The Accidental Pallbearer Read online

  Description of the substitute pallbearer gives Conte a thrill. Several bystanders at the church and cemetery offer accounts to the police and the press that resemble the description that Janice McPherson had given him of the man she saw on that blazing August morning fifteen years ago. The rude man who refused to return her greeting. Jed Kinter’s visitor. If that man and the substitute pallbearer were in fact one and the same, then Bobby Rintrona was right: Kinter hadn’t kept his nose clean.

  About the murdered Mafiosi, Conte gives not a damn. Let those vile bastards kill one another, it was a police matter that the police shouldn’t even bother to investigate. But if Kinter were involved and could truly be implicated and put away, then his baby and wife would be out of harm’s way for good, and about that possibility Conte cares too much, like a man who has something to prove.

  He manages to eat the salad, but only half the sandwich. Closes his laptop. Nothing to be done until tomorrow, when he’ll have to hold off Robinson so that he can pursue a plan of inquiry he’s beginning to hatch that will require him to speak to Rudy Synakowski, the reporter who did the original stories, and Enzo Raspante, the photographer, whose photos outside Saint Anthony – picked up by the major news services – had appeared on the front page under the caption: NINETY MINUTES TO LIVE.

  He declines the kind invitation from Johnnie Walker – instead packs up his .357 Magnum and spends the next two hours at the police range (a time-killer like the opera) firing 125 rounds with lethal precision into human silhouettes at twenty-five and fifty yards. Then home again to play Joan Whittier’s call numerous times, as he makes a transcript. Near midnight, takes the transcript to the twenty-four-hour Fed-Ex – Kinko’s station in New Hartford and mails it to Laguna Beach. When the clerk guarantees delivery by Wednesday morning, no later than 10:00, Eliot Conte feels a thrill not unlike what he felt when he examined his fifty-yard target and saw that he’d clustered five shots in the circle marking its heart. Nancy’s heart. Norwald’s. Kinter’s. Michael C’s. His own.

  CHAPTER 12

  Tuesday – sun at last, in a cloudless sky. Conte can’t remember when he’d slept so well – eight hours, uninterrupted, deep and no dreams that he can recall. He’s sitting at his desk over coffee – showered, shaved, dressed for the day and with no thoughts of Johnnie Walker and about to call Rudy Synakowski – when his doorbell rings. Father Gustavo, who asks if Eliot might spare him a few minutes.

  Conte offers coffee, Father Gustavo says he’s had his cup for the day, “thank you,” but he’ll take “orange juice if available, but hold the vodka.” A forced chuckle from Father G. Conte does not practice his Catholicism, has not set foot in Saint Anthony since his confirmation at age twelve. After an embarrassing silence at the kitchen table, the nervous Father G says that during his post-Mass meeting on Sunday with Antonio Robinson and Silvio Conte, Antonio had revealed the “enormous tragedy” that had struck Eliot’s daughters and “you, yourself.”

  Conte says nothing.

  “Would you like to talk about it, Eliot?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “This is what they think I’m on earth for. I have other functions, but this is the one they want.”

  “Grief counseling?”

  “I despise the phrase. Grief cannot be counseled. There is no so-called ‘closure’ for the grief, and you will never ‘get on with your life.’ The phrase sickens me.”

  “The language of psychobabble, Father.”

  “Yes, and the tip of the iceberg in this contemptible age. Your heart is damaged beyond repair. I didn’t come here, my –” he suppresses “my son.” Father G is ten years Eliot’s junior. “I didn’t come here to urge you to speak of the unspeakable, about which we should remain silent.”

  Eliot remains silent. A long pause.

  Father G says, “Touché,” then adds, “Silvio is distraught, I’ve never seen him this way. He spoke of seeing the children as infants, when he flew to California as a proud grandfather. His grief is enormous.”

  “I don’t carry vodka, Father, but we do have Johnnie Walker. Would you like a shot? On the rocks with a splash of water? Pure rocks?”

  Father G considers. He’s not much of a drinker, but wouldn’t mind one now. He finds Conte compelling and intimidating. He’d like to win him back to the fold, thinking, absurdly, that if Conte can’t be won, then there is little hope for the Church in this terrible country.

  Father G says, “I won’t push it. Your father tells me you drop in to see him once a month, if that. When was the last time?”

  “Don’t recall.”

  “He’s at the end of his life.”

  “I know that.”

  “He hopes for reconciliation.”

  “I don’t.”

  “After all that he’s –”

  “Done for me?”

  “You said it.”

  “What does it prove, Father? Except that he, maybe in guilt, honors the forms of parenthood?”

  “But not the spirit?”

  “If he did it in guilt, I’d take it as a positive sign.”

  “Ah. But you accepted his largesse. How do you, if I may ask, grade yourself in the daddy department?”

  “Bless me father, for I have sinned.”

  “And for penance, you awake, do you not, in the middle of the night without the distractions of daylight, to think the thoughts you flee?”

  “You said the Requiem Mass for Filomena Santacroce, did you not?”

  “I say Requiems all the time. Who was she?”

  “Fifteen years ago. On a very special day in Utica history.”

  Pause.

  “Yes. Filomena Santacroce. Yes.”

  “You remember that day?”

  “I was questioned closely by the police and that Polish reporter.”

  “Synakowski?”

  “Yes. Of course, they questioned me endlessly about this pallbearer. Endlessly and repetitively. The pallbearers brought the casket before the altar and placed it upon the catafalque. I told them this. Six pallbearers. Three on each side. Then the pallbearers turned and went to the back pews. I told them this. Did I notice anything specific about the pallbearers? One in particular? I told them no, but didn’t tell them why, because it was none of their business, but now, in the spirit of openness, which I hope you’ll soon join me in, I’ll tell you why I didn’t pay attention to the pallbearers. If there were twenty-five pallbearers I would not have noticed, my – uh, Eliot.”

  “It’s okay, Father. I call you Father, it’s only fair you call me son.”

  “I am not your father, let’s throw away these cold protocols. Your father is Silvio, but if I had a son like you I’d be proud. As Silvio is proud. I’ll tell you now where my focus was on that day of murder. After my first year as a priest in Watertown, I entered a Trappist monastery in South Carolina because as a heterosexual who likes – loves to look at women – I wanted a barrier against temptation, because I wanted to keep my vow of chastity, but in the monastery I noticed that some of the brothers did not resist because they could, and did, find consolation in one another. You take my meaning? This only brought to mind what I had given up, and I found the situation terrifically unfair and painful. So I left. I came to Saint Anthony seventeen years ago to live face to face with my heterosexual passion. You know, if a woman smiles at me, Eliot, it is as good as if she – on that day, I was focused on a young woman who sat in the front row. She was beautiful. Her skirt was up over her knees. Her legs were open enough for me to – instead of a whiteness of panties up in there, I saw a patch of darkness, and the soul of Filomena Santacroce at that moment was in the hands of the Devil. The pallbearers? Give me a break. I beg you, Eliot, pray for the repose of my –”

  “Eternal soul, Father?”

  “My penis.”

  “Bless me father, for you have sinned.”

  “Yes, my son, frequently.”

  To Father G’s dismay, Conte gets bac
k on track, “So you didn’t –?”

  “One thing only. One of the pallbearers, I could not say then or now which, walked in a somewhat odd manner. Perhaps he was drunk. I mentioned this, but neither the police nor the Polish reporter found that observation to be of any interest. One of the cops said, ‘Some of these old pallbearers already have one foot in the grave.’ He thought he was funny.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “For what?”

  “For sharing your memory.”

  “I fucked her.”

  “What?! Who?”

  “The woman in the front row. I fucked her every which way to Sunday, as I believe the saying goes, for a month, and she was the best p – before I got a hold of myself. That is to say, when I returned to the not inconsiderable pleasures of self-abuse.”

  “You’re a witty man, Father.”

  “Eliot, if you wish to open up, in all seriousness, you know where I can be found. All will be held in confidence.”

  Father Gustavo leaves, having not touched his orange juice. Eliot imagines a fifth of Stolichnaya. Imagines spiking the O.J. with what it amuses him to think of as “meaning.”

  Conte calls Rudy Synakowski at the Observer-Dispatch and invites him to lunch. Synakowski says, “Thanks, when?” Conte replies, “Today, at 12:30.” Synakowski is startled, but doesn’t show it because he’s a supremely composed man, always has been. At Proctor High, he and Conte were distantly friendly. Distant friendship was a Synakowski specialty. Since his return to Utica, Conte has seen him at great intervals for a drink at The Chesterfield. They’ve never shared a meal. Synakowski asks, “The Chesterfield?” Conte replies, “My place. Would pasta al pesto be okay?” Synakowski’s composure is almost cracked. Known at Proctor as the Polish Prince, he resembled the original Polish Prince, the pop singer Bobby Vinton, though with a cooler, more sharp-edged visage. The girls he dated had invariably referred to him, with a Mona Lisa smile, as “Blue Velvet.”

  After lunch and the polite, meaningless words – Synakowski still nursing his glass of pinot noir, Conte on his third glass of seltzer – the Polish Prince says, “You have something on your mind, Detective.” It pleases him to address Conte as “Detective.”

  “I do, Rudy. A matter of ancient history.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Exactly. About a shooting.”

  “Only one worth talking about, Detective.”

  “Shall we talk, Rudy?”

  “Someone hire you to break the unbreakable case?”

  “No.”

  “Pure, unmercenary curiosity?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds ominous.”

  “You were at Saint Anthony and also wrote the piece on the accident at the Parkway and Oneida Street. I read your articles yesterday.”

  “You found them fascinating? I take pride in my prose style.”

  “As well you should. I take it you saw the pallbearer substitution?”

  “I didn’t – interviews with some onlookers later that day gave me the story and the description. What I was focused on at the time was what everyone wanted to see – the arrival of Aristarco and the Barbones. The level of their security was impressive. Their own goons, of course, and a tight circle of Utica’s finest. There was quite a crowd milling around.”

  “You never saw the pallbearers?”

  “I saw them carry the casket into the church. I must have, but have no recall, because … Eliot, why would I? Why would anyone? Nothing remarkable to stick in the mind. It was a funeral fifteen years ago. You have pallbearers at a funeral.”

  “But you named Raymond DePellaccio in your article.”

  “Filomena Santacroce’s grandniece gave me the name. Later.”

  “Did you talk to DePellaccio about his convenient lower-back spasm?”

  “That’s what it seemed like. Convenient. Raymond is the key to the set up. So of course I – not to mention detectives from the force – was eager to talk to him. He was laid up in Saint Elizabeth’s for three weeks in traction – under heavy sedation.”

  “The back thing wasn’t –”

  “Bullshit? No.”

  “How do you know he wasn’t faking it all the way through? The plan included hospitalization. Why not?”

  “I thought of that, Detective. His doctor was Ronald Sheehan. Ring any bells?”

  “I’ve heard the name, but not for some time.”

  “You’ve heard the name because he was the most esteemed physician in the area. Honorary degrees, Syracuse and Cornell. You haven’t heard his name for some time because he was killed in a one-car accident four months after the assassinations. Your father, who was his patient, delivered the eulogy at Saint Louis Gonzaga, the church where all the faithful Lebanese attend.”

  “Eventually you must have talked to DePellaccio.”

  “I intended to, naturally, but I was too late.”

  “I did a search on him – natural causes according to the obit. When would that have been? Not long after the hospitalization?”

  “A week later. Heart attack is how the family wanted it reported. It was suicide. By hanging. In his attic. According to my source in the coroner’s office.”

  “These deaths … this isn’t a paranoid movie conspiracy.”

  “I entertained the thought. Occasionally still do. Where’s the evidence, Detective? Good luck.”

  “You were not at the scene of the van accident, obviously.”

  “No. There were three witnesses, whom I interviewed.”

  “You interviewed the driver of the bus and the policeman driving the van?”

  “Those were not witnesses, Detective, but I did interview Frank Doolin, you remember Frank? Former mayor, friend of your father’s, the bus driver. How the mighty fall. Frank said he had the green light, so did some of his riders, who came forward to see me down at the paper.”

  “And the van driver? You talked to him?”

  “No. Chief Criggy put a clamp on it. Told me when I requested that these good men didn’t deserve such publicity. He wouldn’t release the names.”

  “I can’t believe a reporter of your, uh …”

  “Astuteness?”

  Conte toasts the Polish Prince.

  “You dug into it, Rudy, I know you did, and determined the name of the driver of the van, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t have to dig, Eliot – someone came to see me, at home, no less, that night, and told me who it was.”

  The Polish Prince sips his wine, enjoying the feeling that he has Conte on the edge of his seat.

  Conte says, “But that name never appeared in print, either, as far as I know.”

  “He spoke on condition that his anonymity would be preserved. Said he feared for his job and his life.”

  “Would you like to tell me, Rudy?”

  “Absolutely, Detective. It gives me pleasure to know that you’re looking into the source of the stench. The man who came to see me is our current assistant chief of police, Michael Coca. The man who was driving the van is our current chief – your pal, Antonio Robinson. At the time, I believe they were both corporals. Buddies. Ambitious and on the rise.”

  Conte breathes out heavily. “You see something dirty, Rudy?”

  “Do you? I think you do.”

  “Some petty jealousy might be all it is, Rudy. Maybe they were rivals of some sort.”

  “No idea, Detective. What Coca told me was that the light was red – that the van stopped at the light and when the bus hit the intersection the van lurched hard forward – perfectly timed to crash the bus broadside.”

  “Robinson was maybe spaced out and didn’t –” Conte cuts himself off, feigns a shrug. “Maybe Coca lied about the red light.”

  “Maybe. Maybe. I’m not a grassy-knoll type, except the three witnesses I mentioned had no doubts about the van and the red light and there were no discrepancies among their accounts.”

  “Their names never appeared in your story. Edited out?”

  “Yep.”r />
  “Your editor’s rationale?”

  “He wouldn’t give me one.”

  (“Grassy knoll” – not an allusion lost on Conte, who’d written an essay at UCLA on novels about the JFK assassination and its major, explanatory conspiracy theory. When asked by his professor if he, himself, believed that a second shooter, in addition to Oswald, who fired from behind, had fired from a grassy knoll toward which Kennedy’s limo was heading, Conte replied, I half-believe. To the professor’s argument that, psychologically, there was no such thing as half-belief, Conte said, I agree. Nevertheless, I half-believe.)

  “From the perspective of the grassy knoll, Rudy, these witnesses were lucky not to be identified, or they would have joined Dr. Sheehan and DePellaccio.”

  “Your tone is ironic, Detective, but I believe that you believe there was a conspiracy. Who is the spider at the center?”

  “Do you by any chance?”

  “Have the notes? I certainly do. I’ll call the names in to you this afternoon.”

  “On my land line. You have the number?”

  The Polish Prince smiles, says, “I’m a reporter.”

  “Thanks, Rudy. One more thing. The paper’s chief photographer at the time, Enzo Raspante – he’s been retired for some time. Is he mentally in order?”

  “He’s these days at Our Hearts Are Full Assisted Living, up near the college. Has a brother, that’s it, who I hear moved to Florida. I’m sure he’d love the company. I visit Enzo occasionally – sharp as a tack and bored.”

  “Thanks, Rudy.”

  “One favor, Detective. Should you get to the bottom of the sewer, give me a heads-up.”

  “I promise.”

  “We’ll do the book and film script together.”

  Synakowski quaffs the remainder of his wine. Gets up to leave. Conte says, “Wait.” Brings him from the freezer a container of frozen pesto sauce. Synakowski thanks him, then adds, “But what will Lisa and I have for dessert, Detective?”