remembered why he was here.
‘So tell me what you and Father Michael talked about that night,’ he said.
‘Mostly about his coming retirement,’ Father Joseph said.
He was eating like a bird, had to watch his girlish figure, Ollie supposed, the old faggoty fart.
‘How’d he feel about that?’ Ollie asked.
‘Not too happy.’
‘Tell you about anything- else that might be troubling him? Quarrels with his parishioners? Disputes within the Church hierarchy? Anything that might have presaged his murder?’
Good word, Ollie thought, presaged. He doubted Father Joseph here had ever heard such a word in his life, presaged. The curse of being a literary man, ah yes.
‘He was very well liked by everyone,’ Father Joseph said.
‘How long have you known him?’
‘We go back to our first ministry together.’
‘At St. Ignatius?’
‘No. Our Lady of Grace. In Riverhead.’
‘When was that?’
‘Fifty-some odd years ago.’
‘Everybody love him to death back then, too?’
Father Joseph looked at him.
‘Do I detect a touch of sarcasm there?’ he asked.
‘None at all. Just repeating what you told me earlier.’
‘I never said he was loved to death.’
‘You said he was very well liked by everyone.’
‘Yes. But I did not say he was loved to death.’
‘Wasn’t he?’
‘There were naturally disagreements. There are disagreements in any ministry.’
‘Like about what? Molly wants an abortion, Father Michael says, “Nay, that’s against Church Law”?’
‘Sometimes. Yes. Abortion can become an issue, even among the faithful.’
‘How about sex before marriage?’
‘That can be another issue, yes.’
‘Or marrying outside the faith?’
‘All issues that could possibly come up between a priest and his congregation, yes. That’s why we’re there, Detective Weeks. To offer guidance and direction.’
‘Think any of these issues might have come up during Father Michael’s time in the priesthood?’
‘I feel certain they would have.’
“He mention any threats he may have received…”
‘None.’
‘… regarding one or another of these issues that may have come up…”
‘No.’
‘… at any time during his long priesthood?’
‘Nothing. He was worried about retiring. He thought he’d have nothing to do once he retired.’
‘No more issues to deal with, right?’
Father Joseph said nothing.
‘What time did you leave Father Michael the other night?’ Ollie asked.
‘It must’ve been around ten o’clock.’
‘To go where?’
‘The bus stop on Powell and Moore. I catch the L-16 bus there. It’s a limited-stop bus, gets me back here in half an hour.’
‘Hear anything while you were waiting for the bus? Any shots? Any loud voices? Anything like that?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So you got back here at around ten thirty, is that right?’
‘I didn’t look at a clock.’
‘You said it was a half-hour ride…”
‘Yes, but…”
‘Or didn’t you come directly here, Father Joseph?’
‘I came directly here.’
‘So you must’ve got here around ten thirty, quarter to eleven, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Closer to eleven.’
‘When did you learn of Father Michael’s death?’
‘Later that night. Sister Margaret called to inform me.’
‘You don’t think she could’ve shot him, do you?’
‘Who do you think
‘I have no idea.’
‘No one specific parishioner who might have disagreed violently with Father Michael’s guidance or direction… ?’
‘I know of no such…”
‘Either at St. Ignatius
‘No.’
‘Or before that? At Our Lady of Grace?’
‘I can’t think of anyone like that,’ Father Joseph said.
‘Where’s Our Lady of Grace, anyway?’ Ollie asked. ‘Might be worth a visit, see if anybody up there has a longer memory than yours. Are you going to eat your dessert, Father? It’s a sin to let food go to waste, you know.’
* * * *
According to Paula Wellington, her good friend Helen Reilly was a recent widow when she’d moved from Calm’s Point, three years ago. Husband the innocent victim of a drive-by shooting. Biggest part of the city, Calm’s Point. The area map showed two or three dozen precincts there - well, thirty-four, when Hawes actually counted them. By his modest estimate, at least that many drive-bys took place in Calm’s Point every day of the week. Well, that was probably exaggeration. But trying to pinpoint a drive-by that had taken place more than three years ago… when there were thirty-four precincts to check…
Well, he supposed he could just run the name MARTIN REILLY through his computer, go back some five years or so, do a HOMICIDE check, he’d probably get lucky that way. But it would probably be easier and quicker, wouldn’t it, to just talk to Ms. Paula Wellington again? Sure it would. So he called her at four that Friday afternoon, and asked if he might stop by, few questions that had come up, wondered if she could help him. She told him it was probably still tea time, anyway, so why not drop in, did he remember the address? He remembered the address.
* * * *
South Waverly Street downtown was packed with humanity when Hawes got there at a quarter to five. Kids in swimsuits running through the spray from open fire hydrants; this was now four days after the official start of summer. Men in tank-top undershirts playing checkers or chess on upturned orange crates. Dozens of women in cotton housedresses knitting on front stoops like so many Mesdames Defarges. White ice-cream trucks trolling the streets like predators. Tweeny girls flashing long legs in short skirts, precipitate breasts in recklessly low-cut tops. Macho young men strutting their testosterone. And the cotton was high.
Hawes climbed past three women on Paula’s front stoop. They gave him the once-over, figured him for a cop, and went back to their gossip. On the third floor, he knocked on the door to apartment 31. Paula called, ‘Just a sec,’ and then came to open it.
He wondered what the hell he was doing here.
She was wearing lime-colored bell-bottomed cotton pants and a white cotton tank top, no shoes. White hair
