Page 6 of Priestly Sins

But I never sit here to relax.

Tonight, I need to remedy Henry’s problem. He’s a good kid in a shitty situation.

It’s not a matter of whether the situation could be made better. I’ve made my decision. Aside from the pesky details, his father is dead. First, I need to control the setting. Second, I need to lay the trap. Later I’ll figure out how to help Henry grow up into the man he will become.

Hank Tremaine is a drinker, as am I. He gambles; same with me. He does it with his paycheck. Me? I do it with my life.

Tonight, he will too.

He exits the bar and walks out onto St. Peter. This is a tourist area for sure. Drunk patrons engulf him but I follow, back by several paces, blending in. Collar off, Mardi Gras mask on. It’s Carnival time, after all.

As he stumbles into an alley, the fool is stupid enough to turn his back to take a piss.

“Hank?”

“Who’s askin’?”

One hand up on the wall, cock out in his other, his blurry vision never catches my kick to his left knee, dislocating it. He screams and crumbles, but I stop both by catching him by the back of the neck and smashing his face into the brick wall he’d been using to hold himself up. Urine flows and the stench rises. I move around out of its flow, still holding him by his neck.

I slide my knife from my pocket and have pulled it from ear to ear before he even feels a thing.

“May the God of Righteousness and Purity forgive your sins—and me, mine. Go forth, Christian soul, from this world in the name of God the Almighty Father and sleep in eternal rest. Amen”

He slides to his knees and I lean into him, shielding his body with mine, all the while folding the knife and sliding it into my sock.

He never looks up, never fights.

Sliding my left hand into my pocket, I grab my collar, and fit it in place. By the time I hit Royal, my adrenaline is gone, my mind is clear.

I need a drink—whiskey. But as I let myself get absorbed into the crowds, I decide instead on a beer. The job is done and I don’t need whiskey to brood. I drop my mask around the doorknob of the bar as I enter, flag over the bartender, and order up whatever’s on tap in a to-go cup. I savor the smooth hops as I head home to shower.

Four

Groundhog Day. Again.

Then again, almost every day isGroundhog Dayin this line of work.

My morning run is muggy and stinky. I’ll change my route by the time Ash Wednesday gets here. The main streets in this city are disgusting. The sanitation department needs a raise for the stench they encounter and the work they do during parade season alone, and it’s not much better the rest of the year. Urine, vomit, and stale beer are the highlights. Even worse lurks in the darker corners and alleyways. Hank Tremaine’s lifeless body comes to mind.

I put in an extra two miles since last night set me on edge. I need a clear head and fuck if I’m going to do yoga to get it. Running has always done it and will have to suffice.

I enter my office and am greeted by the parish secretary. She’s been my saving grace since I moved here and made New Orleans my home.

“Morning, Evelyn.”

“Morning, Father.”

“Anything I need to know?”

“Nope. No births, no deaths, so far.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Coffee is on your desk.”

“You’re a good woman. How’s Tom?”

She smiles. That woman is in love—good thing it’s with her husband of thirty-four years. “He’s good. Home tomorrow after his annual hunting trip. Said he’s ready to be home.”