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“Marcel said Gideon pressed the money into his palm. When Marcel tried to resist, Gideon grabbed Marcel’s wrist and forced the money on him.”
I waited. “What’s the rest of it?”
“There was an abrasion around Marcel’s wrist. With pustules in it, like tiny pearls.”
“I’m not buying in to this, Julian.”
“I’m telling you what I saw.”
“Marcel must be working a con of some kind,” I said.
“Don’t be surprised if your best thinking gets you nowhere.”
“There’s another possibility,” I said.
“What?”
“Maybe Adonis Balangie is making a move on the Shondell family,” I said. “Maybe all this other stuff is theater. Maybe Penelope Balangie is as greedy as he is.” I swallowed when I put Penelope in the same category as Adonis.
“You may be correct about Adonis, but you’re mistaken about Penelope,” Julian said. “Her problem is she thinks a good cause justifies any means. Did she catch your eye?”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me,” he said.
“She’s attractive, if that’s what you’re asking,” I said.
“What you mean is she’s beautiful and not easy to forget in the middle of the night.”
“Speak for yourself,” I said dishonestly.
“You’re right. I sometimes convince myself that my weaknesses are the weaknesses of everyone.”
How had I gotten into this? Here was a man dedicated to God who got credit for nothing and blamed for everything and often lived under the authority of dictatorial men who could make life miserable for a diocesan priest. Now he had me to put up with.
“You’re the absolute best of everything that’s good in Christianity, Father Julian,” I said. “Anyone who says otherwise should have his butt kicked around the block.”
I waited for him to speak, but he didn’t.
“Julian?” I said.
“What?”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m not important. You are. And so is Clete Purcel and also Marcel LaForchette. One thing, however: I do not fear the green man.”
“You don’t?”
“The real evil in our community is Mark Shondell.”
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“In one fashion or another, the man in the cowl seems to be a historical figure, a wandering soul, perhaps. He tried to help the prostitute and Marcel. Mark Shondell is homegrown and revered in our culture, a man who has the stench of an incinerator on him.”
I walked back to the cruiser. Leslie was sound asleep. Elizabeth peeked at me from under the quilt, her blue eyes as clear as water. They reminded me of the eyes of the mixed-blood children I had encountered in Henderson Swamp. I woke up Leslie and moved her and her daughter into the Center, then drove to the department on East Main, my head throbbing.
* * *
