by B Branin
* * * * *
Father O’Brawley wasn’t your average priest. First off, even at seventy-five years old he had hands that were faster than any boxer to date. He could slap you upside the head, place a bible in your hands and feed you a communal wafer before you could even blink. Rumor had it that Father O’Brawley was once a sailor who ran with a less than decent crew of freelancers. Since the old priest was still tougher than nails, it wasn’t difficult to imagine him as a young man with a temper to match any storm on the open sea.
Anyway, it’s whispered that young O’Brawley picked a fight with another sailor in some godforsaken pub on a nameless island. He won the fight but only at the cost at the other combatant’s life. It seemed his strict Irish-Catholic upbringing hadn’t had any effect on him until the moment he killed someone in a barroom brawl. A mental and emotional dam burst inside young O’Brawley which evidently made him wait for the local authorities to arrive so he could confess. After spending several years incarcerated, O’Brawley left prison and joined some catholic monastery in the UK.
After dedicating decades to the monastery, O’Brawley came to the states with all the fire and brimstone only he could contain. He dove right into the worst neighborhoods around the country, rolling up his sleeves and helping those who truly needed it. He didn’t flinch as he helped an alcoholic out off the gutter nor did he bat an eyelash when a runaway shit and vomited all over the confession booth while going into heroine withdrawals.
Why he came to **** City is unknown. Like I mentioned before, our crime rate is pretty low and we don’t have any hardcore slums where poverty has slowly matured into full fledged violence and social disgruntlement. Maybe he’s getting too old to deal with the worst society can offer but whether his years were catching up to him or not was irrelevant. What was important is that the old priest was always willing to lend an ear.
Even to a scumbag like me.
“Arthur!” Father O’Brawley barked at me from across the park that shared the block with the St. Donovan’s church.
Despite his body being riddled with arthritis and his lung tissue probably black thanks to his single vice of cigarettes, Father O’Brawley walked with a quick step that left even the tallest of folks jogging to keep up with him. I strode over to our usual meeting spot and took a seat on one of the stone benches.
“I’ve missed you at confessional.” Father O’Brawley said, his gruff voice always sounding like a growl.
“As I’ve stated before,” I smiled, “I’m not Catholic.”
“You’ve confessed several times,” The old priest pointed out.
“Yes, because I needed an alibi,” I half-joked, “Besides, I look more honest when I occasionally swing by the church.”
Father O’Brawley’s voice became a cement-mixer in his chest; the undecipherable words were no doubt a quick prayer for my soul. It was always nice to know that even if I wasn’t particularly interested in salvation, someone else was doing the footwork to get me past Saint Peter.
After his incoherent prayer, Father O’Brawley looked me straight in the eye and demanded, “What trouble are yer into now, me boy?”
“None.” I replied with all the innocence I could muster, “I’ve actually got me a bit of honest work to do.”
Those shaggy eyebrows rose up a notch on Father O’Brawley’s wrinkled forehead. The doubt solidified in the form of a great scowl that men of the cloth seem to have perfected to a weapons’ grade glower.
“Is that so lad? You do know ‘tis a sin to lie to a priest.” Father O’Brawley commented, and his hand became a blur.
My right ear began to sting from where the old priest flicked it.
“I’m telling the truth!” I pressed, defensively recoiling from any further attacks made by the old priest, “Some girl hired me to find her sister!”
I have no idea how a man who lives his entire life according to a book written two million years ago perfects the art of skepticism, but Father O’Brawley has done so. He regarded me with all the patience of a parent waiting to hear the exaggerated tale a child might tell to get out of trouble.
“Yer no detective,” Father O’Brawley prompted, “Tell me straight: what have you gotten yerself into?”
I let out a sigh, and leaned back against the park bench. It was good to let my guard down once in a while. The only person who is able to make me relax and become relatively carefree is the old priest sitting next to me. As I stared up at the sky I try to formulate an explanation.
“Well, it’s complicated. You see, one of my…um…creative financial avenues actually lists me as an investigator of sorts.” I began thoughtfully, “I was hired by a young woman. I really want to help but her story is…odd to say the least.”
As usual Father O’Brawley surprised me. Not with wisdom or insight which most priests are blessed. No, he surprised me with the bluntness of a river rock. The damned old priest began to laugh and slapped his old, gnarled hands against his thigh.
“Oh by every Saint and ‘is mother!” Father O’Brawley chuckled, a sound similar to sandpaper rubbing together, “Arthur Broker be a private eye?!”
I tried to look insulted, but I couldn’t keep the smile from my lips. I sat back up and shook my head, “No, there is a bit more to it than that.”
“Okay, you’re investigating for a lass, but you’re not a PI?”
“No.”
“I take it’s too much to ask that you’re helping the police out in some way?”
“No, the cops wouldn’t help the girl.”
The old priest scowled again. I highly doubted Father O’Brawley would trust any figure of authority that didn’t have any connection to the Vatican. I wasn’t sure whether this distrust came from the time the younger O’Brawley spent inside prison or not but it was a safe bet.
“Figures. Then, I’m at a lost me boy. What are you investigating and how are you an investigator?”
I cleared my throat, “Well…technically I’m a Paranormal Investigator and I’m trying to help my client find her long dead sister.”
As easily as some of us tie our shoes, Father O’Brawley crossed himself with one hand and then smacked me twice with the other.
“Ouch! Dammit!” I cursed, earning a third smack, “What was that for?!”
“The first one is for dabbling in the devil’s trickster works! The second was takin’ advantage of some poor lass who needs professional help! The third was for swearin’!”
I scooted down the bench though I doubted I was out of the wrathful priest’s strike range. As soon as my head stopped ringing from the rapid fire smacks, I began to better explain my situation...and how I was guilty of only wanting to help.
“But that’s the problem! She is sane! Or at least, as far as the professionals can tell.” I clarified, feeling the side of my head for any lumps, “And she has gone to about every authority there is! She is positive her dead sister is up walkin’ around and that some bunch of crazies are responsible.”
His usual grey eyes became even darker as a sour expression came crossed Father O’Brawley’s wizened face. The old priest held his silence for several moments, probably issuing silent prayers for Fiona’s troubled soul, that of her dead sister’s, and of course my own dumb hide for being caught up in it all.
“What troubles and wickedness have you been participating in?” Father O’Brawley murmured as he looked me right in the eye, “You aren’t taking advantage of this poor lass who might be heartsick or head sick?”
I shook my head gently, “No…if I was, I would have walked away from this mess by now.”
Never ceasing to amazing me, Father O’Brawley broke into a smile and leaned over, clapping me on the back so hard it almost sent me rolling off the bench.
“The good Lord works in mysterious ways!” The old priest informed me for the umpteenth time, “Perhaps this is a sign for you! A sign that you’re changing!”
“Nope, pretty sure that’s impossible.”
“Not so me boy. N
ot so.” Father O’Brawley replied with a voice heavy with meaning, “Help this lass. For good or ill, help her. It just might show you that there is a side to life that doesn’t involve cheating, lying and stealing.”
“Yeah, what a life…” I muttered, reaching into my pocket and fished out the crumbled note I had brought along, “But I think you might be able to help me.”
“If it doesn’t break me vows, then I will help me boy.”
Nodding I asked, “Have you heard of the Daughters of All? Apparently that’s who Fiona thinks has her sister.”
For the first time in my life I saw the stalwart priest tense up, almost in fear. He quickly crossed himself as he muttered once more, “Oh my boy, what have you got yourself mixed up in?”
