"Purge the Evil" - a novel

by Bill Dunn

(Note: this is a work-in-progress attempt at writing a novel. Feedback, critiques, plot suggestions are more than welcomed.)
 

CHAPTER 15

Tuesday, November 9th, 1:45 p.m.

About 50 people mingled in the social hall, a drab cinderblock structure attached to the side of St. Lawrence church. About a third of the ceiling lights did not work, making the already gloomy mood even more so. At one end of the large, open room, trays of assorted sandwiches, pastries, and cookies sat on a rectangular table. Nearby, a round table was covered with soda bottles, wine, and six packs of beer. Less than half of the people who attended the Mass had gone to the cemetery; and less than half of those returned to the social hall for the reception. Small groups of people congregated throughout the room. To the right side of the food table was a predominantly Spanish-speaking group. An English-speaking group was across the room near the wall. In the far corner was a gathering of young adults and teenagers. Language and race did not separate this mixed group, as their common status as societal outcasts produced a bond more powerful than any ethnic differences. Some members of this group periodically went outside for five or ten minutes at a time, and then returned noticeably glassy-eyed.

Anna and Maria methodically worked their way around the room, thanking each person for his or her show of support. Fr. Dan stood alone near the kitchen, keeping an eye on the refreshment tables in case more napkins or plastic cups were needed. He was more than willing to talk with anyone who needed grief counseling, or who simply wanted to comment on topics such as life or death or faith. But so far, no one seemed interested in engaging the priest in conversation, save for a nod and a quick, “Hi Father,” or, “Gracias, Padre.”

Fr. Dan had told Anna the mourners could use the hall as long as needed, but it seemed likely the somber gathering would dissipate within an hour. Many of the people who returned from the cemetery had already grabbed a sandwich and a drink, offered their condolences to Anna, and left after no more than ten minutes.

As the number of people in the room dwindled, Fr. Dan went back into the kitchen area to check on the supply of cups, napkins, and plastic spoons. From behind a wide serving counter, he still could see out into the large room. The kitchen cupboards were very bare, a result of the parish’s poor financial situation. He located a small bag of plastic cups along with about 20 Styrofoam coffee cups, which he calculated would be enough for this day. He made a mental note to order more kitchen supplies before the next social event—assuming there were funds in the parish checking account to do so.

Closing a cupboard door, Fr. Dan was surprised to hear Anna’s voice in the kitchen behind him. He turned and saw her standing about ten feet away with her arm around the shoulder of boy who looked to be about 12 years old.

“Father Dan, do you have a moment?” she asked.

“Sure, Anna. What’s up?” he replied.

Anna walked toward the priest and said, “Father, this is Jamal.”

“Hi, Jamal,” Fr. Dan said with a smile, extending his right hand. The boy looked at Anna nervously, then reluctantly reached out and shook hands with the large man dressed in black.

“Father Dan,” Anna said, “Jamal saw something the other day, something that might be very important, but he is afraid to talk to the police about it. I promised him that he could talk to you and that you would never tell the police who told you this information. Isn’t that right, Father?”

Fr. Dan looked at Anna with a puzzled expression. He didn’t say anything. Anna’s head nodded every so slightly and her eyes pleaded with the priest to agree. He sensed her concern and said, “Oh, yeah, sure. I won’t tell anybody, Jamal.”

“Go ahead, tell him what you saw,” Anna said gently to the frightened boy. “Just tell him what you told me.”

Jamal cleared his throat and said in a quiet voice, “Well, I was walking home. It was getting dark, and I didn’t see nobody else on the street. Then I came near this car that had the, um, the motor door up.”

“The hood,” Anna said. The boy paused. She rubbed his shoulder and said, “Go on.”

Jamal took a deep breath and said, “So, um, I’m walking, and all of a sudden I hears a gun shot. I didn’t know where it come from, but it sounded real close. So I, I duck down and I hide behind the car, a silver car, in case, you know, in case there’s any more shots.”

“Then what happened?” Anna asked. Fr. Dan looked on, fascinated by the boy’s story. 

“Then I can tell somebody gets in the car. I hear the door slam shut. Then the car starts up. I can feel the pipe thing blow smoke near me. Then, then the car starts backing up—right at me! It almost runs me over!” Jamal raised his voice above a whisper for the first time.

“I had to jump out of the way onto the sidewalk, or else I woulda got run over! Then, then the car drives away real fast. And I, I look over, and that’s when I seen Jitterbug. I mean, I didn’t know it was Jitterbug then. I just seen a guy laying there with lots of blood near his head. He was wearing a red hat. So then I just start running, and I didn’t stop till I got home.”

Fr. Dan looked at Anna and silently mouthed the word, “Wow.” His own brother, the police detective, had told him just yesterday that there had been no witnesses to Jitterbug’s murder. As far as the police knew, no one in the neighborhood had seen a thing. But here was a youngster who had been there, probably ten feet away, when the shooting happened.

Anna smiled at Jamal and said, “Thank you, that was very good. Now, Jamal, tell Father Dan the other thing you told me. C’mon, you can tell him.”

“Well, um, when I was hiding behind the car, I saw the license plate.”

“You know the plate number?!” Fr. Dan blurted out. Jamal recoiled in fear. Anna quickly put both of her arms around the boy.

“Now now, that’s all right, that’s all right, Jamal. It’s OK,” she said in a soothing voice while glaring at Fr. Dan. “It’s OK,” she continued, “Father is not going to tell your name to anyone, are you?”

“No, no, Jamal. It’ll be our secret.”

“Please tell Father what you saw, Jamal,” Anna said sweetly but firmly.

“Um, OK,” the boy said. “It was white, the plate was white, with, um, red numbers. And the numbers was, ‘3-1-3-5-7.’”

Fr. Dan quietly asked, “Are you sure?”

Jamal looked a bit indignant. “Yeah, I’m sure. I gets all A’s in math class. I knows my numbers.”

“OK, good,” Fr. Dan replied. “I can tell you’re very smart. Um, I’m just going to write that down, OK? Because, um, I’m not so good with numbers, Jamal, and I’ll forget.”

He reached into his black jacket and pulled out a pen. Then he reached over and grabbed a clean napkin from a cupboard shelf. “OK, you said, ‘3-1…’ And what were the other numbers?”

“You’re not gonna tell nobody I told you, right?”

“That’s right, Jamal. I’m not going to tell anyone that you told me.”

“‘3-5-7’ Jamal said. “The last three numbers was ‘3-5-7’ on the drug dealer license plate.”

Anna bent over and gave Jamal a big hug. “Thank you so much,” she said. “Why don’t you go get some cookies over on the table?”

“Um, wait, Jamal,” Fr. Dan said, before the boy could run back to the snack table. “Why do you say it was a drug dealer license plate?”

“Cuz the plate said ‘dealer,’” he replied.

“Wait, wait,” Fr. Dan said rubbing his forehead. “You mean the word ‘dealer’ was right on the license plate?”

“Yeah, on the bottom. The top said ‘Connecticut.’”

Fr. Dan and Anna looked at each other. Anna then turned to Jamal and said, “You didn’t tell me that before.”

The youth shrugged and said, “I guess I forgot. Can I go now?”

“Yes, of course,” Anna said, patting him on the shoulder. “Thank you so much.” Visibly relieved the ordeal was over, Jamal turned and ran out of the kitchen.

“Wow,” Fr. Dan said, this time out loud. “That’s amazing. I can’t believe he was right there.”

“Father,” Anna said, “You must give this information to your brother, the policeman.”

“You bet I will,” he replied.

“But Father,” she quickly added in a pleading tone, “Please, you must not tell him Jamal’s name. You promised. Please, will you do that for me?”

He looked at her and thought to himself, I’d do anything for you, Anna. The words he actually said were, “Of course. I promised the kid. I’ll tell my brother it’s a confidentiality of the confessional situation, or something.”

She smiled, then hugged him tightly and said, “Thank you, Father Dan. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

The priest could feel a warm glow surge through his body. I DO know what I would do WITH you, he thought, and I really shouldn’t even be thinking about it. Then he looked out over the counter at the remaining few people in the large room and noticed that some of them were staring at him and Anna. He felt his face turn bright red and he clumsily pushed Anna away. “Um, OK, right,” he said nervously. “You, uh, you should say goodbye to the guests. Some of them are, um, are leaving.”

Fr. Dan quickly led Anna through the kitchen doorway and back into the large room. Then he mumbled, “Excuse me,” and hurried to the other side of the room, as far from her as possible. During his brief lust-turned-to-panic moment, he had forgotten all about Jamal’s information. When he regained his senses, he left the social hall and walked quickly toward the rectory to make a phone call to his brother.

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