Grief Street

the tropical with hardship.) Mightily, I tried blocking out the awful voice going on and on with the sight of Ruby and me behind my eyelids: green palms, blue sea. Ruby’s cinnamon skin.
    But here now, this pleasantness was rudely overtaken. Suddenly, here was the nag-dreaming sight of myself walking through an Irish cemetery, with jackdaws perched on tombstones. And somewhere, the sound of sirens. From somewhere else, the hot black eyes of Sister Roberta—warning us.
    There was a boy who knew he was supposed to make the sign of the cross whenever he heard a siren. But one day he heard a siren and defiantly refused to bless himself When he got home, his house had burned to the ground.
    “Oh, boy, Hock—this ought to really impress all your newfound pals at Manhattan Sex Crimes. Hah! Think I didn’t hear about that star chamber of yours last night? You hump, you’re stirring up nothing but ugly. You know what I’m saying? Let me tell you—Hizzoner himself, he’s always thinking he’s the police commissioner... Christ, he’s got me on the blower before the sun—”
    “What time is it?”
    “Look out a window, why don’t you? See what I mean? For you I wait until the sun’s up before calling. What time is it? Time you showed respect. In the whole department, who loves you?”
    “You, Inspector. Only you.”
    “Remember the other day, tight-ass—I warned you about pushing dangerous buttons? You should listen when I tell you. Today I’m saying your big mouth’s got your teats in the wringer.”
    “Enough already.” I was sitting straight up in bed, and so was Ruby. Whoever was pounding out in the hallway—just now as the siren stopped, somewhere close—was likewise alert. I had a fair idea who that might be. “Much as I'm enjoying the wake-up call, Inspector, I have to ring off. Somebody’s at the door.”
    “The toast of the morning Post, he should have an escort.
    I give you five minutes to get decent, Hock. Then you’re coming downtown this morning, where your butt’s officially on the carpet—along with mine.”
    “Who’s in a twist?”
    “Read the goddamn paper and you figure it out!”
    “Anything else?”
    “Don’t forget about brushing your teeth. I like the air around me sweet.”
    I hung up the telephone.
    “Neglio?” Ruby asked.
    “From his car phone yet.” Tin wife perception sometimes gives a cop more guilt than comfort, this being one of those times.
    “How about the guy battering down the house out there in the hallway?” Ruby asked.
    “They want to make sure I get downtown fast.”
    “I’m used to your being a cop, Irish. I’m even proud of it sometimes. But I’m not willing to get used to the department.”
    “That makes two of us.”
    “You’re in deep, aren’t you?”
    “Maybe deeper than I know.” I stepped out of bed and headed for my toothbrush. Ruby followed and I told her, “As far as the here and now of this morning, all I know is Neglio’s on about something in the Post.”
    “Deeper than you know,” Ruby said, drawing out her Words thoughtfully. “Yes, and didn’t I tell you?”
    “Tell me what?”
    “You should read the play.”

    A white-haired man somewhere in his sixties wearing a blue parka over a plaid shirt brought the Jeep Cherokee to a stop at the end of a narrow road, a small patch of gravel on an incline. “Ought to be a proper parking place,” he guttered, as he always did. “Road ought to be wider, too.” He cut the engine, turned the wheels inward, and pulled up he emergency brake. He patted his shirt pocket, making certain the slippery piece of folded paper was still there. Then he climbed from the Jeep and started hiking uphill through the forest pathway, which made his knees ache, on top of which the blossoming spring plants were inspiring his hay fever.
    Twenty minutes later—was it so long ago that he made the trip from the road in half the time?—he spotted the priest in the clearing, sitting on a great oak stump in front of the house, feet just nicely grazing the ground, smoking a morning pipe. He recognized the priest’s shabby pants—gray worsted wool, in the pattern of corrugated iron—as those from a sturdy suit he had donated to the church at least ten years ago.
    “Hallo, Father—I’ve brung a fax!”
    The messenger, sneezing from a snoot full of forest pollen, hastened toward the priest.
    Fax machines! Bad, bad invention—sure to be the death of philately!
    Father Gerald Morrison merely thought