“The boss. They got along like brodiers.”
“I don’t think I like anybody that much.” They both chuckled. “Think the boss will go down now that Foley’s gone?”
“Hard to tell. If I had a last buck I’d bet against it. What’s there to do there now for him? He’s not a golfer. For him it’s just a long walk in the sunshine interrupted by hitting a ball with a stick.”
Silence. Then, “When we goin’ down?”
“Dunno. I was waiting for you to make up your mind.”
“Lent comes early this year,”
“When?”
“Sometime late February.”
“Wow! We better get on the ball.”
“A Titleist, preferably.”
Another chuckle. “Got to get back before Ash Wednesday.”
“It’ll be great getting down there. Winter’s just beginning here and already I’m tired of it.” A pause. “It just doesn’t seem right somehow,”
“What?”
“That the boss won’t be down. I mean with Foley gone and all. One thing you gotta admit: Nobody works any harder than the Cardinal. I didn’t think I’d ever say that about any priest, let alone a bishop, but, dammit, the guy deserves some time off. Personally, I hope he does go down.”
“Yeah, it’d be nice seeing him relaxed. I’d even buy him a drink.”
“You? With the tightest pockets in the diocese, you’d buy him a drink? Somehow I got to get the message through to him. Then he’ll go for sure.”
They laughed. Silence. Then: “Oh, I almost forgot: You wanna play a little cards tonight?”
“Tonight? Where?”
“The chancery.”
“The chancery? Clete Bash having a party?”
“Uh-huh. Some of me guys are from out of town. Here for the funeral tomorrow. Staying at the chancery overnight.”
“Sounds like it could be fun, despite Bash.”
“Why’despite Bash’?”
“Guy’s a prick.”
“What’s he done to you?”
“Nothing. I’m just sick and tired of seeing his mug on TV all the time. Who the hell’s he think he is, Walter Cronkite?”
“You got the wrong guy. Cronkite was anchor. Bash is a-whaddyacallit-a press officer-like that McLaughlin, the Jebbie, for Nixon. Besides, he doesn’t like wild card games.”
“Who?”
“Bash. They’re alot of fun.”
“But not professional. Probably some of those out-of-town guys are sticklers: five-card stud, nothing wild, down and dirty.”
“Well, I don’t know. It might be kind of fun meeting the new guys. Hmmm … I guess so. But I gotta leave early. I got early Mass at the convent tomorrow.”
“God! I forgot you’ve got a convent. Those are practically a relic of a bygone day. You may just end up having the last nun in captivity.”
“Hell, I don’t have ’em. They just live in the old convent. Five Of ’em. Soon’s the sun’s up, they’re off to the four winds doing God knows what. Social work, prison counseling, and so on and so forth. I can just barely remember when we had teaching nuns living there. By God, those were the days.”
“Gone forever. So, it’s settled then. We can go downtown in my car. I’d just as soon leave early too. I got a hunch somebody in that bunch is a ringer and there’s going to be a lot of local priests who are broke tomorrow I don’t want to be one of them.”
That did it.
Until this moment, Koesler was feeling left out. He hadn’t been invited to the party and he felt certain that in such a cosmopolitan group of priests there would be at least a few who would Want to chat. It was instructive for those living under the jurisdiction of Cardinal Mark Boyle to get a taste of what life could be like under the more rigid control of almost any other bishop in the country.
But Ted or Harry-whichever it was who said it-was correct: The poker probably would be unrelentingly serious; light conversation would be at a minimum. And Koesler had had enough poker the other night to tide him over until spring or summer at the very earliest.
The organ sounded. There was a rustling as people throughout the now crowded cathedral struggled to their feet. The procession entered from the cathedral rectory. With enthusiasm and heartfelt sincerity the congregation took up the hymn, “And He will raise you up on eagle’s wings ….”
Cardinal Boyle, his dazzlingly white vestments set off by the scarlet-orange signs of office, halted at the bier. His tall, slender figure seemed bowed as he contemplated the remains of his old friend. He appeared able to remain standing only by clutching his crosier tightly with both hands. Clearly he was crushed by this senseless death.
Koesler’s heart went out to the Cardinal, whom he admired greatly. Cardinal Boyle had so many controversial responsibilities, and he obviously believed that the buck stopped with himself. He certainly did not need the grief he now bore.
These thoughts caused Koesler to consider the deep loss suffered by Mrs. Hoffer as well as the sorrow inflicted on Sister Joan, who now stood beside him. At sight of the Cardinal’s sorrow, silent tears again coursed her cheeks.
It was all so senseless.
But that was the point, wasn’t it: It wasn’t senseless. To someone it made a lotof sense. Someone had a purpose in all mis death and sorrow. What was it Lieutenant Tully had said? A thread. There was some kind of thread connecting these murders. If he, Koesler, could identify that thread, he-they-might be able to solve this case and possibly prevent further killings.
Koesler hoped that what he had told Tully had been of help. Maybe the whole thing was linked to: the parishes and schools and whether they were to remain open or should be closed.
One thing was sadly certain to Koesler: He was not as actively involved in this investigation as two archbishops had asked him to be. He was not as involved as he wanted to be.
27
“The Cardinal was good today.” then, remembering that he was not allowed to have an independent opinion, Bob Meyer deferred to his boss. “Didn’t you think he was?”
“I’ve been trying to get him to do that for years,” Father Cletus Bash said.
“Do what, Father?”
“Why, speak extempore, of course.”
Meyer reflected on that for a moment. “That’s right; he usually types his speeches and then reads them verbatim.”
“Always makes him sound like he’s reading a goddam dull textbook.”
“May I get you gentlemen something from the bar?” the waiter asked.
Bash wanted a Beefeater martini with a twist. Meyer ordered a Piesporter, an appropriate choice as they were lunching at the Pontchartrain Wine Cellars.
“I think,” Meyer said after the waiter left, “the Cardinal is a shy man who doesn’t want to show his emotions,” As his mouth formed the words he again remembered that he was not supposed to think. Two blunders, and they hadn’t even ordered lunch yet. He knew Bash was keeping score. One more and Meyer would either be reprimanded here in public, or he surely would get a scathing memo later this afternoon.
Bash paused to tally the blemishes on Meyer’s current tab, “Of course it’s not that. The Cardinal is a precise man. Too precise. That’s why he writes everything out beforehand.”
Careful now not to strike out, Meyer lobbed the conversational ball into Bash’s court, “Why do you think he spoke without notes this morning?”
The waiter brought their drinks, took their menu orders, and left.
“Emotion got the better of him,” Bash said, “They were close … very, very close, the Cardinal and Archbishop Foley. Matter of fact, I’m surprised the Cardinal trusted himself to speak without notes. He got carried away. Don’t blame him.”
Bash felt a firm loyalty to Boyle. Next to the Catholic Church-as Bash perceived it-and the army, Bash’s greatest fealty was to his Cardinal. It was Boyle who had given Bash this job as director of communications, which, in turn, had freed him from the deadly monotony of a parochial ministry and offered the opportunity of becoming a big fish in an acknowledgedly very large pool. Which opportunity he had seized and made the most of.