Jungle Of Steel And Stone

''Father . . . ?'

'It's the truth, Veil. The fact that it's wanted by the capos is common knowledge on the street; indeed, there's a bounty for anyone who brings the idol in and hands it over to any of the top people in the five families. However, the reason for their wanting it is a carefully guarded secret.'

'They could be worried about the possibility that it wouldn't be turned in if people knew why they wanted it.'

'Perhaps. I don't care to speculate.'

'You mentioned five families. What happened to the sixth?'

There was a prolonged silence, and Veil could sense the conflict and indecision in the other man on the opposite side of the partition. 'Vito Ricci is dead,' the priest said at last. 'His operations are being absorbed by the other families, along with those people who are deemed worthy. The Ricci family no longer exists.'

Veil suppressed a whistle. 'That's some bit of news.'

'It's no news at all yet. The police and the FBI know that Vito is missing, of course, but that is all they know. It hasn't made the papers. Nobody will ever find his body, and the authorities will eventually just naturally assume he is dead.'

'Execution?'

'Yes. It was Vito who was responsible for trying to squeeze the idol through that smuggling pipeline. Apparently he wanted it for personal reasons. It was an insane act, Veil, and it was not even properly executed at this end. If things had been properly planned, the idol never would have ended up on an auction block, and it certainly wouldn't have surfaced in some art gallery on the East Side in the same week that the first article appeared in The Times. The whole thing was an unmitigated disaster, and Vito paid for his mistake with his life.' The priest paused, added dryly, 'He must have been getting senile.'

'Maybe. Is there a contract out on the K'ung?'

'The what?'

'The black who stole back the idol. Are there specific orders to kill him?'

'No, but I don't suppose that will prevent his death. The easiest way to obtain the idol, of course, is to kill the man carrying it.'

'If they find him.'

From the darkness on the other side of the filigreed partition came a hoarse chuckle laced with sadness. 'Find him? How long can a bushman who's lived all his life in the desert hide in New York City?'

'He's doing pretty well so far, isn't he?'

'I believe he's dead, Veil. I am sorry if this is so, but I believe it's just a matter of finding his corpse and taking the idol from beside it.'

'Could be.'

'What was done against him and his tribe is very sad.'

'Yeah. What do you think will happen to the idol if the police find him first?'

'Oh, I think it's safe to assume that the idol will eventually find its way into the hands of the capos.'

'Why, Father? Is it because Carl Nagle is in charge of the police investigation?'

The question brought a sharp intake of breath; the partition vibrated, as if the priest had moved suddenly and inadvertently brushed against it. 'What do you know about Carl Nagle?'

'Virtually nothing, except that he comes on pretty cranky. Within hours after the black ran off with the idol, someone gave a two-bit hood by the name of Picker Crabbe the name and address of the woman who'd brought the black to the gallery. The short time span makes me think that it was either Nagle or his partner—or both—who supplied the information. I'm thinking that detectives Nagle and Vahanian may be on the mob payroll. What do you think, Father?'

Veil waited almost a full minute, but the only sound from the other side of the partition was hoarse breathing. Finally it was Veil who spoke. 'Thank you, Father,' he said evenly. 'I hadn't come to you before this, and I won't come again. I consider any debt there might have been between us paid.'

Veil stepped out of the confessional booth, ducked through the heavy curtain, and walked in the cool, oddly comforting gloom of the sanctuary toward a side exit.

'Veil, please wait.'

Veil turned and was alarmed to see the priest out of the booth and rolling toward him. Veil quickly glanced around but was engulfed in the priest's arms before he had a chance to see whether or not they were being observed. The priest kissed Veil on both cheeks, then hobbled back a step. His gray eyes gleamed in the semidarkness.

'I have not asked you why you want this information because I know it is for a good cause,' the priest said in his broken voice. 'You may not believe in God, Veil Kendry, but you are nonetheless a man of God. God's existence does not depend upon your belief in Him, nor does He exact faith in return for His mercy, benevolence, and protection. You are a strange man, and there are strange— often conflicting—stories told about you. But there is no doubt in my mind that you walk with God, and God watches over and works through you. No doubt at all.

'My debt is not paid. As far as you are concerned, my debt will never be paid. You may come to me anytime someone is in need of help and you feel that information I can supply may be useful.'

'Thank you, Father.'

'I can never repay you for what you did with my . . . woman and my son. God forgive me for saying so, but not' even He could fill the hole left in my life when they were gone. For many years I have prayed to resolve this conflict. Sometimes I have—literally—prayed until my knees bled. But it seems I am all too human, too much of the flesh. The conflict cannot be resolved, and so I am reduced to prayers for the salvation of my soul despite the continual breaking of my solemn vows.'

'You don't have to tell me these things, Father.'

'Those were things I wanted to tell you. But there is also something I must tell you. It is Carl Nagle whom you must watch out for; I cannot stress this point strongly enough. Vahanian knows nothing, and he would be in great danger if Nagle even suspected that he did. Nagle is more than just one more crooked cop on the take, Veil. He's an enforcer. And he is quite mad. I've heard it said—often— that he enjoys inflicting physical pain. I don't know. Certainly he has no feelings that you and I would be familiar with. I have never known, or heard of, anyone so able to instill pure terror into anyone he chooses to intimidate. The measure of this is the fact that he is an Honors cop, one of the most decorated in the department. He is so successful in solving cases precisely because he can terrorize information out of anyone. He could have been promoted many times, but, of course, he cannot leave the streets because that is where he earns by far the greatest part of his income, for the Mafia. And, of course, he is at home there.'

'Nobody's ever blown the whistle on this guy?'

'Three times his victims have tried. You must remember that the families have strong connections in the police department.'

'Nobody, and no organization, has that much control over the police in this city; I know too many decent, honest cops at all levels of command.'

'Nevertheless, Carl Nagle has always been exonerated. His three accusers ended up . . . broken. Word gets around. He is an unbelievably dangerous man, Veil, totally ruthless, without scruples or mercy. He is probably the man who was sent to kill Vito Ricci. He is truly a monster, and it is said that only those who have seen his true face can know just how terrible he is.'

'To tell you the truth, Father, I didn't much care for his everyday face. I'll keep an eye out for him.'

'There's more. I hear that the responsibility for finding the idol has been given to Nagle personally by the family heads. In fact, influence was brought to bear inside the police department to have Nagle transferred from his own precinct to the East Side after the idol turned up in the gallery; the families hoped that merely being in his jurisdiction would deter petty thieves. The fact is that Nagle has been skating on thin ice for some time, and so he's under particular pressure to see that the capos get the idol.'

'Why has he been skating on thin ice?'

'Detective Nagle has always had a difficult time keeping his pecker in his pants. It seems he has a penchant for raping and sodomizing young women unfortunate enough to fall into his orbit—hookers, junkies, sometimes teenage runaways.'

'Oh, Jesus.'