Father's Habit (Z-Spot Diaries Book 2)

Father’s Habit

Episode Two of the Z-Spot Diaries

by

Zoe Scarlatti

Copyright © 2015 Word Traction, LLC - All rights reserved

She sat in a pew nearly halfway down the aisle of the church’s nave. Zoe had attended parochial school during her elementary grades. She could never sit comfortably in a church again. Her problem. Not His. Male pronoun referring to whoever was running the show these days.

There was always the imputed judgment. The nuns had counseled:
It’s God’s house
.
We’re all the same under His roof.
If made in His image. The precise image of a white male. And unless, of course, you were gay, Jewish, poor, Muslim, a felon, or worked for Planned Parenthood.

But here she was now. One of them. Well. Not exactly one of them. Amongst them. Maybe taking it for a test drive. Trying an old outfit on for size.

Zoe had driven to Montreal from Boston. A flight would certainly have been easier. Faster. And only a thirty minute drive to Old Montreal from Montreal-Pierre Elliott Trudeau International (Sign Painters Union-approved) Airport.

But one of the main tenets of her chosen profession: Always arrive with an exit strategy. Coursework during her B-School days might have characterized it as Strategic Planning. Or the Paris equivalent.

Her main concentration was Murders & Executions…sorry…Mergers & Acquisitions, and although that semester was nearly two decades in the past, she still allowed her mind to function within that discipline. Or one of its corollaries.

Zoe was never certain a thoughtfully positioned getaway car would be necessary. She only knew it had to be there. A condition precedent to
go time
ingrained and informed by life experiences. Euphemism for
previous fuck-ups.

              And besides, they were so prickly at the TSA Terminal Checkpoints these days. Even fourteen years after 9/11 it was difficult to pass muster using a false identity. And the cameras. And the Old Spice. And the little bursts of C4-sniffing cool air blowing in the general direction of your Coochie…

No, if logistics allowed she preferred to drive. Her family kept a stable of ever-changing vehicles, aided by the cozy relationship with both a Mercedes and Ford dealership her Uncle never quite owned on paper.

Seated in this magnificent Basilica. Notre-Dame.
Our Lady.
What foundational principles of the Catholic religion remained important in Zoe’s life? Along with the loss in faith, she failed to believe any element applied to her any longer. If ever.

And as the name implies, if any mother,
Notre
or not, was scribbling doctrine instead of celibate old dudes who drink more than a wee dram…

For Zoe’s part, emphatic check marks right down the list to
not covet your neighbor’s wife
. She had hit all ten marks in one way or
a
nother. Would absolution be possible just on the grounds she honored her father, and never banged the Ox or Donkey next door?

Staring down the aisle, and marveling at the sublime effect of light through stained-glass. Fairly shimmering on this late winter day. The Catholic Church had violated just about every rule themselves. Golden Idols or otherwise. Constructing temples of excess in tribute to the Vatican. And that was the least of it. But sure as shit kbew how to make a window.

In the past two decades, revelations linking the Catholic Church and child sexual abuse were legion. It seemed that not one archdiocese in the home country had been spared. And precious few of the kids.

In an act of capriciousness. Of veritable callousness, the Church dealt with the issue by moving the Deity’s Diddlers around in a sadistic game of Pederastic Musical Chars.

But why contract for the services of a professional in Zoe’s line of work? The scourge of sexual assault was being handled so aggressively by the courts and law enforcement. Why not let justice win out? Particularly when the acts in question took place under Church auspices? In fact, took place on Church premises?

The precipitating factor was one which had reared its head in prior engagements. To often lucrative effect. Statutes of Limitation.

If an offending padre, vicar, priest, imam or rabbi had allowed fifteen years to elapse since the final offending act, the Massachusetts Statutes allow that, even in the case of rape, the predators cannot be tried and convicted of the crime. The statute may be tolled in many cases until the youth reaches the age of majority. But although time heals wounds, it rarely is beneficial to evidentiary value. You haven’t listened to Serial?

Oftentimes the Statute imbues the issue with a degree of ambivalence. Zoe did not need to hate the perpetrator to take on an assignment. Much as she didn’t need to love the victim. Many of her clients were vile and repugnant. But Zoe had practiced law in the Commonweath for a number of years prior to joining the family business. Enough said.

              Zoe was dressed in a black Armani suit. Dressed elegantly, but not ostentatiously. She had mentioned to a layperson working the narthex that she wished to have the priest hear her confession. Zoe spoke in her classically annunciated French, but haltingly. Hesitantly.

Brief sidelong glance of distain all Québécois will flash towards the first sound of a Parisian’s accent. Zoe finally asked if there was a priest available who spoke Italian.
Twist the knife.

After a brief word with a nun who was seated in a small aumbry adjacent to the cloak room, the acolyte returned to inform Zoe of the good news. Old news perhaps, but it was what she needed to hear.

“Father DiMaggio is in the rear.” Zoe thought that an ironic turn of phrase. “Apparently his tête-à-tête with the Bishop is coming to a happy ending.” Zoe’s face remained impassive.
Oh behave.

She returned along the main aisle through the nave and crossed the pews to the left wall. From that vantage point, Zoe could see the vestibule from which the priest would alight, while keeping an eye on any activity towards the front.

Zoe had planned her time of arrival well. Late morning, after any worshipers stopping in for a Eucharistic Elixir before work. Midweek lull in general activity.

And merely four months removed from Canada’s own brush with Jihadist Masturbation in Ottawa, just 200 kilometers away from Montreal. The attack had struck deeply at the psyche of Canadians. The country shared much of the pain of 9/11 to the south. But learning it was an American problem, and not limited to the United States, was sobering for this most gracious populace on the planet.

Overall security follows an embarrassingly predictable pattern after a strike. Governments want to show their citizenry they were prepared, despite all the evidence to the contrary. That they will make provisions to protect all citizens, which they can’t. And score points against opponents, which they shouldn’t.

Approaching the border this morning, Zoe felt if she’d had her music tuned any louder she might have wakened the guards. Not sufficient numbers of cameras placed around the landmarks. Churches generally attracted a good deal less attention than synagogues. And mosques for a different reason. Zoe’s planned departure, and back-up plans two, three, and four, all had her leaving through a different border control point with a different automobile.

The nape of Zoe’s neck started to tingle and her scalp began to perspire. She always felt the electric sensation along the ganglia as a contact grew closer. She did not experience a sexual thrill when she ended the life of another. Maybe it was more an anticipatory exhilaration.

Heat from her scalp was more practically explained. The combination of the wig and modest mourning hat were not comfortable. But it wouldn’t be all that great a day for at least one other player either.

She saw the priest pass through the door behind the altar, and move across the chancel. Zoe made her way to the confessional so she would be inside before he reached her.

Atonement? Absolution? Perhaps in another life.

Not much chance of that either, come to think of it. Maybe if she paid in advance online.

Once the man was seated and finished with the perfunctory mumblings associated with this sort of ritual, he addressed Zoe:

“Are you troubled my child?”

Her initial impulse nearly caused a question to form on her lips:
How many hours do you have?

And he had asked in unaccented English. So instead she whispered:

“Inglese…difficile” And more faintly still, wanting him closer to the screen. “Italiano perfavore.”

Zoe heard him shift his weight, saw a shadow come more fully across the intricate woodwork. She smelled wine and garlic. Lingerings from last evening’s meal.

Zoe made muffled noises with her mouth and throat that might have sounded like sobbing. She couldn’t remember crying at anytime in her life. This troubled her, but never interfered. And not quite as dramatically as it had once troubled the three late shrinks with whom she’d discussed the issue. Another story. Another day.

The sound of the priest leaning closer. Assuring her that Jesus had died for our sins, and…

She had an entire manifesto on the tip of her tongue. A litany. How the man had sexually exploited young men who had looked up to him in a South Boston parish. Now over twenty-five years ago. How she knew it must have continued.

But what was the use? She was not here to offer her opinions on orthoidoxy or hypocracy. She was a girl with a job to do.

Zoe withdrew the impossibly long hypodermic needle and held it steadily next to the screen.
Just business.
Apparent heart attack. In a man of 72, not unheard of. Used the same method countless times. But against her better judgment, she whispered, now in English:

“If you hadn’t put on the habit before you fucked them, you still would be dead. But you ruined every Sally Fields movie ever made.

“
Arrivederci.
”

###

@ZoeScarlatti

Episode Three drops February 15, 2015