True Confessions (28 page)

“We talked, him and me. When it came out she was in the Protectors.”

It was so clear now. Dan’s opposition to letting Jack go and his obsessive interest in Tommy.

“And I suppose you told him I was a warm personal friend of Miss Fazenda’s.”

“I didn’t put it that way, Des.”

“Of course not.” Jack must think the Spellacy family is his insurance policy, Desmond Spellacy thought. Tommy was his bagman and I knew, God help me, the Virgin Tramp.

“He thinks your bro . . . Lieutenant Spellacy is crazy.”

“He probably is.”

“You got to do something, Des.”

“For whom, Dan?”

“For all of us.”

Desmond Spellacy stared at the spreading brandy stain on the carpet. “Tell Peg I’m sorry I spilled the drink.”

“Des . . .”

“I’ll see what I can do, Dan.”

For His Eminence, he thought as he drove back to Fremont Place. For the archdiocese. Not to mention myself. Coming up from Del Mar with a winning exacta in his pocket and the Virgin Tramp in the back seat. A Christian Scientist who had never heard of Mary Baker Eddy. There was no face. Just the photograph in the newspapers of the girl in the Arab costume. It would make a nice triptych in the papers. That photograph flanked by one of me and one of Dan T. Campion. Or one of me and one of Jack. Or just the three of us: Dan, Jack and me. The Three Musketeers. One for all and all for one. A $612 exacta, he remembered. He had given it all to the Athanasians. Because of Chet Hanrahan’s son. Brother Bede Hanrahan, who was soliciting for his mendicant order. The cuffs on Brother Bede’s habit had needed mending. He remembered that now, too. And the look on Bede Hanrahan’s face when he gave him the six hundreds, a ten and two singles. His own cuffs didn’t need mending. Chet Hanrahan had bought the suit. Not off the rack. Custom-made. Three fittings. And the black Scotch-grain Lobb shoes as well. You need a last in London, Chet Hanrahan had said. It was a long step from Thorn McAn to a last in London. All things considered, a step I would just as soon never have taken. A nice little parish would be just the thing now. Confessions from three to five and seven to eight. Two masses on Sunday, benediction and the Stations of the Cross. Mrs. Rodano would run the Legion of Mary and Jimbo Lenihan the Holy Name Society. Cake sales and bingo. To pay for the new altar linen. He would get Tommy to receive regularly. Every Sunday. That would be the first order of business. Although Mrs. Morris at the Jury Commission might pose a small problem. Necessitating a little marriage counseling. Perhaps it wasn’t such a hot idea after all. Tommy never did think much of my expertise on nuptial matters. Or any priest’s, for that matter. When I want swimming lessons, Des, I’ll go to someone who knows how to swim. Simple and to the point.

Tommy.

My brother, the policeman.

He turned his car into the driveway of the Cardinal’s residence on Fremont Place. It was at the Cardinal’s request that he lived at the residence. In the past chancellors lived in the rectory at Saint Vibiana’s or had rooms at Saint Philip’s Hospital. It was not that the Cardinal wanted company. Desmond Spellacy never saw him except officially. The residence was simply too big, His Eminence said. It was wasteful not to live there. He wondered if the Cardinal knew how much he disliked living there. It was like a tomb. The perfect place to live out his death.

Ahhh.

That was it. That was what he was doing.

Living out my death.

He turned off the car engine and sat in the front seat. The headlights were still on. It was like a numbered drawing. Connect the consecutive numbers with lines and a picture began to emerge. A girl was murdered. Mary Margaret wrote him a letter. Mickey Gagnon committed a mortal sin. Dan Campion went to Del Mar. Jack Amsterdam had lunch at the Biltmore. Ruben Aguilar was a moron. Mrs. Morris at the Jury Commission went to confession. The Cardinal was short a ton of asphalt. I win an exacta. The archdiocese needs an auxiliary. Chet Hanrahan has a coronary. Tommy was a bagman.

He thought, I was always the one who connected the lines before. Not now. The pencil had a power of its own. No one had any control over it.

He thought, I am losing my nerve. I have surrendered to fate. Which is another way of saying, I am living out my death.

A flashlight shone into his face. He shielded his eyes from the glare and saw a policeman staring into the car at him.

“Your lights are on, Father.”

“I’m sorry, Officer, I must have dozed off.”

“It’s only nine-thirty.”

“I get up at six.”

“You’re all right?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were . . .”

“No, Officer.”

“You’re all right?”

“Thank you, Officer.”

He parked the car in the garage and locked the garage door. He turned off the lights and climbed the stairs to his third-floor bedroom. There was not a sound in the residence.

My God, Desmond Spellacy thought, I’m tired of fixing things.

“There’s a bug in the tomato,” Seamus Fargo said. “And sand
in the salad. The chicken is underdone, the peas are hard and the ice cream is melted. The coffee is cold and the waiter needs to blow his nose. He will probably pinch a nostril and sneeze into the jellied consomme. I have no doubt that Bishop O’Dea will think it’s a caper and recall how Babe Ruth had capers with every meal. And if he is let near the microphone, he will do his Al Smith imitation and talk about Tiny Hennessy’s cousin, the Sister of Charity, who was supposed to have had the stigmata in Indianapolis.” Seamus Fargo paused for breath. “I have been to lunches like that, Your Eminence.”

“So I gather,” the Cardinal said.

The curtains in the Cardinal’s study were drawn. Another indication of His Eminence’s failing health, Desmond Spellacy thought. The bright sun seemed to make him doze. With the drapes closed, it was easier for him to see, but it lent the study an air of gloom and foreboding. There was only one advantage. In the darkened room, his attention could now wander without coming under the Cardinal’s piercing scrutiny. He surreptitiously checked his watch. He was meeting Tommy at eleven in the employees’ cafeteria at KFIM. “Homicide Hotline” was the name of the program Tommy was scheduled to be on. About the Fazenda murder, he supposed. A show I very much want to miss. Not that his own schedule was much more edifying. First he would transcribe “The Rosary Hour.” Then negotiate the terms for the Cardinal’s Christmas Eve midnight mass broadcast. And then try to negotiate Dan T. Campion out of the clutches of the police department. He tried not to think of the girl or of the rage he had directed at Dan Campion the past week.

“I spoke to your Mr. Walsh, Your Eminence.” Seamus Fargo’s voice interrupted Desmond Spellacy’s reverie. “He wore French cuffs.”

“Surely no reason to disqualify him,” the Cardinal said. He glanced at his manicure and dropped his hands into the folds of his cassock.

“I do not like fund raisers.”

And that is too goddamn bad, Desmond Spellacy exploded under his breath. Because Leo I. Walsh of Diocesan Giving, Inc., is going to administer the archdiocese’s new $20 million fund-raising program whether you like it or not. He felt suddenly ashamed. He knew his anger was not caused by Seamus Fargo. Dan Campion rather, and “Homicide Hotline.” Poor Seamus. For nearly thirty years Monsignor Fargo had chaired all the fund drives in the archdiocese and now the Cardinal was relieving him of that position. At my instigation. No. One thing Monsignor Fargo doesn’t want is my pity.

“I want you to go to that lunch, Seamus,” the Cardinal said.

“He’ll have a thermometer in the lobby,” Seamus Fargo said. “With a drawing of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. And cheap leather luggage as a door prize. Donated by Timsy Rooney, the merchant, who hasn’t been able to get rid of it in twelve years. In memory of his grand Irish mother who lived to be 111 and had all her teeth, and let’s hear it for Timsy.” Seamus Fargo spoke precisely. “I have seen this man’s letterhead, Your Eminence. There is a design of a stained-glass window on it.”

“I am aware of that, Monsignor.” It seemed an effort for the Cardinal to speak. Desmond Spellacy wondered if Monsignor Fargo was aware of how much the Cardinal had declined. Fatigue overtook him often now before noon. His conversation sometimes tended to drift. “Mr. Walsh went to Fordham.”

“A school for Polish football players,” Seamus Fargo said.

The Cardinal flushed with anger, but kept silent, as if realizing the irrelevance of his remark.

“Where they evidently did not bother to teach him English,” Seamus Fargo continued. “He spoke to me about upgrading the giving habits of prospects. He proposed breaking donors down into lists of advanced, intermediate, and general prospects. The problem is one of salesmanship, he said.” Seamus Fargo stared at the Cardinal. It was a constant source of amazement to Desmond Spellacy that no matter how intensely Monsignor Fargo felt, he never raised his voice. “That man proposes to turn the archdiocese into a salesman’s territory, Your Eminence. You might as well make Timsy Rooney a bishop and his grand old ma a mother superior.”

The Cardinal studied Monsignor Fargo. He was wide awake once again, and brooding. He was at his most dangerous, Desmond Spellacy knew, when he had been caught napping. “Mr. Walsh comes highly recommended, Monsignor.”

Seamus Fargo swiveled in his chair and looked across the room at Desmond Spellacy. “By Monsignor Spellacy, no doubt.”

Desmond Spellacy rose and opened the briefcase on the Cardinal’s desk. One thing about Seamus, he thought, he makes the adrenalin pump. You can’t think about Dan Campion and your other problems when he’s in the room. “These are the figures of our last drive.”

“An eminently successful drive, Monsignor,” Seamus Fargo said coldly. He did not open the folder he had been handed. The figures were on the tip of his tongue. “The goal was $6 million. I raised $6 million. It took me two years, I collected on seventy-nine percent of my pledges and it only cost me four percent in campaign expenses.”

“You did well, Seamus,” the Cardinal said.

“Very well indeed, Monsignor/’ Desmond Spellacy said.

“For a nonprofessional,” the Cardinal said. Quietly. With no flourishes. Seamus Fargo looked back at the Cardinal. He knows he’s had it, Desmond Spellacy thought. He knew it when he walked into this room, but Seamus would never go down without a fight.

Desmond Spellacy handed another folder to Monsignor Fargo. “Two years ago, Mr. Walsh designed a drive to raise $5 million for the archdiocese of San Francisco.” He could recite the figures by rote. Each decimal point was like a nail in Seamus’s coffin. “In eighteen months, he raised nearly nine million dollars. He collected on ninety-two percent of his pledges and the total cost was only two percent.” He pointed to the folder in Monsignor Fargo’s hand. “The figures have been authenticated by an independent certified public accountant.”

He waited by the Cardinal’s desk while Monsignor Fargo thumbed through the papers. I have become so familiar with such sums, he thought, even contemptuous of them.

Seamus Fargo handed the folder back to Desmond Spellacy. “A very thorough job,” he said carefully. He settled back into his chair, his long, bony fingers drumming against the leather armrests. His thin lips parted in a small smile.

“I would hope that in the future, Monsignor,” Seamus Fargo said, “you will have Mr. Amsterdam’s books authenticated by the same accountants.”

The drawn curtains enhanced the silence in the study. The Cardinal glanced back and forth between the two men. Neither spoke, nor did they break off staring at each other.

The clock struck the half-hour.

“Mr. Amsterdam’s services to the archdiocese have been discontinued,” Desmond Spellacy said finally. The Cardinal was right: Seamus never blinked. His eyes seemed to be held open by icicles. He was not surprised that it was Seamus rather than the Cardinal who had forced his hand. Monsignor Fargo had always been the most implacable of men. God knows, there had been enough rumors over the years about Jack and short-changing. Both Neddy Flynn and Emmett Flaherty were in Saint Basil’s and they must have repeated a story or two to Seamus.

“I am delighted to hear that, Monsignor,” Seamus Fargo said, “as I am sure His Eminence is, too.”

So. He had cut Jack Amsterdam loose. There was nothing to do now but let events run their course. The lines would be connected, the picture would appear. In an odd way Desmond Spellacy felt relieved. He controlled an impulse to snap back at Monsignor Fargo. It would serve no purpose. Seamus had been stripped of one title, and if he did not watch out, he stood to lose another. Words were cheap.

Though wounding.

And sometimes truthful.

“That’s settled then, Seamus,” the Cardinal said. Desmond Spellacy had almost forgotten he was in the room. That was a mistake. The Cardinal may have been inconspicuous, but he had been keeping score. “The luncheon is on Thursday. I would appreciate it if you introduced Mr. Walsh.”

Monsignor Fargo made no effort to hide the sarcasm in his voice. “And say grace, too, Your Eminence?”

“You will pour the coffee, Monsignor, if I tell you to,” the Cardinal said coldly.

“As you wish,
Eminenza”
Seamus Fargo said. He made ready to leave. He knelt and kissed the Cardinal’s ring and nodded curtly at Desmond Spellacy.

“There is one other thing, Monsignor,” the Cardinal said. “Our Lady of Lourdes parish.”

“It is badly run, the plant is a firetrap and there are not enough parishioners,” Seamus Fargo said.

“Well put,” the Cardinal said. “Unlike Saint Basil’s. You have the highest credit rating in the archdiocese.”

“I am aware of that, Your Eminence.”

“I thought you would be,” the Cardinal said. He did not ask Monsignor Fargo to retake his chair. He’s good at using the little things like that to put someone at a disadvantage, Desmond Spellacy thought. “I feel it incumbent on the more fortunately endowed parishes to help out those less . . . advantaged.”

Seamus Fargo shifted his hat and briefcase from one hand to the other. “Lending them money would be a more precise way of putting it, I would think.”

“If you wish,” the Cardinal said. “I would of course pay interest. Two percent.”

“I could do better with pencils and a tin cup,” Seamus Fargo said. “It systematically undermines the authority of every pastor in the archdiocese.”

“It is Christian charity,” the Cardinal said.

“I believe Monsignor Spellacy would call it central financing.” Monsignor Fargo ignored Desmond Spellacy. “This is his concept, is it not?”

The Cardinal spread his hands on his desk, then slowly clasped them. He would never speak until he was in total control. “It would behoove you to remember, Monsignor,” he said finally, “that I run this archdiocese, not Monsignor Spellacy.”

“As you wish,
Eminenza.”
Seamus Fargo steadied himself on the back of a chair. The strain of standing was beginning to take its toll. He was starting to show his age. “It is still bolshevism by any other name. I would prefer to take over Our Lady of Lourdes myself. Given five years, I could turn it around.”

“Seamus, you’re eighty-one years of age.”

“In perfect health.”

“I want the money.”

“Is that an order?”

“It is.”

Seamus Fargo straightened from behind the chair and bowed. “As you wish,
Eminenza
”

The Cardinal did not speak for several moments after Monsignor Fargo departed. His head was bowed on his chest, almost as if he were asleep. Desmond Spellacy did not move.

The Cardinal looked up. “I’ve known that man for sixty years. And not once in those sixty years has he ever called me Hugh.” The Cardinal snorted. “
Eminenza
. He spent six months in Rome at the seminary sixty years ago, and now whenever he wants to get snippy, he lapses into that high-falutin’ Italian.
Eminenza
. I don’t think he knows another word.”

Desmond Spellacy said nothing. He had seen the Cardinal this way before about Monsignor Fargo. There was not another person alive who could so crack his glacial reserve.

“He has to go.”

“Your Eminence?”

“I mean he has to be fired, Monsignor. Don’t act as if you’ve never heard the word before.”

“I’m sorry, Your Eminence.”

“Find out what his needs are.”

“Your Eminence?”

The Cardinal coldly emphasized every word. “Find a place for him, Monsignor.”

“Saint Francis Hospital needs a chaplain.” Desmond Spellacy wondered if he had been too quick to answer. It was as if he had just been waiting to drop Monsignor Fargo into the vacancy at Saint Francis.

The Cardinal stared at him without comment. “Perfect,” he said finally.

The irony of the situation left a metallic taste in Desmond Spellacy’s mouth. In less than an hour he was going to try to keep Dan Campion out of jail and now he was being ordered to fire Seamus Fargo. Another two numbers connected, another line drawn in. The outline was taking shape.

The Cardinal was still talking.

“And not because he looks at me as if I belong in a home for senile priests . . .”

“Yes, Your Eminence.” Who? Seamus. He still must be talking about Monsignor Fargo. The second number . . .

“We need younger pastors, that’s the long and the short of it. Men who will do what they are told. Without all that arguing and complaining and obstruction. Getting rid of Monsignor Fargo should make the others fall back into line.” The Cardinal paused. “What do you think of that?”

“As you wish, Your Eminence.”

“My God,” the Cardinal said irritably, “you sound just like him.”

Desmond Spellacy’s eyes flickered, but he did not move.

“You might as well learn now that you will have to do some unpleasant things,” the Cardinal said. “If you become a bishop, perhaps you can find an ambitious young monsignor to do them for you.”

The words burned, like a drop of acid. He’s a tired, dying old man, Desmond Spellacy thought, but he hasn’t lost the knack of putting people in their place.

“I hope you’re right about Mr. Walsh, Monsignor. As I hope you’ve been right about Mr. Amsterdam.” There was a rattle of phlegm in the Cardinal’s throat. “I’ve had to get rid of a number of old friends to make things easy.” His voice dropped and his breathing became labored. “For you.”