got routed through the office. I dug through the inbox and discovered a hand-printed list with Glen Gilberti’s name on it. Cell 4-B.
“Sweet,” I said softly. Armed with my new knowledge, I plunged out of the kitchen and into the living quarters.
I’d been expecting something like dorm rooms, and I wasn’t far off. Each priest was afforded a room of modest size big enough for a twin size bed and a writing desk. I carefully checked the faded labels on each until I found Cell 4-B.
Unlike every single other door I’d seen, this one had a latch and a padlock. Odd, but not necessarily suspicious. After all, he probably knew he was going into witness protection. It’s only natural to want to protect your stuff.
I stared at the lock. It was one of those little gold-colored types my pop used to call a ‘moon lock.’ Weak, and more intended to inform the owner if their things have been tampered with than to provide actual security or protection.
They’re also very, very easy to pick. I unfolded a bobby pin and jammed it into the lock, moving it around until the hasp popped open.
Glancing about nervously, I pushed the door open and entered Gilberti’s cell. It appeared pretty basic, much like the others. Bed, writing desk, lamp, wardrobe. Boring.
Inside the wardrobe, I found a WWII-era ammo box. I flicked the lid open and my eyes widened. Sitting right on top was a porno mag. Not one of the classy ones, either. I fought down a wave of disgust and carefully lifted it out of my way by the binding. Some of the pages were stuck together, and I nearly retched.
Under the skin mag, I discovered a vitamin bottle. A couple of silent shakes proved that while it didn’t have any capsules, it also wasn’t empty.
“Gilberti, you naughty boy,” I whispered as I extracted a baggie of cocaine. I set that aside, and then my eyes widened with shock: a loaded .38 with a snub-nosed barrel.
Now, what would a priest need with a Saturday Night Special?
I snapped around in a panic as the door swung open. A scrawny little man in a dusty apron stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“What are you doing in Father Gilberti’s spot?” His eyes widened when he saw the gun in my hand. I grabbed him by the apron and dragged him into the cell, shutting the door behind him.
“You’re not a nun,” he gasped.
“Yeah, and you’re not a priest.” I checked him over. St. Patrick’s employed a lot of former homeless people in shit jobs for no pay other than room and board. This guy fit the bill. “I’ve got a couple questions about Glen Gilberti…”
My voice trailed off when I saw he had a bobby pin in his hand. The little shit was going to break in himself, but I’d beat him to the punch.
“Start talking,” I said, crossing my arms but keeping the gun in my hand. “And I’ll give you the bag of coke you’ve been pinching out of.”
It was only a guess, but his eyes widened in surprise. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie to me,” I snapped. After breaking down hundreds of witnesses on the stand, I’d gotten pretty good at wringing the truth out of people. “What’s a priest doing with a gun and a bag of coke? Who is Glen Gilberti, really?”
I think it was the coke more than the gun in my hand that made him snitch. Turns out, Glen Gilberti used to be Marco Loggia, an aging leg-breaker for the Loggia family. A donation to St. Jude’s was all it took for the church to cooperate in ‘retiring’ the old enforcer. I guess they figured Loggia would answer to a higher authority eventually.
How much of a rampaging coincidence could it be that the sole eyewitness to Indro’s crime was also in the mob? No wonder I couldn’t find anything about Glen Gilberti. Glen Gilberti didn’t exist.
Marco Loggia did, though, and I intended to save that bombshell for the trial. With any luck I could get a mistrial, or even have the charges dropped altogether.
I tucked the info away, gave the little shit his cocaine, and strode out of St. Patrick’s with a swish of my habit. Not bad for a day’s work. I just hoped it was enough to get Indro to walk.
Otherwise, I’d be getting fitted for an orange jumpsuit just like him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Indro
I stepped out of the smoke shop and went to cut the end off my Fuente when who showed up to ruin my day but Guido and Nunzio.
“Maloik wants to see you, Indro.” Guido didn’t have to say which Maloik, of course. I knew it was the Don.
“Oh, hey, a Fuente.” Nunzio plucked it out of my hand and I sighed.
“Come on, guys, I just bought the damn stogie.”
“Don’t worry, Indro, we’ll enjoy it enough for you, too,” Nunzio said with a laugh. I grimaced as he tucked it into his pocket. I’m not above slugging a member of my family, but, under the circumstances, I figured discretion was the better part of valor, if you catch my drift.
They didn’t have to ‘assist’ me into the car the second time around. I climbed into the back
