All characters, locations and incidents are fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any situation is purely coincidental.

 

The entire contents is Copyrighted, 2009 by Charles A. Petterson

 

 

GENOA PART II

Charles A. Petterson

Betty’s Bar was a write-off, as far as Betty was concerned.  A month had passed and the stench of sulfur remained. Opening all the doors and letting the breeze dilute the inner smoky fog only allowed a person to enter a foot or two into the doorway before being overcome and the neighbors bitched about the stench being released. It wasn’t that the neighbors didn’t have sympathy for Betty, they were all sincerely concerned over the turn of events, they just weren’t fond of the gawdawful smell.

Betty Gianovani, her financial-partner-brother, John, and Betty’s husband, Dick, gathered around the Gianovani’s kitchen table on a Wednesday evening to discuss the impending financial crisis. The bar hadn’t been making them rich, but  the summertime traffic kept the business going enough to keep the mortgage and utilities paid while the equity grew. A little.

“I called a consultant, I called six testing labs, I called the Extension Office…” Betty let her voice die out. Frustration, or perhaps the realization the dream had failed colored her voice. “Bottom line is we don’t have enough money to pay someone to even come talk with us about working up an estimate for how much it might cost to rehabilitate the building. Mike Ferraro in church said he would work up a demolition estimate for free.”

Betty fingered her beer bottle for a moment. Her husband and brother had no words of encouragement or advice. That wasn’t surprising; Betty was the only one of the three with the tiniest clue about business.

There was a knock on the front screen door. “Yeah, C’mon in.” Dick yelled.

Cindy Lagano, registered nurse, former Betty’s Bar regular and only known friend of the recently departed Mr. Fulmer, walked through the living room and into the kitchen.

John rose to greet Cindy. John had an interest in Cindy, but he was under the impression that Cindy’s job and frequent interaction with doctors more or less killed any chances he would have with her. He never considered his bad reputation and inability to hold down a job for more than one paycheck in a row would factor into her thinking.

“What brings you around, Cindy?” John’s smile was broad and welcoming as he pulled out the remaining chair from under the table for her.

“Thank you, John. You are always so polite,” Cindy smiled as she sat. “I hope I’m not interrupting something important.”

Betty made a face, “Nah. We’re just debating whether to drink the Kool Aid or slit our wrists. There’s no way out for us as far as the bar is concerned, you know what I mean.”

“That’s why I came over. I’m glad John’s here, too. I have a proposition for you. I want to take over the bar.”

The other three said, “WHAT?” in unison.

“I’m offering to take over your mortgage and pay you back your equity with a balloon payment in three years.”

Betty looked at her with a skeptical eye. “The place is useless, Cindy. What kind of scheme are you up to?”

“I’m just making a flat business proposition. Mr. Higgins at the bank will buy into the transfer.”

“Wait a minute here, Cindy,” Dick said, “what do you know that we don’t know?”

Betty passed on making a comment in retort, as she normally would. She scrunched her face trying to figure out the angle Cindy might play. If she could figure it out, perhaps she could exploit it.  It never crossed her mind to explore other options for the building.

Cindy didn’t answer Dick’s challenge.

John was cogitating at the same time, “It’s going to take big money to fix that place. You got one of your doctor buddies with big bucks to invest in the bar? Is that where this’s going?”

Cindy just smiled, and John took the expression to indicate he was on to something. “Well, you know how it goes.”

Cindy gave her hosts some time to think before continuing, “If you’re not interested, that’s okay. I just thought I’d make an offer.”

“Well, don’t get up and leave, Cindy,” Dick said. “This is kind of out of the blue, you know. Selling the place wasn’t really on our radar.”

Betty shook her head. She had moaned and whined to Cindy about their problems every Sunday after church and when they saw each other at the coin operated laundry. Cindy knew the situation, probably better than Dick. “We’ll need to talk this over, if you don’t mind, Cindy. Let me get back to you in a day or two, okay?”

“I’m not in a hurry.” Cindy turned to John, “You haven’t offered me a beer, John.”

John slid back from the table and went to his sister’s refrigerator and returned with an Old Style. “Sorry. Guess I forgot my manners.”

Betty rolled her eyes, “It’s not your place to be mannerly. This is my house. My beer, too. John, sometimes I wonder if you need a reminder to exhale.”

John flipped his sister the bird. Cindy winked at Betty, who acknowledged the situation with a sigh.

Two days later Betty saw Cindy at the Kwik Shop, “Cindy, I have this feeling you’re trying to screw me out of my bar.”

Cindy shook her head, “Betty, we’ve known each other since junior high. If I was looking to take advantage of you I would just wait until the building goes into foreclosure. I’m offering a way for you to at least get your equity back.”

 “No, you’ve got something figured out, I just haven’t been able to come up with what it is. You’ve always been smart, I’ll admit that. You’ve also always been a friend. We never had any stupid fights or anything. So how about this? You got a scheme, here’s my deal: you take over the payments, you get the building, I get 10% of whatever you make.”

“No balloon,” was Cindy’s reply.

Betty gave a sharp nod and grimace as she exclaimed, “Shit.” through her teeth.

************

Cindy had thought purposefully and at length about the significance of Mister Fulmer’s actions. How does one exploit a myth? She knew she would be immediately derided if she did anything to promote the situation. The nay-sayers would be on her like journalists on Palin. Cindy had to take a chance on the secret meeting places on the world-wide web. She knew that regardless of one’s interests or affections, there is someone else with similar opinions. Just as a single acorn can sprout into a majestic oak which in turn feeds squirrels that plant another generation of trees and soon there is a forest of oaks from a seemingly inconsequential nut, so it is on the internet. And in this case, a third page article in the La Crosse Tribune soon multiplied exponentially around the world before the analogous acorn could germinate.

“Genoa. August 8. The Vernon County Sheriff reported an unexplained incident at Betty’s Bar last evening. Witnesses reported an unidentified male entered the bar before 11 PM and was assaulted by a customer. The victim is said to have “dissolved” after the assault, according to the seven witnesses. Shortly afterward the assailant succumbed to natural causes, according to the medical examiner’s report. The identity of the victim has not been determined.”

It took a few days before a follower in Onalaska saw the article, and a few more days for that follower to realize the potential significance.  Then, it took a few more days of discussion with the follower’s mentors before the implication was given enough credence to warrant a 23 mile trip to Genoa.

Nearly two weeks had passed since the incident, but Cindy Lagano spent every waking, non-working moment sitting at her second story bedroom window, watching the traffic at Betty’s Bar. Betty was beside herself over the act that had rendered her business un-useable, an act she couldn’t bring herself to believe was possible, yet it was there.

Early one evening Cindy watched a rotted Subaru Brat drive slowly through the business district, make a u-turn at the south end and slowly return. The car stopped in the traffic lane across from vacant Betty’s Bar. The car sat motionless in the equally busy street for nearly a minute, before abruptly pulling to the curb.

One might have speculated the car had succumbed to old age and the owners lack of funds for routine maintenance as the reason for stopping and then pulling to the side. Cindy nodded. In her heart of hearts she knew this day would come. She knew that one day, one special person would come. As she watched the driver exit the car, Cindy predicted the driver would go to Betty’s window, to the door, and more than likely collapse on the sidewalk, wailing in grief.

Cindy watched the driver as she crossed the street.

A woman, no, a teen aged girl, maybe twenty, black hair, pale, pierced face, black plain cotton top and skirt and shod in black, clunky shoes made the journey as Cindy clenched her fist in victorious glee. The visitor looked in the window, confused at first by the spectrum of still lighted beer signs being filtered through the yellow fog. “Nooooo,” she wailed as she turned from the scene, “It can’t be. It’s impossible.”

She didn’t collapse as Cindy anticipated. Instead she stumbled in her grief back to her vehicle. She steadied herself for a moment and then made a call on her cell phone. The conversation was short, just a report of confirmation of her worst fears. She nodded as she ended the call. She opened her car door and sat, feet still on the ground and waited.

Nearly an hour passed before another car arrived; an equally sad seventies- something Toyota Corolla that somehow survived the turn of the millennium. It traveled with a severe lean to the left and the left side tires showed signs of abuse. An morbidly obese young man rolled out of the drivers seat, but the port list the car exhibited as it was on the street was not cured when the uneven load was removed.

After taking the handful of steps to the Subaru he was in respiratory distress and sweating profusely despite the relatively pleasant conditions that evening. The girl walked across the street with the newcomer and after a moment in front of the bar, they both started weeping.

Cindy observed it all. It wouldn’t be long before a steady stream of believers would be coming to town. How much would they give for a sniff, a peek at the holy grail, the chance to own a silver point sketch made by the man who killed their reason for living?

First, she would have to get the silver rod from the police and the sketch book still inside the bar. She already had a little vacuum pump the hospital sold as surplus for five bucks. She only had to press “send” on her computer and a thousand test tubes and stoppers would be on their way; containers to hold 50 cc of essence.  How much could she sell a container of essence for? A hundred bucks? A thousand?

                                             *********

The principles gathered in the small conference room of the Vernon County State Bank to sign the bar over to Cindy. The process seemed straight forward enough, Cindy got the bar, all of the interior furnishings and all other miscellaneous contents in situ the day of the event. John signed off for his share of the equity, less fees, and walked away happy with $3,862.57, $62.57 more than he had invested five years earlier, monies from his sister.

The following month was busy and expensive for Cindy. Of all the pieces, the silver rod was the keystone and it would take a Madison Lawyer and a court order to wrest the item from the evidence room of the State Patrol.

She bought a HazMat suit and SCUBA gear on EBay and entered the bar early one Saturday morning to make a few modifications that would allow her to pump out fog without going inside the building again. She did a quick survey, and noticed the vinyl upholstery on the booth benches was starting to deteriorate from the chemical insults in the atmosphere. She made a note to check with an engineer about the wiring, it would be a shame to lose her gold mine to an electrical fire.

Her last act was to move the sketch book and place the silver rod on a table visible from the front window. It wasn’t authentic, but she doubted anyone would claim it was fraudulent, either.

Later in the day she returned from a La Crosse hardware store with a black, wall mount, residential mail box and a gold-on-black sheet of half inch, stick-on letters.  MEMORIALS she carefully aligned on the box, which she in turn attached to the outside wall next to the door. A small, insignificant lock served notice that the box wasn’t to be casually opened.

                                             *****************

They mostly came at night. Cindy figured it out one Saturday morning as she emptied the box.  They weren’t uncharitable, the night visitors, most of whom dropped hundred dollar bills, even folded over clumps of hundred dollar bills. The weekend day visitors were less devout, depositing mostly fives and tens; the occasional twenty. The toy lock on the box was never disturbed.

Black roses started filling the small step up porch at the door, and Wednesdays and Sundays, at noon, Cindy would bring a lawn waste bag with her to remove the rotting  flowers.

One Sunday in November a gaunt young man approached Cindy as she was clearing the roses. Unlike the first two visitors, he was dressed in fresh black attire, as if he had just bought the items for the day. He was pierced in all of the popular places, which only slightly distracted one from noticing his acne-scarred complexion. “Pardon me, Ma’am, are you the custodian of the shrine?”

Cindy smiled inwardly. She had done nothing except take a chance and invested all of her meager savings to pay the attorneys. She didn’t make any claims or post any advertisements. All she was doing now was cleaning up dead roses and emptying an increasing amount of money from the box every day. “Yes,” she said solemnly, “I take care of this building.”

“Is it possible to get a sample of the inside atmosphere?”

“Yes, I can arrange that. Would a small test tube be enough?”

“You would allow me to have that much? Yes. Would I have to pay for it?”

“You may have it for free, but if you tell anyone I gave it to you for free,” Cindy offered the young man a grave pause, Well, let’s say I can’t promise what might befall you.”

The young man’s earlier enthusiasm evaporated, “Yes ma’am. I understand. Believe me, I understand the power involved when one breaks an oath to the Master.”

“You may tell others you have it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am. I don’t know if anyone else has told you, but thank you for maintaining the shrine.”

Affecting a humble stance Cindy replied, “It is the least I can do.” Cindy wondered how long it would take for the word to spread about the availability of genuine essence of evil.

On the night of the winter solstice the faithful were on the scene at local sunset, dusk having no influence against the pervasive low clouds that time of year.  While the local Scandinavians were holding their festivals of light the followers of darkness slowly formed a queue and a slow processional. They all seemed to know where the memorials box was located, and Cindy made two pre-emptive visits to empty it. Still, at daybreak the box was jammed with bills, none smaller than twenties, and those were in folded multiples. Cindy sold 250 containers of essence at $100 a piece. Several takers commented they would have gratefully paid much more, but Cindy humbly offered that it wouldn’t be right to take advantage of the situation like that.

Cindy went to Betty’s house early Christmas Day. Dick was still in his robe and Betty was in her curlers. Betty started to object to the early visit, but stopped short as Cindy handed her a large envelope. “Here’s your 10% so far.”

Betty opened the envelope, “Holy Mother of God! How much is in here?”

“Five Thousand, two hundred.”

“My Lord, that is just from the few months this fall?”

“I had some expenses. I keep a ledger, if you want to look. I don’t want you to think I’m cheating you.”

Betty said, “No, I believe you. There’s no sense getting petty about this if you are going to bring around this kind of money. You’re a smart cookie, Cindy. I never would have thought about what could happen.”

“It’s not going to last forever, Betty. I hired an engineering firm to evaluate the building. They say it will probably collapse in a few years. I had a visit from a government man, they may force me to demolish the building and neutralize the site. This can’t last for too long, so don’t get used to the money.”

“As long as it’s more than the balloon I would have gotten, I’ll be happy.”

“Oh, I have no doubt you’ll be happy, I didn’t want you to think this would last forever.”

Cindy turned to leave, “Merry Christmas.” She stopped her motion toward the door, “Funny, isn’t it? I mean, ironic. Today we celebrate the birth of the Christ, and our biggest gift is from the death of, well some believe it was his brother.”

Cindy quit her hospital job to tend to the bar full time. The long nights brought ever increasing crowds. They were always peaceful, always stone sober. There was no conversation and the only sounds other than the shuffling feet were occasional wails of grief. It was surprising, at least to Cindy, that whenever a visitor was grief stricken another in the queue was immediately on the scene to comfort the afflicted. Cindy experimented with a self-serve essence display. They sold out at $100 a bottle, and not one container was stolen.

At the end of January Cindy paid Betty $10,300.  It was more in February, and double in March.

At midnight between Maundy Thursday and Good Friday a Mercedes limousine stopped in front of the bar. The faithful stopped their procession as the chauffeured occupant stepped from the back of the car. Betty had just finished retrieving the donations and refilling the essence display as she turned to see the new arrival.

Not a word was spoken, but the arrival of the chauffeured visitor resulted in the faithful moving away from the bar. He was handsome with dark, precisely trimmed hair. His features, his clothes, his demeanor all matched the shiny extravagance that bore him. He didn’t smile as he enquired, “Miss Lagano?”

Cindy gave him a close going over before she responded with a nod.

“Miss Lagano, I would like to purchase the bar.”

“I didn’t catch your name, mister…?”

“A cash transaction, Miss Lagano.”

“Are you aware that I don’t hold a food, beer or liquor license? Are you aware the building is posted as non habitable?”

“As it sits, a million dollars”

Cindy became aware of the crowd’s pullback. Was it out of fear or respect? What was it they sensed that she didn’t?  Cindy didn’t speculate long. The moment and the offer were anticipated and she countered with confidence.

“Pay off the loan, six million in gold coin, five for me, one for Betty.”

“I will have the papers tomorrow night.”

                                                                   *****

Cindy Lagano was escorted by a serious looking young priest through the corridors of the Vatican usually off limits to visiting tourists. She was insistent during her correspondence with the Holy See that she have an audience, not with the Holy Father, but with a specific priest who held an unpublished office.

“My child, how may I help you?” was the gentle greeting from the priest behind a table littered with old bound books and folios of loose manuscript pages. With the exception of a picture of the Pope and a unassuming crucifix on the wall, the room was devoid of decoration. An odor of incense blended with the musty smell of old documents which served to accentuate the old-world appearance of the priest in his unadorned Franciscan garb.

Cindy reached into her purse and withdrew the silver rod and placed it on his desk.

“This was able to pass through the x-ray?” the priest asked, not bothering to ask what it was, because he knew, and not offering any expression of gratitude.

Cindy wasn’t sure, “I never saw a screen, I don’t know. I haven’t been screened since the international terminal in Chicago, and when I was allowed access to this building.”

“I have been following your story.” He fondled the rod with reverence, and after a moment of bliss on his face, “May I take this away, just for a brief moment?”

“Yes Father, it’s a gift to you, if you want it.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Lagano, I didn’t wish to sound unappreciative. Please forgive me.”

The priest exited the room with more grace and speed than one might expect from a man carrying a sparse crop of translucent hair on his head. His promised brief moment of absence became a half hour before he returned with the silver rod. “Bless you, my child. How did you do it?”

“I took a chance. I had a replica made before the event. I never really believed any of that stuff, but Mr. Fulmer had to have some reason for his behavior and being able to put off his cancer.  I made a small investment.  When I recovered the rod from the police I displayed the fake.”

“His Holiness will be here in a moment to express his appreciation and humbly offer his blessing.”

“Thank you Father. Pardon my naiveté, do you think I will be, well, I mean, won’t they discover the fake and come back to me?”

“You have nothing to fear. There is no more power. It is a shame, I think, that Mr. Fulmer has to remain unheralded.”

Cindy was unprepared for that observation, “I suppose.”

“No, my child, not for what you think. He forfeited his life for the sake of the daughter of his landlady. He was more than a diligent soldier, a brilliant tactician, I must add, he was a martyr.  A true martyr.”

A near silent tap on the door announced the Pope’s arrival. Before Cindy could rise from her chair to acknowledge his presence he waived her off, “My dear Miss Lagano, it is I who am obliged to bow in your presence. Your selfless act is of unspeakable importance to the Church.”

He laid his hands on Cindy’s head, and she felt warmth and power surging through her as His Holiness recited a lengthy blessing in Latin that she fully understood as the words were uttered.

She stood as he lifted his hands and reached for his hand to kiss the ring. He offered his hand and after she gave the jewel a peck he said, “Go in peace. Thank you.”

The Pope departed, leaving Cindy in a temporary state of dissociation. The elderly priest brought her back to the moment, “While you are in Rome we will provide an escort for you, if you desire. I know you have a certain amount of trepidation and perhaps a, how may I say it, a friendly male presence, will allow you to see the sights in a more relaxed fashion.”

 “Thank you. That is very generous. I wasn’t anticipating that, and  I could hire my own escort.”

“Think nothing of it.” The priest uncovered his telephone set from under the pile, punched a button and then spoke a few words. He replaced the handset and smiled. “It will just be a minute.”

A tap on the door announced the escort’s arrival. Cindy turned to meet him.

He was tall, attired in the finest clothes obtainable on the continent, impeccably groomed, and unmistakably the same man who had purchased the bar.

Cindy fainted.

Cindy woke on a cot in a sparsely furnished room with the priest rubbing her wrist.

“I’m sorry, my dear. We didn’t mean to shock or frighten you.”

After taking a moment to orient herself , Cindy whipered, “I don’t understand.”

“I assumed you had everything figured out. We, that is, the Church, purchased the property and will demolish it and destroy every last reminder of what happened there. We will build a new structure, light and airy. A cheese and wine shop has been suggested. We couldn’t afford such an important symbol to remain as an inspiration to the followers of darkness.”

Cindy lay for several moments, allowing everything to digest. She sat up for another moment, and then stood. “And the messenger, the escort…?

The priest nodded in a fashion only the most knowing of old world priests can nod, “He is a civilian, not  a priest. He is very capable, trusted for the most, how would say, discrete tasks, and requested the privilege of being your escort. He knows all of the very best restaurants in Rome.”