Want To Play? (Monkeewrench)

23

At five o’clock Wednesday morning, the phone next to Michael Halloran’s bed started ringing and wouldn’t stop. He stuck one hand out of the covers and felt goose bumps rise on his arm as his hand wandered blindly over the nightstand, searching for the phone, knocking over the clock and a water glass in the process. That brought his head out from beneath the down comforter. The cold in the bedroom made his hair hurt.

‘Hello?’ he croaked into the receiver, forgetting he was always supposed to answer with his title; forgetting his title for that matter. Sheriff of something.

‘Mikey, is that you?’

Only one person in the world called him Mikey. ‘Father Newberry,’ he groaned.

‘It’s five o’clock, Mikey. Time to get up if you want to make six-o’clock Mass.’

Receiver still to his ear, he closed his eyes and fell immediately back to sleep.

‘MIKEY!’

He snapped awake again. ‘You call everybody in town to wake ’em up for Mass?’ he squeaked.

‘Just you.’

‘I don’t go to Mass anymore, Father, remember? Jeez, you’re a sadistic old fart. What are you calling me for?’

‘God can cure a hangover, you know.’

Halloran groaned again, vowing to move to a big city where everyone in town didn’t know what he was doing every single goddamned minute. ‘What makes you think I’ve got a hangover?’

‘Because that heretic Lutheran’s car was parked in your driveway all night . . .’

‘How do you know that?’

‘ . . . which means the two of you probably stayed up all night drinking Scotch, and now your head’s so heavy you can hardly lift it off the pillow.’

‘Well, that shows what you know. I don’t even know where my pillow is.’ He looked around him on the bed for the AWOL pillow, eyes narrowed to slits, but he couldn’t see anything. ‘Besides, I’m blind.’

‘It’s dark. Turn on the light, sit up and listen.’

‘That’s too many instructions.’

‘You didn’t let Bonar drive home last night, did you?’

Halloran searched the fuzz in his mind for memories of the night before. They’d eaten the last of Ralph, he’d called the doctor in Atlanta, then they’d really started drinking . . .

Mike finally found the switch on the lamp, nearly screamed when he turned it on. Now he really was blind. ‘Nope. We had a slumber party.’

‘Cute. Listen, Mikey, how long are you going to keep this silly surveillance on the church? You’ve had a deputy parked in the lot since Monday.’

‘It’s just a precaution.’

‘Well, it’s bad for business.’

Mike tried to swallow, but it felt like he had a hair ball lodged in his throat. He dearly hoped he hadn’t found a cat somewhere last night and licked it. ‘That’s why you called me at five o’clock in the morning? To tell me I’m cutting into your profits?’

‘No, I called you to come to Mass, I told you.’

‘I’m not coming to Mass. Goodbye.’

‘I found something.’

Halloran brought the receiver back to his ear. ‘What’d you say?’

‘It was in one of the hymnal racks, two pews back from where the Kleinfeldts were sitting. Stuck in one of the hymnals, actually, in that gap between the cover and the binding that happens when the glue gets old and dried and pulls away, you know what I mean? Never would have found it if I hadn’t dropped the book, so you probably shouldn’t fire the men who were searching so hard . . .’

Halloran was fully awake now. ‘What? What did you find, Father?’

‘Oh. Didn’t I mention that? Well, it’s a shell casing, if I’m not mistaken, and since it’s been years since we’ve had target practice in the church, I was thinking it might be related to the murders.’

‘You didn’t touch it, did you?’

‘I most certainly did not,’ Father Newberry huffed, proud to be as informed in police procedure as any American with a television set. ‘It’s lying on the floor, right where it dropped, but of course the faithful will be arriving within the hour and I suppose they’ll kick it all over the place . . .’

Halloran hit the ground running – well, figuratively, at least. In actuality he was shuffling across the bedroom floor with exaggerated care, trying not to jostle his head. ‘Don’t let anyone near it, Father. I’ll be there as fast as I can.’

The old bastard was smiling so hard Mike could hear it in his voice. ‘Good. You’ll be here in time for Mass, then.’

Bonar was just stepping out of the bathroom as Mike was shuffling down the hall toward it. He was dressed, shaved, and looked disgustingly alert. ‘Shower’s all yours, buddy, and the coffee’s on. Man, you look like hell. You shouldn’t drink so much.’

Halloran peered blearily through puffy eyes. ‘Who are you?’

Bonar chuckled. ‘A vision of loveliness compared to you, my friend. Who called at this ungodly hour anyway?’

‘An ungodly priest,’ Halloran muttered, and then brightened, just a little. ‘He found a shell casing in the church. Hasn’t touched it. And since you’re already up and dressed . . .’

‘On my way. I’ll see you at the office later.’

Halloran was smiling as he stepped into the shower. He wasn’t going to make Mass after all.