Precious Blood(42)

“Andy Walsh,” the Cardinal said, “is getting out of hand.”

“Just getting, Your Eminence?” Tom smiled. “Andy’s been out of hand since he was six.”

“No,” O’Bannion said. “Not the way I mean it. Do you have any idea what he did this morning?”

“No, Your Eminence. What did he do?”

“It wasn’t a rhetorical question,” the Cardinal said. “I don’t know what he did, either. I just know he did something. Sister told me.”

“He did something at the church?”

“No, no. He was on Barry Field’s talk show this morning. Whatever he said had the switchboard lit up—and I quote Sister—‘like a Christmas tree.’”

“Oh.” Tom lost interest. “He’s on Barry Field’s talk show a lot, Your Eminence. The switchboard always lights up.”

“I know that. I also know that not one week ago I sent a letter to every Catholic in this Archdiocese, and a personal letter to every priest, practically threatening them with excommunication for watching the thing, never mind appearing on it. He just doesn’t listen.”

“He never did, Your Eminence.”

“He used to listen to direct orders.”

That, Tom thought, wasn’t precisely true. Andy used to listen to some lands of direct orders. He thought the Confessional ought to be abolished, but he let Dec hear confessions in one anyway, because the Cardinal told him to. He thought Masses ought to be said in private houses and open fields, but he said them in St. Agnes’s Church, just to avoid a hassle. Faced with other direct orders, he was adamant. There were still altar girls in Andy Walsh’s parish church, and women giving out Communion  . There were Masses for the CYO with Andy in nothing but a T-shirt and jeans. There were group penance services given with the tacit understanding that the people who attended them didn’t have to make individual confessions at all—and that was in violation of canon law. Andy, like a lot of his better-heeled parishioners, was a cafeteria Catholic.

“I take it you’ve given up on Mr. Demarkian’s getting Andy out of your hair,” Tom said.

“Not exactly,” the Cardinal said. “I haven’t given up on Mr. Demarkian. You did schedule an appointment?”

“Tomorrow at eight fifteen, Your Eminence, yes.”

“I hate to conduct business on Good Friday, but I suppose it can’t be helped. At any rate, I’m still interested in Mr. Demarkian, and he might get Andy Walsh out of my hair, as you put it.”

“It’s good you’re still interested in him, Your Eminence. I don’t think he’d like to have been dragged all the way up here for nothing.”

“Well, it won’t be for nothing. There is something—ragged—about the official explanation of Cheryl Cass’s death.”

“If you say so, Your Eminence.”

“Never mind what I say. Think about Andy Walsh.” O’Bannion took the cigar out of his mouth and stared at its tip. There was a big fat ash there that was threatening to ruin his suit. “Did you know Paul Hessart was sick?”

“Archbishop Hessart in Mobile?”

“Cancer,” O’Bannion said. “He’s fifty-two. Terry Baldwin out in Los Angeles has a heart condition that keeps him in bed half the time. He’s fifty-eight. I’m sixty-four.”

Tom felt panic spurt up his spine and battled it down with difficulty. “Is there something wrong with your health, Your Eminence?”

“No, no,” O’Bannion said, “not that I know of. But there it is. There could be something I don’t know of. Tom, I’ve spent a lot of time in this Archdiocese. I’ve done a lot of work here. I’ve nearly got it turned around.”

“You have got it turned around, Your Eminence. It’s just a question of letting the numbers pile themselves up again.”

“Maybe. What would happen if I was put out of commission tomorrow?”

“You won’t be—”

“But what if I was? Who do you think would take my place here?”

“Your Eminence, at the moment, we have a very conservative Pope. He wouldn’t put a man in who—”

“He might have to,” O’Bannion said stubbornly. “He can only work with what he’s got. I want to make sure he’s got the kind of man he needs.”

“And I’m it, Your Eminence? An ex-juvenile delinquent with a family history that reads like a novel by Frank Norris?”

“St. Augustine was an ex-juvenile delinquent. And your family history is nobody’s business but your own. Good heavens, look up there. I believe we’re going to move.”