Prayers for the Dead

Webster said, “What was the plan, Mr. Waterson?”

“They were supposed to convince him not to leave her…and to keep his mouth shut.”

“Who are they?” Webster pressed.

“Stanislav, aka Sidewinder, Polinski and his group,” Waterson said. “He’ll tell you different. He’ll tell you I said vile things, told him to do vile things. But this isn’t so.”

“Who are Polinski’s accomplices?” Martinez asked.

“I never asked. I just told him to take care of it for me.”

“Take care of what?”

“Of Azor,” Waterson said. “Convince him to stay with her, to pray harder, to try to rid himself of these demons. And to make sure he kept it to himself. That was all I said!”

Gilda said, “Mr. Waterson, you know the deal has been cut. No matter what you say, things can’t get worse for you.”

Webster said, “Why don’t you level with us?”

“But I am-”

“You can hide behind your lies with us,” Kent broke in. “But you can’t lie to God. He knows what was in your heart.”

Martinez said, “Where did you know Polinski from?”

Waterson gulped down water. Again, he covered his face, then dropped his hand on the table. “Azor had me deliver some checks to him.” He paused. “To him and a man named Emmanuel Sanchez, aka Grease Pit. Checks for this Peoples for the Environment Freedoms Act that Azor was hepped up on. I never understood it. But I was his lawyer. He asked me to cut a check for him, I cut a check for him.”

“You delivered the check personally to Polinski?” Webster asked.

“Yes, either Polinski or Sanchez.” Waterson’s face had turned red. “Azor gave me a percentage for…cutting the checks and personal delivery.” The old lawyer bit his lip. “Pocket money. Like I was some errand boy.”

“It must have been more than pocket money,” Webster said. “For you to agree to do it.”

“It was…generous, I suppose.”

Webster stared at Waterson, his expression neutral. So much resentment that this man had built up in his mind and Azor never knew. No doubt he thought he was doing Waterson big favors.

He said, “Did you ever talk to Emmanuel Sanchez about taking care of Azor?”

Waterson shook his head. “No, I never spoke to him about the job. But I did deliver money to him afterward on Polinski’s orders.”

Sweat broke from his brow.

“I didn’t want Azor killed. Just scared. Scared enough to abandon his evil plans and heinous ways. Scared enough to keep his mouth shut. Scared enough to go back to God and ask His forgiveness for his wicked thoughts. They went crazy. Not me. That was not part of the deal!”

“But you still paid them off,” Martinez said.

“Of course, I paid them off! At that point, seeing what they were capable of doing, I was too damn scared not to!”

“Polinski do it for the money?” Martinez asked.

“What do you think.”

“I thought he was a friend of Azor’s.”

Waterson laughed bitterly. “You’re talking about monsters who cut their own mother’s throat for money. Of course, with Azor being of that kind, they didn’t need much convincing. They don’t tolerate faggots in their ranks.”

Webster said, “So you called Sparks up, told him to meet you at Tracadero’s?”

Waterson nodded.

“On what pretext did you get him over there?” Martinez asked. “Redoing his papers?”

“Yes.”

“How’d you get him to park in the back alley?”

“He always parked in the back. Too cheap to use the valet.”

Webster stated, “So you got him there, arranged to have the bikers jump and murder him in the back alley-”

“I swear they weren’t supposed to kill him!”

“But they did,” Webster said softly.

Waterson went quiet.

“Why Decameron?” Martinez asked. “What did he have to do with Azor leaving his wife?”

Waterson loosened his collar. “Dolly hated him.”

“She told you to pop him?” Martinez asked.

Waterson shook his head no. “I took it upon myself to have that pervert properly punished. Because it was all his fault. He was vile, the evil serpent of Eden spreading lies, influencing men like Azor to sin. I figure it didn’t make much difference to the world if there was one less faggot.”

“How ’bout one less distinguished scientist?” Webster said.

Martinez said, “How ’bout one less human being with a heart and a soul?”

“He had no heart, his soul was damned. He was a filthy animal!” Waterson grew rigid. “He deserved to die.”

“That wasn’t for you to decide, sir,” Kent said.

Waterson said, “Obviously it was. Because that’s what happened. I decided it. And poof! He was dead.”

32

Answering the page at two in the morning, Decker had no choice but to tell Rina. He called her from the hospital’s waiting room, used a pay phone off the corridor, manipulating the money slot and the keypad with his left hand. His right arm was confined to a sling, the bullet still visibly lodged in his arm. The resident had offered to remove it under a local. Decker had told him he’d have it done later after he found out about the priest’s progress. But as the hours dragged with no news from the operating room, he wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake. Mind-numbing and nerve-wracking watching a family grow old before his eyes.

A twist of irony: Myron Berger was doing the surgery.

Decker leaned against the wall of the nearly deserted lobby, keeping a respectable distance from the family. They were congregated around two brown couches and a pair of orange armchairs. The glass sofa table held glossy in-house hospital magazines, Azor gracing a couple of covers. In the corner of the room a coffee machine bubbled thick walnut liquid. An occasional lackluster page wafted through the PA system.

The waiting. Purgatory on earth.

Eight of them total-five siblings and three spouses, all of them weathered and worn as if wrung out to dry. Luke was sprawled on one of the couches, his blanched face showing the effects of his blood-letting. They had taken the most from him-three pints; the other two brothers had each donated two pints. The two remaining sisters weren’t correctly type-matched. By last count, Bram had gone through two transfusions.

Dana sat by her husband on the arm of the couch. Her eyes were veined with red. She offered a paper cup to Luke, encouraging him to drink more Coke.

He pushed the cup away with his arm. “If I drink any more, I’ll throw up.”

“You’re still pale-”

“Of course, I’m still pale. I’m goddamn sick to my stomach. Leave me alone.”

Lids fluttering, Paul’s eyes swept over the scene. He paced, checked his watch for the thousandth time. His wife, Angela, was blond and plump, a floral muu-muu covering her body, doughy arms popping out of the short sleeves. She wore no makeup, her face was haggard.

The minutes crawled along with the fear of the unknown.

Michael regarded Decker. “You should…” His voice cracked. “Your arm…you should take care of it.”

Paul turned his glazed eyes toward Decker, as if looking at him for the first time. No doubt that was the case.

“What happened to your arm?”

“Mom…” Michael cleared his throat. “Mom did it.”

“Oh God!” Paul sank into a chair. “Will this nightmare ever end?”

Pink-eyed, Angela said, “Do you want more water, Paul?”

“Nothing.” He lowered his head between his knees. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

But he remained hunched over, arms wrapped around his head.

Angela kneaded her hands. She had bitten a couple of her nails past the quick, trickles of blood oozing over the fingertips. To Decker, she said, “Is your arm okay?”

“It’ll keep.”

She said, “Mama’s really not an evil person…”

Angela stopped talking, waiting for someone to corroborate her position. When no one rose to Mom’s defense, Decker said, “Somebody should be paying attention to her needs…go down to the jail, talk to her and to her representation. Right now, they’ve assigned someone from the PD’s office. Eventually, you might want to hire your own lawyer.”