My Kind of Town
The Pope’s man
>> Waikiki Gold Coast
In a penthouse suite, Lester Young was playing saxophone, Billie Holliday was singing "I'll Never be the Same." The lilting sound floated out to the lanai, from which the sunset sky was shading from pink to gold. Salvatore Innuendo raised a glass of Pinot Grigio, sipped the light, spartan wine. Such a lovely, even romantic setting might have reinforced in some people their aloneness, but Innuendo reveled in his solitary life. Since that day in Rome he had a hard time with people.
Innuendo was then a member of the Vatican Security Office, assigned to protect the Pope, the Vatican's version of the Secret Service. He'd been recruited at 17 when an officer in the VSO spotted him playing soccer. He stood 6-foot-2, could run forever, sometimes like a deer, sometimes a bull. The officer made some quiet inquiries, discovered the boy possessed three qualities he valued -- intelligence, a simple but abiding faith and a bit of a mean streak. By 22 Innuendo was assigned to the Pope's security detail. Every day he served His Holiness, gave him absolute devotion, and knew his place in heaven was secure.
So he was there that day, walking beside the Pope's car, when John Paul was shot. He was scanning the crowd, looking for trouble, through his training able to see many people at once. Like a speed reader. Innuendo noted two voluptuous sisters and his eye lingered on them. He was just swinging his eyes back toward the car when he saw the gun, heard the blast, saw the smoke, and the Holy Father bleeding.
Salvatore Innuendo had never been the same. He went into a depression so deep he could barely eat or speak. Within a month of the shooting the Vatican shipped him off to Honolulu, put him up in a rectory and paid for psychiatric care from a Catholic doctor. Not that it helped. Innuendo knew he was going to hell. He deserved it. He began to contemplate suicide, to speed his descent.
Which is what he was doing at the Pali Lookout on that other life-turning day, standing in the howling wind on the old wall, looking down hundreds of feet. He crossed himself and jumped. But found himself moving backward. At first he thought the wind had blown him back, then felt a hand on his collar. The hand of God, pulling him to safety.
"Oh, God, let me die!" he cried.
"There ain't no God, you dumbs---," a voice said. "Only me."
The phone rang, a double ring, a call from the lobby. Innuendo answered, heard the voice he'd heard that day at the Pali. Machiavelli Wang. "I'll buzz you in."
Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek.
His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin
with weekly summaries on Sunday.
He can be emailed at dchapman@midweek.com