The Pope and the Prostitute

By Anthony Tullo and Susan Fries

Siblings, Charlotte and Peter, have it all loving parents and a happy home until Their fragile world comes to a shrieking halt when their lives become derailed by a world war they have no business being in the path of. They find themselves in the care of a Catholic orphanage that sends them spiraling in opposite directions and drives Charlotte to the brink of emotional instability and a questionable lifestyle. Separated from each other, they have done what they must to survive.

Nearly twenty years later a mystery surrounds Peter with the sudden death of the Pope. Was it suicide or was something more sinister? Could the Pope have sealed his own fate by manipulating those within his power, leaving himself vulnerable to a personal vendetta? A nun, the mob, anyone was suspect in this bizarre event that put the Catholic Church under the microscope of the worlds cynical eye. Peters dream had always been to become the youngest pope in history, but did this dream go too far? As Peter is pulled into the fray he maintains he is not involved in any wrongdoing.

Charlotte has drifted as far from spirituality and the church possible, surrounding herself with affluent men and the finer things in life yet, she is unfulfilled and longs for the brother she left behind so many years ago. Will their winding roads ever cross as Charlotte struggles to keep her past from destroying her sanity and her future?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532038945

Anthony Tullo

Susan Fries, a native New Yorker, is a self-taught entrepreneur with successful careers in music, free-lance art, and photography. She is as passionate about public speaking as she is writing. She is the author of When Pigs Fly; A Journey Home and currently lives in New Jersey with her two rescue dogs. Learn more at www.susanfries-author.com.

Book preview

1

Waiting on Kendall

C harley sat on the edge of the bed, foot tapping and patience waning, a smoke dangling from her lips. The wall clock ticked with resolute slowness as if pained to pass each marked second. She opened the drawer of the night stand and reached for the slick, pristine, deck of cards, bypassing Gideon’s Bible, both staples of the exquisite London hotel. The deck of cards would be Charley’s weapon of choice. The Bible glared at her like a talisman of the less than angelic activities that went on within the affluent confines of the prestigious hotel; as well, it reminded her of her brother, Peter. Spirituality of any kind brought back uncomfortable memories of a time she’d rather leave behind. She was simply unable to give credence to a god who would hand out the kind of things she and her brother had endured. So, like numerous things in her life, she brushed the concept aside.

On the edge of the ample bed, she kicked off her heels and in in stocking feet crossed the plush carpet to an ornate wooden table near the picture window; an expression of annoyance tainted her otherwise flawless face. After only one hand of solitaire, she rose from the table to retrieve a bottle of wine from the cellaret in the galley area of the room; it was always well stocked for her. She glanced briefly at the clock who’s ticking relentlessly increased in volume with each passing second.

She approached the table in her usual nonchalant way, which was what men saw as merely the tip of her sensuality. Drifting to the picture window behind the table she took in the city, putting the bottle of wine down on the table harder than she had intended, reflecting her souring mood. Glancing back at the cards she had laid out she supposed solitaire to be a dreadfully accurate name for this game.

Charley was not one to tolerate tardiness; rather preferring life to be a moving target. Standing by the table she poured a substantial glass of blood-red wine, which she planned to keep within arm’s length while she waited for him to arrive. Firing up another cigarette she stared at the elaborate Kings and Queens lying before her. A gaudy brass ashtray held the remnants of more than a half a dozen recently deceased cigarette butts, though not entirely quelled, their glow unrelenting. A drifting cloud of smoke followed on the heels of her every move as she pulled the heavy burgundy drapes aside to take in the view.

This was not her first time, and that was precisely what made the wait intolerable. It was more than just boredom; she was annoyed. The usual buzz of anticipation for him had dwindled over time and this was not their first rendezvous. It wasn’t as if they had just met; they had been there and done that. Precisely the reason he should be considerate with their rendezvous.

She supposed his real character was beginning to show the more familiar they became with each other. A cliché her mother had warned her about regarding how familiarity breeds contempt rose in the back of her mind. She didn’t understand it back then, but now she knew precisely what it meant. No excuse, she thought. She wanted to know where this man was right now; time was money after all. She glanced at the diamond watch he had given her, not having much faith in the wall clock. What the hell is taking him so long? Does he think I have all night? She let a curse slip through her perfectly glossed lips, a clenched jaw solidifying her disdain in the window’s ghostly reflection. Her brother came to mind.

Foul language from her always made her brother’s hair stand up and had he heard her just then, well, she could not imagine what he would have said; not to mention what he might think about her current choice of profession, but that was another story that needn’t be told for the foreseeable future. She was a survivor and survive she did, on her looks and her sex-appeal.

Charley had programmed herself for the present, and only as far as the immediate future, not the past. Regrettably, idle time gave her mind the opportunity to slide into reverse to the abyss that was her unfortunate past, but it was never her intention. She did not wish to recall the people she had lost; her parents (to a deadly casualty of war), her brother (an unavoidable separation by a broken bureaucratic system), and her childhood (if you could call it that).

For Charley vulnerability was distasteful and weak. It was a frailty she could do without even though missing her brother was something she struggled desperately with, the wound was still angry and sore despite the passing of years. For her, it would have to remain locked away until such time when they might cross paths again. She had sometimes dreamed of what reuniting with him would be like as she lay in bed under the cover of darkness, tears filling her closed eyes. Would they recognize each other? Would he still love her?

Charley topped off her glass of wine and sat back at the table. She missed Peter more than she would ever admit, even to herself. She wanted, no needed, to hear his voice again. How many years had it been? She had lost track as life moved on frame by frame. The further she moved away from her childhood the less it took for her mind to slip into darkness. Her mind reeled in the caverns of her past. A word, a smell, sometimes even the tone of the weather would bring her back to a time she would rather not visit. Her not so lady-like language always gave Peter a start, but she would give anything to hear him reprimand her again.

After the mayhem of World War II, the French authorities began rounding up homeless and truant children, herding them like stray dogs and placing them where they thought best as France tried to repair itself and regroup. Rebuilding something of a society was daunting and vagrant children were just a costly nuisance for the country. It was regulated chaos at best pretending to reclaim control of the civilized world. Some children were sent to foster homes, orphanages or jail if they gave authorities half a reason.

She and Peter found themselves trapped and at the mercy of the country’s less than pleasant decisions, run by adults who thought they knew best, including how to handle children whose lives were in as many pieces as the ruins around them. These orphanages didn’t care about your petty, childish sob story.

St. John’s hell-hole for children had been run in such an inexcusable, insensitive manner. The first orphanage they had been sent to, St. Agnes’, had been obliterated by a surprise raid and they had been sent to St. John’s by the state after wandering the city streets for weeks.

St. John’s was a nightmare compared to St. Agnes’ home. They met a nun, Sr. Dominica at St. Agnes, a gentle, kind, motherly woman (even for a nun Charley recalled). Oh, she could be stern, no doubt. Charley hated it there at first but came to find it more tolerable as time went by. Though nothing could replace the home they had while their family was in one piece. Charlotte accused Mrs. Reilly, their housekeeper turned caregiver, of dumping her and Peter at St. Agnes to go back to her homeland of Ireland, to care for her own. Life had gotten ugly fast.

On reexamination, Charley recalled that St. Agnes began to feel like something of a home, or as close to it as they would get as orphaned children of the war; St. John’s was just an ugly old prison with ugly teachers and bitter nuns who did not understand the meaning of kind.

St. John’s was spearheaded by Sr. Henrietta, who was nothing like Sr. Dominica, nothing at all. According to Charlotte, she was more like Hitler than Hitler and she was proud of accusing her so on numerous occasions as she gestured a Heil Hitler behind her back as they passed in the hallways. Charlotte remarked Sr. Henrietta’s heart was as black as the habit she wore.

She had grown increasingly defiant with Sr. Henrietta when she insisted that Charlotte sing in the choir with ‘such a beautiful voice’. Charlotte refused. If Sr. Henrietta wanted children to be seen and not heard, Charlotte would oblige and refuse to sing. She would rather be shot by a Nazi than give her the satisfaction, not even for something she enjoyed, like singing. Singing was personal; it came from raw emotions of the heart and sadly, Charlotte’s heart was closed for the indeterminate future.

Charley choked the memories back as she returned to her card game and flipped over a King, placing it on the top row, followed by a Queen from another row in the wearisome game. She let the last memory slip into a corner of her mind and went on to complete the game. Reshuffling the deck for another mindless play she took a deep drag of her cigarette while her heart demanded she return her attention to the past, to the day she tried numerous times to forget. Fight it, she thought, don’t let the memory win, don’t let it rear its ugly head again. Concentrate.

Forcing herself to focus on the card game she poured yet another glass of wine. She skipped the last remaining cigarette cradled in its ivory case in the event she needed another before he arrived. The case had been a gift from another gentleman; it made her smile. Staring at the merciless game she halfheartedly secured a few more moves. There were the memories again, relentless behind non-blinking eyes, the past lurching forward to taunt her.

Charlotte had just begun to feel settled in at St. Agnes when it had been nearly obliterated by a near direct hit from a sneak air attack and all the children found themselves on the streets until the authorities caught up with them. Charlotte and Peter were sent to St. John’s but their friends’ where taken to another location due to overcrowding. They were heartbroken with no way to keep in touch.

In St. John’s the dorms were separated, boys from girls, and the rule of not crossing to the other building to see the boys fueled Charlotte’s insistence on sneaking out of her building at night to visit Peter via any means she could. Though Peter admittedly loved seeing her, cherished it, he preferred she follow the rules; he feared she would get caught and wind up in a school for delinquent girls, or worse, in jail.

2

Charlotte Flees

I t had been no more than six months after arriving at St. John’s when her brother was adopted. It came as little shock to Charlotte or anyone else, still, it happened much too quickly. A well-to-do Italian couple took an interest in him after an extensive tour of the facility compliments of Sr. Henrietta. Sr. Henrietta was all about the financials, to hell (pardon her) with people’s feelings or any respect for family or things of that nature. It was her goal to secure as much money by way of donations from those who had it, for her beloved church. But Charlotte knew she purposely dangled Peter in front of this couple as a means of getting an exorbitant donation while satisfying their need for a son, the perfect son. As well, Charlotte was certain the Sister took great pleasure at the thought of separating Charlotte from her brother.

Peter had been walking in the hallway, carrying some paperwork to Sr. Henrietta’s office when the chance encounter occurred, and the couple happened to meet up with him. They were so impressed with his manners and his natural charisma. Charlotte heard the news through the grapevine, then eventually from Peter who could not get to her any sooner. Charlotte knew it was intentional; the spiteful woman the sister was, she left nothing to chance.

Peter put up a fierce argument, however politely, with both the couple who wanted to adopt him and Sr. Henrietta, to have Charlotte adopted with him but it was to no avail. The sister would be damned (and she well may have been) if she would give Charlotte any satisfaction while she was under her roof (her roof?).

All Charlotte could see were the ramifications the sister’s actions might have on her and Peter; such a hideous injustice to a brother and sister who had already been dragged through enough of the mud life can create in their short lives. Peter was distraught, sick to his stomach at night thinking of how rejected Charlotte must have felt. Charlotte, on the other hand, was plain furious and could think of nothing but seeking revenge. ‘Damn them! Damn her!’ Charlotte thought. Though, as enraged as Charlotte was, she would never let on to Peter.

As for Peter, the best he could hope for was to believe God would help him make something of his new life and when able to, he would reconnect with his sister. No matter where she was, he vowed he would find her and help her in whatever way he could; he just hoped life wouldn’t push her further over the edge than she already was in a world they could no longer count on, with no family to look out for their best interests.

Once Peter was gone from the home, Charlotte wanted nothing more to do with the orphanage, and she saw no reason to remain within its walls. After a raging tirade with Sr. Henrietta, not even a week after Peter was gone, she secretly packed a bag of clothes, the only picture of Peter she had, and after grabbing a fistful of dollars from a collection plate she ran from its clutches. She told no one and within no time became lost to the streets of France.

Charley could still feel the rush after fleeing the church in the cold night air, running down side streets and alleyways, her breath coming out in fierce white puffs, lungs on fire as she faded into the night. She was so giddy she laughed aloud, her voice bouncing off the damp brick walls of the deserted alleyway during a brief moment’s rest. It was a feeling of freedom she never wanted to let go of.

Prior to fleeing St. Johns’, she managed to acquire Peter’s new location from a boy she had gotten friendly with during one of the church’s socials; Alfred. He was not the most well-liked boy in the school, a little too chubby, a little too…something, but this made him the perfect patsy. She knew an inside connection could prove to be invaluable one day and he was as easy a target as there could be, especially for a pretty girl such as herself. His access to the record room was something she could use to her advantage.

It didn’t take much time for the streets and alleyways to become Charlotte’s home and she became Charley to the world, a nickname given her at St. Agnes by some snotty, ‘thinks she is better than anyone’, snub-nosed girl. For more than three years on the streets, she took advantage of learning the French dialect well enough to get by. She befriended a handful of cooks at the backdoor of several food establishments. She dove headlong into adolescence making her own way in the world.

Up until then what she needed, she took, and she was good at it. She made the ravaged, dilapidated buildings that loomed above the streets her home. The buildings kept a watchful eye on the distraught, lonely and downtrodden that coexisted in her world. Their square, blackened, fragmented glass eyes seeing all. She had no fear on the streets; to her, the people who roamed them were not beggars or thieves, but people like herself with dreams and plans for their lives. They were waiting, like she, for the right opportunity to make those dreams come true, and she vowed to make them happen no matter what.

When an opportunity to work in one of the kitchens she hung around came about, she grabbed it. Her extra-friendly attention to one of the cooks secured her a job cleaning the kitchen. It was not much, but it was something. She became friends with the same people she had once pillaged.

Charley soon tired working in the kitchens and began to look elsewhere. She moved on to waitressing at a bar across town, not far from St. John’s orphanage. After a few days of hanging out at the pub a patron had mentioned she would be perfect for the place. He was taken by her looks, and promised to put a word in for her. Even though she was nowhere near old enough to be on the premises, she learned quickly how to make her looks work for her. She even recognized some of the church employees who came in on their way home from work for drinks, but with her makeup and grownup look, they would have never guessed this was their troublemaker; someone who almost cost the church a serious investigation when she vanished. ‘I am right under their noses and they do not even know it’. Time eventually turned the incident of her disappearance to dust, and the event was swept under the carpet like so many other unpleasant incidents the church harbored. She wondered what would be unleashed if that Pandora’s Box were ever opened.

On the streets everything was there for the taking if you learned how to use your resources. This was how you won the war of life; you picked up the pieces and put them together the way you wanted the story of your life to turn out. For now, Charley was her own woman, however young. At least with this new job, she would not go hungry. Though a menial salary, the generous tips from the male clientele were plentiful, for now.

Despite being underage, it took little effort on her part to convince the proprietor, Maurice, at The French Horn Bar and Grill, that she could handle herself and she finally worked the night shift. She even talked him into renting her the vacant efficiency he had above the bar for a very reasonable price with the premise of keeping an eye on the place, so he could go gallivanting with his women friends. Charley not only got the apartment keys but the keys to the pub as well, where she would clean up after hours and was never so contented. Maurice was happy with her and knew his bar was under her watchful eye. He knew a good thing when he saw it. It only took once for him to make the mistake of thinking he might get a few extras from Charley; only once. She made it clear nothing like that was going to happen in this lifetime or the next unless perhaps his wife might like the names of his women friends.

After Charley’s waitressing shift she enjoyed hanging out with the crowd that frequented the bar, playing pool, drinking, and smoking, into the wee hours of the morning. Maurice certainly did not discourage her; the men couldn’t buy her drinks fast enough. One night, Charley began talking to one of the musicians in Bourgeois, a popular band. She had heard them discussing their future and those plans involved getting out of France. They wanted to relocate to England where the pop-rock scene was exploding. Jacques, the drummer, heard Charley singing to the jukebox while she was cleaning and asked her to sit in on a few numbers the following night. After that, it became a nightly occurrence and her friendship with the band was sealed.

During a chat over drinks, Charley discovered the guys had a lesser opinion of France than she did. In their opinion it was a miserable place with miserable memories. Besides, all the great musicians and singers were coming out of England or America. This got Charley’s attention in a big way. With her natural attractiveness and voice