Guilt

Flaherty wasn't having his best year.

Six months earlier, after an extensive two-year study by the Archdiocesan Pastoral Planning Commission had confirmed their predicted results – he'd finally bitten the bullet and announced the closure of the ten least financially viable parishes in the city. He knew that the Archdiocese would not survive into the twenty-first century if it didn't take steps now. The city had taken a hard line after the World Series earthquake and passed an ordinance that assessed the Archdiocese $120 million for retrofitting their unreinforced masonry churches. (Dooher had worked his magic to lower the bill down to $70 million, but it might as well have been $3 zillion for all the Church could afford to pay even that.)

The plain fact – and it broke Flaherty's good heart – was that the Archdiocese couldn't afford to keep the smaller parishes operating with attendance down at Masses throughout the city – Holy Family Church out in North Beach, for example, averaged only seventy-five people, total, for four Masses on Sundays. And there were really no significant private donations to offset the appallingly low Sunday offerings. But after the closures were announced, a firestorm of protest had developed. Flaherty had even heard from Rome.

The problem that Flaherty had not foreseen (and Dooher had) was that perennial San Francisco two-headed serpent, ethnicity and money. Most of the parishes that had been closed were those in the poorest areas – Hunters Point, the lower Mission District, the Western Addition, the outer Sunset, Balboa Park. So Flaherty was widely vilified for abandoning the poor and what had been a purely financial move had been totally misinterpreted.

Flaherty had also believed that the Catholics in the closed parishes would simply move to other buildings for their worship, and would be accepted in those new locales by the other Catholics who already worshiped there.

'That is truly an ecumenical theory, Jim, and in a perfect world, that would surely happen,' Dooher had said. 'But my prediction is that my fellow parishioners' – St Emydius, in St Francis Wood – 'are simply not going to offer the kiss of peace to the Vietnamese community from St Michael's that's going to descend upon them. It's not going to happen.'

Flaherty responded – as he always did – that people were better than Dooher gave them credit for. The Commission had made its recommendations – it had not been Flaherty's decision alone. The people would get used to it; it could actually be a force for growth, for advancement of the whole Catholic community.

'Well, yes, Jim, I guess you're right. It could go that way,' Dooher had finally said, thinking, 'and I'm the King of Ethiopia.'

And now Trang was threatening to name Flaherty in a lawsuit contending that he tolerated fraud and licentiousness among his priests. Before all of these problems had begun, there was a rumor that Flaherty had been on the short list to be named a Cardinal. He had confided to Dooher that he had dreams of being the first American Pope. Now all of that, perhaps even his immediate survival as Archbishop, was at stake.

He was at his desk now, moving items randomly, nerves showing. 'But Trang hasn't yet amended the complaint?'

Pacing, Dooher stopped. 'That's why we're talking here, Jim. I need to head this off. The guy's obviously looking for press, make his name in the community, bring in some clients. I've got to talk sense to him.'

'What are you going to say?'

'I'll just tell him we'd be grateful for his cooperation. He knows – you know there wasn't any policy here. We've got to get him off this, Jim, or at the very least you can forget about your red hat.'

Flaherty pulled himself up in his chair. 'How grateful?'

Dooher clasped his hands in front of him. 'Settle for six hundred thousand, if it goes that high.'

'Lord…'

'And a gag order. No press conferences. No "conscience of the community" nonsense. Trang pockets two hundred thousand dollars. Mrs Diep gets a nice return on her fifty grand and her broken heart. Everybody's happy.'

The Archbishop shook his head. Tm not. We start at six hundred?' Dooher tried to keep his tone light. 'Jim, this is Mark Dooher you're talking to. We start by offering to break Trang's legs. Hopefully we stop a long way before six.'

Flaherty nodded. 'A long way if you can.'

Dooher bowed slightly from the waist. 'I understand,' he said. 'I'll take care of it.'

'You're not actually seeing her.'

'Wes, I ran into her at church. That's all.'

'At church. That's very good.' Wes Farrell lowered his voice a notch. 'The night after your party, which she happened to attend because her boyfriend got himself invited? Markus, we're running into a critical coincidence factor here.'

Wes Farrell had his feet up on the desk in his small office. Behind him, through wooden slats, rain beat against the window. Dooher was continuing with the fairy-tale version of his story about Christina, and Farrell finally stopped him.

'This is all good stuff, Mark. I mean it. And because I am your longstanding friend, I believe every word of it. However, I will offer one word of advice, lawyer to lawyer.'

'What?'

'Don't try it on anybody else. It sounds suspiciously like a rationalizing crock, although I know in my heart of hearts – because you would never lie to me – that it couldn't possibly be. How did she look?'

Dooher crossed his hands behind his head, considering. 'Who, in your opinion, is the all-around best-looking woman in the world? Face, body…' an expansive gesture '… the whole schmeer. Everything.'

Farrell thought a moment. 'Demi Moore.'

Dooher nodded. 'Well, Demi Moore is a dog next to Christina Carrera. Even with wet hair and ashes on her forehead.'

'I've never seen Demi like that,' Farrell said. 'Usually, when we go out, after she ditches Bruce, she dresses up, puts on some makeup, stuff like that. Come to think of it, I wonder if she's why Lydia's divorcing me. If she found out about Demi and me?'

'That could be it,' Dooher said. 'Those damn paparazzi.'

Dooher cracked a grin. 'Your fantasy life is much too rich for you to be a good lawyer.'

Farrell pointed across the room. 'Says the man who meets his associate's fiancee at church. What do you plan to do with her, if I might ask?'

A shrug, as though he'd never considered the question. 'I don't know. I'm thinking of hiring her.' At Farrell's expression, he added, 'Just as a clerk. She's law review. Pretty sharp kid, actually.'

Farrell pointed again, 'I must tell you, this is fire.'

'It's all innocent, Wes. I swear. Nothing's going on.'

'So do yourself a favor and get another clerk.'

'We're going to have ten other clerks. Christina's just going to be one of them.'

Farrell scratched his chin. 'Oh boy,' he said. 'Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.'

'I'm so worried about Mark. He's just not been himself.'

Lydia Farrell – Wes's wife – threw an 'Oh, please' expression at Sheila Dooher over the rim of her china cup.

The two women were in the glass-enclosed breakfast nook with the French countryside motif, above which the driving rain of the earlier morning had turned to a romantic Normandy drizzle. At the look, Sheila said, 'Come on, Lyd, they're not all bad. Men, I mean.'

Lydia put her cup down. 'I didn't say they were. You know I don't think Wes has anything bad going against him. He's just got nothing going, period. Either direction. Against, for, sideways. Mark, I don't know.'

'Mark's a good man, Lyd. That counts.'

Once, in the very early days, Mark had subtly but very definitely come on to Lydia, his best friend's wife. When she'd called him on it, he'd backed off, saying in his charming way that she must have misunderstood something, he was sorry. But she knew she hadn't misunderstood a thing.

She'd never mentioned it to Wes or to Sheila. On some level she was flattered, even amused by it – to have something on the great Mark Dooher, who obviously thought she was attractive enough to run that risk. Imagine!