As Father Richard prepared to leave, he handed me an envelope, said, "For expenses." I took it. "I'll buy some treats for the dog." Richard looked at me, asked, "Aren't you going to count it?" I gave him my best smile. "You're a priest, isn't trust in your brief?" His eyes scanned the apartment and I saw his gaze land on a particular volume, he asked, "Is that Declan's book, The Green Platform?" I nodded and he asked, "Might I borrow it?" I took the book, said, "Beware the red platform." He gave a rueful smile. "Alas, I have some work in that direction." I said, "Me too." And he was gone, saying he'd be in touch. I ventured, "I'll try to contain my excitement." The dog seemed to miss him. O Being overweight, Is a constant cross, You don't get days off, Where you might think you're not so heavy You go, Did I lose a few pounds? You didn't. You avoid mirrors, For a shard of measured relief. Richard suffered daily from his condition. The shame The heart worry, His actual appearance Jibes from the public. Clothes that fit, He was forty-five years of age, felt eighty, looked sixty-eight, and prayed to God, "Let me be thin." But to date added "But not yet." He loved his food and it'd be debatable if food loved him but, in every sense, it devoured him. He had spent five years as a troubleshooter in the Vatican and to survive that predatory state, you needed all the weight you could throw. You needed edge. And he had that in spades. O The pope had once referred to him as an ecclesiastical barracuda. His appearance led people to believe he was a pushover. Big mistake. Richard had been summoned to the inner sanctums. That meant one of three things: You were fired. You were promoted (highly unlikely). There was a dirty job coming down the papal pike. It was the third. O Richard was ushered into a lavish room, ornate furnishings and Rembrandt on the wall. Sitting behind a massive oak desk was the scourge of the Vatican. Monsignor Benedict. You heard rumours of his ruthlessness in every corner of the state. He was a small man, with a goatee, nigh completely bald, a body disguised in a habit and then you got to his eyes. Phew-oh. As Robert Shaw described a shark's eyes in Jaws, he had the eyes of a doll. A very malignant one. He indicated that Richard should take the hard Louis Quinze chair in front of his desk, sneered, "If you can fit into it, that is." Richard did fit into the chair but not without wheezing and panting. Benedict flourished a gold Montblanc pen, pointed it at Richard, asked, "You'll have heard of Father Sheehy's fuckup." That priest was eighty years of age and had been loaned from the US to fill in for a sick priest. He gave a sermon that said, There are only men and women. Trans, LGBTQ, etc. were Sins. He proceeded to lash sinners and delivered a ferocious homily that fire and brimstone doesn't even come close to describing. Our gay prime minister was of course hugely irate, and the government lined up to condemn him. He could have given a flying fuck, told them all he was simply quoting the Bible. Richard admired him greatly. Benedict not so much. He said, "You're going to Ireland to shut him down and to deal with Kevin Whelan." Benedict pressed a button on the desk and minutes later a Swiss Guard appeared with a tray holding two glasses. He gently put them on the desk and skedaddled. Benedict asked, "Is Black Bush to your liking?" Richard wanted to shake the whole tone of Benedict's spiel, asked, "Isn't that the whiskey of the Protestants?" Benedict scowled, snapped, "Don't be a cunt, drink up." The foul language was, Richard knew, designed to intimidate. He took a large gulp from his glass, waited, then belched loudly. He could be crude his own self. It amused Benedict who said, "Here's a wee history lesson for you, tubby. In every major city is a group of people called, loosely, Edge. They function in the shadows, step in when other solutions are lost. Papal funds have been sent their way in the past. Now this Kevin Whelan is far too enmeshed in the Galway branch and your assignment, should you choose to accept it . . ." He paused, tittered at his Mission Impossible joke, continued, "Your task is to silence this idiot." Richard took a breath, asked, "Silence?" Benedict waved a hand dismissively, said, "You're a man of heft, bring your weight to the problem, now fuck off, your flight to Ireland is at seven this evening." Richard got painfully to his feet, asked, "If I decline the mission?" Benedict laughed, said, "We know about Leona, your concubine, "Bit of fluff "Bit on the side "Mistress, "And you annoy me, she finds herself on the street, clear?" Very. Richard did indeed have a girlfriend, but women and the clergy were tolerated, any scandal preferable to rumours of child abuse. He said, "Thanks for the drink." Benedict laughed, said, "Consider it a poisoned chalice." Excerpted from Galway's Edge by Ken Bruen All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
