Page 2 of Priestly Sins

“Still me behind it, douche.”

“How am I supposed to come back at that, man?”

“Like you always have, man. It’s been a while, but you’ve known me since I was nineteen. Same guy. Curious job is all.”

“Whatever you say. How’s everything going? And… Sorry about your dad. Sorry I wasn’t there for the funeral. I—”

I cut him off both with a look and a low slice of my hand.

At that moment, our drinks slide in front of us and the tuxedoed waiter takes our orders.

“Glad you weren’t. Well, that’s not entirely honest, but it’s all good. Bastard’s dead. Still dealing with his crap, but at least he’s not alive and pulling his regular fuckery while I’m dealing with his bullshit.”

“I get it, but still wish I could’ve been there for you.”

“You were. You are. You’re here. Let’s toast to surviving that prick. To freedom and not waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Hear. Hear.”

We clink and spend our time together — more precious the older we’ve gotten and the farther apart we live — catching up.

Bobby’s wife, Sherrilyn, is expecting their second child, a girl this time, in four months. Their son is four and a hellion. Guess he is getting a taste of his own medicine with that one.

We eat, we drink, we do New Orleans the way it was meant to be done. The locals call itlagniappe— a little something extra. Tonight, it is King Cake bread pudding. And several more whiskeys.

We chat about college friends from our time in Indiana. Who’s married, divorced, who’s seeing success. We vow to make a game next fall and cheer on the Irish.

Given enough time, I can take the time off work. Even though my job is twenty-four seven and scheduling vacation isn’t like the corporate world, a weekend away could be great.

“Dude, I have to ask… Do you miss the sex?” Bobby asks after several drinks.

“My son…” I begin very solemnly.

He blanches of all color, and I lose it, barking a laugh so loud people turn our way. I drop my head and give him the grin that few people ever see these days.

“Yeah, man, fucking kills me.”

Two

Ifucking hate funerals.

I’m sitting beside this casket in these fucking robes and sweating like a pig. Why do we say that? Do pigs sweat? Either way, I do and I am.

These are the things no one wants to believe a priest is thinking, but sometimes, lots of times, we are. We’re men.

I’m sweating, looking solemn, and listening to this man’s niece drone on and on about how amazing her uncle was. This is after listening to his business partner, Enzo Calabrese, sing his praises, lying through his teeth about the bastard. The art of having no facial reaction should be taught in the seminary. Case in point — that self-aggrandizing bullshit when you know the fucker is dancing on the inside, having no competition, no required profit sharing now for his legal—or his illegal—freight enterprises.

Calabrese sits there, smug, with his pretty wife on his arm. He’s the man I suspect pulled the trigger—or at least paid for the hit.

Business partner, my ass.

Calabrese is as revered as he is feared. He’s never met a compliment he didn’t agree with or praise he would refuse. He is untouchable or, at least, that’s his opinion of himself. He’s stupid enough to believe his own bullshit.

At the cemetery following the mass, I see them again—the king and queen. New Orleans’ very own crime royalty. Only heir to his father’s shipping business and to his power, lust, and greed. I should speak to him. If I could stomach it, I know I would. But I’d rather be thought of as rude than have to fake a single smile with him.

“Father?” I turn and see the widow of the man we just buried, chin lifted, as if forcing courage on this most trying day.

“Yes.”