we’ll say. That’s how we’re going to break this one.”
’’Don’t tell Fuqua that,” Tom Spellacy said. “It’d give him acid indigestion, I think.”
Crotty called for the check. Wo Fat said it would dishonor his house if Lieutenant Crotty paid. Crotty bowed.
When they reached the street, Crotty said, “Listen, Tom, I think I did a little talking out of turn about Jack A. up there. I mean, I know how tight the monsignor is with him.’
“Fuck him,” Tom Spellacy said.
“The monsignor?”
“Him, too.”
Two
The Right Reverend Monsignor Desmond Spellacy counted the mink.
Enid Fallon had a mink. Theresa Dowd and Mary Devlin had minks. Regina Gaffney’s mink had horizontal pelts and Helen Donahoe’s vertical pelts. Verna Boylan had a champagne mink, Edna Whalen a silver mink.
Mrs. Chester Hanrahan was weeping into her mink jacket.
Desmond Spellacy shifted his weight on the prie-dieu. It was quite a send-off for Chet. The vicar general saying the solemn high-requiem mass, thirty priests and monsignors on the altar, all the ladies from the League of Catholic Women in their mink. He searched for Monica Gargan. It wouldn’t be a funeral without Monica. There she was in the second pew, matching Mrs. Chester Hanrahan tear for tear. “Two hundred and eleven spiritual bouquets Chet’s got so far,” Monica had whispered to him at the rosary. “Do you think that’s a record, Monsignor? I know for a fact that Andrew Costigan only got 194.” Trust Monica to know that. And the make and year of all the cars in the funeral procession. Quentin Houlihan had the record for Cadillacs. She knew the number of wreaths, too, and whether they had come from Jim Daley’s or Harry McAuliffe’s. “You get your bargains from Jim,” Monica Gargan said. “Harry gives you a quality wreath. Colorado carnations and a grand piece of silk ribbon with the gold lettering. It’s the day-old salmon glads from Jim, and the cheap satin doesn’t hold the printing.” One last dismissal of Jim Daley. “The Polish all use Jim. And the Italians.”
“ Credo in unum Deum . . ’.” Augustine O’Dea sang. The vicar general’s rich bass rolled through the cathedral. Desmond Spellacy was originally supposed to sing the funeral mass, but Mrs. Chester Hanrahan had vetoed that. “All he’s done for Holy Mother the Church,” she had sobbed after the coronary, “Chet deserves a bishop at least.” It was the Cardinal she wanted, but His Eminence was indisposed. A touch of the flu. Although Desmond Spellacy suspected that the real reason His Eminence was absent was because he had never been able to stand Chester Hanrahan.
“ Patrem omnipotentem . . .” The men’s choir took up the refrain.
Doris Doyle’s mink had a full collar and Sadie Cormier’s cuffs big enough to be muffs. Dolores Kearney wore a red mink and Vitaline Dowdy a black mink. Dan T. Campion had a mink collar on his Chesterfield.
Desmond Spellacy noticed that Dan T. Campion was sitting with the delegation from the police department. Good. Dan was keeping on top of that situation. He made a mental note to suggest to His Eminence that he attend the Policemen’s Ball. If only to give his blessing. In and out in five minutes, that was all it would take. One picture in the newspapers would do it. The Cardinal in purple and ermine showing his solidarity with the department. At a time when the department desperately needed a vote of confidence. The vice scandal had almost wrecked it. The mayor recalled, the chief indicted, seven senior officers resigned. One suicide, God rest his soul.
“ Oremus . . .”
He thanked God Tommy had never been indicted. He knew it wasn’t a coincidence, Tommy being transferred out of Wilshire Vice when he was. But that was all he knew and all he wanted to know. He blotted Tommy from his mind. The immediate problem was getting the Cardinal to the ball. His Eminence deplored the appearance of opportunism, although not opportunism
’’Don’t tell Fuqua that,” Tom Spellacy said. “It’d give him acid indigestion, I think.”
Crotty called for the check. Wo Fat said it would dishonor his house if Lieutenant Crotty paid. Crotty bowed.
When they reached the street, Crotty said, “Listen, Tom, I think I did a little talking out of turn about Jack A. up there. I mean, I know how tight the monsignor is with him.’
“Fuck him,” Tom Spellacy said.
“The monsignor?”
“Him, too.”
Two
The Right Reverend Monsignor Desmond Spellacy counted the mink.
Enid Fallon had a mink. Theresa Dowd and Mary Devlin had minks. Regina Gaffney’s mink had horizontal pelts and Helen Donahoe’s vertical pelts. Verna Boylan had a champagne mink, Edna Whalen a silver mink.
Mrs. Chester Hanrahan was weeping into her mink jacket.
Desmond Spellacy shifted his weight on the prie-dieu. It was quite a send-off for Chet. The vicar general saying the solemn high-requiem mass, thirty priests and monsignors on the altar, all the ladies from the League of Catholic Women in their mink. He searched for Monica Gargan. It wouldn’t be a funeral without Monica. There she was in the second pew, matching Mrs. Chester Hanrahan tear for tear. “Two hundred and eleven spiritual bouquets Chet’s got so far,” Monica had whispered to him at the rosary. “Do you think that’s a record, Monsignor? I know for a fact that Andrew Costigan only got 194.” Trust Monica to know that. And the make and year of all the cars in the funeral procession. Quentin Houlihan had the record for Cadillacs. She knew the number of wreaths, too, and whether they had come from Jim Daley’s or Harry McAuliffe’s. “You get your bargains from Jim,” Monica Gargan said. “Harry gives you a quality wreath. Colorado carnations and a grand piece of silk ribbon with the gold lettering. It’s the day-old salmon glads from Jim, and the cheap satin doesn’t hold the printing.” One last dismissal of Jim Daley. “The Polish all use Jim. And the Italians.”
“ Credo in unum Deum . . ’.” Augustine O’Dea sang. The vicar general’s rich bass rolled through the cathedral. Desmond Spellacy was originally supposed to sing the funeral mass, but Mrs. Chester Hanrahan had vetoed that. “All he’s done for Holy Mother the Church,” she had sobbed after the coronary, “Chet deserves a bishop at least.” It was the Cardinal she wanted, but His Eminence was indisposed. A touch of the flu. Although Desmond Spellacy suspected that the real reason His Eminence was absent was because he had never been able to stand Chester Hanrahan.
“ Patrem omnipotentem . . .” The men’s choir took up the refrain.
Doris Doyle’s mink had a full collar and Sadie Cormier’s cuffs big enough to be muffs. Dolores Kearney wore a red mink and Vitaline Dowdy a black mink. Dan T. Campion had a mink collar on his Chesterfield.
Desmond Spellacy noticed that Dan T. Campion was sitting with the delegation from the police department. Good. Dan was keeping on top of that situation. He made a mental note to suggest to His Eminence that he attend the Policemen’s Ball. If only to give his blessing. In and out in five minutes, that was all it would take. One picture in the newspapers would do it. The Cardinal in purple and ermine showing his solidarity with the department. At a time when the department desperately needed a vote of confidence. The vice scandal had almost wrecked it. The mayor recalled, the chief indicted, seven senior officers resigned. One suicide, God rest his soul.
“ Oremus . . .”
He thanked God Tommy had never been indicted. He knew it wasn’t a coincidence, Tommy being transferred out of Wilshire Vice when he was. But that was all he knew and all he wanted to know. He blotted Tommy from his mind. The immediate problem was getting the Cardinal to the ball. His Eminence deplored the appearance of opportunism, although not opportunism
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