"You've told no one of this charge against Father Rafe?"
"No. I've been . . . oh, blast it. Frank, I've been 'investigating.' I concocted this story that the parish wants to honor Father Hernandez with a 'This Is Your Life' tribute and I've been calling good, earnest Catholic ladies at diocesan offices wherever Father Rafe has been assigned, trying to find his associates and grill them without their knowing."
Matt suddenly realized that Frank was grinning at him over the remains of his chicken sandwich.
"I've lied, Frank. White lies, for a good cause, but I feel like a skunk. It's too easy. I had no idea I was so believable."
"It's all that good boy training. The veneer remains even when the foundation has cracked.
Welcome to the real world. Matt."
"You're not shocked?"
"Who am I to be shocked?" Frank inquired gently. "Matt, I never had a seminarian under my direction who was so sincere, so scrupulous, so promising and so damned self-deceiving. I always sensed that you would make a terrific priest, and that you had no business being one."
''You always knew? Then why didn't you tell me? Why let me work and muddle and sweat my way through . . . ?"
''You can't tell someone what to do. Not even God can do that. You have to let them find out for themselves; otherwise, they're never free. And ... J didn't know it, but my own vocation was built on sand. It will take other men, Matt, to follow in the shoes of the fisherman now. A new generation."
"Maybe other women," Matt added, remembering the dedicated minority with no rational hope of ordination, taking theology at the seminary for themselves alone even in his day. They must number more now, and they would be demanding more equity--even Holy Orders, despite the Pope's recent, hope-smashing decree.
Frank's hands lifted from the table, then slapped down.
"Listen, Matt, put your overactive Catholic conscience at rest. It so happens you've come to the person who can help you out of your moral quandary. Call it a last spiritual direction from a man whose own spiritual direction has taken a radical change of course. First, I can swear--
swear on any saint's name you care to mention:--that Father Rafael Hernandez showed no signs of pederasty when I was his assistant pastor at Holy Rosary twenty-five years ago.
"And," he added, as Matt stirred restlessly, "I am also in a position to prove it. I can have him quietly checked out, his entire roster of parishes. If there's any taint clinging to Rafe, I'll find it.
You see, I have an obligation, too. I knew him years before you did; I shared parish work with him. Now I have a pressing need to know, and I'm in a position to find out."
"Why? How?" Matt felt a hosanna of relief rising in him, even as he didn't quite dare believe in such easy deliverance.
Frank smiled. "Fear not. I'm in the FBI now, buddy."
Then he winked.
Father Frank Bucek, Father Furtive, ex-Father Frank, winked.
Chapter 25
Midnight Louie Eats Crow with Caviar
With more fishy things occurring at the Crystal Phoenix, I am forced to eat and sleep on my old turf. I would much prefer my literally cushy spot at the Circle Ritz, but too much is afoot (including the little doll to whom I owe so much, and vice versa) at the Phoenix to leave the premises.
Fortunately, I can do both (eat and sleep, that is) in the same spot: under the tropical green leaves of the canna lilies that edge my own private pond. One might argue that since the funny business is being transacted within the hotel and casino, what I am doing lounging about the grounds outside?
First, a fellow must have a retreat in which to ponder. Plus, I must keep an ear to the ground, and that is hard to do Indoors. Second, it behooves me to keep myself undercover. I am a well-known, perhaps even a notorious figure around and about the Phoenix. To flaunt my familiar profile would cast discretion to the wind. I am also in something of a quandary. Not only must I conceal myself from the nasty types committing sabotage and savagery inside the Phoenix, but I am not anxious to draw the attention of the lovely Caviar.
She has shown a lamentable tendency to haunt the place while hunting the poor sod who sired her. Had he but known, I he would have thought twice about any hijinks with her mother, I can tell you. Since I am he, I speak with authority.
By some happy kink of Miss Caviar's brain, she does not suspect me of being this irresponsible dude, though I match the description in every respect. My most delicate task is to keep Miss Caviar from seeing me in the company of anyone who might let slip the dogs of revelation and call me by my name. This is not easy to do around the Phoenix, where I am known and loved by all, from the owners to the chorus girls to Nicky's bevy of brothers, who are all over the place these days, up to their Armani lapels in strange doings.
Needless to say, an ace detective who is forced to hide like a craven mouse most of the time is more than somewhat handicapped.
So the canna lilies provide my sole reliable cover, though I sneak out every now and then to kipe a carp to keep the old hide going.
This, however, is becoming less likely.
For some reason as irritating as it is mysterious, little Miss Caviar has also chosen the carp pond as her favorite retreat. She does not even have the innate feline grace to slink around it, but sprawls openly on the flagstones framing the pond, tail fluffed and fanned.
For a female who supposedly knows the ways of the back alley and the Dumpster dinette network, this is astonishingly naive behavior. I feel an unselfish urge to warn the poor sap, but restrain myself. Frankly, the young often need to be taught a harsh lesson, and Miss Caviar more so than most. Offering lip, teeth and claws to one's elders (not to mention one's forebears) is not something that should go unpunished.
In fact, I must have been leading a pretty angelic life lately, for even as I drowse in the dirt under the canna lilies, unnoticed by all, even and especially by my unacknowledged offspring, who should come striding into the sunlight, resplendent in executive whites, but Chef Song himself.
The sizzling Las Vegas sun glints off the broad steel rectangle of a formidable cleaver. Usually these cleavers are used for such yummy tasks as cutting meat, but, Chef Song being of Asian ancestry. It is also used extensively on vegetables as well. In fact, I spot a sliver or two of mushroom still adhering to its slick, razor-edged surface.
If Chef Song walks softly and carries a big stick (or cleaver), many the time I have run before it with a juicy carrot in my mouth. My carrots are often orange and tasty, but wear fins and scales. No one is more devoted to the welfare of these imperial koi than Chef Song. And no one is more dedicated to extricating the most tender among them from under the very eyes, nose and cleaver of Chef Song than Midnight Louie.
So Miss Caviar has made a severe error in judgment in displaying her languid length to the oncoming chef. It is true that she considers herself too refined for raw meat, preferring the pulverized, putrid-green pellets of Bast-knows-what that pour from a Free-to-be-Feline box.
But Chef Song does not know that. All he knows is that our kind are enemies of his plump, pampered, piscean pets. He especially knows that Midnight Louie is the master of the game. Let Chef Song see black, and he sees red.
Even now he stops, focuses on the flagrantly visible Caviar, and hefts his cleaver with a curse.
I cannot bear to look. Caviar is chopped liver. And kidney, and other essential organs. I would advise discriminating diners to avoid the main restaurant at the Crystal Phoenix for the next few days.