Free Dancer in the Flames by Stephen Solomita Page B

anonymity implied by the deeply shadowed confessional and the screen separating priest from penitent. But it was a different church now, growing more informal every day, a process that had begun with the end of the Latin mass. Brooklyn Catholics had yet to forgive the Vatican for that foray into the vernacular. If they’d wanted to be Protestants, their reasoning went, they’d have backed Martin Luther during the Reformation.
    Boots kicked it off with the easy part: his temper, with which he’d been struggling for many years. Although Frankie Drago figured prominently in the list of offenses he presented, the bookmaker was far from alone.
    Father Gubetti listened carefully until Boots finished, then asked the obvious question: ‘Have you been trying to control yourself? Have you made an effort?’
    ‘Well, that’s just the point. It’s easy to say you won’t lose your temper when you’re calm. But then . . .’ Boots looked down at his hands, then up at Gubetti. ‘Some of these assholes, Leo, they’re lucky I don’t kill ’em. And I think you know what I mean.’
    The priest managed a weak smile. He’d been pistol-whipped by a mugger in 2004. A day later, when he regained consciousness, his first thoughts were of personal revenge. He still couldn’t recall the incident without becoming angry.
    ‘Go ahead, Boots,’ he said.
    This time, when Boots looked down at his hands, he didn’t raise his eyes. ‘What I’m gonna tell you next, about a drug dealer named Carlos Malaguez, happened about three months ago. Malaguez was wanted for second-degree assault and he’d done a disappearing act. I’d been tryin’ to run him down for several weeks, with no luck, until I finally got a call from the victim’s sister, who was also Malaguez’s cousin. She told me that Carlos was stayin’ at an apartment on India Street. What I should have done at that point was notify the lieutenant and request back-up. But I didn’t. Instead, I found the patrol car assigned to that sector and drafted the two uniforms inside.’
    As he organized his thoughts, Boots ran a finger beneath his tie, from his throat to the top of his vest, then touched each of the vest’s pearl-gray buttons. Finally, he began to speak, his voice distant, as if he was witnessing his own story.
    ‘Malaguez was dead. Of a drug overdose, the way it turned out. Even standing in the hall, you could smell him. One of the uniforms wanted to kick the door in, but there was no point. I sent down for the super and a set of keys. Leo, the stench when I opened that door was enough to knock you on your ass. And you can trust me on this, those two patrolmen were pathetically grateful when I told them to wait outside while I secured the residence.
    ‘Carlos was lying on the couch when I walked into the apartment. He was swollen up double, his skin almost black. I figured he’d been dead for at least three days, but I could’ve been wrong. The apartment was very hot. Anyway, I didn’t bother with him. There was a scale and a set of works on a coffee table, along with several grams of what looked like heroin. When I saw the dope, I knew Carlos hadn’t been robbed, knew it right away. That’s how come I decided to search the apartment instead of waitin’ for a warrant. You hear what I’m sayin’, right? I knew what I was gonna do, assuming I got lucky, and I didn’t stop myself.’
    Leo Gubetti regarded Boots for a moment: the gray suit, the vest, the ankle-boots. Unlike Frankie Drago, Father Leo believed that he understood the man beneath the suit. ‘And did you get lucky, Boots?’ he asked.
    ‘Yeah, in a drawer in the bedroom dresser. I found a couple of ounces of dope and a roll of money. I didn’t count the money. I just put it in my pocket.’
    ‘And the heroin?’
    Boots sniffed. ‘I left it where it was. What’d you think?’
    ‘All right, don’t get on your high horse. How much money are we talking about?’
    ‘Forty-five hundred.’
    ‘Was