anyway, sonny? You see a father on the porch and you don’t invite him in? What are you-a Catholic or what?”
“Sorry, Gampa. I woulda done that, but the father came in this package deal. I didn’t think you’d want the heat in here.”
“We got better hospitality than that, Sonny.” He turned back to the group. “Come on in, fell as … and good lady. Though I must tell you, Lieutenant, if you hadn’t had the father along, you woulda had to have some paper with you toget in. But …” It was a verbal shrug, … what the hell; it’s a short life.”
Tully entered first. But Costello stood back waiting for Koesler to cross the threshold. “You bless my home with your presence, Father.
“Hey,” his voice raised only slightly, “Momma: Come see who come to visit us.”
As Mangiapane and Moore entered, with Sonny bringing up the rear, from somewhere in the back of the house, probably the kitchen, since she was drying her hands on an apron, came a gray-haired woman. Though she might have been of a certain age, she was still quite attractive; she had held on to her youthful figure remarkably.
“Father,” Costello announced, “here is my wife, Vita. Vita, see who this is. It’s … uh … Father … uh …”
“Koesler,” the priest supplied. He caught the surprise in her eyes. Evidently this home did not get a lot of priest visitors.
“Welcome, Father,” she said. “You bless our home with your presence.” She walked quickly to Koesler, took his hand with both of hers, and kissed it. Instinctively he started to pull away, thought better of it, and left his hand in Vita’s clasp.
Koesler had almost forgotten that once that had been a time-honored custom. Long ago, when newly ordained priests blessed people, the faithful would kiss the hands that so recently had been anointed with holy oil. Even then, Koesler had felt squeamish about the practice.
Then, also in those early days, sometimes the elderly ailing people would kiss his hands when he brought them Communion.
He wondered about what he had seen and heard just now. Somehow, though he knew it was far too facile, Koesler expected all Italians-as well as Poles, Irish, and Hispanics-to be Catholic. But he never would have expected to be greeted so warmly and with such faith by the Mafia or their family. He was reminded of how comfortable and at home Jesus always seemed to be in the presence of outcasts and those whom society branded as hopeless sinners. He resolved to meditate on this later when he could be alone in prayer.
For the moment, despite the cordial welcome, he had to be on his guard. There was still the secret to protect.
Vita Costello, after a few more words of welcome for Koesler-and an invitation to dinner, which the priest graciously declined-returned to the rear of the house whence emanated appetizing aromas of marinara and meatballs.
Carl Costello led the way into a spacious living room, which looked as if it had been furnished in the twenties and thereafter left untouched. The elderly gentleman moved with deliberation to a chair that appeared to be both comfortable and his. Behind the chair Remo stood almost at attention. He might have been a guardian angel or a sentry.
Koesler and Tully each picked an easy chair; Moore sat on the couch. Mangiapane remained standing behind the couch, mirroring Remo’s angel-or-sentry stance.
Costello held up his left hand, with the index and middle fingers extended. For a moment Koesler wondered why the don was giving the peace sign. But Remo quickly lit a cigarette and placed it between the upraised fingers. Koesler now knew the source of Costello’s cough.
“Now, gentle lady and gentlemen,” Costello began, “in what way can we be of service to you?”
Innocent or guilty of whatever, Carl Costello was cool. He might easily, thought Koesler, have been a conscientious citizen eager to help the police in any possible way.
“Carl,” Tully said, “you heard we got a missing priest in Detroit?”
“Bloomfield Hills, I heard, Lieutenant.” Costello was almost apologetic.
Tully nodded. “He lives in Bloomfield Hills. He’s a Detroit priest.”
“It was on the radio and TV, is how I know,” Costello said. “I don’t get around in those circles too much anymore.”
“The last anyone saw of him-that we’ve talked to-he was heading for Detroit. That was Friday afternoon last. No one’s heard from him since.”
“Is that so!” Costello said. Impossible to tell whether the expression was sincere or sardonic. “Perhaps he will return soon.”
“It’s been four days, Carl. That’s a long time to be missing.”
“It is indeed. But there is always hope. Sonny, Why don’t you drop over by church to night and have a Mass said for …” Costello looked to each of his four visitors for assistance.
The long pause proved too much for Koesler. “John Keating,” he said, “Father John Keating.”
Costello nodded good-naturedly toward the priest. “Thank you, Father.
“Sonny, write that down: Father John Keating-wait: Father, maybe you would say the Mass.”
Koesler felt most uncomfortable. If he consented, Costello would offer him money. Which he would refuse. He-most Detroit priests-no longer accepted Mass stipends. Costello would insist; there would be explanations. All very inappropriate.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Costello,” Koesler said. “Our parish is booked solid for weeks with Mass intentions. I am praying for him though.” All of that was true. However, the prayers were for the repose of Keating’s soul.
“I understand, Father,” Costello said. He turned his head. “Sonny, go to Holy Family. They can’t be so busy. Have the Mass said.”
“Right, Gampa.” Remo was writing down the name.
“Carl,” Tully spoke pointedly, “get serious.”
How serious can I get, Costello’s gesture implied.
“You know anything about the missing priest?”
“Me! I live in Bloomfield Hills? I should know this priest?”
“He’s worked other parishes, some in Detroit, even Little Italy. You could know him from lots of places.”
“Anybody could know him from lots of places, Lieutenant. Come on, why me?”
Tully’s storied patience was wearing thin. “Carl, guess.whose car that is out there that’s attracting all that attention?”
Costello leaned forward and craned for a better view of the bustle practically outside his front window. “Well, now, Lieutenant, I learned toadd. The kind, you know, where two plus two equals four. I’d guess that since you been asking me all these questions about a missing priest named Father Keating, which I’ve never seen in my life, and since the car in question is parked almost in front of my house, I would guess that that car belongs to the missing priest, Father Keating.” Costello looked at Tully with the wide-eyed innocence of a schoolchild who hopes his answer is the right one. “How’m I doin’?”
“Until we came in your house and started questioning you, you weren’t curious about what all those police officers were doing with that car?”
“I seen cops before.”
“You didn’t see that car before today?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You did see the car before today.”
“I didn’t say that either.”
“One of your neighbors has been watching it for four days. That’s why he called the cops and reported a suspicious vehicle.”
“He done good.”
“And you?”
“I mind my own business. There’s a law against that?”
“You want us to believe there’s no connection between you and that car? That it’s just a coincidence that a car owned by a person who’s been missing four days ends up practically in front of your house?”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
The conversation was getting a bit intense. It was Costello who tried to defuse it. With a tone of calm
