Sara Paretsky - Killing Orders

“Great. Maybe you can incorporate it into an article on search-and-sort routines in the brain.”

As we got up to follow the throng into the George IV Salon, Mrs. Paciorek pushed herself against the tide of traffic and came up to us. “What are you doing here?” she demanded of me abruptly.

Phil pulled my hand through his arm. “She’s my dinner date, Mother. I didn’t think I could face the Plattens and Carrutherses without some moral support.”

She stood fulminating, her color changed dangerously, but she had the sense to know she couldn’t order me out of the hotel. At last she turned to Cecelia and Morris. “Try to keep her away from Archbishop Farber. He doesn’t need to be insulted,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Phil made a sour face. “Sorry about that, V.1. Want me to stay at your side? I don’t want anyone else to be rude to you.”

I was amused and touched. “Not necessary, my friend. If they’re too rude, I’ll break their necks or something and you can patch them up and come out looking like a hero.”

Phil went to get me a brandy, while I started counterclockwise around the room, stopping at small knots of people, introducing myself, chatting enough to get everyone to say a few words, and moving on. About halfway up the left side, I ran into Father Pelly with Cecelia and some strangers.

“Father Pelly! Nice to see you.”

He smiled austerely. “Miss Warshawski. I hardly thought of you as a supporter of the archdiocese.”

I grinned appreciatively. “You thought correctly. Young Phil Paciorek brought me. How about yourself? I hardly thought the priory could afford this type of entertainment.”

“We can’t. Xavier O’Faolin invited me-we used to work together, and I was his secretary when he was sent to the Vatican ten years ago.”

“And you keep in close touch. That’s nice. He visit the priory while he’s in town?” I asked idly.

“Actually, he’ll stay with us for three days before he flies back to Rome.”

“That’s nice,” I repeated. Faced with Cecelia’s withering glare, I moved on. Phil caught up with me as I was nearing the knot around O’Faolin.

“Nothing like an evening with the old gang to make you feel you’re in kindergarten,” he said. “Every third person remembers when I broke the windows at the church with my catapult.”

He introduced me to various people as I slowly worked my way up to O’Faolin. Someone was shaking hands with him and leaving just as I reached the group, so Phil and I were able to slip in next to him.

“Archbishop, this is Ms. Warshawski. Perhaps you remember her from my sister’s funeral.”

The great man favored me with a stately nod. He wore his episcopal purple shirt under a black suit of exquisite wool. His eyes were green, from his Irish father. I hadn’t noticed them before. “Perhaps the archbishop would prefer to converse in Italian,” I said, addressing him formally in that language.

“You speak Italian?” Like his English, his Italian accent was tinged with Spanish, but not so distortingly. Something about his voice sounded familiar. I wondered if he’d been on television or radio while he was in Chicago and asked him that.

“NBC was good enough to do a small interview. People think of the Vatican as a very wealthy organization, so it is hard for us to bring our story of poverty and begging to the people. They were kind enough to help.”

I nodded. Chicago’s NBC station gave a lot of support to Catholic figures and causes. “Yes. The Vatican finances have been much in the papers here. Particularly after the unfortunate death of Signor Calvi last summer.” Was it my imagination, or did he flinch a bit? “Has.your work with the Vatican Finance Committee involved you at all with the Banco Ambrosiano?”

“Signor Calvi was a most loyal Catholic. Unfortunately, his ardor caused him to overstep the bounds of propriety.” He had switched back to his heavily accented English. Although I made one or two more attempts at conversation, the interview was clearly over.

Phil and I moved off to sit on a small couch. I needed to rest my feet before tackling the other side of the room. “What was that about Calvi and the Banco Ambrosiano?” he asked. “My Spanish is just good enough that I could follow some of the Italian… You must have miffed him, though, for his English to go bad again like that.”

“Possibly. He certainly didn’t want to talk about Ambrosiano.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. I gathered my wits for an assault on the rest. of the party. Suddenly, behind me, I heard the Voice again. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Addington. His Holiness will be joining me in prayer for all of you generous Chicago Catholics.”

I leaped to my feet, spilling brandy down the front of the new crimson dress.

Phil stood up in alarm. “What is it, Vic?”

“That’s the man who’s been calling me. Who is that?”

“Who?”

“Didn’t you hear someone just promising the pope’s prayers? Who said that?”

Phil was bewildered. “That was Archbishop O’Faolin. Has he been calling you?”

“Never mind. No wonder you were so surprised by his accent, though.” The voice of a man whose English has been carefully taught to avoid an accent. Irish or Spanish or both. I rejoined the group around the archbishop.

He stopped in midsentence when he saw me.

“Never mind,” I said. “You don’t have to put the thick Spanish back on again. I know who you are. What I don’t understand is your connection with the Mafia.”

I found I was shaking so badly I could hardly stand. This was the man who wanted to blind me. I had just enough control not to jump him on the spot.

“You’re confusing me with someone else, young woman.” O’Faolin spoke coldly, but in his normal voice. The rest of the group around him stood like Stonehenge. Mrs. Paciorek swooped up from nowhere.

“Dear Archbishop,” she said. “Cardinal Farber is ready to leave.”

“Ah, yes. I’ll come at once. I must thank him for his most generous hospitality.”

As he got ready to leave I said coldly, “Just remember, Archbishop: No one is lucky forever.”

Phil helped me back to the couch. “Vic, what’s wrong? What has O’Faolin done to you? Surely you don’t know him?”

I shook my head. “I thought I did. He’s probably right, though. I must be confusing him with someone else.” I knew I wasn’t, though. You do not forget the voice of someone who wants to pour acid in your eyes.

Phil offered to drive me home, to get more brandy, to do anything and everything. I smiled at him gratefully. “I’m okay. Just, with the fire at my place and everything, I haven’t had much sleep. I’ll sit here for a while and then drive back to my apartment.” Or whatever the Bellerophon was.

Phil sat next to me. He held my hand and talked about general things. He was a very likable young man. I pondered again how Mrs. Paciorek could have produced three such attractive children as Agnes, Phil, and Barbara. “Cecelia’s your mother’s only success,” I said abruptly.

He smiled. “You only see Mother at her worst. She’s a fine person in a lot of ways. All the good she does, for example. She inherited that huge Savage fortune, and instead of turning into a Gloria Vanderbilt or Barbara Post, she’s used it almost exclusively for charity. She set up trusts for us kids, enough to keep us from want-mine paid my medical-school tuition, for example. But most of it goes to different charities. Especially to the Church.”

“Corpus Christi, perhaps?”

He looked at me sharply. “How do you know about that?”

“Oh,” I said vaguely. “Even members of secret societies talk. Your mother must be pretty active in it.”