Tracking the Magus
Heinlein spent the rest of the week chained to a desk in the Homicide Unit filling out reports. His Captain, Gus Trevor, had laid down the law: “As long as you’ve got this Federal shit hanging over your head, you’re grounded!”
Tuesday became Wednesday…then Thursday….then Friday. Around 4:00PM on Friday, Captain Trevor got a call from the US Attorney in Newark. It lasted all of about five minutes. Heinlein’s phone intercom buzzed and Captain Trevor’s voice crackled over it.
“Detective – Get your ass in here.”
Heinlein swallowed as hard as he made tracks to his Captain’s office.
“Well, Detective. You’re back on active duty. Same assignment. Get the Hell outta’ here and do some work for a change. The US Attorney is dropping their file on you due to lack of evidence. Congratulations. Now…get lost – and stay away from them Goddamn Indians!”
Heinlein smiled and walked out of Trevor’s office feeling about fifty pounds lighter. His cell phone started ringing before he even got back to his desk. It was his lawyer, Peter Xiang-Li.
“Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner!” Peter was bellowing like he was over the moon,
“We kicked their asses, man! They’ve folded their tents and are slinking away with their balls hangin’ low! Let’s go out and get plastered!”
Heinlein shared his lawyer’s enthusiasm – but wasn’t in a celebratory mood.
“Listen, Man. I couldn’t have done it without ya’…. But I gotta’ get my stomach back down my throat and catch up on some sleep. My guts have been upside down for days…..I’m gonna’ take a rain check on our booze-bash. Maybe next week when I stop walkin’ into walls from sleep deprivation.”
He had to get together with Peter next week anyway – to pay him. He didn’t want a Police Union lawyer for the US Attorney Inquiry – he wanted Peter. So now he had to pay Peter’s fee. Twenty-five thousand. And Peter Xiang-Li was worth every penny. He was what was euphemistically called a “Lawyer’s Lawyer”.
As he walked past the front desk he smiled at Gina and was going to wish her a happy weekend when she glanced at the overhead clock and blurted out a loud and very anguished: “SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! Look at that time!”
Gina Bartolo was an emotional Italian girl with a hair-trigger temper and a heart of gold. Her shape wasn’t bad, either. Everybody at Police Headquarters marveled at her Sicilian outbursts and hand gestures. She was like watching an old Fellini movie. Something humorously absurd, like Amarcord. If there was a poster for female New Jersey goombettes, her picture would be at the center of it.
“What’s wrong, Gina…..Whoaaaaa! Damn!”
As Heinlein leaned in to ask his question, he accidentally knocked over one of her framed Frank Sinatra photos lined up at her workstation. Everybody called the array of old black-and-whites, “Gina’s Shrine”.
Gina snatched it outta’ thin air before it could impact the floor and shatter.
“I gotta’ go to my parents up North Jersey tonight for dinner…and the traffic on ’78 is gonna’ SUCK!” She responded.
“Where are you heading?” Heinlein asked.
Gina gestured to the Frank Sinatra pictures lined up in front of her.
“Where do you think I’m going? I’m going back home to hallowed ground – the birthplace of Ol’ Blue Eyes!” She said, her perky humor not reduced in the least by Heinlein’s clumsiness.
Heinlein looked at her quizzically – not comprehending. Finally, Gina blurted out the obvious.
“HOBOKEN! You know – Hoboken? Frank Sinatra was born there? Don’t you know your New Jersey history? Sinatra was born in Hoboken – LIKE ME! I’m a Hudson River girl! I got Hudson water flowing through my veins!”
Heinlein’s jaw dropped open. The Guardian told the Indians to seek somebody named Simon Magus. He had medicine humans needed – medicine that could fix sickness caused by the Yakwahe. This Simon Magus was at the “Hudson water”….at “the Hook”.
“Hudson water?” He said out loud, gently grabbing her by her shoulders. He was almost shaking from excitement. Gina looked at him like he was nuts.
“Gina – this Hudson water you’re so proud of – does it have something to do with someplace called The Hook?” Heinlein could barely contain himself.
“Hell, No!” She said waiving her arms and open palms. She always talked more with her hands than her mouth.
“Paulus Hook is Jersey City! Essex Street and Hudson Street. By the Morris Canal Boat Marina. Right across from Manhattan!! Richy Rich territory! Big bucks! Huge bucks!!”. She said.
“Gina, I’m looking for a guy who is at the Hook.…..do you know your way around there or know anybody there that can help me?” Heinlein needed a guide. He knew absolutely nothing about Jersey City.
“Yeah, sure”. She said. “My Priest, Father Eduardo Benetti – now at Church of Our Lady of Grace in Hoboken, used to be at Our Lady of the Assumption on York Street in the Paulus Hook neighborhood of Jersey City. He knows everybody down there. Who are you looking for?”
“I really can’t say – it’s an ongoing investigation”. Heinlein responded. “Listen, can you get me in touch with him?”
“Sure” Gina replied. “I’ll text you his location and number. He baptized me and my Mom and Dad still have him over for dinner. He’s a great guy”.
A few hours later Heinlein was walking up the majestic center stairs of Our Lady of Grace Roman Catholic Church, 400 Willow Avenue in Hoboken, New Jersey. It was a magnificent structure, built out of stone by immigrants one hundred years ago that had seen thousands of Baptisms, Weddings, Funerals, Novenas and Christmas Vigils. The marble steps were literally worn where devoted parishioners regularly walked them, to faithfully worship at God’s altar and partake of his grace. The dark stones stood as mute reminders of man’s mortality. It was architectural and spiritual history – a testament to an era when ordinary people enthusiastically donated their wages to build temples to their Lord that stood the test of time.
Heinlein entered through the huge, oaken front doors, pushing with some effort to move them. His eyes were pierced by thousands of splintered bursts of light dancing on tables – actual candles burning with actual flames beneath statues of Saint Jude and Saint Joseph. He instinctively dipped his fingers into a basin of Holy Water positioned nearby and blessed himself – in the Orthodox fashion, from right to left, three times. Even though it was a Roman Catholic Church, Heinlein couldn’t change his habits. He blessed himself the way his Sainted mother taught him to – a long time ago. The Orthodox way. His religion was her religion.
He continued walking up the long isle towards the altar at the front of the church, a sweet smell of incense still wafting through the heavy air he breathed. A short, rotund man in a Roman Catholic liturgical vestment approached him, hand extended. His smile was broad, and his eyes were kind. His face radiated a mixture of tolerance, faith, calm and hope.
“Detective Heinlein? I’m Father Benetti”.
They shook hands and sat down in a pew. The Church was deserted so their voices carried and reverberated off the impressive stone walls of the aged edifice.
Heinlein was as skimpy with the facts as he could be.
“Father, I recently encountered a situation wherein I was directed to a location that I have reason to believe is Paulus Hook in Jersey City. A name came up: Simon Magus. I’m aware that this name is one of myth and legend – but do you of anyone on Paulus Hook who uses that name or who fancies himself to be that person? This is important – children have been killed. Gruesome murders.”
The jovially cherubic priest’s face changed visibly, taking on a countenance of deep sadness. Heinlein saw immediately that Father Benetti was no stranger to confidential tales of horror and human suffering and that Heinlein’s question plunged him back into his world of unimaginable sin and desecration of God’s creatures. His response was measured. Pregnant with what he didn’t say.
“I saw, when you entered our Church, that you blessed yourself – three times facing the altar…. from right to left. You are an Orthodox Christian – are you not?”
Heinlein nodded in the affirmative.
“Detective Heinlein, I have no information for you. But I would suggest that you go to Paulus Hook and seek the Greek Orthodox Church of Evangelismos Tis Theotoku – around the 600 block of Montgomery Street in Jersey City. This is the very heart of the Paulus Hook neighborhood. Ask for Father Patros. Tell him what you told me. He studied at the Holy Mountain in Greece – Mount Athos. At the Great Lavra Monastery. The Orthodox are much more attuned to the old Eastern Saints and legends than we Romans are. And our Holy Father the Pope is not particularly enthusiastic about Eastern Rite mysticism.
The Orthodox Church Evangelismos is a small parish with limited resources. If you find the Church and Rectory locked, go to Ristaurante Luvis on Essex Street. Father Patros usually eats there. Oh – and try the Roast Lamb with Feta Stuffed Peppers and some thick-style Greek Pita Bread on the side while you are waiting. You will thank me. It is the best Greek food in Jersey City.
Father Benetti was right; the Greek Orthodox Church Evangelismos Tis Theotoku on Montgomery Street and its Rectory next door was locked up tighter than a drum. Time for plan “B”. Heinlein was famished anyway.
Ristaurante Luvis on Essex Street was a busy local eatery, a place bustling with young Hipsters and moneyed private equity mid-levels and hedge-fund admin types returning home off the ferry from Manhattan. He was seated quickly because he was alone. Apparently “tables for two” weren’t a thing anymore for well-heeled Millennials. Their demographic congregated in groups and wandered into each other’s booths, networking and polishing their business contacts, dragging along their bottles of Ouzo and shot glasses with them.
Heinlein’s waiter looked like he fell off a fishing boat in the Aegean Sea. He had three days of beard stubble and wore disheveled, mismatched clothes. Apparently, the only word in English he knew was “Yes”. Their exchange was bizarre.
Heinlein: “I’ll have the Roast Lamb with Feta Stuffed Peppers and thick-style Greek Pita Bread. And some Ouzo”.
Waiter: “Yes”.
Heinlein: “And some coffee. And cream.”
Waiter: “Yes”.
Heinlein: Do you know Father Patros? Is he here?”
Waiter: “Yes”
Heinlein: “Can you point him out to me?”
Waiter: “Yes.”
Heinlein: “Do you understand English?”
Waiter: “Yes”.
Once the waiter turned and went back to the kitchen, Heinlein realized he was probably going to have to scope out the place on his own, eyeballing who looked most like a Greek Orthodox Priest.
His food arrived and Heinlein dug in. Father Benetti was right – this stuff was good. Steaming and succulent – perfectly seasoned. He was hungrier than he’d realized. He was demolishing a last morsel of Roast Lamb and wiping his plate with a wedge of Pita when he realized someone was standing near his table. A young man in a dark suit. Around his neck was a thick silver chain and a silver Orthodox crucifix.
“May I sit down? I’m Father Patros.“
Heinlein was delighted and extended his hand. His strange waiter must’ve understood him after all.
“Please, do! Will you join me in a drink of Ouzo?”
Father Patros looked like a young Robert Redford. He had a broad, disarming smile and good physical build. Despite his boyish charm, his eyes were as sharp as a hawk, and he carried himself like a man of the world. He sat down without hesitation and poured his own drink. They tapped glasses – and their Ouzo-fueled chat was off and running. Father Patros was an avid conversationalist – and he didn’t hide his curiosity about Heinlein’s profession. In fact, the good Shepherd seemed very interested in Heinlein himself. Was it more than friendly dialogue? Why did Heinlein feel like he was in a job interview? The Detective played along. His cop gut was tingling more than a wee bit. Something was up.
Soon Heinlein was thanking his lucky stars that he’d eaten a full portion of Roast Lamb and Feta Stuffed Peppers. This young Priest drank like he had a hollow leg. They finished one bottle of the anise-spiced, fiery liquor – then ordered another. It was going to be a long night at Paulus Hook.
Copyright, 2025 Jon Croft
www.bogironpatriot.com
www.bogironslav.com
Email: vlchek1@gmail.com
