Want To Play (Monkeewrench)

‘It’s five o’clock, Mikey. Time to get up if you want to make six-o’clock Mass.’

Receiver still to his ear, he closed his eyes and fell immediately back to sleep.

‘MIKEY!’

He snapped awake again. ‘You call everybody in town to wake ’em up for Mass?’ he squeaked.

‘Just you.’

‘I don’t go to Mass anymore, Father, remember? Jeez, you’re a sadistic old fart. What are you calling me for?’

‘God can cure a hangover, you know.’

Halloran groaned again, vowing to move to a big city where everyone in town didn’t know what he was doing every single goddamned minute. ‘What makes you think I’ve got a hangover?’

‘Because that heretic Lutheran’s car was parked in your driveway all night . . .’

‘How do you know that?’

‘ . . . which means the two of you probably stayed up all night drinking Scotch, and now your head’s so heavy you can hardly lift it off the pillow.’

‘Well, that shows what you know. I don’t even know where my pillow is.’ He looked around him on the bed for the AWOL pillow, eyes narrowed to slits, but he couldn’t see anything. ‘Besides, I’m blind.’

‘It’s dark. Turn on the light, sit up and listen.’

‘That’s too many instructions.’

‘You didn’t let Bonar drive home last night, did you?’

Halloran searched the fuzz in his mind for memories of the night before. They’d eaten the last of Ralph, he’d called the doctor in Atlanta, then they’d really started drinking . . .

Mike finally found the switch on the lamp, nearly screamed when he turned it on. Now he really was blind. ‘Nope. We had a slumber party.’

‘Cute. Listen, Mikey, how long are you going to keep this silly surveillance on the church? You’ve had a deputy parked in the lot since Monday.’

‘It’s just a precaution.’

‘Well, it’s bad for business.’

Mike tried to swallow, but it felt like he had a hair ball lodged in his throat. He dearly hoped he hadn’t found a cat somewhere last night and licked it. ‘That’s why you called me at five o’clock in the morning? To tell me I’m cutting into your profits?’

‘No, I called you to come to Mass, I told you.’

‘I’m not coming to Mass. Goodbye.’

‘I found something.’

Halloran brought the receiver back to his ear. ‘What’d you say?’

‘It was in one of the hymnal racks, two pews back from where the Kleinfeldts were sitting. Stuck in one of the hymnals, actually, in that gap between the cover and the binding that happens when the glue gets old and dried and pulls away, you know what I mean? Never would have found it if I hadn’t dropped the book, so you probably shouldn’t fire the men who were searching so hard . . .’

Halloran was fully awake now. ‘What? What did you find, Father?’

‘Oh. Didn’t I mention that? Well, it’s a shell casing, if I’m not mistaken, and since it’s been years since we’ve had target practice in the church, I was thinking it might be related to the murders.’

‘You didn’t touch it, did you?’

‘I most certainly did not,’ Father Newberry huffed, proud to be as informed in police procedure as any American with a television set. ‘It’s lying on the floor, right where it dropped, but of course the faithful will be arriving within the hour and I suppose they’ll kick it all over the place . . .’

Halloran hit the ground running – well, figuratively, at least. In actuality he was shuffling across the bedroom floor with exaggerated care, trying not to jostle his head. ‘Don’t let anyone near it, Father. I’ll be there as fast as I can.’

The old bastard was smiling so hard Mike could hear it in his voice. ‘Good. You’ll be here in time for Mass, then.’

Bonar was just stepping out of the bathroom as Mike was shuffling down the hall toward it. He was dressed, shaved, and looked disgustingly alert. ‘Shower’s all yours, buddy, and the coffee’s on. Man, you look like hell. You shouldn’t drink so much.’

Halloran peered blearily through puffy eyes. ‘Who are you?’

Bonar chuckled. ‘A vision of loveliness compared to you, my friend. Who called at this ungodly hour anyway?’

‘An ungodly priest,’ Halloran muttered, and then brightened, just a little. ‘He found a shell casing in the church. Hasn’t touched it. And since you’re already up and dressed . . .’

‘On my way. I’ll see you at the office later.’

Halloran was smiling as he stepped into the shower. He wasn’t going to make Mass after all.

24

Grace stood in her living room, smiling down at the three shadowy, snoring lumps on the floor. The fur- covered lump sensed his mistress’s presence and looked up at her from the makeshift bed he’d made out of Harley’s leg. Harley, apparently, could banish the demons on the floor simply by lying on it, making Charlie feel totally safe. Grace knew exactly how he felt.

Calling Harley last night had been a knee-jerk reaction, a perfectly rational antidote to the devastating fear Grace had felt. She could have called any one of them; his phone number just happened to be the first one to pop into her head. And then Harley had called Roadrunner because he was the best hacker of all of them. And then he’d called Annie because ‘she’d castrate me if I didn’t and I’ve grown fond of my testicles.’ And they’d all come running without question, converging as a single unit to do battle against an unknown enemy. Circling the wagons, she thought.

‘Charlie,’ Grace whispered, patting her side in invitation. Charlie scrambled up and followed close on her heels as she crept quietly into the kitchen. She knelt down and stroked his head, then groped in the dark pantry for his bag of kibble and the special Jamaican Blue coffee she always kept on hand for Roadrunner. ‘Good boy,’ she said. ‘It’s okay, I’m not jealous.’

Charlie’s tail swished back and forth in reply.

Grace found the kibble but was unsuccessful in her blind search for the coffee, so she hit a wall switch and turned on the soft, recessed overhead lights, hoping it wouldn’t wake Harley and Roadrunner. With the gloom of early morning dispelled, she found the coffee immediately and noticed the row of empty Bordeaux bottles lined up on the counter. The throbbing of a headache she’d almost forgotten about renewed itself so she added two aspirin to her morning vitamins.

As she filled up the coffee decanter with bottled water from the fridge, the larger of the two lumps stirred and she heard Harley’s sleep-gravelly voice rasp, ‘I hope you’re making coffee.’

‘Lots of it, and extra-strong,’ Grace whispered.

Harley groaned and rolled over, pulling the blanket up over his head.

Overhead, Grace heard the wooden floor in the upstairs spare bedroom creaking. A few minutes later, Annie emerged from the stairwell, fully made up and dressed to the nines in a burnt-orange wool suit with a scandalously short skirt. Hooked on the fingers of one hand was a pair of stiletto heels of the same pumpkin shade; trailing from the other, a dramatic black chiffon wrap trimmed with marabou feathers and sparkling black spangles. If Halloween could choose its own spokesmodel, Annie Belinsky would be it.

Grace gave her an approving thumbs-up. ‘Very festive.’

They exchanged a giggle and a hug while Charlie crowded in between them to give Annie’s hand a wash. Annie knelt down and ruffled the dog’s fur. ‘Hey, Charlie. You snuck out on me in the middle of the night, you cad. You know what that does to a girl’s self-esteem?’

Charlie tongued her neck in a happy apology, then went back to the important business of eating.

‘Your dog’s a slut, you know that, Grace? Hey, those two bums still asleep?’ she asked, peering into the living room.