itself. It would not do to argue that the new police chief, soon to be selected, would appreciate the favor and that it never hurt to have a friend in the department. Something more high-minded was in order. A scholarship, perhaps. He ran over the possibilities. A college education sponsored by the archdiocese. Four years at Loyola. He knew he could get the Jesuits to agree. The jebbies wanted the Cardinal’s approval on that new dormitory. A Loyola education, but for whom?
The son of a policeman killed in the line of duty.
That would do it. His Eminence could announce the scholarship at the Policemen’s Ball. Not that the Cardinal would be fooled, but appearances would be satisfied.
“ Lavabo inter innocentes . . .” Bishop O’Dea intoned.
Appearances. They were very much on Desmond Spellacy’s mind today. Augustine O’Dea, for example. Tall, in his late fifties, with massive shoulders and the mane of snow-white hair. The very picture of a bishop. He had only one drawback: he was a boob. A view, Desmond Spellacy knew, that was shared by the Cardinal. That big, booming voice always ready to discourse on Saint Patrick and the snakes or the day Babe Ruth said hello to him at Comiskey Park. Two favorite topics. (Desmond Spellacy had once pressed him on the Babe and what the Babe had actually said was, “Hiya, keed.”) But. . . . Always the but . There was something about Augustine O’Dea that seemed to amuse the Cardinal. With rapt attention, Hugh Danaher listened to the endless monologues about the day little Bernadette met Our Lady at Lourdes or the absence of snakes on the Emerald Isle. Is that right, Augustine? I didn’t know that, Augustine. It was as if the vicar general provided the Cardinal with his only relief from the byzantine tedium of running the archdiocese.
It could have been a situation with Augustine O’Dea. Desmond Spellacy was certain of that, but the Cardinal had handled it perfectly. It was a matter of turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse. Hugh Danaher was, after all, only an obscure coadjutor archbishop in Boston when he succeeded Daniel Shortell, who had died quietly in his ninety-first year, leaving the archdiocese, in a word, broke. It was easy to get rid of most of the deadwood that had accumulated around Archbishop Shortell, but Augustine O’Dea was vicar general, second in command in the archdiocese, and he had expected to be Daniel Shortell’s successor. The simplicity of Hugh Danaher’s solution was exquisite: he just took advantage of the vicar general’s imposing good looks. If there was a ribbon to be cut or a communion breakfast to attend, there was Augustine O’Dea posing for the photographers, telling of his plan to send a Christmas card to every Catholic in the American League. Because of his long friendship with the Babe, of course. Title after title was piled onto his broad shoulders, each more meaningless than the last. Director of the Apostleship of Prayer. Chairman of the Sodalities of Our Lady. Director of the Priests’ Eucharistic Congress. Spiritual Director of the League of the Hard of Hearing.
Vintage Hugh Danaher, Desmond Spellacy thought. He had a gift for turning a liability into an advantage. A complex man. Desmond Spellacy doubted that he would ever really understand the Cardinal. Except for one thing. He would never try to pull a fast one on him. Even now, nearing eighty, in the twelfth year of what had appeared, when he was named archbishop, only a caretaker appointment, the Cardinal could still be ruthless. Desmond Spellacy shivered. He had seen the Cardinal in action too often. That cold stare. Where the seconds seemed like hours. He had seen priests crumble under that stare. John Tracy, sixty-eight years old, who had asked His Eminence why he had never been named a pastor. The stare. Until poor John Tracy wept. The Cardinal never had to give the answer John Tracy had dreaded: because you’re a homosexual.
It was that kind of ruthlessness which
The son of a policeman killed in the line of duty.
That would do it. His Eminence could announce the scholarship at the Policemen’s Ball. Not that the Cardinal would be fooled, but appearances would be satisfied.
“ Lavabo inter innocentes . . .” Bishop O’Dea intoned.
Appearances. They were very much on Desmond Spellacy’s mind today. Augustine O’Dea, for example. Tall, in his late fifties, with massive shoulders and the mane of snow-white hair. The very picture of a bishop. He had only one drawback: he was a boob. A view, Desmond Spellacy knew, that was shared by the Cardinal. That big, booming voice always ready to discourse on Saint Patrick and the snakes or the day Babe Ruth said hello to him at Comiskey Park. Two favorite topics. (Desmond Spellacy had once pressed him on the Babe and what the Babe had actually said was, “Hiya, keed.”) But. . . . Always the but . There was something about Augustine O’Dea that seemed to amuse the Cardinal. With rapt attention, Hugh Danaher listened to the endless monologues about the day little Bernadette met Our Lady at Lourdes or the absence of snakes on the Emerald Isle. Is that right, Augustine? I didn’t know that, Augustine. It was as if the vicar general provided the Cardinal with his only relief from the byzantine tedium of running the archdiocese.
It could have been a situation with Augustine O’Dea. Desmond Spellacy was certain of that, but the Cardinal had handled it perfectly. It was a matter of turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse. Hugh Danaher was, after all, only an obscure coadjutor archbishop in Boston when he succeeded Daniel Shortell, who had died quietly in his ninety-first year, leaving the archdiocese, in a word, broke. It was easy to get rid of most of the deadwood that had accumulated around Archbishop Shortell, but Augustine O’Dea was vicar general, second in command in the archdiocese, and he had expected to be Daniel Shortell’s successor. The simplicity of Hugh Danaher’s solution was exquisite: he just took advantage of the vicar general’s imposing good looks. If there was a ribbon to be cut or a communion breakfast to attend, there was Augustine O’Dea posing for the photographers, telling of his plan to send a Christmas card to every Catholic in the American League. Because of his long friendship with the Babe, of course. Title after title was piled onto his broad shoulders, each more meaningless than the last. Director of the Apostleship of Prayer. Chairman of the Sodalities of Our Lady. Director of the Priests’ Eucharistic Congress. Spiritual Director of the League of the Hard of Hearing.
Vintage Hugh Danaher, Desmond Spellacy thought. He had a gift for turning a liability into an advantage. A complex man. Desmond Spellacy doubted that he would ever really understand the Cardinal. Except for one thing. He would never try to pull a fast one on him. Even now, nearing eighty, in the twelfth year of what had appeared, when he was named archbishop, only a caretaker appointment, the Cardinal could still be ruthless. Desmond Spellacy shivered. He had seen the Cardinal in action too often. That cold stare. Where the seconds seemed like hours. He had seen priests crumble under that stare. John Tracy, sixty-eight years old, who had asked His Eminence why he had never been named a pastor. The stare. Until poor John Tracy wept. The Cardinal never had to give the answer John Tracy had dreaded: because you’re a homosexual.
It was that kind of ruthlessness which
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