“Oh, no. Nothing like that. It’s a long story, and I won’t go into it, but I can tell you it’s not an accident case. No damage of any kind. The car’s right here.”
“Where?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“How long’s the car been there?”
“Since Saturday, but that doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
“You have reason to believe the car’s been abandoned or stolen?”
“No, no. I just thought you could tell me the owner’s name if I gave you the license number. That’s all.”
“It’s not the policy of this division of the department to give out information unless we know why we’re doing it and who we’re dealing with. We get a lot of calls — all kinds, mister. Some stud sees a broad, takes down her license number, and calls us. For all I know, you’re one of those.”
“This is Father Hackett, SS Francis and Clare’s, Inglenook?”
“Oh, hello, Father. Captain O’Connell here. Sorry I didn’t know it was you, Father. You see, we have to be pretty careful. I don’t have to tell you why.”
“No.”
“Father, you say the car’s there?”
“Yes.”
“In your parking lot?”
“In my driveway.”
“And you want it moved?”
“No, no, Captain.”
“You don’t want it moved, Father, or you don’t want it moved by the police?”
“I don’t want it moved, Captain. Believe me, I don’t want it moved.”
“Father, you know what I think?”
“What?”
“You want this information so you can ask the owner in a nice way to move his or her car.”
“No, no. I don’t want him to move it.”
“Father, would you mind telling us why you want this information?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Father, it’s not the policy of this division of the department to give out information unless we know why we’re doing it.”
“I see.”
“I know you wouldn’t want us to make an exception in your case.”
“If it’s not the policy, no.”
“Father, if you could give us some idea why you want this information.”
“I’d rather not, Captain.”
“Then all I can say, Father, is get in touch with your local police. They have access to this information. They’ll ask why you want it, but maybe you wouldn’t mind telling them.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll just forget the whole thing.”
“Nice talking to you, Father.”
“And to you, Captain.”
So Joe gathered up the bulletin copy, put on his hat, opened the door between the offices (had closed it before making the last phone call), and said to the curate (who was typing, so to speak), “Stepping out. Won’t be long.”
On the memo pad in his car he jotted down the purpose of his trip (BULL, BEER). But when he arrived at the Universe, where the bulletin was printed, he drove on. Thought he might, in the next hour or so, find out what he hadn’t in more than a week? No, the odds were against it, about a hundred to one. But he still had an option or two — or three. Could go with the information he had, simply, chummily billing the curate as “Father Bill.” Could call the VW people in Whipple, ask if they still had that light brown or dark yellow beetle, and take it from there. Could sneak into the curate’s room and go through his books for one, probably a text, with his name in it.
At the Licensed Vintner’s he exchanged his nice clean case for an unclean one (Mr Barnes not there).
Approaching Smiley’s Shell he saw the lessee out by the pumps, and drove in. “New customer for you, Jack, but a poor one, drives a Beetle — my assistant. I’ll pick up the tab.”
“I know, Father. He came in yesterday.”
At a hundred to one! “Have him sign for it?”
“Naw. I just put it down.”
Joe sniffed. “That how we do?”
“How we do with you, Father.”
Joe played out his losing hand. “Better have him sign for it in future.”
“Wish you’d told me this before, Father.”
“So do I.”
Joe drove away, thinking O.K., that’s it — he’d do the bedroom job that afternoon, Mrs P.’s afternoon off, as soon as she was gone.
He ran his car into the garage, out of the sun — another thing he’d have to tell the curate about, how hard it was on a car’s finish, the sun. He left the unclean case in the trunk for the same reason he’d put the nice clean one there the evening before, after Mrs P. had gone, lest she think he had nothing to do but deliver beer to himself. He took the bulletin copy with him. He found the door between the offices closed now, and on his desk a typewritten note:
“INformation you re quested: William Alois Schmidt.”
Only minutes later, while Joe was getting down to the job of thinking how the requested information could best be explained to the subject of it, a moving van from the St Vincent de Paul Society arrived (for his old bed, box spring, and mattress) prematurely — to put it mildly, which Joe didn’t to the driver (no helper) — not, as promised, “sometime in the afternoon,” when the whole operation (out with the old, in with the new) was to have taken place in Mrs P.’s absence. Yes, had this phase of the operation gone as planned, Mrs P. might have had a shock or two in the morning when she didn’t see the old bed and did see the new one, a double, but better that than this. “I don’t know what’s going on around here!” It was Joe’s impression that the bed or beds operation was being associated, in Mrs P.’s mind, with the curate’s appointment, perhaps because furniture had figured in it and because of the element of mystery in both matters. In any case, Mrs P. was upset, and with good reason, since nothing had been said to her about beds, new or old, and she probably thought she’d made the old one to no purpose that morning, not realizing that here was a case where ignorance was bliss and that Joe would’ve been happy to make the bed himself if the novelty of that small act wouldn’t have upset her even more. “What’ll happen next!” “Well, the store’s bringing the new bed this afternoon.” “But I won’t be here!” “That’s true.”
After Mrs P. stripped the old bed, Joe and the driver (who said he had a bad back) tried to take it apart, Mrs P. standing by with the vacuum cleaner, impatient to do that part of the carpet (wall-to-wall) under the bed, which, ideally, couldn’t be done until the bed was removed, which couldn’t be done until it was taken apart, which couldn’t be done. Joe was sweating profusely. “Hammer!” he gasped. Mrs P. brought the hammer, and Joe, wanting her elsewhere, told her to go ahead with making lunch, which she did, but kept making cameo appearances in the doorway. And when the bed came apart, she was there, on the scene, with the vacuum cleaner, and moved in like gangbusters.
Joe and the driver loaded the bed, mattress, and box spring into the van, after which Joe served the driver (and himself) a cold beer on the back steps, tipped the man a fin for his trouble, and took a much needed bath, prolonging it, so that he had lunch alone, by design, not wishing perhaps to be questioned along certain lines by the curate at table, in Mrs P.’s hearing, in fact, not wishing to be so questioned period.
After lunch, he went down to his office — the door still closed — and wrote the story, entitling it “New Man/New Priest.” He then put on his hat, said nothing to the curate, and delivered the copy. On his return (Mrs P.’s car gone), he brought in the beer, washed his hands, and went down to his office — the door still closed — to think. Explain. How could he? Not explain. How could he?