The Last Reflexive Ch. 05

By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret.

Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum

Chapter Five: The Ride's Up to You

I entered a crowded tavern within five minutes' walk of the Church and stepped up to the bar. The clientele was a sampling from the neighborhood. Here were shopkeepers on lunch, the elderly, some loudmouths, and the usual crowd I'm sure. One can tell by the way they interact with the bartender. Some were reserved, and even high brow, others anything but reserved, and very low brow. All the televisions in the tavern were tuned to today's horserace.

No one seemed to notice me as I order a bonded-bourbon straight up. This was a real tavern. They even carried my brand, Old Grand-Dad. As you may expect I befriended one of the old bartenders and exchanged words with him in Italian. It seemed he took to me immediately, and I felt sure he mistook me for one of the syndicate boys. After a while, he told me that his name was Guiseppe and asked if I played the ponies. I told him that I did occasionally, but was tired of losing. He gave me a tip on today's third race with a wink, Mean Colleen. I smiled and thanked him.

I told Guiseppe that I had business to take care of, but I'd return afterwards. I then asked him, in a quiet voice that let him know I was serious, if he could show me another way of leaving. After a generous tip, he showed me a back door that led into the alley. He was more then happy to aid with intrigue and told me to come back soon. I thanked him, saying I'd see him later. It was a short walk down the alley where I found a side door into the church.

Upon entering, I was greeted with the scent of incense, and light streaming through a window shaped like a rose. It was an old church, built by artisans who took pride in painstakingly creating works of beauty. Such people are long gone and no longer appreciated by a people being driven into poverty and dependency by bureaucratic parasites who live on the sweat of others, burdening society with regulations and over taxation more onerous then those found in Russia.

Beautiful statues and flickering candles encircled the giant cathedral. Since it was a Monday morning, the church was mostly empty. I walked to a pew with my head bowed in reverence, glancing around furtively. Having been an altar boy, I remembered only too well how to act, and genuflected before entering. I knelt and put my hands together as if in prayer. Before I could look up, the scent of Chanel preceded the figure that slid into the pew next to me. It was Harriette, with her blouse buttoned to the neck, appearing somewhat subdued, though not her voice.

"Right on time, fly boy," she said softly. "So, I know you're no snake-lawyer, because God didn't fry your ass when you crossed the threshold." She clasped her hands together, glanced around and then back to me. "So, whaddaya want with me, and just what are you doing with my father's forty-five," Harriette asked in a demanding whisper.

"Harriette, it's a story you deserve to hear. But it's a bit long and I don't want to disturb anyone, so..." I began in a hushed tone. I looked into her eyes and could see an uneasy calm. It was a story she didn't want to hear, but needed too. She'd waited a long time to hear the truth about her father's death and was probably living a nightmare over the lies told her by the State Department. And on top of that, I was about to ask for her help in aiding the Organization on a mission, just as her father had requested of me back in 1969. After a long interval she nodded to the left, in the direction of an almost hidden portal.

"My lead. Left of the altar. There's a vestibule through that door," she said. We stood and I followed her into an empty room. It was very still until an elderly priest entered. He appeared unconcerned with my presence, and smiled at Harriette.

"Ah, Harriette, my favorite daughter," he said in broken English. He was a giant Italian, a mountain of a man, with a rough face and thick gray hair. He looked like one tough character, an ex-boxer from the old school. He refused to turn the altar to face his congregation when Pope John XXIII and his Second Vatican Council did away with the mysteries of the Sacraments by having the altar turned to the congregation, turning masses into social gatherings for non-believers.

"Father," Harriette responded with a smile.

"What brings you here on a Monday? Ah, daughter, I remember, the 14th. I'm still so sorry. But perhaps you've been doing research into what I've told you. How, in 1911, the owners of large corporations, who also influenced all major newspapers, successfully bribed enough Democrats and Republicans to take away our right to fair representation in Congress by limiting their numbers, guaranteeing racist control for years to come, and too, curtailing our right to redress of grievances. I thought the Nazi's who invaded my home town were evil, but..." the priest started in his verbose way.

"Father Costanzo," Harriette interrupted gently, making the sign of the cross and taking his hand. "Yes, Father, but it was preceded by an even more vile act, the Sixteenth Amendment to our Constitution. When in 1909 they declared themselves demi-gods, and we their money trough. It's a power no person or group of people should be allowed. But, I'm afraid I must bother you. I hope you don't mind if I use the parlor? I'll be happy to discuss vulgar politics later. This dude's gonna tell me about my father," Harriette said quietly.

"Oh my, certainly, my dear, certainly, certainly. That's a bit more important then our discussing the dumbing down of an entire nation," he said leaning close to her. "Remember what I told you, the Apocalypse is a war to be fought in the collective unconscious battlefield of humanity, and you must be prepared psychologically, as the Lord teaches."

"Thank you father, but my father" she said reverently.

"Oh, yes, yes, dear."

"I'll let you know what I find out," Harriette said, glancing at me. "Um, Padre, this is Dude." Father Costanzo looked at me with hand extended and I reached to shake it. Sure enough, I found his hand large and coarse, that of a working man, the kind of man you can trust, a man who only wants what he earns, and only what he needs. I grinned and he smiled warmly in return.

"You seem to be someone supporting an enormous weight," he said as if reading my thoughts.

"Father," I said carefully, our eyes meeting.

"Dude," he reiterated with a nod, very quietly through pursed lips. "Harriette, please use the parlor on the second floor, it's more secluded and you're less likely to be interrupted."

"Thanks, Padre. I'll be sure to leave an offering for the poor when we're finished," Harriette replied, reaching to give him a hug without disturbing our handshake. I remained mute as he continued to study me around Harriette's hug. He finally produced a small grin, loosened the grip on my hand, and turned to Harriette who had since loosed her grip on him.

"I'll make certain you're not disturbed," he said making to leave. "I must go now. It's time to hear confessions. May the blessings of the Lord be with you. Both of you."

"Again, thanks, Padre," Harriette murmured to the departing figure. When he was out of sight, she turned back to me, a question in her eyes. "Second floor, eh? Come on," she muttered. Once again, I trailed behind as she led the way up some steps, obviously familiar with the rectory. The room we entered on the second floor was rather large and comfortable. It had several chairs, a desk, refrigerator and a television. Someone had to have been watching the tube, as it was still on. We settled into chairs and looked at each other intently.

"Okay. Happy Valentine's Day to you, too," Harriette finally began in a defensive salvo. "No roses, no candy, and no card. I don't know you from fukin', er, freaking Adam, but you have my father's gun. Who in the hell are you and what do you want my ass for," she finished bluntly. She glanced at the television, then back to me. I could hear a sportscaster droning on in the background.

"This is the first race today. The horses are slowly parading onto the track..." the voice stated, introducing each as it came into view. "...And here comes Sarge, number fourteen, wearing green and yellow..." Harriette quickly inhaled, mumbled, and pulled out her cell phone. I sat there waiting for the right moment, content on allowing her time to settle down, and maybe ask. I wasn't here to assault her with truth, as she dodged and evaded me. "Seems you came some distance to talk with me Dude, but consider your flight delayed, okay? This'll only take a minute... Oh, by the way, nice set of wheels ya pilot."

Harriette punched some numbers and soon spoke with someone she called Lil' Ant'ny. She wagered a considerable sum on Sarge, beginning to end the call with a trail of expletives. From the gist of her words and the odds posted on the television, I surmised that 'Sarge' was not her bookie's favorite. Regardless, Harriette insisted on placing the bet.

"Mean Colleen, in the third," I offered before Harriette got off the phone. Harriette looked at me and must have liked what she heard because she placed another bet.

"Ass clown," she muttered, snapping the phone closed. She then turned her attention to me. Sort of.

"I've been waiting to watch this horse run. It'll only take a few for the race and then..." Harriette said, pulling her eyes from the screen to look at me for a second before continuing. "...And then we'll have our little chat, until the third race." She pulled out a cigarette and lit it, offering me one. "Smoke?"

"No, thank you I don't enjoy tobacco," I answered, watching the excitement build. "That was a small wager you made."

"What's it to you?"

"Sorry... I..."

"Want a beer," Harriette interrupted, exploding from her chair, the top button of her blouse popping open as she raced to the small refrigerator. "Damn, I need that one, too." She hunched down producing the button, and slipping it into her skirt pocket.

"No thanks," I replied."

"Good, all the more for me." She looked at me, then started back to her chair.

"So, like to bet," she goaded, the sound of her church key popping the top.

"No, but it's not hard to figure what you like about this horse," I countered. Harriette's eyes narrowed.

"Got more than a gut feeling this time, I can tell ya that. It's a name with a double meaning today, ha, not that you'd know anything about that..." she trailed off. "...But hells bells! Call it intuition! How can I go wrong," she bellowed. She put the bottle to her lips and took a swig, along with another puff. "Just watch. He'll win, and then Lil' Ant'ny and the rest of those sons-of-bitches will think twice before laughing at me," she gloated confidently. I remained mute as Harriette prepared for the race. "Horses aren't my forte. I actually prefer and am far better betting on football. College and pro," she finished, glancing at me.

With horses in their gates, ready and raring to go, Harriette hunched forward, to the edge of her seat. The laws of physics said she should have toppled from her perch, but she didn't. Like a coiled spring, its energy waiting to burst free, Harriette's body tensed to her focusing on the screen with intensity. She not only ignored her cigarette but also her beer, and me as well. I waited patiently, my mind on what I needed to tell this hyper-woman and how I would begin. I couldn't allow my feelings to interfere. I'd come too far and there was too much at stake. I only hoped I could impress upon her the seriousness of our situation, the fate of our society rested on it. Somehow, I knew she would. She was too much like the Sarge, her dad.

The gun sounded and the race began. Harriette's pick was last out of the gate and I smiled to myself. 'Sarge' looked as if he'd a mind of his own and appeared to be giving his jockey a bit of trouble. By the first quarter mile things looked sad for Harriette, but that didn't last long. By the half mile, after a struggle between jockey and horse, they appeared to meld and become one. Then, coming down the stretch they finally cut loose and Sarge moved quickly to challenge the lead. In a finish that kept me riveted, the two horses galloped to the wire, Sarge crossing the line first, winning by a nose.

As it was, Harriette didn't look to be the thirty-some years of age her file indicated. And she appeared even younger when she jumped up to skip around the room like a five-year-old. Seemed quite natural for some reason. With eyes aglow and face flushed with both victory and joy, she suddenly remembered me and stood in front of my chair, each of her arms on those of my chair. She looked at me and growled.

"Who were you to my Dad?"