William Kienzle - Chameleon

They had done their very best to be obnoxious to the clergy and religious, who tried without much success to ignore them. Father Cletus Bash had phoned his civic counterpart, the spokesman for Maynard Cobb, mayor of Detroit. That intercession had attracted several blue-and-white police cars whose officers had orders to find some lawful way of moving the troublemakers out.

Thus when the small contingent of hookers arrived and gave as good as they got, the Tridentines-mainly Carson-transformed picketing to a contact sport, in which the police joined. The result: Morgan and Luca heeded the police invitation to “Drag ass outta here!” Carson chose to challenge the order and thus capped the evening in Detroit Memorial Hospital with a banged-up cheek and a cut lip.

Carson had been stitched up and left in the cubicle for a while to make certain there were no unforeseen complications. He now sat on the gurney, feet dangling over the side, as his companions offered moral support.

Carson moved gingerly, stretching his legs to touch the floor.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be getting off the bed so soon, Arnie,” Morgan said.

“Yeah, there’s no hurry; why don’t you wait a while?” Luca agreed.

Carson slid back onto the gurney. “Maybe I will wait just a couple more minutes or so. You know, if I get a concussion or something like that, I will sue. Did you get the badge number of that cop that hit me with his nightstick?”

“Geez, no, Arnie,” Morgan said. “I couldn’t get close to him. The other cops were holding me down.”

Actually, Morgan and Luca had obeyed promptly each and every police order and thus had been nowhere near Carson, who had conducted a doomed offensive against a superior force.

“It’s okay,” Carson said. “I remember the creep. I could identify him if I have to. And if I end up with any kind of serious injury, you can bet I will.”

“You were great, Arnie,” Luca said.

“We did okay. The big thing is you can’t let these people get away with stuff like this.”

“Yeah,” Luca agreed. “They say-and of course it wasn’t in the obituary-that this hooker hadn’t been to church in ages. No way she should get a Church burial. She’s just an unrepentant whore who is roasting in hell now. But her sister’s a nun. And a big shot in the diocese. So all the rules be damned; the whore gets a Church burial.”

“By a bishop, on top of everything else,” Morgan added.

Carson started to shake his head. Then he thought better of further scrambling his facial wounds, and gently massaged his temples instead. “Yeah, a bishop!” He almost spat the word. “A retired old geezer who should be dead already. Instead, he finds a comfortable home in Detroit.”

“It’s Cardinal Boyle’s fault,” Morgan said.

“Uh-huh. The Red Cardinal,” Carson said. It was a pun popular with Detroit conservatives, particularly the Tridentines. The color peculiar to a Cardinal is the most brilliant red imaginable. But when traditionalists called Boyle, “the Red Cardinal,” they meant “red” as a synonym for Communist. That Boyle was nowhere near in the neighborhood of being a Communist would not deter Carson, who could think of no more entrenched enemy than the godless Communist.

“He should go back to Russia,” Luca said.

“Do you think it was Boyle who gave permission for the whore’s funeral?” Morgan asked.

“Good question,” Carson observed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it went right to the top with all that publicity. That’s a very good question. Dwight,” he turned to Morgan, “why don’t you draft a letter to the Holy Father and tell him that a known prostitute who hasn’t seen the inside of a church since she was a kid gets a Christian burial in Detroit with a bishop presiding.”

“Oh, boy!” Morgan brightened. “That’s a great idea.”

“We’ve done it before and nothing happened,” Luca groused. “I don’t think even the Holy Father is gonna get tough with a Cardinal.”

“Don’t sell the Holy Father short-not this Holy Father,” Carson said. “If we keep him advised about what’s going on in Detroit, eventually he’ll act. I’m positive he will.”

“What’s he gonna do,” Luca asked, “excommunicate a Cardinal?”

“Maybe not,” Carson admitted, “but how about if he kicks him upstairs?”

“Huh?”

“Calls him to Rome,” Carson explained, “Puts him in charge of something not so important-ceremonies or something. Especially after that goddam council, there’s gotta be a lot of Curia offices that don’t do much anymore. It would serve Boyle right. After all, he had a lot to do with the council. Let him stew in his own juice.”

“I still don’t think it’ll work,” Luca repeated.

Carson stretched out a hand and let it drop on Luca’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Angelo, something is going to happen very soon that will make you very happy. In fact, it’s already in the works. And we won’t have to wait for Rome to act.”

Luca looked into Carson’s eyes hopefully. “What? What, Arnie?”

“I can’t tell you, Angelo. I can’t tell anybody. But when it happens-or when it keeps on happening-remember, you heard it here first.”

Morgan’s curiosity also was piqued. “What are you talking about, Arnie?”

“Yeah,” Luca said, “for God’s sake, if you can’t tell us who can you tell?”

“We’re with you, Arnie,” Morgan said. “You know that. Is it you who’s doing whatever it is you’re talking about? You need help. Who else could help you like we could? We want to help!”

Carson smiled smugly. “All in good time. As far as you guys are concerned, pretend I didn’t say anything at all. And you keep what I said to yourselves … got it?”

“Got it,” Morgan said. “But …” His brow furrowed. “… we don’t know what you said.”

“Keep it that way! Swear?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

An attendant leaned into the cubicle. “You okay now?”

“I think so,” Carson said.

“Then you better go on home. We need the space.”

They left, Carson wondering if he had said too much.

Sister Joan was the last to leave the funeral home. She had waited until all who lingered after the rosary had offered condolences. The funeral director had assured her that all would be ready for the 9:30 prayer service tomorrow morning at the funeral home followed by the fifteen-minute drive to St. Leo’s for the 10:00 A.M. Mass. She donned her coat and boots and started the drive home. The drive that would be repeated tomorrow morning with her sister as the main attraction, the star of the show.

Helen would like that. She had always conducted herself as the star performer in whatever was going on. It could be sports or amateur theater or dating, whatever: Unbashful Helen was the whole show. And so it would be tomorrow. For the last time , thought Joan, and choked on the unspoken word last.

She must get her mind off Helen and her horrible sudden death. She tried to pay attention to the neighborhood through which she was now driving.

This was easy. She was traveling up Trumbull past Tiger Stadium, whose one and only remaining attraction was the Detroit Tigers baseball team. Once upon a time, the Detroit Lions football team had played here also. The footballers had moved out to Pontiac.

This spot marked the site of professional baseball from shortly after its inception in Detroit before the turn of the century. It was almost hallowed ground. To the baseball purist it was holy ground. Here Babe Ruth and Ty Cobb and Ted Williams and Al Kaline had all excelled in this game that they loved so well.

Sister Joan was not a baseball aficionado, nor was she particularly drawn to sports, but she could appreciate the historical distinction of this stadium.