“He’s here somewhere.” The commissioner chuckled at his own joke.
Rudy had never been inside a confession booth before. It was smaller and gloomier than he had imagined; the only light was a tiny amber bulb plugged into a wall socket.
Roberto had planted his fat ass on the kneeling cushion with his back to the screen. Rudy checked to make sure there wasn’t a priest on the other side, listening. Priests could be awful quiet when they wanted.
“Remember,” the commissioner said, raising a finger. “Whisper.”
Right, Rudy thought, like I was going to belt out a Gershwin tune. “Of all the screwy places to do this,” he said.
“It’s quiet,” Roberto Pepsical said. “And very safe.”
“And very small,” Rudy added. “You had anchovies for dinner, didn’t you?”
“There are no secrets here,” said Roberto.
With difficulty, Rudy wedged himself and the Samsonite next to the commissioner on the kneeling bench. Roberto’s body heat bathed both of them in a warm acrid fog, and Rudy wondered how long the oxygen would hold out. He had never heard of anyone suffocating in confession; on the other hand, that was exactly the sort of incident the Catholics would cover up.
“You ready?” Roberto asked with a wink. “What’s that in your pocket?”
“Unfortunately, that’s a subpoena. Some creep got me on the way out of the clinic tonight.” Rudy had been in such a hurry that he hadn’t even looked at the court papers; he was somewhat accustomed to getting sued.
Roberto said, “No wonder you’re in such a lousy mood.”
“It’s not that so much as what happened to my new car. It got vandalized—actually, scoured is the word for it.”
“The Jag? That’s terrible.”
“Oh, it’s been a splendid day,” Rudy said. “Absolutely splendid.”
“Getting back to the money … “
“I’ve got it right here.” The doctor opened the suitcase across both their laps, and the confessional was filled with the sharp scent of new money. Rudy Graveline was overwhelmed—it really did smell. Robert picked up a brick of hundred-dollar bills. “I thought I said twenties.”
“Yeah, and I would’ve needed a bloody U-Haul.”
Roberta Pepsical snapped off the bank wrapper and counted out ten thousand dollars on the floor between his feet. Then he added up the other bundles in the suitcase to make sure the total came to one twenty-five.
Grinning, he held up one of the loose hundreds. “I don’t see many of these. Whose picture is that—Eisenhower’s?”
“No,” said Rudy, stonily.
“What’d the bank say? About you taking all these big bills.”
“Nothing,” Rudy said. “This is Miami, Bobby.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Ebulliently the commissioner restacked the cash bundles and packed them in the Samsonite. He scooped up the loose ten thousand dollars and shoved the thick wad into the pockets of his suit. “This was a smart thing you did.”
Rudy said, “I’m not so sure.”
“You know that plan I told you about … about licensing the medical clinics and all that? Me and The Others, we decided to drop the whole thing. We figure that doctors like you got enough rules and regulations as it is.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Rudy Graveline. He wished he had brought some Certs. Roberta could use a whole roll.
“How about a drink?” the commissioner asked. “We could stop at the Versailles, get a couple pitchers o’ sangria.”
“Yum.”
“Hey, it’s my treat.”
“Thanks,” said the doctor, “but first you know what I’d like to do? I’d like to say a prayer. I’d like to thank the Lord that this problem with Cypress Towers is finally over.”
Roberto shrugged. “Go ahead.”
“Is it all right, Bobby? I mean, since I’m not Catholic.”
“No problem.” The commissioner grunted to his feet, turned around in the booth and got to his knees. The cushion squeaked under his weight. “Do like this,” he said.
Rudy Graveline, who was slimmer, had an easier time with the turnaround maneuver. With the suitcase propped between them, the two men knelt side by side, facing the grated screen through which confessions were heard.
“So pray,” Roberto Pepsical said. “I’ll wait till you’re done. Fact, I might even do a couple Hail Marys myself, long as I’m here.”