Cat In A Crimson Haze

Chapter 8

Phoning Home Phony

Matt stared at his bedroom phone, the cheapest model Centel offered. The huge push-buttons and numbers made it an almost perversely ugly object. Like the cheapest casket in a funeral home showroom, this phone was designed to repel rather than attract. It was made to be rejected, to force the customer to up the ante. Everything in Las Vegas was intended to sever the sucker from his money.

The homely phone suited him. Matt's background had made him invulnerable to consumerism. So far. That background also made him invulnerable to much that was taken for granted in late-twentieth-century lifestyles.

No matter their looks or lack of them, phones were his friends . . . almost an extension of his senses now, an artificial limb he was used to donning. No headphones here at home, though, just the naked ear against the cold, bare receiver, that beige plastic fist that reminded him of Sister Mary Monica's hearing aids.

No wonder his palms sweated. He wasn't waiting for a call to come in now, he was waiting to make one. He was working up the nerve to lie, not easy for one of his inclination and training.

Worse, he was going to have to call the diocesan office to implement his lie. Lies. One lie always begat another, like Biblical patriarchs founding lines of limitless, off spring.

Matt straightened the fresh stenographer's notebook on his tiny nightstand. He appreciated the blank page, its paper tinted green to ease eye strain, its thin blue lines designed to keep his jottings on the straight and narrow, unlike his intent.

He picked up the felt-tip pen, chosen because it would flow more smoothly over the paper than a ballpoint. He would have to pinch the cumbersome receiver between head and shoulder while he took notes and steadied the notebook with his left hand. Maybe he should get a home headset. Yes, Devine, you do plan to lie on that scale, don't you? Again and again.

Matt leaned over to stare at the massive Las Vegas phone book on the bare floor, splayed open to the white pages. He squinted and dialed simultaneously, his eyes darting back and forth from the phone book's minuscule numbers to the reassuringly large buttons.

"Diocese of Reno-Las Vegas," a crisp female voice announced.

"Hello," Matt said, sounding remarkably calm. The black pen lay diagonally across the notebook, like a miniature fencing foil waiting to be picked up for a practice session. Matt's right hand curled into the rough fabric of his pants leg. "I wonder if you can direct me to the proper person. I'm, uh, a parishioner at Our Lady of Guadalupe--"

''Oh, yes." The voice had softened, like hot apple crisp, now that he had identified himself as one of the faithful.

''We're getting together to honor Father Hernandez--" Matt's hesitancy at the falsehood sounded like mere shyness in the face of officialdom.

''I see. On the successful conclusion of the recent fund drive, you mean? How nice."

"Right." How nice. How nice and easy it was to deceive, how eager people were to think the best. 'I'm in charge of the entertainment. We're doing a 'This Is Your Life' program to surprise Father Her--"

''What a wonderful idea! How can I help?"

"We want to produce some surprise guests he hasn't seen in years, from his previous parishes."

"Oh, he will love it! And you need to know his previous assignments? How far back do you want to go?"

"To the seminary, I guess. Or . . . it'd be great to have someone from grade school too. His whole life."

A pause. Nothing holds its breath better than a dead phone line when you know somebody is on it. Had he gone too far? Should he backtrack and say that just Father Hernandez's former parishes would do?

"That might require some checking," the voice said, slow enough to sound doubtful.

"We'd really appreciate anything you can do," Matt said in a rush he instantly regretted.

"Oh, I can get all the information, but can you afford to import guests from too far away? I don't know Father Hernandez's record offhand, but I think the bulk of his service may have been way across the country."

So much the more suspicious. Matt thought. "Some of us have set up a special fund to fly in the special p-people from his past," he said with a slight stammer of enthusiasm, or,anxiety.

"We're going all out on this." Was he ever!

"How sweet. Sure, I can look that up. Or even mail a copy of his postings to you--"

"No! No mail. We don't want to alert Father Hernandez to the surprise. It's all hush-hush."

"Then I'll call you back when I look up the record, Mr ?"

"Peters," Matt said with a swift ironic twist of his mouth.

Why hadn't he invented a more believable phony name before dialing? Next time. He recognized the fandango his subconscious was performing: Peters as in Peter Burns, the parish betrayer, Peters as in Simon Peter, the first apostle and the first to deny Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane. Peter as in turncoat. Turncollar.

''No, don't call here. I'm at the office,'' he added in a softer, apologetic tone, "I'm not supposed to make personal calls. But I could call you back."

''Certainly. Give me fifteen minutes."

"And I should ask for . . . ?"

"Oh, I always answer the phone here, Mr. Peters. Madeleine McCafferty."

"Thanks, Miss McCafferty." She did not demur at the form of address, so he had hit it right on the head: a maiden lady dedicated to the church. "And I'd, ah, appreciate it if you didn't mention this to anyone. You know how word leaks back to the parish level."

"Of course I do, and of course I'll keep . . . mum. I wouldn't want to do anything to ruin Father Hernandez's day of glory. He is such a dear man."

Matt let the phrase replay in his mind as he hung up: "such a dear man." Not the way he would describe the touchy and proud pastor of Our Lady of Guadalupe, but devout Catholics tended to crown their clergy with premature halos. No wonder they so seldom noticed any tarnish.