by Declan Finn
For once in a decade of friendship, the Revered Father Augustine Patrick Sadowski was silent.
As a full minute passed, James could not recall any time—even as a student—when Gus was this quiet. James closed his eyes, sat back and waited until he heard a sigh explode from his friend.
“I guess you’re right,” Gus concluded with obvious reluctance.
“I’m shocked,” James drawled. “In any event, I’d suggest that you go out for dinner now so that you can be back for the rent-a-priest’s departure at 6:30.”
“OK.”
Gus heaved himself out of the chair with a visible effort, heavily and suddenly appearing very tired. James watched him trudge upstairs for his coat as he settled himself in the pastor’s chair. He rummaged in the cave of his briefcase, recaptured his Gervase Fen novel, and settled in for a quiet read.
He was almost finished with the book ten minutes later as he watched Sadowski leave at 3:30 for an early dinner. James trotted upstairs to exchange paperbacks shortly thereafter, grateful that he had brought seven “penny dreadfuls” with him at the start of the week and had just as automatically grabbed another seven from the shelves at home today.
Actually, thought James, it’s so amazingly quiet in the rectory, I’m starting to understand the large outpourings of print from priest-scholars. It must be the demands of study and research which keep them from being bored silly with rectory life, especially if they aren’t gregarious types who must plunge themselves into every parish activity. If Gus is to be believed, how else does a priest get from Sunday afternoon to Friday evening?
He snatched up his copy of Mortal Stakes by Robert Parker and ran down to answer the bell.
After an empty Gallo wine jug was half-filled with holy water, and the little Spanish kid sent on her way, James settled into the book, curious about the plot and amazed at a hard-boiled private eye novel where even the women sounded like Bogart playing Sam Spade.
This Parker fellow might go somewhere. I wonder if he’s going to keep this Spencer character.
James was interrupted by another knock on the door. This one sounded like someone was trying to bash the door down. He rolled his eyes, wondering if he would get a football player, or a little old Italian lady.
When he opened the door, James found the three stooges. One was a Margaret Hamilton clone in a business suit.
The second one was tall and thin … slender, really. He had wire framed glasses, and hair that was not only close-cropped to the head, but peroxide white. He even wore loafers … James’ father had always held the belief that anyone who wore loafers would be automatically a homosexual—taking the phrase “light in the loafers” far too literally. James himself had no preconceived notion of what was and what wasn’t “gay characteristics.” But in the case of the simpering worm next to the pastor of Lepanto, James was quite willing to make a guess one which side of the batting cages he was swinging for.
The third one was big and … tan, really. To call him black would have been a gross exaggeration. Compared to Luraleen or Gus, this fellow was more Mediterranean, perhaps Sicilian. The black clerical shirt made his skin look even paler. This made his cornrows and dreadlocks seem slightly ridiculous.
“Are you the house boy?” the priest in the lead sneered.
James looked him up and down. Given the way Gus described his nemesis over at Our Lady of Lepanto, James would almost lay money on who this new interloper was. “I prefer the term assistant. Who are you?”
“Father Mike Barry, Our Lady of Lepanto,” he declared.
James tried not to smirk at his internal wager coming true. Nailed it. That makes the woman Mary Jane Neuhaus … or Nuthouse, to hear Gus tell it.
Barry continued, “At least that nigga is getting a white boy to play step and fetch it.” He chuckled at his own malicious little joke.
James’ eyes narrowed. Don’t hit the priest. Don’t hit the priest. Don’t hit the priest … “At least he doesn’t need a tanning salon to pass for black.”
The other two gasped, as though they were shocked, shocked, that anyone would dare talk back to the leader of their little three ring circus.
Barry puffed up his chest, trying to look bigger than he was. “You’re the one who assault Father Tim Lessner. You’re going to go to jail.”
James arched a brow. When he told Father Gus to place all the blame on him for anything with Tim, he didn’t expect it to happen this fast … and without them going through Gus. “Before or after I file charges against him for attempted assault as well as grand larceny?” He eyed the priest, the woman, and their lackey behind them. “Or did he leave out the thousand dollars of bingo money he walked away with this afternoon?”
The thin, possibly gay one took a step up and stabbed a finger into James’ chest. “How do we know that you didn’t steal the money?”
James looked down at the finger in his chest. Then he met the man’s eye. “One.”
He stabbed the finger into James’ chest again. “One what?”
“Two.”
The man drove his finger harder into James’ chest. “Two of—”
“Three.”
James casually, calmly, reached up, grabbed the finger in his chest with his fist, and bent it back against the man’s hand. The skinny henchman screamed like a girl, and fell to one knee. James slowly lowered his fist, forcing him to follow lower, lest the finger snap.
James looked to Barry. “If you and Mary Jane Nuthouse here want to try coming after me, be my guest. The people I work for are far less willing to play your sorts of games. And last time I checked, the cops around here have bigger threats to deal with than the sort of simple assaults that you want to charge me with. They may even be too busy for something that barely qualifies as grand larceny. But I hear that Angelo ‘Angel of Death’ D’Angelo dislikes hearing about theft from church. What do you think? Should we call him and ask? Then add you three stooges to Tim’s list of accomplices?”
Barry’s glowered. James thought that threatening the man with the local Godfather was probably overkill, but everything that he’d heard about Barry made James disinclined to play nice.
Before Barry could say anything, James shoved the minion’s hand away from him and added, “Now take your boyfriend and Tim’s girlfriend, and clear the hell out of here before I introduce you to Buttercup. It’s near feeding time.”
James promptly slammed the door in their faces.
* * *
At five o’clock, a nervous little bird of a nun popped into the common room looking for Father Sadowski. All James was able to understand was that: 1) she taught little children how to prepare for the first Sacraments; 2) that the little kids met in the basement room of the rectory on Wednesdays and in the school building on Thursdays, and 3) that the little kids were gone, and she was going, and 4) finally that her name was Dymphna Squllache. James was convinced that she left thinking he was an MD. He also assumed she was one of those people who came down with the kindergarten teacher’s disease of talking to no one in adult locutions. That pinwheeled his mind into wondering why ‘adult’ now meant things which were usually too vulgar or immoral for even adults to do. He then settled into Spenser’s weightlifting program of a novel until the priest for the evening Mass arrived.
This priest du jour was tall, skinny, very old, and veddy, veddy, British. He was like Edward Fox from that The Day of the Jackal film adaptation, only a hundred years old and a starring role as Colonel Sanders from that rapidly-growing chicken place.
“Hubert Grante-Scarf,” the priest introduced himself.
James offered the usual amenities and had them all declined except, “I would like a sit and a chat.”
“Fine.”
Once Father Hubert was was settled, he asked, “Do you realize what a lot of clerical nattering you’ve started?”
James’ face must have answered for him, as Hubert held up a hand. “No, no, my boy. Don’t look so guilty. ’Tisn’t really your fault, not by a l
ong chalk. We clerics are terrible gossips. You see, in this diocese, you can count us in the hundreds. Even in our ledger, where you can find every priest ever ordained for the diocese, the whole book is still no better than a goodly paper bound. Even in the Tribunal, where the sordid cases so dreadfully outnumber the legally interesting ones, storytelling is a prime diversion. So you can understand how Frank Yamamoto dominated today’s lunch hour. The laity who live in rectories are always, invariably, old-hen housekeepers…” Hubert stopped, smiled, and gave a single chuckle. “Or even worse, the pastor’s maiden sister as the cook. Frank had a ball: whether you fed his ego or listened intelligently to his stories…” He frowned thoughtfully, his face scrunched up like a balled-up piece of paper. “Hm, that’s rather much one and the same thing, isn’t it?”
James looked into the crinkly blue eyes, surrounded by white hair, eyebrows, and devilish goatee and started laughing.
“Yes, quite,” James replied, mirroring Hubert’s accent.
Grante-Scarf laughed. “Parody me all you like, just don’t turn methane into meethane or Byzantine in BUYzann-tine like my relatives in the Easte End of London.”
“Bad habit,” James responded. “I had a speech teacher in high school who was so interested in HOW you said something that he completely ignored WHAT you said. Hooked me on accents: you should hear my Southern.”
“I’ll pass. Thank you.” Father Hubert Grante-Scarf continued. “Indulge an old man’s curiosity. You see, I went from one dog collar to another and I’ve remained frightfully curious as to how other people come to Rome.”
James arched a brow. “Changed dog collars?”
Hubert peered closely at James, looking for a sign of deception. “Gus didn’t give you background on who was coming?”
“I’m not certain he knows who’s coming on any given night,” James said dryly. “Father Clancy seems to have told him something general like ‘Don’t worry: someone will be there.’”
Hubert gave the short, sharp, military nod that was so terribly British, James almost wondered if he had gotten T.E. Lawrence’s autograph. “Quite proper. Your boss is rather the nervous type? Then it’s really the best thing to just reassure him and then go scrambling after the details yourself. Clancy has told me some curious stories about your man at the sem. As for the dog collar, I was Church of England and then I Poped and went over to Rome.”
Father Grante-Scarf cleared his throat, then continued. “Most disconcerting that: you not only lose your position when you leave the C. of E., but also your house and your living. Anyway, they put me in charge of the Convert Aid Society, so I could take care of my countrymen who were in the same boat. Then my bishop, Derek Warlock—don’t snicker, I’ve met confreres who were also named Priestly, Bishop, and one named MacIntagert, which is Scottish for son of a priest!”
He blinked and narrowed his eyes again. “Where was I? Oh, yes; Derek got the permission from Rome to re-ordain me and then he shipped Maude and me out on semi-permanent rental to your tribunal.”
“Maude?” James was beginning to get the sense of deja vu of most of the conversations with Father Gus. This had started with a simple question, and continued all over the place. At least Father Grante-Scarf at least had the excuse of being born in the previous century.
“Maude is Mrs. Grante-Scarfe. Our presence was too disruptive in England—we still have some dying dragons in our Roman hierarchy who would have insisted Maude enter a cloister. Pat Clancy jumped at the idea of using us on his ‘hard nut cases.’ You know the type: one spouse wants the annulment, but the one we really want to have a chat with won’t deal with ‘bugger bachelor priests.’ Oh, sorry, I’m in America, the slur here is ‘faggot.’ But, usually, when people get an invite signed by Father and Mrs., they come just out of curiosity…
“Oh, dear, I’ve just time to vest for Mass. I can see Frank’s affection for you. When you work with monologists all day long, you cherish a good listener.”
“About Gus at the seminary....”
Father Hubert smiled. “I’ll be here Friday. We’ll talk then.”
* * *
The only oddity left to that night—beside the fact that Tim was not seen outside of his room—was Gus bustling in right after Mass to rush James down to his own dinner and then rush him back upstairs for the 7:30 Ash Wednesday services.
The new liturgical rules for Ash Wednesday strongly discouraged the old practice of drop in, get your ashes, run out. The liturgy commission wanted a group ceremony with Scripture reading, a sermon, and, of course, a collection.
“And our parishioners are notoriously product-happy,” said the commission. “The two biggest days in this parish’s liturgical calendar are Ash Wednesday and Palm Sunday. If we gave out a different souvenir each week for them to display, we’d be jammed to the rafters.” At least, that was their rationale. James wasn’t certain if anyone actually believed it.
Gus dressed James in a long white alb which covered his civvies, tied up with a long white cincture cord at the waist. “By the way, you don’t mind being an Extraordinary Minister, do you?”
“Isn’t there formal training involved?”
“You know Aquinas on transubstantiation and the harassment Paul VI has put up with over transfinalization and transsignifigation?”
James thought a moment. “Those theories that the purpose of the bread and the significance are changed at Mass can supplement but not replace defined doctrine of real bread becoming real Body. What about it?”
Gus nodded. “Good. Lesson ended. You know more than most of the Extraordinary Ministers I’ve worked with. We’ll get you documented before Friday.”
The ceremony proceeded without delay, after which James promptly excused himself and locked himself in his room. James and Mortal Stakes ran out at the same time; James was half-asleep as he finished the book and fully asleep as the book fell off the bed at ten o’clock.
* * *
She was woman. Only inside a woman did Tim Lessner feel like a man. He thanked God once more that the walls were thick and started to recover his enthusiasm for another round.
Getting her up here was easy enough. Met her at the back door of the basement by pre-arrangement, then up three flights and lock the door behind them, home free.
Lips, teeth, tongue, toes, genitals, and anuses were all used in ever more creative and enthusiastic joinings until sleep had set in.
Tim started awake a little after two to discover that she had found a new way to awaken him.
* * *
The noise that awakened James was like the sawing of wood on top of deceased shock absorbers. He awoke slowly, resentfully, noting the hour on the watch next to the bed lamp he’d left on. It slowly dawned on him that the noise was coming from overhead and that it was 2:37 a.m.
Even more slow in coming was the realization that those sounds had a particular significance.
“Disgusting,” James muttered … then laughed at himself for snorting just like John Adams in 1776. He considered interrupting –what he had assumed was –an act of solitary indulgence when the noise came to a crescendo and then silence.
James stood up and began to properly dress for bed. He had almost finished when he heard the upstairs door creak. Putting out his light, he opened his door slightly to see what came down the stairs. He was decidedly interested in having a conversation with Father Tim, possibly once more with the aid of a blunt object.
James had an amusing mental image of explaining to the cops that “No, of course not, officer. How was I to know that it wasn’t a sneak thief?”
James sighed and shook his head. Too many murder mysteries.
Instead of Father Tim, what came down was a female – five foot seven, sandy blond hair cut in a Dutch boy style, with a body twenty pounds over the fashion, with baby elephant thighs visible under a psychedelic orange vinyl microskirt. The belly was soft, the face was sullen, and the heavy makeup made her late-thirties face look like an aged hooker’s.
It was “Sister” Mary Jane Neuhaus, from what James could tell.
Are you kidding me? James thought. In the rectory? Splurge for a freaking hotel, why don’t you? Nuns and priests and in a rectory. For the love of …
Father Tim followed behind her, walking as slowly and softly. The sudden temptation to try out the homicidal fantasy in real life flashed through him, but subsided quickly. Both idiots were obviously intoxicated; both had the same pasty complexions with the sickly flush coloring which came from sex and drink.
James closed the door and was grateful that Gus was apparently a heavy sleeper. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be the one explaining to the cops about a dead body in the hallway.
I really don’t want to be here, James reflected as he drifted back to sleep. This place is on the road to a collision even without the dangers of the neighborhood. I am sorry I ever came here.
CHAPTER TEN:
EVE OF THE CRIME
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 15TH, 1976
How he got through Thursday, James never knew. He encouraged Gus to take a nap when he found out that previous curates took Thursday “on call” because of the pastor’s involvement with that night’s bingo game. Since Tim was keeping to his room, the morning went quickly and quietly.
Father Sadowski came down for lunch. The recent sleep had slowed him and his depression-reaction to the events of yesterday made for a silent meal.
After lunch, and after replacing the panel to the parlor fireplace which James had left open the previous afternoon, Gus ushered him into the common room, closed the door, and turned on the television before sitting and lighting his cigar.
