The Bookmakers by Zev Chafets Read Free Book Online Page B

who had perfect pitch for the sound of Catholic contrition, instantly recognized from the tentative inflection that the man on the other side of the screen had never been inside a confessional in his life.
    It wasn’t unusual for non-Catholics to turn up at confession—thecity was filled with nutcases, curiosity seekers and street people looking for a warm place to sit down. They filled Tommy with rage, because they were trying to beat the system—and since he was a part of the system, to beat him. It was one of his rules not to get beat and over the course of his short career he had developed ways of handling the deadbeats.
    “What can I do for you, my son?” he said, stepping up the Brooklyn in his voice.
    “I’ve sinned, Father,” said Mack.
    “Yeah, you already mentioned that. You wanna be more specific?”
    There was a long pause. “I’ve, ah, had sexual intercourse with the wife of my best friend.”
    “How many times?”
    “A few times. I’m not positive.”
    “A few times in the same night, or a few different times? Don’t lie, I can tell.”
    “A few different times.”
    “Are you sorry?”
    “Of course I’m sorry,” said Mack. “That’s why I’m here.”
    Tommy smiled to himself—he had the guy going now. “You gonna do it again or what?”
    “I might. I don’t know.”
    “Yeah, well, you sound real sorry. You got anything else?”
    “Not really.”
    “Okay, close the door on the way out.”
    “Aren’t you going to, ah, prescribe any penance?”
    “For what, sthupping your buddy’s old lady? Okay, I hereby sentence you to see
The Sound of Music
three straight times. That ought to take your mind off poontang.”
    “Hey, what kind of thing is that for a priest to say?”
    “You got complaints, call the Vatican. The number’s in the book.”
    “You’re not really a priest, are you?”
    “What’s it to ya? You’re not a Catholic anyway.”
    “What makes you say that?”
    “Get outta here,” said Tommy. “You think I don’t recognize a Protestant voice when I hear one?”
    “Protestant voice?” Mack said, laughing. “What does a Protestant sound like?”
    “Very much like this,” said Tommy, raising his gravelly voice an octave and flattening his vowels in a good imitation of Mack’s Midwestern drawl. Green laughed again and the priest said, “Okay, pal, show’s over. Scram.”
    “Wait a minute,” said Mack. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I’m a writer and I just wanted to find out what going to confession is like. It’s for one of my characters.”
    “Oh yeah? What kind of writer?” asked Tommy, suddenly interested.
    “A novelist. My name’s Mack Green.”
    “Mack Green,” Tommy mused. “I’ve heard of you.
The Oreo Kid
, right?”
    “Oriole,” said Mack.
    “Hey, nice to meet ya,” said the priest. “I don’t get too many celebrities in here. My name’s Tommy Russo.”
    “Not Father Tommy?”
    “I’m twenty-eight years old,” he said. “You gotta be about that, right?”
    “Twenty-nine,” said Mack.
    “Well, you wanna call me Father, go ahead.”
    “What I’d really like to do is buy you a beer and ask you some questions.”
    “You mean like a consultant? Yeah, why not? ’Course I can’t mention names or anything—”
    “I know that much,” said Mack.
    “I can spring loose in about an hour,” said Tommy. “There’s a place on East Broadway, Brady’s. We could meet there.”
    “Great,” said Mack. “How will I recognize you?”
    “Just be on the lookout for a little Italian guy in a black leather jacket.”
    “A black leather jacket?”
    “I don’t go to bars in my clericals,” said Tommy. “Besides, I wasn’t born a priest, ya know?”
    At Brady’s, Tommy ordered a dry martini, which seemed to him like a sophisticated choice, while Mack downed double bourbons with seemingly no effect and grilled him about his life. Delighted to be in the company of a famous young author, pleased to talk about himself for a