Israel Centeno

Sunday’s short stories

Ruben Tenorio shivered, clutching his threadbare coat tighter around his shoulders. Pittsburgh in the dead of winter wasn’t on his list of favorite places, but here he was, in a ruined, unheated house, trying to decipher the supposed divine visions of a Carmelite nun. The FBI had abandoned him, and the Attorney General’s office had sealed his real case tighter than a drum after a single phone call. His investigation into the Venezuelan general’s connection with the Cartel de Los Soles and the Mexican narcos was now a distant, frosty memory.

He’d been pawned off on a priest by a less-than-enthusiastic FBI agent. “Go see Father Ferguson,” the agent had said, more out of annoyance than concern. “He needs someone to investigate a nun’s claims. It might keep you busy.”

Busy. Sure. Ruben trudged through the snow toward the nearby school where Father Ferguson worked. The school loomed large and gray against the white sky, just a block away from the icebox he temporarily called home.

The confessional smelled of incense and old wood. Ruben could almost taste the centuries of secrets soaked into the grain.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he began, his voice echoing slightly.

The priest on the other side sighed. “Go ahead, my son.”

“I’ve broken all Ten Commandments,” said Ruben, not even trying to hide his sarcasm. “All ten, multiple times. Really busy life I have.”

There was a moment of silence before the priest spoke again. “Go see Father Ferguson. He’s in the arcade courtyard.”

Ruben blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The arcade courtyard,” the priest repeated, his tone final. “Father Ferguson’s office is there.”

Ruben found the arcade courtyard hidden between dilapidated buildings, a forgotten relic of better times. Inside, the lights flickered erratically, and the sounds of outdated games echoed hollowly. Father Ferguson was easy to spot, a burly man in his forties, leaning against a pinball machine.

“Ah, Mr. Tenorio,” Ferguson greeted him, not bothering to hide his disdain. “I hear you’re quite the sinner.”

Ruben rolled his eyes. “And you’re quite the detective, Father.”

“Have a seat,” Ferguson said, gesturing to a nearby bench. “Let’s get to the bottom of this divine mystery.”

Ruben sat, the cold metal seeping through his clothes. “So, what’s the deal with this nun?”

“Sister Maria,” Ferguson began, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “claims she’s having private conversations with the Sacred Heart of Christ. And naturally, her visions are attracting a lot of attention. We need to know if she’s a fraud.”

“And why do you care?” Ruben leaned back. “Got nothing better to do?”

Ferguson smiled darkly. “Believe it or not, we take heresy seriously around here.”

Ruben flipped through the file Ferguson handed him. Sister Maria’s visions were linked to two Maracucho brothers from Green Tree, members of some mystical evangelical body. The deeper he dug, the more absurd it all seemed.

“Maracuchos, huh?” Ruben murmured. “Model citizens, I’m sure.”

Ferguson let out a grim laugh. “They’re as holy as you are, Tenorio. This whole thing stinks, but we need proof.”

Ruben snapped the file shut. “And if I find out she’s legit? Do I get a halo or just a pat on the back?”

Ferguson’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Just do your job, Ruben. Leave theology to me.”

Days turned into weeks, each colder and more frustrating than the last. Ruben’s investigation into Sister Maria’s claims felt like chasing smoke. The Maracucho brothers were slippery, their connections shady and elusive.

One night, Ruben found himself back at the arcade, facing Ferguson across a flickering game console. “This is useless,” he spat. “She’s either crazy or a scam artist. Take your pick.”

Ferguson leaned forward, his expression unreadable. “I need more than your gut, Tenorio. I need evidence.”

Ruben’s laugh was bitter. “Evidence? That’s rich coming from a man of faith.”

II

Ruben Tenorio followed the trail of the Maracucho brothers to a junkyard they had bought from the Warchola brothers. There, amidst the clutter of rusted parts and scrap metal, he found them sitting on a blue Warhol-style sofa, sipping coffee and smoking cigars. They had the look of hyenas and the smile of cockatoos, greeting him with a carefree superiority.

“Ah, Mr. Tenorio,” said the older one, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “What brings you here?”

Ruben, aware of being assessed, responded calmly. “I need answers about Sister Maria and her visions.”

The younger brother chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. “Faith is a tricky business, Mr. Tenorio. What kind of answers are you looking for?”

“The honest kind,” Ruben replied, keeping his composure.

“Honesty,” the older one mused, with an ironic smile. “That’s relative, don’t you think? People see what they want to see.”

The younger one nodded, playing with the smoke from his cigar. “Exactly. Sister Maria has many followers. Does it matter if her visions are real or not?”

Ruben gritted his teeth, feeling the frustration boil inside him. “It matters because the truth matters. Are you manipulating people?”

The brothers exchanged a look, and the older one smiled maliciously. “Manipulation is a strong word. We prefer to think of it as… guiding their faith.”

“Guiding their faith?” Ruben almost spat the words. “That sounds like manipulation by another name.”

“Words are powerful,” the younger one commented, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Ruben pulled out his phone and showed the brothers videos they had uploaded to the internet. In them, the brothers appeared with Christmas music in the background, Maracaibo gaita drums revealing a buried truth. “Look at this. You, turned into influencers, thanks to Panchita, the famous model of the past century. Former Hollywood actress, now supposedly converted by Sister Maria’s revelations.”

The brothers leaned forward, interested. Ruben continued, his tone biting. “Panchita firmly believes that the path of faith will free her from the fate of all models: loneliness and the fear of looking in mirrors.”

The older brother let out a bitter laugh. “Panchita always had a flair for dramatics.”

“Yes,” added the younger, “and it seems you do too, Tenorio.”

Ruben looked at them with disdain. “You talk about guiding faith, but you’re just using people for your own gain. The truth doesn’t matter to you. It’s just another product you’re selling.”

The brothers smiled, unfazed. “As we said before, people see what they want to see. Who are you to judge?”

Ruben shook his head, exhausted by their cynicism. “Well, enjoy your coffee and cigars. I’ll go see if I can find someone who actually cares about the truth.”

Before the brothers could respond, Ruben turned and left the junkyard, leaving the Maracucho brothers with their fake smiles and manipulations.

Outside, the wind was fierce, but Ruben felt a strange sense of determination. The case was far from over, and though the answers were elusive, he was nothing if not persistent.

III

Ferguson sighed, a tired sound. “That’s the nature of faith. Thanks, Ruben. You’ve done your part.”

Ruben stood, expecting dismissal. Instead, Ferguson looked at him with a mix of pity and determination. “Unfortunately, Ruben, the Church believes the Maracuchos’ lies. They want the investigation to continue.”

Ruben’s face twisted in exasperation. “Well, Columbus discovered America! So, what’s next? Interview the Easter Bunny?”

Ferguson’s expression remained serious. “No, but you need to talk to Panchita, an old model from La Guajira. Somehow, she’s tied into this mess.”

Ruben groaned internally, feeling the cold bite deeper into his bones. “Fine. Where do I find this Panchita?”

Ferguson handed him a slip of paper. “Here’s her address. And Ruben, try not to break all Ten Commandments again.”

Ruben laughed darkly as he walked away. “No promises, Father. No promises.”