“Uh-huh.”
“So Lou’s all fixed up now. He’s got a twelve-man pledge team — three of ’em women, a nice mix — who, for the purposes of the program, take the names of the twelve apostles and wear badges to that effect, which they get to keep. One of my ideas.”
“Who’s Lou — Judas?”
Mac answered the question substantially. “Lou and Lad don’t go out, Father — just the ‘apostles,’ all parishioners in good standing.”
“I see. And how’re the others—the other parishioners in good standing — taking it?”
Mac answered the question with a nod and asked Bill, who’d come into the study, “How’d it go, son?”
Son, thought Joe, how’d what go?
From the bathroom, where he was making himself a drink, Bill said, “Not good.”
Mac shook his big fat head.
So, thought Joe, he knows.
Mac then heaved himself up from the couch and had the nerve to leave his card on the end table. “Sorry about your hand, Father, but it could be a plus, if you know what I mean. Call me if you change your mind, or even if you don’t — we can always have a drink, Joe.”
Joe, thought Joe.
Joe saw the man out, returned to the study, poured himself a much needed drink, settled himself in his BarcaLounger, and after a moment of silence, another, another, spoke to Bill. “O.K. Let’s have it.”
“Only made three calls,” Bill said, looking up from Sports Illustrated. “Went 0 for 3.”
“Not talking about that. Why’d you let that man, of all people, know how we spend our evenings?” Now the interested, the oh so interested clergy (“How’ll you handle this one, Joe?”) would also know. Poor guys, Joe and Bill. Out every night beating the bushes for bucks, trying to make their assessment. Ugh. And all — like Joe’s thumb — Bill’s fault.
“I just told him the truth, Joe. You ashamed of it?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. You think I want the Chancery, Catfish Toohey, Judas Cooney, and everybody to know we’re out every night beating the bushes for bucks?”
“But we are, Joe — most nights. I’m not ashamed of it.”
Joe sniffed. “It’s not the same for you, Bill.”
“No?” As if Joe didn’t appreciate him, what he went through most nights.
“All I mean is I’m the pastor here, you’re not. The joke’s on me, not you.”
Bill looked as though he’d like to, but couldn’t, argue with that. “I’m sorry, Joe, if that’s the way you see it.”
Joe sniffed. “Is there another way?”
“Look, Joe. You made a promise to your parishioners — no special collections, no matter what — and you’re keeping it. The clergy respect you for this — maybe they don’t want to, but they do. Even that man respects you, Joe. His hat’s off to you, he told me.”
“His hat’s off to everybody.”
“O.K., Joe, for what it’s worth, I respect you. And so do you, Joe. So who cares who the joke’s on?”
Joe was silent, thinking that respect for him might not be as widespread as Bill said, might not, in fact, go beyond the two of them, but that it was certainly good of Bill to say it did, that Bill hadn’t known what he was doing when he gave them away to Mac, that Bill might have done so even if he had known, that discretion, not loyalty, was what Bill lacked, that Joe, not Bill, would pay for this, would be, to the clergy, for all their respect for him, if any, a figure of fun, and that there would be justice in this, justice exacted by the very ones he’d tried to deceive (“I try to budget for everything that comes along”), retributive justice…
“Am I right, Joe?”
“I guess so.”
“So there you are.” Bill finished his drink and stood up.
“G’night, Joe. Oh, how’s the hand?”
“Thumb. Numb.” But starting to feel, to hurt.
“My fault, Joe, but I’ll say your Mass until such time as you can.”
“Thanks.”
“G’night, Joe.”
“G’night, Bill.”
25. ANOTHER INSPECTOR CALLS
JOE REACHED FOR the phone, switched hands, and got it with his good one. “St Francis.”
“Barb, Father. The FBI was here.”
“That so?”
“Nice young man, Southerner, very polite and friendly — his name’s Tom — but I thought I’d better warn you, Father.”
“You’re a little late.” Joe assumed she’d had a cordial or two first.
“I’m sorry, Father.”
“O.K. I’ll talk to you later. Somebody here now.” Joe hung up and nodded to Tom. “You were saying?”
“Shame we can’t get in touch with Greg, sir.”
“‘In touch,’ huh? So you can lock him up?”
“Not necessarily, sir. Fine family and all — Brad I haven’t met, but Barb I have, and with Scott already serving it’s possible the court would be lenient with Greg, sir, providing he reports for induction.”
“Why would he do that? That’s why he’s on the run.”
“He could change his mind, sir. Hopefully, he already has.”
“That I doubt. It’s a matter of conscience with him.”
“Sir, can you tell me why he didn’t register as an objector?”
“I can. I asked him. When he registered for the draft, he said, he didn’t know what he was doing, and later, when he did, he didn’t want to upset his folks. His father’s mental about the war.”
“Sir, how do you mean that?”
“He’s very enthusiastic about it.”
“A lot of people are, sir.”
“A lot aren’t. I’m not. Greg was hoping it would just go away. A lot of people were. General Maxwell Taylor, some years ago, gave it six months.”
Tom changed the subject. “Barb says you did your best with Greg, sir.”
“That’s what Greg told her.”
“You didn’t do your best, sir?”
“I did. But that wasn’t what his mother thinks it was.”
“May I ask, sir, what it was?”
“You may. I don’t have to tell you, but I will. I advised Greg to follow his conscience, not that he was inclined to do otherwise. I’d tell you — or anybody who came to me for advice — the same thing.”
Tom smiled. “Fortunately for me, sir, I’ve come to you for information, not advice.”
“You’ve had it, anyway.”
Tom shrugged. “No idea, then, how we can get in touch with Greg, sir?”
“No, I can’t help you there.”
“Would you, sir, if you could? That’s just a hypothetical question.”
“Not if it meant Greg would be put away — as it would. That’s just a hypothetical answer.”
Tom smiled. He stood up and went for his briefcase, which was on the desk. “That’ll be all, sir.”