Free Bad Luck by Anthony Bruno

their souls. They were worse than stupid.
    At the next corner they waited for the light and crossed Ninth Avenue. From the crosswalk Sister Cil could see the narrow redbrick church wedged between the tenements on the side street, a single slate-roofed steeple standing tall over the surrounding squalor. Sister Cil smiled when she spotted the name of the church in the glass case bolted to the brick front. Our Lady of Mercy Roman Catholic Church. Same as the hospital where they had done so much good for Sal when he was so sick. Cil brushed a tear of hope from the corner of her eye. It was a sign, a good sign. Mr. Mistretta wouldn’t disappoint the girls, she knew it.
    They climbed the stone steps and Mr. Mistretta pushed through the heavy oak doors. The vestibule was dim, of course, filled with the smell of burning candle wax and the lingering scent of incense from past funeral services. They dipped their fingers in the white marble holy-water font and crossed themselves, then went into the nave and took a pew near the front. The church was empty. Sister Cil noticed that the floor was old, cracked, marble-patterned linoleum and that there was no Jesus on the cross over the altar. It was just a simple wooden cross with a little carving on the top. A poor parish.
    She was just detaching her rosary beads from the sash of her habit when a column of light suddenly appeared in the center aisle, beaming in from the vestibule. She heard the front doors close with a wooden bump, and the light was gone. Then she heard the footsteps coming down the aisle. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the tall man with the curly hair, the parole officer. Oh, God, no!
    The man’s step had a proud, careless rhythm as he walked up to the pew behind theirs. He stepped in sideways and took a seat right behind them. She blinked behind her glasses and pressed her forearm against her nervousstomach. She could feel his eyes on her back. He just sat there, watching them, didn’t even have the courtesy to pretend to be here for prayer. Bad enough that he was sent by the devil to thwart her plan, he was rude and disrespectful as well. The product of a public-school education no doubt. Disgraceful. Incensed, Sister Cil turned around in her seat and looked him in the eye.
    She held up her rosary and let the cross dangle in front of the awful man’s face. “You’re welcome to join us, young man,” she said primly, “if you’re here to pray.”
    Mistretta turned around. “Yeah, come on, Saperstein.” He held up his own black rosary. “Here, you can use my beads.”
    Saperstein looked from one to the other, his mouth set. “No thanks,” he muttered, then left the pew and moved back to the vestibule to watch them from the doorway.
    They settled in then, kneeling down on the padded kneelers, elbows on the pew back in front of them, rosaries dangling, and started to pray. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women . . .” Mistretta’s voice was low and grumbly, hers was a clear mezzo. They prayed together just as they had at the prison.
    They finished the first Hail Mary and simultaneously swallowed one bead between their thumbs and index fingers. Mr. Mistretta started the next Hail Mary by himself.
    â€œSal has a very interesting proposal before him right now,” she said in a droning, singsong rhythm that mimicked his Hail Mary. “He wants your permission to go ahead with it.” She turned and faced him slightly so he could hear. This was how she had delivered messages to him at Allenwood. It had been his idea. He said his gravelly voice would cover her higher pitch if they were ever bugged. Mr. Mistretta was a very cautious man.
    â€œRussell Nashe suggested it to him.”
    Mistretta looked up at her. His eyes bulged a bit. She inhaled sharply, a sudden pain piercing her side. Should’ve had a little something to eat before she came, but