James Ellroy - The Best American Noir of the Century

“Good enough,” I said, trying to keep the conversation light and not veer it toward the personal, which is the road Tony always seemed to prefer.

It made sense that he would, of course, what with him being a shrink and all. Tony enjoyed doing hit-and-run probes into the lives of the men around the table, treating the entire night as if it were a casual group session with cards, chips, and money added to the mix. He would keep it all very chatty, never giving the impression he was picking and pawing or even the least bit curious about any one of us but always leaving the table owning a lot more information than he had when he first walked in. When he wasn’t busy jabbing at our collective scabs as casually as he would a platter of potato salad, Tony regaled us with tales of his sexual conquests, most of them arriving courtesy of his practically all-female practice. It was difficult not to envy any man who in a given week would bed as many as five different women, so you can imagine how well his tales traveled around a poker table filled with either those who had gone without for longer than they would dare to remember or the few who felt strangled by double-decades’ worth of marital gloom.

“This is one you won’t believe,” he said, dropping his cards on the table in a fold and sitting back, wide grin flashed across a face that looked far too young for a man one month shy of his fifty-second birthday. “I have this new patient, right? Drop-dead blonde with stallion legs and a killer smile. Only on her second visit, asks if it’s OK for her to call me at home. You know, just to shoot it whenever the urge hits.”

“You ever see any ugly patients?” I asked. I really didn’t want to believe that every woman who paid to tell Tony sad tales of an unfulfilled life was poster-girl material even though, deep in my heart, it figured probably to be indeed true.

“Only on referrals,” Tony said. “Anyway, I’m supposed to say no to such a request, I suppose. I mean if I’m going to do a line-by-line with the rulebook.”

“But you never have before,” I said. “No sense finding religion now, especially when it’s a different promised land you’re looking to find.”

“So, I give her my home number and go about the rest of my day,” Tony said. “I had no doubt she would make use of it down the road a bit, maybe get a few more sessions under her garters before she made the move.”

“Let me take a stab at a guess here,” Joe said. “She dialed your private line right about the start of the second period of the Rangers game. Right or not?”

“If that’s about eight or so, then yes, you win the stuffed bear,” Tony said. “She was very upset, needed to talk, and couldn’t make it wait. I offered to do a free phone consult, but she wanted a face-to-face. An hour later we were down a half bottle of red and doing a wild roll on the water bed.”

“I didn’t think anybody still had a water bed,” Steve said. “Or that they even made them. You don’t have a lava lamp, too, do you?”

I brushed Steve’s question aside with one of my own: “This woman, was she married or single?”

Tony stared at me for several seconds before he answered. “Would it make a difference either way?” he asked.

“It might,” I said, “to her husband.”

“She is married,” Tony said with more a sneer than a smile. “Truth be told, most of the women who come to me for help are bound to the ring. If they weren’t, then maybe they wouldn’t be so damn unhappy and I wouldn’t be pulling down seven figures to dole out my pearls of acquired wisdom.”

“Does any of that ‘cause you concern?” I asked. “I mean, forget about the doctor-patient mumbo-jumbo crap. I’m talking here as a man. Does it bother you one inch to be taking another man’s wife into your bed?”

“It never has.” Tony stared right at me as if his measured words were meant for my ears alone. “And it never will.”

“Is there any more pie?” Jeffrey asked. “I don’t know what it is lately, but I can’t seem ever to get enough to eat.”

“That may well be because you’re celibate,” Tony said. “You need something to replace what the body most needs. If you took my advice, which I rarely offer for free, you would switch gears and reach for a warm body instead of a warm plate.”

Jeffrey hated to talk about sex or at least that’s the impression he wanted to convey. He was a Jesuit priest when I first met him, waiting in line to see Nathan Lane go for laughs in a Neil Simon play— an original, not a revival. It was a cold and rainy Wednesday and the matinee crowd was crammed as it usually was with the bused in and the walk-ins. We both should have been somewhere else, doing what I was paid to do and, in Jeffrey’s case, what he was called to do. We made a valiant attempt at small talk as we snaked our way up toward a half-price ticket window and were surprised when we scored adjoining orchestra seats. “Now if the show is only half as funny as the critics claim,” Jeffrey said, “we will have gotten our money’s worth.”

We stopped by Joe Allen’s for drinks after the show and I had just ordered my second shaken-not-stirred martini of the afternoon when I invited Father Jeffrey to join the poker game, eager to fill the void left by Sal Gregorio’s spur-of-the-moment move to Chicago to tend to his father’s meatpacking plant. Even back then, Jeffrey seemed to me a troubled man, grappling with the type of demons I would never be able to visualize in the worst of my black-dog moments. I came away with the sense that he had reached the top of the well when it came to his chosen vocation, not sure whether it was the pedophile scandal rocking the church that did it or just the very fact that he was a modern man forced to live a sixteenth-century life. “Do you miss it?” I had asked him that day.

“What, the women?”

“We can start with that,” I said, trying my best to make light of what would have to be considered a serious deal-breaker in any contract talks that brought into play a lifetime commitment.

“There are moments,” Jeffrey said, “when I don’t think about it. It is, by a wide margin, the biggest obstacle a priest must overcome. At least it has been for me. But hidden beneath the cover of misery, a silver cloud often lies.”

“What’s yours?” I asked, maybe crossing deeper into the holy water than I should.

“That it’s young women who draw my eye and not innocent boys,” Jeffrey said, the words tinged with anger and not regret.

“Are you one of those rebels in a collar who think Christ and Mary Magdalene were more than just pen pals?” I asked, doing what I could to steer the conversation away from the uncomfortable.

“I am one of those rebels in a collar who think Christ was too much of a man not to be in love with a woman as beautiful and as loyal as Mary was to him,” Jeffrey said.

One year later, just about to the day, Father Jeffrey turned his back on his vows, handed in his collar, and walked out of the church life for good. Yet, in the time from that eventful day to this, he stayed celibate or, at least, so he claimed, though not from a lack of effort but more from a lack of experience. Now, of all the guys in the poker group, he was the only one Dottie liked, the one she didn’t roll her eyes or mumble beneath her breath if we ran into on the street or in a local restaurant. She even mentioned once that she had gone to church to see him celebrate mass and listen to one of his sermons.

“How was he?” I asked her that day.

“He looked like he belonged up there,” Dottie said about Jeffrey in the same awed tone I would have reserved for Frank Sinatra or Johnny Cash. “But then again, it’s not like it was his first time.”