Mary and Koesler had been through some pretty urgent and stressful times. She
“It’s the bishop!” she stage-whispered at the door.
“Which one?” Although Koesler would’ve bet on the answer.
“Delvecchio.” She was almost wheezing.
Koesler looked at Tully. “Want me to get it?”
Tully shook his head as he rose from his chair. “I’ll get it. Speak of the devil! I’d like to hear how he sounds now that I’m getting a better idea of what makes him tick.”
When Tully returned he was smiling.
“What’d he want?” Koesler asked.
“He wanted to get out of tonight’s little ceremony.”
“Why? What happened?”
“‘Unexpected complications’-of such mysterious origin that he couldn’t be specific.” Tully winked. “He said he couldn’t possibly make it before close to nine. That’s where he made his mistake. When I told him our other guests wouldn’t be here until nine at the earliest and that we were willing to live with that, he didn’t have much of an alternative.”
“So …?”
“So then he didn’t say anything for a moment. I could imagine him cursing his luck in mentioning a time that he thought was out of the question only to find it fit hand in glove. Finally he said he’d be here as early as he could. He said maybe we could get the paperwork out of the way so he’d be free to leave before it got too late.”
“And you said …?”
“I said that maybe that would work out.”
“I wonder,” Koesler mused, “what he meant by getting ‘the paperwork’ out of the way?”
“Your retirement documents, I suppose.”
“You don’t think …”
“… that he meant my Oath of Fidelity?” Tully shook his head. “I truly don’t think so. I’m pretty sure he wants this Profession of Faith and Oath of Fidelity to be part of a public ceremony. That way some people would have cause to turn me in if ever I strayed from the Pope’s course.
“Actually,” he said after a moment’s reflection, “I’m almost looking forward to going a few rounds with him. Now that-thanks to you-I’m getting to know him better. Bishops can give one the impression that they put their episcopal vestments on in a telephone booth. It’s good to be reminded that they put their pants on one leg at a time.”
“Or,” Koesler noted, “as one of my priest teachers, once said of the rather rigid St. Alphonsus Liguori: ‘A good man, very saintly. But if you read too much of his stuff, you’ll be putting on your pants with a shoehorn.’”
Tully laughed. “Well, then, tell me more about Bishop Delvecchio. Maybe he’s already putting on his trousers with that shoehorn. If he is, I’d sure like to know. I can use all the information I can gather.”
“All’s fair in psychic games with the hierarchy,” Koesler improvised.
“Say …” Tully consulted his watch. “… we’ve got a little time on our hands. What say we repair to the basement and shoot some pool?”
“Sounds good.”
“And,” Tully said, as he led the way downstairs, “you can go on with your briefing.”
The basement of St. Joseph’s rectory had been divided into several rooms, or more precisely, compartments. The largest of these was huge. Spacious enough to contain an upright piano, lots of metal folding chairs-now stacked against the wall-and, in the center, a slightly smaller-than-official-size pool table.
This room was used by, among others, the parish council and its various committees. When in such use, the plastic cover was drawn over the pool table, turning it into a meeting table. Never mind that the rail made this somewhat awkward.
The table had been added to the rectory’s basement by one of Koesler’s predecessors. Sometimes, when there was no pressing business-a circumstance occurring less and less-Koesler would wander down and fool with a game of solitaire … usually humming the River City pool hall song from Meredith Willson’s
“How about some eight ball?” Tully invited.
“Sounds good.”
“Name the stakes.”
“Fun.”
“Fun? We don’t need to play for much … but the pot ought to be there.”
“I don’t gamble …” Koesler felt as if he were going to confession … as if gambling were a virtue and he was wrong not to.
“It’s not against our religion, you know.”
“I’m aware there’s no Church law against it-unless it gets out of hand. It’s just me. I can’t stand to lose. So I don’t take that chance.”
Tully tilted his head. I’ll just pretend we’ve got something on the game, he thought. He was certain his gambling outings were under his control. He just loved the thrill of chance.
He racked the balls while ceding the break to Koesler. In this, Tully knew not what he was doing. For the break came perilously close to shattering some of the balls. Two solids fell neatly into separate pockets.
Tully was impressed. “Are you sure you don’t want a little bet? This is no mean beginning.”
“No bets. Just pretend, if you like, that we have a wager.”
Just what Tully had silently done. Was Koesler clairvoyant? he wondered.
Koesler’s next shot would indicate his wisdom in eschewing a bet.
One of the problems with sinking a number of one’s own balls was that one then had to shoot around (in this case) the stripes. Such was now the situation, as striped balls lay in the way of a clear shot. Actually, only one solid was open. It wasn’t a difficult shot, but it was a table length away.
Koesler blew it.
Tully knew his pool expertise was no better than Koesler’s. This could prove an extended game. Fortunately there was no hurry; all their guests would be late.
Tully walked around the table, gauging possible shots. “So now we’ve got young Vince Delvecchio back home,” he said finally, as he chalked his cue. “What happens next?”
“I was out of the loop-check that: I was never in the loop-so I don’t know how they settled the question. In any case, everybody was quite sure he’d be in the tribunal or the chancery.”
Tully, about to shoot, straighted up in surprise. “The tribunal! After what had happened to his uncle in the marriage court?”
Koesler smiled. “Remember, Vince had a degree in Canon Law.”
“Well, yeah, but that could just as easily have qualified him to teach in the seminary.”
“Good point. But the thinking was that while Delvecchio would not have harmed the students in any way, the vice might not have been versa. You know how kids can be especially cruel … and Vincent’s stay at St. Joe’s Retreat was an easy target.”
“They were really handling this business with kid gloves.”
“That’s the way it must’ve seemed to the power group. Anyway, eventually they assigned him to the chancery.”
“But first they had to ordain him.”
Koesler laughed. “Good point. He was ordained by Archbishop Boyle in the chapel of Sacred Heart Seminary. To tell you the truth, Zack, I think they overdid it. He must’ve thought of himself as a curiosity.
“Ordinations happen in class groups and, at least at that time, in good numbers. Here was an ordination that Delvecchio had worked for harder than almost any other candidate I ever knew. But he became a priest all alone with a small group of relatives and friends looking on. One nice thing: A fair number of his classmates, who had been priests about five years now, showed up.” Koesler, remembering, nodded. “That was nice.”
“Did you take part?”
“Vince asked me to preach. I did.”
“So you still were close.”
