had helped him pay off the debt of five million dollars left by Daniel Shortell. And create twenty new parishes, eighteen new high schools, sixty-four new parochial schools. Desmond Spellacy knew how the rich laity quaked when Hugh Danaher put on the squeeze. “When Mary O’Brien, a chambermaid, can give seventy-five cents to the Building Fund, I expect Randle J. Toomey, who would like to be a Grand Knight of Malta, to give seventy-five hundred dollars.” Not in camera . At the annual luncheon of The Holy Name Society. It got the job done. The Pope rewarded Hugh Danaher with a red hat. Spiritual leader of a flock numbering 1,250,000 people. A bookkeeper in ermine was more like it, the Cardinal said. Interest rates and construction costs and real-estate values. These were the problems that filled his days. The application of marriage laws and the businesslike operation of hospitals, orphanages and cemeteries.
Appearances, Desmond Spellacy thought. A sow’s ear. A spiritual leader. He wondered if Augustine O’Dea knew about the polyp on the Cardinal’s prostate. He thought not. Augustine O’Dea’s latest enthusiasm was trying to perfect his Al Smith imitation. Best not to trouble him. Get Chet Hanrahan into the ground. A new chairman of the Building Fund, that was the immediate concern. Not whether Desmond Spellacy was going to succeed Hugh Danaher.
“ Orate fratres . . .”
In the front pew, Mrs. Chester Hanrahan leaned toward her husband’s casket and keened loudly. The organist from Immaculate Conception High School began to play “Lovely Lady Dressed in Blue.” It was Chet’s favorite “number,” according to Mrs. Chester Hanrahan. As Immaculate Conception was his favorite high, because it was there that he had his first fund-raising success, putting the drive for the new gymnasium over the top with six “Put-A-Pool-In-A-Catholic-School” Sunday collections.
The volume of Mrs. Chester Hanrahan’s sobbing seemed to embarrass her two children, Brother Bede Hanrahan of the Athanasians and Sister Mary Peter Hanrahan of the Salesian Sisters of Saint John Bosco. What a windfall for the Salesians and the Athanasians, Desmond Spellacy thought. One thing Chet Hanrahan had never figured on was both his children going into the religious. And now the Athanasians and the Salesians would someday be carving up the Hanrahan Development Corporation.
“It’s a goddamn shame, Des,” Chester Hanrahan had said after his son had entered the Athanasians, “that boy not having more respect for his mother.”
If there was one subject Desmond Spellacy had not wished to discuss with Chester Hanrahan, it was his son’s vocation. The Athanasians were a mendicant order who devoted their lives to menial service. “He heard the call, Chet,” he answered deliberately.
“To clean up the shithouse in some old people’s home?” Chester Hanrahan said.
“If he’s happy, Chet.”
“Up to his elbows in piss, he calls that being happy?” Chester Hanrahan said. “What about his mother? If he had to go in, why didn’t he become a priest then, instead of some goddamn brother. At least his mother could watch him say mass then, he was a priest, or give a retreat. She could buy him a car. What is she supposed to do now? Give him a can of Ajax and watch him swab bedpans?”
You work your ass off, Chester Hanrahan had said bitterly. And he had. A pioneer in subdivisions. Del Cerro Heights. Fairway Estates. Rancho Rio. Wishing Well Meadows. Each new tract announced with billboards off every major artery. “Will There Be Underground Utilities in Del Cerro Heights?” “ ‘YES!’ Says Chester Hanrahan.” “Will There Be City Water in Fairway Estates?” “’YES!’ Says Chester Hanrahan.” “Will There Be Neighborhood Schools in Rancho Rio?” “’YES!’ Says Chester Hanrahan.”
It was over the question of neighborhood schools in Rancho Rio, in fact, that Chester Hanrahan had first come officially to the attention of
Appearances, Desmond Spellacy thought. A sow’s ear. A spiritual leader. He wondered if Augustine O’Dea knew about the polyp on the Cardinal’s prostate. He thought not. Augustine O’Dea’s latest enthusiasm was trying to perfect his Al Smith imitation. Best not to trouble him. Get Chet Hanrahan into the ground. A new chairman of the Building Fund, that was the immediate concern. Not whether Desmond Spellacy was going to succeed Hugh Danaher.
“ Orate fratres . . .”
In the front pew, Mrs. Chester Hanrahan leaned toward her husband’s casket and keened loudly. The organist from Immaculate Conception High School began to play “Lovely Lady Dressed in Blue.” It was Chet’s favorite “number,” according to Mrs. Chester Hanrahan. As Immaculate Conception was his favorite high, because it was there that he had his first fund-raising success, putting the drive for the new gymnasium over the top with six “Put-A-Pool-In-A-Catholic-School” Sunday collections.
The volume of Mrs. Chester Hanrahan’s sobbing seemed to embarrass her two children, Brother Bede Hanrahan of the Athanasians and Sister Mary Peter Hanrahan of the Salesian Sisters of Saint John Bosco. What a windfall for the Salesians and the Athanasians, Desmond Spellacy thought. One thing Chet Hanrahan had never figured on was both his children going into the religious. And now the Athanasians and the Salesians would someday be carving up the Hanrahan Development Corporation.
“It’s a goddamn shame, Des,” Chester Hanrahan had said after his son had entered the Athanasians, “that boy not having more respect for his mother.”
If there was one subject Desmond Spellacy had not wished to discuss with Chester Hanrahan, it was his son’s vocation. The Athanasians were a mendicant order who devoted their lives to menial service. “He heard the call, Chet,” he answered deliberately.
“To clean up the shithouse in some old people’s home?” Chester Hanrahan said.
“If he’s happy, Chet.”
“Up to his elbows in piss, he calls that being happy?” Chester Hanrahan said. “What about his mother? If he had to go in, why didn’t he become a priest then, instead of some goddamn brother. At least his mother could watch him say mass then, he was a priest, or give a retreat. She could buy him a car. What is she supposed to do now? Give him a can of Ajax and watch him swab bedpans?”
You work your ass off, Chester Hanrahan had said bitterly. And he had. A pioneer in subdivisions. Del Cerro Heights. Fairway Estates. Rancho Rio. Wishing Well Meadows. Each new tract announced with billboards off every major artery. “Will There Be Underground Utilities in Del Cerro Heights?” “ ‘YES!’ Says Chester Hanrahan.” “Will There Be City Water in Fairway Estates?” “’YES!’ Says Chester Hanrahan.” “Will There Be Neighborhood Schools in Rancho Rio?” “’YES!’ Says Chester Hanrahan.”
It was over the question of neighborhood schools in Rancho Rio, in fact, that Chester Hanrahan had first come officially to the attention of
Similar Books
