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.
