Christopher Buckley - Wet Work

Diatri went straight from La Guardia to the rectory. Father Rebeta answered the door.

"Hello, Padre."

"Hello, Frank." They sat in the room of the Joyless Madonna.

"Are you… well, Frank?"

"Fine."

"You've lost weight."

"Let me play something for you," Diatri said. He had pre-cued the tape to start after Charley Becker was introduced. Father Rebeta listened. He made a steeple with his fingers and rested his nose on it. Diatri clicked it off.

" Ecce homo. "

"How's that?" said Diatri.

"Behold the man. What Pilate said to the crowd."

"That's him on the tape?"

"Perhaps that wasn't the most apt allusion, under the circumstances. Congratulations, Frank. How on earth did you find him?"

"You're sure? "

The priest thought. "Yes," he said. "Though I don't suppose that would mean much in court, would it? I mean, a good defense attorney would take that apart pretty easily, unless you-"

"One step at a time, Padre. You're sure that's the same voice you heard that night?"

"No question. Do you mind if I smoke?"

He pulled an unfiltered cigarette-borrowed from the housekeeper-out of his pocket, wrinkled and bent. He straightened it with loving care so as not to break the skin, making a ritual out of it, as if smoking it was the one thing he had to look forward to other than eternal salvation. "I don't really smoke," he said, lighting up. "So who is he?"

"I don't mean to sound like a jerk, Padre, but that's privileged information." He stood up. "I better get back. Thanks for your help. We'll be in touch as the case develops-"

"Sit down, Frank. For heaven's sake. No one's flying in steaks."

It had been over twenty-five years since a priest had told him to sit down. And what do you know, he sat.

"Well," said Rebeta, "we know he's Catholic." He chuckled. "I suppose that's obvious by now. Texan, no formal education, self-made, rich, a defense contractor with a guilt complex-no, there's more than guilt at work here, some genuine, non-intellectualized religiosity-who's just bought himself an honorary degree from Mount St. Mary's College."

Diatri jumped up. "You Jesuit son of a-the whole fucking time, you knew! Get up! Stand up!"

"Why?"

"Because I'm placing you under arrest for withholding evidence in a federal investigation, and obstruction of justice."

"Oh, sit down, Frank."

"DON'T TELL ME TO SIT DOWN! You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to speak to-"

"Calm down, Frank. Just sit down and calm down. George Bernard Shaw said the most redundant sign in the English language was 'Fresh Fish Sold Here.' If it weren't fresh, you'd smell it; that it's fish, is also obvious from the smell; that it's for sale goes without saying; that it's here is most obvious of all."

"What the hell does a CNN anchorman have to do with this?"

No, George Bernard-it's all there on the tape. The accent, clearly west of the Mississippi, less elasticity to the vowels, the glottal stops are harder, it's more twang than drawl. So, Texas. As Oscar Wilde would have said, 'My dear, no one is from Arizona.' It's obvious he had no formal education himself, from the tone of awe. 'Halls of higher learning,' 'ivory towers of knowledge.' Believe me, no one who ever saw the inside of a university classroom would say that. It would therefore follow that he's self-made. It's clear that he has something to do with the old Military Industrial Complex from the way he hauls out that hoary old chestnut about beating swords into plowshares. Finally, it's unlikely that a school like Mount St. Mary's would be giving out honorary degrees to, well, sword makers if there hadn't been a little quid pro quo. St. Peter's Basilica in Rome was built on indulgences, forgiving sins for cash. Mother Church is eternal, Frank, but thirty-year T bills yield eight percent."

"But how do you know it's Mount St. Mary's?"

"The quaint self-deprecating bit about how giving him the honoris causa is the first mistake the school's made since 1808. There aren't that many old Catholic schools in America. Georgetown was founded in 1789-"

"All right, all right," said Diatri, defeated. "But if I find out that you knew about this and you're just yanking my chain I'm going to… be real disappointed in you, Padre."

"Frank, you've obviously been under a strain lately. If you don't mind my saying, you really don't look at all well. What have you done to your skin?"

"I do mind, as a matter of fact."

"Would you like something to settle your stomach?"

"Let me guess. It's elementary, right?"

"You're holding your stomach, Frank." Father Rebeta left and came back with a glass of seltzer water.

"So, who is he?"

"I can't tell you that, Padre."

"You could tell me in confession. To keep it confidential."

"Padre"-Diatri stood up and smiled-"you don't have time to listen to my confession." At the door he said, "When this is over, I'll buy you dinner some night if you want."

"I like steak."

"Okay." Diatri laughed. "Steak."

"Where the fuck have you been, Diatri? What do you mean going off like that? No one goes UC in this office without authorization! I almost put out an Agent Missing on you!"

"Will you calm down, please, Jim?"

"Don't tell me to calm down, Diatri! I'm your fucking superior!"

"I said 'please.'"

"You're suspended pending medical evaluation."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"What are you talking about, medical evaluation?"

"Look at you, Frank. You disappear for two weeks, you come back twenty-five pounds lighter with weird burns all over you."

"What's wrong with losing some weight? You're the one always posting bulletins about eating right and walking up stairs instead of taking the elevator."

"What about those burns?"

"I fell asleep in one of those tanning machines. What's the big deal?"

"Roll up your sleeves."

"What?"

"Roll up your sleeves."

"Are you okay? Am I hearing this? Roll up my sleeves? All right. Here."

"What's that there?"

"A bruise, obviously."

"A bruise from what?"

"From donating blood. Now you've got something against the Red Cross?"

"Let me see the other arm."

"Jesus Christ."

"Let me see the other arm. What's that?"

"A bruise."

"From giving blood?"

"No. As a matter of fact, that's from something else."

"What something else?"

"I fainted at the blood place and they had to give me some glucose. I'm a little embarrassed about the fainting. You're being very hostile, Jim."

"Frank, you've been acting strange. Someone saw marks on your arms in the locker room. You don't look good. You disappear for two weeks. What do you want me to say?"

"Well, frankly it's been a bit of a strain, what with my sister's disease. A little support and understanding would be nice."

"Yeah, well about your sister, Frank. I checked. You don't have a sister. You got no next of kin."

"She's more like an adopted sister, really."

"You're going to the doctor, Frank, or I call in IS."

"Internal Security? I don't believe this. You want to check my urine, is that it? Here."

"What are you doing? That's my coffee mug. Frank!"

"Mr. Becker's office."

"Good morning. Is Mr. Becker there?"

"No, he's not. May I ask who's calling?"

"This is Father More, from Mount St. Mary's College, in Maryland?"

"Good morning, Father."

"Good morning, my child. I was just calling to tell him that the Little Sisters of Mercy, with whom we have this affiliation, are making a special novena for him."

"Well, I'm sure he'll be pleased to hear that, Father."