Empire Falls

fine with Miles, though he hated to lose her on the floor, which she owned like no one else. Ironically, Charlene was the one who’d been looking forward to hustling drinks, which would double her tips. Still, he understood that at forty-five, after twenty-some years and God knew how many miles up and down the floor of the Empire Grill, she wanted and possibly needed a change.
    That wasn’t the only thing he’d come to understand about the woman he’d loved since high school. He also knew that she and his brother were lovers and probably had been for some time, having agreed to keep this secret in order not to hurt his feelings. David would’ve argued for honesty, but Charlene would have said no, not yet. The realization had come to him in stages, beginning back in September at the Lamplighter when he came in and saw Charlene sitting alone in the half-moon booth. Right next to her draft beer sat David’s glass of tonic, the two drinks forming a tableau of intimacy, even in the absence of one of the drinkers. Later, when she’d followed his brother outside, Miles had watched through the window, and something about the way they’d stood together in the parking lot registered without him even knowing. He glanced down the counter at him now, as he, too, followed Charlene’s turn into the restaurant, smiling until he felt his brother’s gaze, then meeting Miles’s eye. Yes? Miles asked by raising his eyebrows. Yes, his brother nodded.
    They might have had more to say on the subject, but the phone rang just then. “Miles Roby?” said a voice Miles didn’t recognize.
    “Yeah.”
    “Did you know your wife’s on upper Empire Avenue screaming obscenities and kicking in the side of your Jeep?”
    “Here,” Miles said, handing the phone to the Silver Fox. “It’s for you.”
    W HEN HE GOT OUT of the shower, the phone was ringing again, his private line this time. Janine, he thought. He’d not wanted to divorce his wife, and as their final dissolution drew nearer, it had occurred to him that he might actually miss hearing her piss and moan and rant and rave and sob her heart out. For as long as he’d known her, Janine had kept up a pretty constant head of steam, and in truth he’d been looking forward to having Walt Comeau assume the responsibility for releasing her valve. He had no idea what had caused Janine to stop in the middle of Empire Avenue and terrorize her own car, but he was certain her new husband deserved first crack at it. Unfortunately, all Walt had done was grow pale and set the phone back down.
    But this time he was wrong, though he almost would’ve preferred it to be Janine on the phone.
    “You finish painting the church yet?” his father demanded once Miles had accepted the charges. Had Max lost his mind completely or simply forgotten he’d begun their last phone conversation with this precise question?
    “No, Dad, I haven’t.”
    “Good. You don’t want to work for those people.”
    He knew better than to ask, but couldn’t help himself. “What people, Dad? What are you talking about?”
    “Those Vatican goons come right into Captain Tony’s and lifted Tom right off his barstool by the elbows.”
    “Vatican goons?”
    “Right,” Max said, apparently relieved that they had a good connection. “That was yesterday. I haven’t seen him since. The sissy one find his station wagon?”
    Miles told him he had, for once refusing to be baited. Earlier in the week, Father Mark had bummed a ride to the coast to retrieve the parish’s Crown Victoria.
    “Right where I told you it was, I bet.”
    “Do I understand this, Dad?” Miles said. “You want credit for telling me where you left the stolen car?”
    “I didn’t steal anything.”
    “No? How about that twenty you took out of my shirt pocket?”
    Max ignored this. “So, where do you suppose they took him?”
    “Someplace safe, where he can be looked after.”
    “He was safe right where he was. We were looking after him. I thought this was supposed to be a free country. Or don’t you Catholics believe in freedom?”
    “Did you want something, Dad?”
    “You could send down some money if you felt like it. You wouldn’t believe the price of beer down here. Ain’t even the season yet.”
    Translation: with Father Tom gone, he’d lost his meal ticket. And immediately following this, another thought. “How’d they know where to find him?”
    “Who?”
    “Your Vatican goons.”
    “The sissy one must’ve told