"The ex-wife keeps the boats and the country clubs, Detroit and Palm Beach. Randy can have his membership at the DAC if he wants to pay the bills. I have a lawyer friend in the same firm as the guy representing him. That's how I happen to know about the settlement, the main points. Randy comes away with the restaurant and a few million after the lawyer takes his cut. You would think the ex-wife," Fran said, "a woman with all her dough and clout, would've had Randy investigated before they got married."

"You don't know him," Debbie said, "he's a world-class bullshitter.

I believed him, didn't I? And I make a living looking for fraud."

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset, I'm still pissed, that's all." She looked over at a table where a child was crying, brought her gaze back and her expression was calm, a cool look in those blue eyes. "Have you been to the restaurant?"

"Only for a drink. It looks like a men's club. You see tables of business suits, out-of-towners, guys calling on the car companies."

Fran paused. "I'm told you might see bimbo-type ladies there in the evening."

"It's a pickup bar?"

"Not the kind you're thinking of. I'm told the ladies are pros, highclass call girls."

"Imagine," Debbie said, "your purpose in life is to give blow jobs to auto execs. I'll have to drop by when I get my release, say hi to Randy. I always knew he was a pimp."

"You realize," Fran said, "I hesitated telling you."

"Don't worry, I won't do anything dumb."

"Now that you know what it's like in here. You're out next week, start with a clean slate… Which reminds me, my brother should be home soon, from Africa."

"That's right, the priest."

"If" he hasn't gone native on me. He writes a letter, it's about the weather. Or what the place smells like."

"He's due for a vacation?"

"First one in five years. There's still that tax fraud indictment hanging over him. We have to get that cleared up."

"What'd he do, cheat on his income tax?"

"I thought I told you about it."

"You didn't tell me about the restaurant, either."

Randy the snake still on her mind.

"This is state, the Wayne County prosecutor's office. I've been on it since he left. They've just about agreed to drop the indictment, but want to talk to Terry first, when he gets home. It comes down to his word against statements made by two other guys. But since Terry's a priest, and I find out the assistant prosecutor I've been dealing with is a devout Catholic-"

"Fran, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Really? I would've sworn I mentioned it to you. The allegation involves Terry smuggling a truckload of cigarettes from Kentucky to Detroit, the purpose, to avoid paying the state tax, Terry and two other guys, the Pajonny brothers. Terry left right after they were busted and the Pajonnys rolled over on him to plead down, saying it was his idea and he took off with their share. So on the strength of that Terry was indicted, but by then he was in Africa."

"Your brother the priest," Debbie said, "I want to get this straight, is a fugitive felon?"

"He didn't know about the charge. He went over there to help out our uncle Tibor, forty years a missionary, Tibor Toreki. I told you about him, how he used to stay with us?"

Debbie said, "I'm confused."

And now Fran was shaking his head. "I didn't tell it right. Terry wasn't a priest yet when he got involved with the cigarettes. He wasn't ordained till he got over there, and took his vows."

She still looked a little confused, saying, "All right, how does a guy who's about to become a priest get into smuggling cigarettes?"

"He drove the truck, that's all. He didn't know it was the pop crime of the nineties. The state raised the tax to seventy-five cents a pack, but didn't add a stamp, so a lot of people got into it. It was lowrisk, no one got hurt-" He could see Debbie, hunched over the table, thinking up another question, and he tried to head her off.

"Terry gets home, you'll have to meet him. You remind me of him, your attitude about things."

"The two guys," Debbie said, "the Pajonnys-I love the name-they were friends of his?"

"From school, years ago."

"It was their idea?"

"They hired Terry to drive the truck, period."

"And they tried to put it on him and went down."

"The state," Fran said, "claimed they were losing a hundred and fifty mil a year in tax revenues, so they made an example of the Pajonnys, hit 'em with five to ten. Johnny's already out."

Debbie said, "Johnny Pajonny. It gets better. Was he in any trouble before?"

"On occasion, but he'd never done state time."

"What about Terry?"

"Never in any trouble before this-even though he was always kind of a tough kid. When we were little and I was what you might call pudgy?"

"What're you now, hefty?"

"Be nice. Who else comes to visit?"

"The other kids picked on you."

"The morons, they'd call me Fat Francis, make fun of my name.

'Oh, Fran-cis, where're your dolls?' Or they'd call me Frannie, which I hated. But if Terry was around, uh-unh, they left me alone."

"Your big brother."

"Actually he's two years younger, but was a real hardnose, played football three years in high school, liked to box-he'd take on bigger guys, it didn't matter. Even if he was getting beat up he always hung in." Fran's expression softened, seeing Terry the priest now in his white cassock. He said, "I've been thinking, five years in an African village--he comes home, I might not even know him."

"Maybe he's a saint," Debbie said.

Fran smiled at the idea. "I wouldn't go that far. But who knows?"

Ten women, seven of them black, occupied the wooden benches that faced the TV set in C dorm, waiting for their favorite sitcom to come on. Debbie came down from the second-floor tier above their heads and stepped in front of the TV set.

"What she doing?"

"Gonna try her act on us."

"I'm still working on it," Debbie said. "How I got conned out of fifty thousand and ended up in the joint."

"Is it funny?"

"That's what I want you to tell me."

"Fifty thousand? Where you rob that kind of money from?"

"I worked for it."

"Hookin'?"

"Shame on you. Debbie's a lawyer, fucks people in court 'stead of the bed."

"I'm not a lawyer. I took pre-law, but that was it."

"Then why you go to school?"

"I thought I wanted to practice law." Debbie paused, changed her mind about trying out the bit and said, "Let me ask you something.

What's the best way to make a lot of money without working for it?"

"Hit on the five-number lottery."

"Find a man has some."

"Yeah, and have to put up with his shit."

Debbie said, "What about armed robbery?"

"You want to get high, you rob."

"Have any of you ladies ever robbed a bank?"

They looked around at each other saying, "Yeah, I know people have." Saying, "Rosella in B has. You know who I mean?" Saying,

"Yeah, Rosella." Saying, "Rosella owed five hundred to a shy. She went in the bank with her boyfriend's gun and said, 'Gimme five hundred dollars, girl,' to the teller? Took it and paid the shy."

Another one saying to Debbie, "What you think is the best way to make it?"

"I want to do stand-up," Debbie said, "but I also want to con the son of a bitch who conned me."

The mother of this group, twenty-four years inside for killing her husband with a cast-iron frying pan, said, "Save the comic shit, baby, and do the con. You haven't said nothing funny since you been standing there."

Driving back to Mary Pat and his two little girls, Fran turned on his current favorite daydream:

Debbie comes out and he has a furnished apartment waiting for her in Somerset, where she used to live, not four miles from his home in Bloomfield Hills. He helps her get settled, maybe paint a room, rearrange the furniture, get in some groceries, booze. They have a drink, kick back. "Boy, it's good to sit down, huh?" Debbie gets high.