“All well and good for you to feel secure-at least tonight,” Young retorted. “After all, we’re playing on your turf. You don’t have to get home after this is over.”
They were gathered in the common room on the Chancery Building’s seventh floor. Bash’s living quarters were on the ninth floor. In former times the priests’ residence rooms on the building’s ninth and tenth floors would have been almost all occupied, and the common room well populated at this hour. However, these were lean times. Having a chancery full of resident priests at the expense of help in parishes would have been a senseless luxury.
“Five card stud,” Bash announced. “First and last card down. Ante two.”
Each pitched two white chips in.
Bash dealt the first card to each player face down, the second face up. Each glanced at his secret first card. Only the player himself knew what he held, while everyone knew what the second card was.
“King bets,” Bash said, referring to Young’s face-up card.
“Well, it does seem to be my night,” Young said. “King bets one.” He pitched in a red chip. Everyone else followed in kind. Bush dealt the next card to each face up.
“Well, well; a pair of kings.” Bash referred to that portion of Young’s hand everyone could see. “Kings bet;”
Young was so pleased he almost, twitched. “My goodness! Did I say this would be my night? Well, kings will bet five.” And he slid five blue chips onto the table center.
In three cards, Koesler had nothing. With only two cards remaining to be dealt, he would have to come up with at least a pair of aces to beat what Young had showing, let alone what might be the monsignor’s hole cards. Wisely, he folded.
“I guess I’ll see you, Del,” Jeffrey said, “and raise you five.” He pushed ten blue chips into the pot. Young answered his raise.
Bash, whose hand resembled Koesler’s, folded. It was between Jeffrey and Young. Bash dealt another card, face up, to each of the remaining two players. In addition to his two kings, Young now had a ten of hearts showing.
“Kings still high,” Bash, as dealer, announced.
“So they are,” Young agreed. He peeked again at the hole card, as if it might have changed spots since his previous look. “Well, then, kings will just chance another five.”
Jeffrey regarded Young with quiet amusement. He pushed ten blue chips into the pot. “And five,” he said.
Everyone looked more closely at that portion of Jeffrey’s hand showing. Two, seven, and eight of hearts. A flush? With one card yet to be dealt, it seemed the only possible hand that could beat Young’s. Interesting, even for Koesler.
Silently, with some temerity, Young pushed another five chips into the pot.
“All right, gentlemen, the last card. Down and dirty,” Bash dealt Young, then Jeffrey, each the final card, face down.
Young slipped both hole cards to the table’s edge in proximity to his ample stomach, lifted the corners, and contemplated the completed hand that only he could see. He continued to contemplate until Bash said, “Del, what’ll it be?”
“Eh?” Young realized a decision must be made.Be bold. For Jeffrey to have a flush both hole cards had to be hearts. The likelihood of that … not high. Young decided to smoke Jeffrey out. “We’ll just up things to ten.” And Young let ten blue chips drop one by one to the table. It could have been a dramatic gesture, except that he didn’t quite carry it off.
Amazingly, as far as Koesler was concerned, Jeffrey only now turned up the corner of his final card to see what it was. Cool. He paused only seconds before pushing twenty blue chips forward, and said, “Your ten and ten more.”
Everyone looked at Young, who betrayed surprise. He had been certain his ten-dollar bet would clinch his winning hand. Now this. He picked up his hole cards and studied them again. Whatever they had been they still were. No one pressed him. This was a fairly steep pot, worth thinking about.
Finally, Young exclaimed, “You’re bluffing!”
Jeffrey smiled and shrugged.
“There’s one way to find out, Del,” Bash said.
That was true. Young had three choices: He could raise the bet again, hoping to call Jeffrey’s bluff. He could call Jeffrey and end this hand one way or another. Or he could fold, in which case Jeffrey would not have to reveal his hand. He would take the pot.
Young, hand trembling slightly, added ten more blue chips to the pot. “Let’s just see what you’ve got there, Quent.”
Gazing steadfastly at Young and again not looking at his cards, simply aware of where they lay, Jeffrey turned over a five and a nine of hearts to go with the two, seven, and eight of hearts.
A flush.
Wordlessly, Jeffrey raked in the fat pot.
Young, rallying quickly, said, “Well, a little setback, but a good hand anyway.” Although there was no need, he exposed his hole cards, revealing he’d had two pair: kings and tens. Good but not good enough.
It was Young’s turn to deal. He began gathering cards. “Say, Clete, how about some refreshments?”
“So early?” Bash said.
“I’ll go along with Del,” Jeffrey said. “Missed supper tonight. I could use something, something solid.”
“Okay,” Bash said. He got up, went to the refrigerator, and began rummaging through it.
Koesler was elated at this break. Time for conversation. He hadn’t dared hope for a recess this early.
“I still say they should at least have some suspects by now,” Young said in what seemed a non sequitur.
“Suspects?” Jeffrey said.
“Suspects,” Young repeated. “Suspects in the murders of Larry Hoffer and what’s-her-name, uh, Helen Donovan.”
“They’ve got the kid who tried to kill Joan Donovan,” Jeffrey said.
“Not the same,” Young said, “The one who wants to kill diocesan officials is still loose out there.”
Bash was assembling cheese-and-cracker snacks. With his back to the others, he said, “They do have a couple of suspects.”
“They do?” Koesler noted the self-satisfied tone Bash did not attempt to hide.
“How do you know?” Young was not an instant believer.
“I’ve got sources in the police department. But it’s privileged information,” Bash cautioned. “The media doesn’t even have it yet. But when they get it, I’ll be ready for backgrounding.”
“Well,” Young said, “for Godsakes, man, who are they? Who are the suspects?”
“It’s privileged. I can’t reveal it,” Bash said.
“For Godsakes, man, we’re not going to tell anyone. For Godsakes, we’re …” Young paused. He was about to say they were all priests and disciplined in the ultimate secret of confession when he remembered that one of their number was a deacon and not empowered to hear confessions. After the slight pause, he concluded “… we’re all men of the cloth.”
“Okay,” Bash put the dishes holding cheese and crackers respectively on the table. “Remember, this is only in the investigative stage. But the cops are looking into …” He paused for effect. It worked; he had their undivided attention. “… into Arnold Carson and Fred Stapleton.” He smiled triumphantly.
“Stapleton!” Koesler exclaimed. “Fred Stapleton? There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake,” Bash responded. “What’ll anyone have to drink?”
“Pass here,” Jeffrey said. “The cheese and crackers should hit the spot.”
“Nothing here either.” Koesler made a sandwich.
“How about a beer?” Young said.
Bash returned to the fridge for beers for himself and Young.
“I hadn’t thought of it before,” Young said, “but Carson is not a bad bet. Good God, how many times has he taken the lead in protests? Why for heaven’s sake, he’s forever in the papers and onTV.”
“Before Vatican II, nobody ever heard of him,” Bash said. “But after the council … well, the guy never lets up. He’s forever up on the ramparts protecting Mother Church.”
Young nodded. “And now Mother Church may need protection from Arnold Carson.”
“Who’s Fred Stapleton?” Jeffrey asked. “Not the psychologist!”