Temporary Insanity

By Georgia

Italy in August. Morales hid in two centimeters of shade and watched his lime gelato combust. This wasn't humidity. Humidity was a dewdrop compared to this. This was molten lava. He peeled the front of his gauze shirt away from his parboiled flesh and wiped the sweat from his eyes.

"What am I doing here?" His pan-fried brain had powered down to self-preservation mode but managed to push up the memory like a migraine. "Oh, yeah. Sharon Berne." She'd left him handcuffed to a headboard, in his skivvies, with a miniature flamethrower aimed at his privates ready to toast his marshmallows and flown off to this European blast furnace, weighted down with diamonds he'd stolen for her. "The stuff that dreams are-"

"Oh, my darling!" She dove into his arms from out of nowhere. "Kiss me! Don't ever let me go! I've missed you so!" Her mouth saturated his.

The tub of ice cream shot out of his hand and bounced across the cobblestone square. Some pigeons eyeballed it and waited for the shrieking police car to pass before ambling over to the sticky green puddle for a look-see.

The impact of her body, the excruciating heat, the mind-rending siren blaring behind him - Morales stood paralyzed. As soon as he regained the use of his limbs, he'd give her a piece of his mind. Boy oh boy.

Her mouth let go of his with an audible pop. "You looked so yummy, all hot and drippy, just had to lay one on you." Sharon squinted up at him. "Was it good for you?"

Morales Pitman nodded his head toward the siren's blare fading around the corner behind them. "Still hiding from the cops, I see."

"You betcha," she said.

Morales licked a cappuccino moustache off his upper lip and thought about what she had just told him. He held up one finger. "First, you tied up an old man in a hotel room and made off with his jewels. You know, in case I forget to tell you, that really pisses us guys off when you do that."

"Elephant." Sharon erased her own moustache of foam with her tongue. "I got bored waiting for you to find me. Eight months - come on. I had to do something to pass the time."

"You got a pissed off old man who just happens," he held up another finger, "to be a Sicilian mob boss."

"What are the odds?"

Third finger. "Which means both the police and the mob are after you because of some stupid diamonds. Diamonds," he added, "that you could give back and maybe - maybe -everybody would forget about it."

Sharon pulled a cheap plastic leopard print makeup bag out of her purse. "They can have the stupid diamonds, as you call them. Diamonique is better quality." She shook the bag and tossed it across the table to him. "But they can't have this back. And this is what they really want." She watched his hands unzip the bag. She remembered those hands. "Don't touch it, though," she warned him. "Bad luck."

Morales opened the bag and held it in a patch of sunlight so he could see inside. Blue, green, red and crystal fire bombarded his eyes. He stirred the pile of gems with his finger and uncovered a crucifix underneath. "What is this? A rosary?"

"Don't touch it!" She snatched the bag out of his hands. "I mean it." She zipped the bag closed and stuffed it back in her purse. "Yes, it's a rosary. The Bellasario Rosary."

Morales squinted one eye and dubiously studied her with the other. "The monk burned at the stake? That Bellasario Rosary?" She nodded. "But that's…that's ancient. Priceless. The Catholic Church has been looking for that for years."

"Right up there with Noah's Ark and the Holy Grail. Are you interested?"

Morales leaned across the table. "I live in Vegas. Vegas. Get it? I know about the mob. And the Sicilians are the worst. Even if you give it back, they might just turn you into shark bait anyway."

"Lighten up." She reached across the table and tweaked his cheek. "How many lawyers does it take to screw in a light bulb?" She poked a hole in his chest with her fingertip. "Come on. How many?"

"Will you get serious!" He frowned at her and lowered his voice. "Will you? These guys are dangerous."

"How many can you afford?" She banged on the table top. "Get it? How many can you afford?"

Morales ignored her. He hated lawyer jokes. "There is a Sicilian don who is so vicious, so blood-thirsty, that his own people don't want to know what he looks like. Don Batiste. They're afraid that one look at him will curse them and their whole family for generations. They say he wears a fedora pulled low over his forehead so no one will accidentally see into his eyes and drop dead."

"Your point?"

"My point," Morales said, "my point is that the only way you can keep that pile of cursed jewels and live is with his blessing." Morales looked around in case they were already surrounded by M-16s and guys named Guido. "And that ain't gonna happen in your life time. Short as it has suddenly become."

"No problem then. I don't want to keep it anyway. It originally came from a village not ten miles from here." She pointed down the same street the police car had gone. "I'm going to take it to the Church of the Bella Madonna for tomorrow's noon mass and give it to the priest."

"You think returning it to the church will get your many, many, many sins forgiven?"

"There aren't that many," she said. "But it cooden hoit," she added, flicking the ashes off the end of her imaginary cigar onto the cobblestone street. "Are you coming with me?"

He shook his head.

Sharon tucked her thumbs in her armpits and flapped. "Bawk. Bawk. Bawk." She took one last swig of her cappuccino. "You'll come," she said. "Betcha."

"Mr. Pitman, please don't bang your head against the wall like that. There is not a thing we can do. Our computers are down. There's no way we can issue you a new passport. And I'm almost sure American Express will be back up and running in no time. Can I get you some ice for that nasty looking bump?"

He found the Church of the Bella Madonna at sun up. Sharon had not only kissed him, she'd fleeced him. She'd lifted his passport. His money. Credit cards. He needed to find her before the Sicilians did. With the way his luck was running, they'd cut out her tongue and she would never be able to tell him where his things were hidden. He shuddered. A pity, actually. He'd miss her. But he'd remember the good times. The handcuffs. The grand jury investigation. The bail bondsman.

Morales watched the sun crest a hill behind the church. Even the smarmy lawyer from hardboiled Vegas had to admit - it was a glorious sight. The bell tower's long shadow bisected the dusty village square. Local shop keepers, ancient as the church, were already putting flowers on carts and tossing checked cloths over tiny tables. Old men creaked out of doorways to the sagging wooden benches they called home during the day. They pulled battered wide-brimmed hats low to shield their eyes from the morning sun and started snoring instantly. Morales wondered why they bothered to get out of bed.

He nodded at a pleasant, round-shaped woman and made some gestures that he'd like a cup of coffee with ice cubes. He sat at one of the checkered tables to keep an eye on the church door. The minute Sharon showed up he'd get his stuff, give her a kiss for luck and hit the cobblestones running.

The sun smoldered high above the angel perched on the bell tower when a monk waddled across the square to the church. He looked like an Italian sausage. Heavy, long robes did nothing for the fat friar's figure. The polished dome of his head reminded Morales of the beacon atop the Luxor on The Strip. He pushed opened the door and disappeared inside.

The old round gal came back to his table and handed him a hat. She pointed at the sun, fanning herself with her apron. "Too hot," she said. "Put this on for shade." She patted his head and walked away.

"Si. Hot. Gracias," he called after her. He checked his watch. Eleven o'clock. At eleven-o-one, he snugged his new hat deep over his eyes against the sun. By eleven-thirty, he was sound asleep.

Just before noon, a nun with an attitude, sashayed into the church with a cheap plastic makeup bag strapped under her borrowed habit, held against her chest by a stretchy jogger's bra.

The leggy, svelte proselyte sauntered down the aisle to the altar. Friar Tuck was lighting candles preparing for mass. Three young girls and their scowling crone of a guardian said rosaries while they waited for the service to begin. Sharon knelt beside the front pew and made the sign of the cross. Years of Catholic school finally paid off. She tugged at the bra. "Father?"

Tuck turned at her voice. The match scorched the tip of his thumb. "Mama mia," he said, shaking it out. His thumb he stuck in his mouth. The church door opened and closed. He waved the worshippers toward a pew with not a single glance in their direction. He couldn't look away from that face.

The angel spoke. "I have something for you, Father. Is there someplace we can talk?"

"Si, si." He pointed at the door that led to his stifling office in the hopes she was seeking confession.

From the back of the quiet, country church, two figures catapulted over the pews and grabbed his new found angelic host by the wrist. Friar Tuck yanked her arm free just as the base of a candlestick dented the high-polish of his forehead. He hit the slate floor like a side of beef on a marble slab. In the rear of the church, the old crone skeedaddled her brood out the door and never looked back.

"Give it up, sister," the tall one with the vice-grip said. "But I won't mind strip-searching you at all." He grabbed her stiff black dress with both hands and got ready to tear it off her back.

"I dun spik English." She aimed her elbow at his ribs. She missed by just a fraction of an inch.

"Hey! Hey!" his buddy said. "Pat her down first. Maybe she really is a nun." He crossed himself with the barrel of his gun. "You can't be too careful in a place like this," he whispered.

"You're freakin nuts! No nun looks this good!" Swearing to himself, V.Grip patted her down anyway. "I can't tell nothin through this armor." Lightening struck. "Hey, sister. Gimme your panties." He stepped back grinning. This would be the definitive answer. "Come on, before Marcos here gets nervous."

"I dun spik…"

"Aw, shut up." He grabbed the hem of her black skirt and ran his hands up her bare legs. For a long time. "She's not wearing - oh, wait. Here's a little something." One quick jerk and he reappeared with a strand of neon orange draped over his finger. "A thong. A thong-wearin nun?" He dropped it over the lump swelling on the friar's head. "You must think we're really stupid," he snarled in her face.

"Mind reader."

He hauled back a fist to slug her and snatched the front of her dress with the other. His hand wrapped around the bag underneath. "What have we here? Pay dirt?" He dragged her toward the friar's office.

The church bell grabbed Morales by the throat and hurled him out of his REM sleep to the ground. He plugged his ears with his fingers to staunch the inevitable hemorrhage. When the horrific maelstrom stopped twelve gongs later, he peeked out from under his hat and was delighted to discover that he was still alive. He stood up and brushed the dust off his pants and jacket. The crowd dispersed.

Disoriented and now hearing impaired, Morales staggered toward the church's heavy wooden door. He leaned his shoulder against it, pushed and stumbled inside. The candlelit interior now added blindness to his growing list of handicaps. One hundred degrees cooler inside, Morales cheered up considerably as he groped his way down the aisle. Surprised to find the place empty, Morales was even more surprised by a big brown mound on the stone floor in front of the first pew, wearing ladies panties as a halo. He picked the orange undies gingerly off the monk's head. "Business cards would be more practical."

Still woozy, Tuck stirred at the sound of his voice then blinked once before drifting back to la la land.

Morales stuffed the orange floss in his pocket and stepped over the snoring monk. He looked around the chancellery. A door to his right led to what he guessed was the evil bell tower. The door on his left could possibly lead to a scantily clad jewel thief. "I'll take door number two."

"All right. All right. You win. Take it," Sharon said to Marcos and his sidekick. "But Don Batiste will be very, and I do mean very, upset with you both. I'd hate to be in your shoes."

Giuseppe tied her hands to the arm of the chair. "Hurry up," Marcos said, looking nervously around the cramped office overloaded with crucifixes. "This ain't right."

"Shad up, you moron. This broad's workin on your brain, is all. She's never seen the don. Nobody's ever seen the don." He pulled a switchblade out of his pocket and shook it open. "Okay, sister, it's Christmas." He grabbed the front of her habit and cut a long opening beside the mystery bulge. He jammed his hand in the hole squeezing items totally unrelated to the Bellasario Rosary.

Sharon kicked an Italian field goal. "Not those jewels, asshole," she said.

Giuseppe's eyes crossed as he fell backwards and rolled to his side groaning in agony. But he had the bag and managed to throw it to Marcos. "See f z n thr," he gasped through clenched teeth.

Marcos smacked Sharon on the back of her head with the bag. "Say you're sorry to Giuseppe." He unzipped the bag with his teeth so he could keep the gun pressed against her temple.

Sharon pursed her lips. "I'm sorry, Giuseppe. I thought I'd connect with something. I was wrong."

"Look at this! Look, Giuseppe." Marcos held the rosary up to the slats of light pushing through unthatched holes in roof. The emeralds and sapphires threw stained glass hues around the stuffy room.

Giuseppe was not interested. At the moment, he was having a little light show of his very own.

The door burst open and hit the wall with such force the wrought-iron handle left a rust-stained hole in the plaster. Standing silhouetted in the doorframe was the solitary figure of a man with a fedora pulled low over his eyes. Glints of amber sparkled beneath the brim.. "Step-a away-a from-a the nun-a."

Sharon shrieked, "Look away. Look away. It's Don Batiste!"

Marcos fell on the floor beside Giuseppe. Shielding his face from the don's evil eye, Marcos thrust his hand toward the nightmare in the doorway. "The Bellasario Rosary, Don Batiste! " he whimpered. "The saints in heaven will be honored if you take this from our undeserving hands right now."

"And not kill us," Giuseppe added prudently.

Morales swaggered into the room. He snatched the rope of gems out of Marcos' hand. "I will kill you in a week's time," he said. "Until then, make your confession and give all your money to the church. Do this and I will make your death quick and spare the lives of your women and children and family pets." He wiped the bottom of his shoe on Marcos' back. He had stepped in something nasty in the courtyard.

"Thank you. Thank you, merciful, don," Giuseppe groveled as he crawled out of the room on his belly. Marcos slithered along behind. Marcos closed the door behind him with the toe of his shoe.

Sharon looked up at the 'don'. "The nun-a? What is a nun-a?"

"I don't speak Italian. So sue me." Morales pulled an orange tidbit out of his pocket. "Mi lady's thong?"

She twisted her wrists under the ropes but Giuseppe could tie a knot. "I suppose your warped mind sees some kind of perverted justice in this scenario."

He traced the fedora's overly-dramatic brim between his thumb and index finger. "You'd be correct, sister," he said. "And what better place to find justice than in church - with a nun-a."

"Very good. Ha. Ha. We're all even. Now let's get out of here before the real don shows up."

He hung the rosary on a crucifix behind the battered desk strewn with dusty manuscripts and crumbling hymnals. "I believe you have some of my property." Morales stopped behind her and draped the neon panties around her throat like a rope of pearls then he leaned over and gave her an unholy kiss. "Confession is good for the soul," he whispered in her ear. "Where is it?"

"Can we stop with the church related humor?" She took great care to sound unaffected by his brutal cross-examination. "Your passport and most of your money is at my villa. Three miles north of here. Villa Vedanta. If you'd hurry up, maybe we can get there before Moe and Curly decide to come back."

Morales tugged at the pile of knots. "That guy must've been a sailor. There's got to be a knife around here somewhere. I'll go wake up the good father and see if he has one." At the door, he stopped and looked back her, trussed up in the chair. "Seeing you like that reminds me of a joke," he said. "How many nuns does it take to screw in a light bulb?"

"I bet you're making this up, aren't you?"

"As I go along," he said. "How many nuns does it take-"

"I heard," she thought for a second. "I give. How many?"

He smiled satisfactorily. "Just one. But don't expect her to turn it on."

Sharon stared at him stupefied. "That's not even the slightest bit funny," she said.

"I know," he said, "but this sure is." He closed the door and left.

It took her a second. "Morales?" She bounced toward the door on her chair. "Hey! Morales! Morales!" She heard his footsteps on the slate floor leaving her behind. "Come back here!" His feet ignored her. "Hey, Mr. Pitman! You know how many nuns it takes to strangle a lawyer from Las Vegas?"

The footsteps stopped. "I give," his voice echoed to her across the great stone room. "How many?"

"Just-a one-a," she vowed.