Chameleon (26 page)

“Five card stud,” Bash announced. “First and last card down. Ante two.”

Each pitched two white chips in.

Bash dealt the first card to each player face down, the second face up. Each glanced at his secret first card. Only the player himself knew what he held, while everyone knew what the second card was.

“King bets,” Bash said, referring to Young’s face-up card.

“Well, it does seem to be my night,” Young said. “King bets one.” He pitched in a red chip. Everyone else followed in kind. Bush dealt the next card to each face up.

“Well, well; a pair of kings.” Bash referred to that portion of Young’s hand everyone could see. “Kings bet;”

Young was so pleased he almost, twitched. “My goodness! Did I say this would be my night? Well, kings will bet five.” And he slid five blue chips onto the table center.

In three cards, Koesler had nothing. With only two cards remaining to be dealt, he would have to come up with at least a pair of aces to beat what Young had showing, let alone what might be the monsignor’s hole cards. Wisely, he folded.

“I guess I’ll see you, Del,” Jeffrey said, “and raise you five.” He pushed ten blue chips into the pot. Young answered his raise.

Bash, whose hand resembled Koesler’s, folded. It was between Jeffrey and Young. Bash dealt another card, face up, to each of the remaining two players. In addition to his two kings, Young now had a ten of hearts showing.

“Kings still high,” Bash, as dealer, announced.

“So they are,” Young agreed. He peeked again at the hole card, as if it might have changed spots since his previous look. “Well, then, kings will just chance another five.”

Jeffrey regarded Young with quiet amusement. He pushed ten blue chips into the pot. “And five,” he said.

Everyone looked more closely at that portion of Jeffrey’s hand showing. Two, seven, and eight of hearts. A flush? With one card yet to be dealt, it seemed the only possible hand that could beat Young’s. Interesting, even for Koesler.

Silently, with some temerity, Young pushed another five chips into the pot.

“All right, gentlemen, the last card. Down and dirty,” Bash dealt Young, then Jeffrey, each the final card, face down.

Young slipped both hole cards to the table’s edge in proximity to his ample stomach, lifted the corners, and contemplated the completed hand that only he could see. He continued to contemplate until Bash said, “Del, what’ll it be?”

“Eh?” Young realized a decision must be made.
Be bold.
For Jeffrey to have a flush both hole cards had to be hearts. The likelihood of that … not high. Young decided to smoke Jeffrey out. “We’ll just up things to ten.” And Young let ten blue chips drop one by one to the table. It could have been a dramatic gesture, except that he didn’t quite carry it off.

Amazingly, as far as Koesler was concerned, Jeffrey only now turned up the corner of his final card to see what it was. Cool. He paused only seconds before pushing twenty blue chips forward, and said, “Your ten and ten more.”

Everyone looked at Young, who betrayed surprise. He had been certain his ten-dollar bet would clinch his winning hand. Now this. He picked up his hole cards and studied them again. Whatever they had been they still were. No one pressed him. This was a fairly steep pot, worth thinking about.

Finally, Young exclaimed, “You’re bluffing!”

Jeffrey smiled and shrugged.

“There’s one way to find out, Del,” Bash said.

That was true. Young had three choices: He could raise the bet again, hoping to call Jeffrey’s bluff. He could call Jeffrey and end this hand one way or another. Or he could fold, in which case Jeffrey would not have to reveal his hand. He would take the pot.

Young, hand trembling slightly, added ten more blue chips to the pot. “Let’s just see what you’ve got there, Quent.”

Gazing steadfastly at Young and again not looking at his cards, simply aware of where they lay, Jeffrey turned over a five and a nine of hearts to go with the two, seven, and eight of hearts.

A flush.

Wordlessly, Jeffrey raked in the fat pot.

Young, rallying quickly, said, “Well, a little setback, but a good hand anyway.” Although there was no need, he exposed his hole cards, revealing he’d had two pair: kings and tens. Good but not good enough.

It was Young’s turn to deal. He began gathering cards. “Say, Clete, how about some refreshments?”

“So early?” Bash said.

“I’ll go along with Del,” Jeffrey said. “Missed supper tonight. I could use something, something solid.”

“Okay,” Bash said. He got up, went to the refrigerator, and began rummaging through it.

Koesler was elated at this break. Time for conversation. He hadn’t dared hope for a recess this early.

“I still say they should at least have some suspects by now,” Young said in what seemed a non sequitur.

“Suspects?” Jeffrey said.

“Suspects,” Young repeated. “Suspects in the murders of Larry Hoffer and what’s-her-name, uh, Helen Donovan.”

“They’ve got the kid who tried to kill Joan Donovan,” Jeffrey said.

“Not the same,” Young said, “The one who wants to kill diocesan officials is still loose out there.”

Bash was assembling cheese-and-cracker snacks. With his back to the others, he said, “They do have a couple of suspects.”

“They do?” Koesler noted the self-satisfied tone Bash did not attempt to hide.

“How do you know?” Young was not an instant believer.

“I’ve got sources in the police department. But it’s privileged information,” Bash cautioned. “The media doesn’t even have it yet. But when they get it, I’ll be ready for backgrounding.”

“Well,” Young said, “for Godsakes, man, who are they? Who are the suspects?”

“It’s privileged. I can’t reveal it,” Bash said.

“For Godsakes, man, we’re not going to tell anyone. For Godsakes, we’re …” Young paused. He was about to say they were all priests and disciplined in the ultimate secret of confession when he remembered that one of their number was a deacon and not empowered to hear confessions. After the slight pause, he concluded “… we’re all men of the cloth.”

“Okay,” Bash put the dishes holding cheese and crackers respectively on the table. “Remember, this is only in the investigative stage. But the cops are looking into …” He paused for effect. It worked; he had their undivided attention. “… into Arnold Carson and Fred Stapleton.” He smiled triumphantly.

“Stapleton!” Koesler exclaimed. “Fred Stapleton? There must be some mistake.”

“No mistake,” Bash responded. “What’ll anyone have to drink?”

“Pass here,” Jeffrey said. “The cheese and crackers should hit the spot.”

“Nothing here either.” Koesler made a sandwich.

“How about a beer?” Young said.

Bash returned to the fridge for beers for himself and Young.

“I hadn’t thought of it before,” Young said, “but Carson is not a bad bet. Good God, how many times has he taken the lead in protests? Why for heaven’s sake, he’s forever in the papers and onTV.”

“Before Vatican II, nobody ever heard of him,” Bash said. “But after the council … well, the guy never lets up. He’s forever up on the ramparts protecting Mother Church.”

Young nodded. “And now Mother Church may need protection from Arnold Carson.”

“Who’s Fred Stapleton?” Jeffrey asked. “Not the psychologist!”

“The very same,” Bash affirmed. “Don’t forget, he is an ‘ex.’“

Jeffrey smiled briefly. “I guess I had forgotten or at least overlooked the fact that he’d been a priest. But that was a long time ago. Now I tend to think of him as a psychologist. And a good one. At least very popular. He’s always being asked to give his opinion in local cases. He’s in the media more than just about any other local psychologist. What in the world would make him a suspect?”

“Not because he’s a shrink,” Bash said. “Because he’s an ‘ex.’“

“Come on …” Young had drained half his glass in a ehugalug. “There are hundreds of ex-priests around here. All of them suspects?”

“It’s because of his work for CORPUS. He’s become a militant,” Bash said. “And some say he is verging on becoming extreme.”

“Fred? Extreme?” Koesler was astonished. “That doesn’t make sense. Fred is one of the sanest, most reasonable men I’ve ever known.”

“About your time, wasn’t he, Bob?” Young asked.

“A year or two behind me, as I recall,” Koesler said. “But I know him as well as I knew most of my classmates. He really couldn’t qualify as a violent person. Just the opposite.”

“Seen him lately?” Bash asked.

“Well, no,” Koesler admitted. “It’s been a while. After he left and got into the psychology field we sort of drifted apart. I referred a couple of cases to him but that’s about it.”

“People change,” Bash observed.

“Not Fred. Not that much,” Koesler protested.

“You never know,” Bash said. “Besides, I’m not up to arguing the point. I’m just telling you what I got from my sources. But I can tell you one thing: If the investigation of these guys leaks, I’ll be more prepared for the press than anybody else in town. And we’re talking national coverage, gentlemen, not just the local guys.”

“Refresh me,” Jeffrey said, “what’s CORPUS again? It rings a bell, but I’m drawing a blank.”

“A bunch of exes,” Young said. “They want to getback in, fully functioning as priests—wives, kids, and all. Say, Clete, how about another beer?”

“You finish that one already?” Bash said. “You better slow up.” But he went to the fridge and brought back another beer for the monsignor.

“Okay, I remember CORPUS now,” Jeffrey said. “They’ve got just about all the arguments on their side: history, early tradition, and now the admission of converted married Protestant ministers. They’ve got it all. And they haven’t got a chance.”

“They’ve got one more thing you didn’t mention, Quent,” Koesler said. “We’re running out of priests. They’ve got need on their side. There are thousands of inactive priests who want to become active again. They’re completely trained. All that’s required is for the Pope to open the door and a good portion of our desperate need would be solved.”

“It’s not going to happen,” Jeffrey said. “The bottom line is canon law—and canon law holds all the cards.”

“Quent is right, Bob,” Young said. “The Church in Rome really got stung when these guys quit. It’s been a constant source of embarrassment to the Church that these men resigned from an office that brooked no resignation. They took on a lifelong commitment and then left it. In effect, the Church told the world, This is the highest vocation known to mankind; only the best and brightest can qualify. And then thousands of the best and brightest leave, That hurt. And the Church is not going to forget about that. Nor is the Church going to let
them
forget about it.”

“Now that I think about it,” Bash said, “that’s probably what would turn Fred Stapleton to violence: the sheer frustration of trying to accomplish the impossible.” He nodded. “It makes sense.”

“Maybe,” Koesler said. “But I just don’t see it. Carson, possibly Butnot Stapleton. No,” he shook his head, “not Stapleton.”

“Come on, Bob,” Young said, “you just admitted it’s been a while since you’ve had any contact with Stapleton. People change.”

“What is this?” Bash demanded. “Are we hosting a convention or playing poker?”

“Right! Where were we?” Young looked about him.

“Your deal, Del,” Jeffrey said, and began gathering the cards to give them to Young.

“Any more beer in the fridge?” Young wanted to know.

“More than even you can drink,” Bash answered. He went to get the beer. “Better be careful, Del. You’re the designated driver for your car.”

They laughed. Each of them was his own designated driver since each had come alone. Only Clete Bash would not be driving. And that only because he was already home.

As Del Young began shuffling cards with hazy determination, Koesler studied the group.

Three priests and a deacon. All four men were of a certain age, so they had much in common in addition to their vocation. They had each developed in the pre-Vatican II Church and all had been through the trauma of ensuing radical change. The only noteworthy thing about this group was how easily Quent Jeffrey had fit in with the priests.

The permanent deacon program produced deacons, not priests. With a preparation program of just a few short years, deacons were to priests what the ninety-day-wonders of World War II were to traditional military officers.

Added to that, the vast majority of permanent deacons were married. They quite naturally structured their lives around their families. Another sharply dividing feature from the celibate priests.

That had to be one of the reasons the Reverend Mr. Quentin Jeffrey fit into this group far more snugly than the average permanent deacon. He had been married. Now he was a widower, his children grown and living their own lives.

Here they were—four bachelors. Three had consciously chosen the celibate life. One had backed into it unintentionally, as it were. A married clergy was on the Way for the Roman Catholic Church—indeed, it had already begun—once the law of celibacy became optional. Koesler was certain of this. He had no idea how the Church could possibly continue without a sacramental ministry. And you needed priests to do the sacramental things.

Even now, there were “no-priest” parishes. On Sundays a nun or a layperson would lead a prayer service during which Communion would be distributed. But sometime before that prayer service, a priest had to offer Mass and leave behind him those consecrated wafers that were distributed at the Communion service.

There was just no getting around it: Priests were the only ones who could confect the Eucharist. And the Eucharist was at the center and heart of Catholicism. Koesler simply could not conjure up his Church without the Eucharist and the priest to confect the sacrament.

But clearly the Church was suffering already from a dearth of those priests. The only logical move had to be to get more priests through the method most often suggested: optional celibacy—a married priesthood.

But how would these married priests blend in with the remaining celibates? Would there be many remaining celibates? Any?