shaking two aspirin out of the bottle, I said, “I heard someone scream.”
“I didn’t hear no scream.”
“You were inside,” I reminded him, “and making a lot of chewing noises.”
Knuckles sat in the other armchair. “So who screamed?”
I washed down two aspirin with Coke and said, “I found one of the brothers facedown on the ground by the library. Didn’t see him at first in his black habit, almost fell over him.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know. A heavy guy. I rolled him over, couldn’t see his face in the dark—then someone tried to brain me from behind.”
His brush-cut hair seemed to bristle with indignation. “This don’t sound like St. Bart’s.”
“The club, whatever it was, grazed the back of my head, and my left shoulder took the worst of it.”
“We might as well be in Jersey, stuff like this goin’ down.”
“I’ve never been to New Jersey.”
“You’d like it. Even where it’s bad, Jersey is always real.”
“They’ve got one of the world’s largest used-tire dumps. You’ve probably seen it.”
“Never did. Ain’t that sad? You live in a place most of your life, you take it for granted.”
“You didn’t even know about the tire dump, sir?”
“People, they live in New York City all their lives, never go to the top of the Empire State Building. You okay, son? Your shoulder?”
“I’ve been worse.”
“Maybe you should go to the infirmary, ring Brother Gregory, have your shoulder examined.”
Brother Gregory is the infirmarian. He has a nursing degree.
The size of the monastic community isn’t sufficient to justify a full-time infirmarian—especially since the sisters have one of their own for the convent and for the children at the school—so Brother Gregory also does the laundry with Brother Norbert.
“I’ll be okay, sir,” I assured him.
“So who tried to knock your block off?”
“Never got a look at him.”
I explained how I had rolled and run, thinking my assailant was at my heels, and how the monk I’d almost fallen over was gone when I returned.
“So we don’t know,” said Knuckles, “did he get up on his own and walk away or was he carried.”
“We don’t know, either, if he was just unconscious or dead.”
Frowning, Knuckles said, “I don’t like dead. Anyway, it don’t make sense. Who would kill a monk?”
“Yes, sir, but who would knock one unconscious?”
Knuckles brooded for a moment. “One time this guy whacked a Lutheran preacher, but he didn’t mean to.”
“I don’t think you should be telling me this, sir.”
With a wave of a hand, he dismissed my concern. His strong hands appear to be all knuckles, hence his nickname.
“I don’t mean it was me. I told you, I never done the big one. You do believe me on that score, don’t you, son?”
“Yes, sir. But you did say this was an accidental whack.”
“Never offed no one accidental either.”
“All right then.”
Brother Knuckles, formerly Salvatore Giancomo, had been well-paid muscle for the mob before God turned his life around.
“Busted faces, broke some legs, but I never chilled no one.”
When he was forty, Knuckles had begun to have second thoughts about his career path. He felt “empty, driftin’, like a rowboat out on the sea and nobody in it.”
During this crisis of confidence, because of death threats to his boss—Tony “the Eggbeater” Martinelli—Knuckles and some other guys like him were sleeping-over at the boss’s home. It wasn’t a pajamas-and-s’mores kind of sleepover, but the kind of sleepover where everyone brings his two favorite automatic weapons. Anyway, one evening, Knuckles found himself reading a story to the Eggbeater’s six-year-old daughter.
The tale was about a toy, a china-rabbit doll, that was proud of his appearance and thoroughly self-satisfied. Then the rabbit endured a series of terrible misfortunes that humbled him, and with humility came empathy for the suffering of others.
The girl fell asleep with
“I didn’t hear no scream.”
“You were inside,” I reminded him, “and making a lot of chewing noises.”
Knuckles sat in the other armchair. “So who screamed?”
I washed down two aspirin with Coke and said, “I found one of the brothers facedown on the ground by the library. Didn’t see him at first in his black habit, almost fell over him.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know. A heavy guy. I rolled him over, couldn’t see his face in the dark—then someone tried to brain me from behind.”
His brush-cut hair seemed to bristle with indignation. “This don’t sound like St. Bart’s.”
“The club, whatever it was, grazed the back of my head, and my left shoulder took the worst of it.”
“We might as well be in Jersey, stuff like this goin’ down.”
“I’ve never been to New Jersey.”
“You’d like it. Even where it’s bad, Jersey is always real.”
“They’ve got one of the world’s largest used-tire dumps. You’ve probably seen it.”
“Never did. Ain’t that sad? You live in a place most of your life, you take it for granted.”
“You didn’t even know about the tire dump, sir?”
“People, they live in New York City all their lives, never go to the top of the Empire State Building. You okay, son? Your shoulder?”
“I’ve been worse.”
“Maybe you should go to the infirmary, ring Brother Gregory, have your shoulder examined.”
Brother Gregory is the infirmarian. He has a nursing degree.
The size of the monastic community isn’t sufficient to justify a full-time infirmarian—especially since the sisters have one of their own for the convent and for the children at the school—so Brother Gregory also does the laundry with Brother Norbert.
“I’ll be okay, sir,” I assured him.
“So who tried to knock your block off?”
“Never got a look at him.”
I explained how I had rolled and run, thinking my assailant was at my heels, and how the monk I’d almost fallen over was gone when I returned.
“So we don’t know,” said Knuckles, “did he get up on his own and walk away or was he carried.”
“We don’t know, either, if he was just unconscious or dead.”
Frowning, Knuckles said, “I don’t like dead. Anyway, it don’t make sense. Who would kill a monk?”
“Yes, sir, but who would knock one unconscious?”
Knuckles brooded for a moment. “One time this guy whacked a Lutheran preacher, but he didn’t mean to.”
“I don’t think you should be telling me this, sir.”
With a wave of a hand, he dismissed my concern. His strong hands appear to be all knuckles, hence his nickname.
“I don’t mean it was me. I told you, I never done the big one. You do believe me on that score, don’t you, son?”
“Yes, sir. But you did say this was an accidental whack.”
“Never offed no one accidental either.”
“All right then.”
Brother Knuckles, formerly Salvatore Giancomo, had been well-paid muscle for the mob before God turned his life around.
“Busted faces, broke some legs, but I never chilled no one.”
When he was forty, Knuckles had begun to have second thoughts about his career path. He felt “empty, driftin’, like a rowboat out on the sea and nobody in it.”
During this crisis of confidence, because of death threats to his boss—Tony “the Eggbeater” Martinelli—Knuckles and some other guys like him were sleeping-over at the boss’s home. It wasn’t a pajamas-and-s’mores kind of sleepover, but the kind of sleepover where everyone brings his two favorite automatic weapons. Anyway, one evening, Knuckles found himself reading a story to the Eggbeater’s six-year-old daughter.
The tale was about a toy, a china-rabbit doll, that was proud of his appearance and thoroughly self-satisfied. Then the rabbit endured a series of terrible misfortunes that humbled him, and with humility came empathy for the suffering of others.
The girl fell asleep with
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