. that he was kind to his mother?”
“I’m sure it would be,” Koesler assured. Somehow, he’d found himself doing a lot of consoling, particularly in view of the fact that this funeral had not been his responsibility.
Mrs. Quinn led him into the kitchen, where a buffet consisting mainly of sandwich ingredients had been laid out.
In the kitchen was a considerable crowd; almost everyone who had returned here from the cemetery. Koesler guessed, after a cursory study, that most of the people were relatives of Mrs. Hunsinger.
Awkward. He definitely was odd man out. Oh, the group was respectful enough, but he was not family. What had been a rather lively conversation before he entered was now somewhat subdued.
As speedily as he could, Koesler worked his way through the crowd, made himself a modest ham and cheese sandwich, and worked his way out of the kitchen to an empty corner of the dining room. There, alone, he wolfed down the sandwich.
One thing was certain, he had to get out of there.
Suddenly it occurred to him that this was his day off. Or at least what was left of it. He found Mrs. Quinn and asked if he might use the phone. She showed him to a small desk in an alcove beneath the staircase. Fortunately, no one else was in the area. He dialed a number from memory.
“St. Clement’s,” a matronly voice answered.
“I’d like to speak to Father McNiff, if he’s available.”
“Just a moment, sir.”
After several long moments: “Father McNiff.”
“Anybody ever tell you that you physically resemble Carroll O’Connor?”
“A few.” McNiff s voice revealed he knew the caller.
“Anybody ever tell you that your philosophy of life resembles Archie Bunker’s?”
“Not to my face they don’t.” McNiff chuckled.
“Patrick, old fellow, why did I know that you’d be hard at work at the rectory on your day off?”
“The work of the Lord must be done in season and out of season. We who have put our hands to the plow must not turn back.”
“How very Biblical of you.”
“And you, Robert, are you calling from some sleazy bar while your hirelings keep St. Anselm’s together?”
“No, I’m calling from a private home,” he admitted with some embarrassment. Until having made the indictment against McNiff, Koesler hadn’t realized that he had, in effect, been working on
“Sure. When and where?”
“How about Carl’s Chop House about six?”
“Done.”
“Don’t work too hard.”
“Don’t play too hard.”
Koesler arrived at Carl’s at twenty minutes to six. Early again! Well, he would go to prepare a place for McNiff.
He asked the hostess if he could be seated in the Executive Room, and told her he was expecting McNiff. She asked if Father McNiff would also be wearing a clerical uniform. If McNiff were not in clericals, Koesler replied, the next Pope would not be a Catholic.
The Executive Room was cozier but not substantially different from the other two large dining rooms. But the Executive Room featured Kay Marie, the redhaired queen of waitresses, who had been at Carl’s since the Year I, and whose aunt was a nun, which always gave Kay Marie and Father Koesler something to talk about.
The busboy brought the extremely generous relish tray, breadbasket, cottage cheese, and creamed herring. Koesler began to wonder if he’d been too hasty in designating Carl’s as their rendezvous. Ordinarily he dined here only as a special celebration or after a significant weight loss. Carl’s portions were bigger than life. It was a classic place for a pigout. He promised himself that he’d get some exercise tomorrow. Where, he did not know. Maybe he’d go for a walk.
“Evening, Father. Alone tonight?” Kay Marie brought him out of his dietetic reverie.
“No; expecting a colleague. How’s your aunt?”
“She’s thinking of retiring.”
“Oh? How old is she?”
“Eighty-four.”
“It’s a thought.”
“What’ll it be tonight?”
“How about a martini, up?”
“Different. You’re usually a manhattan. Bourbon manhattan.”
“Great memory, Kay. I’m going to leave the manhattans to my companion this evening.”
He had filled his salad plate with the first of the preprandial delicacies and was gnawing on a bread stick when McNiff arrived.
“Good!” said Koesler. “Now the next Pope can be a Catholic.”
“What?” McNiff seated himself. “This isn’t going to be another of those nights where you pick on the Pope, is it?”
“Absolutely not. Going to leave the Holy Pope of God-your phrase-out of it entirely.”
“Good!”
Kay Marie returned. McNiff would have a manhattan. All was well.
“Remember your first drink, Pat?”
“At your hand. Of course. There’s been many a sip since then.”
“You’re lucky you laid off those first ten years. By now your liver would be embalmed.”
“See the remarkable prescience of Holy Mother Church.”
They understood each other’s hyperbole.
Kay Marie took their orders. McNiff would have Dover sole. Koesler would have the ground round. Kay Marie sighed. She could have brought Koesler’s entree without asking.
“Wasn’t that something,” said McNiff, “about Hank Hunsinger! Who woulda thought when we saw him play last Sunday that he’d be dead that night?”
“A real surprise.”
“Say, I hadn’t thought about this before, but what does that do to that Bible discussion group-what did you call it?”
“The God Squad. I don’t know, Pat. We met last night. But I’d bet that group, qua group, never meets again. So I don’t think I’ll get the chance to introduce you to the bunch.”
“That’s all right.” It wasn’t, but McNiff wouldn’t admit it. “I’ve got plenty to do.”
“Matter of fact, I went to the funeral this morning.”
“Hunsinger’s?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How was it?”
“Not particularly sad until his mother broke up.”
“That’ll do it.”
“It was from her house that I phoned you.”
“So, working on your day off! Physician, heal thyself.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Kay Marie brought the salads. Both McNiff and Koesler would have another drink.
“Say, remember Robideau?”
“Sure.” Koesler was grateful for the turn in their conversation. He was trying to forget the funeral, the investigation, the whole Hunsinger affair.
“He was notorious for not paying attention to whom he was burying or marrying. He got help with the weddings because he could carry their marriage license along with him. But he had real trouble with funerals.
