Strangers

Mort, slammed the door, and got in front with Tommy.
        He said, "For God's sake, drive slow and careful."
        "You can count on it," Tommy said.
        The tires spun on the sleet-skinned blacktop as they pulled out from between the pumps, and when they left the lot and moved into the street, they slid sideways before the tread gripped.
        "Why does every job turn sour?" Mort asked mournfully.
        "It hasn't turned sour," Jack said.
        The Rabbit hit a pothole and began to slide toward a parked car, but Tommy turned the wheel into the slide and got control. They continued at an even slower pace, found the expressway, and climbed a ramp under a sign that said NEW YORK CITY.
        At the upper end of the ramp, as the tires slithered one last time before gripping and carrying them onto the expressway, Mort said, "Why'd it have to sleet?"
        "They've got a lot of salt and cinders on these lanes," Tommy said. "It's going to be all right now, all the way into the city."
        "We'll see," Mort said glumly. "What a bad night. Jesus."
        "Bad?" Jack said. "Bad? Mort, they would never in a thousand years let you in the Optimist's Club. For God's sake, we're all of us millionaires. You're sitting on a fortune back there!"
        Under his pork-pie hat, which still dripped melting sleet, Mort blinked in surprise. "Well, uh, I guess that does take some of the sting out of it."
        Tommy Sung laughed.
        Jack laughed, and Mort, too, and Jack said, "The biggest score any of us ever made. And no taxes payable on it, either."
        Suddenly, everything seemed uproariously funny. They settled in a hundred yards behind a highway maintenance truck with flashing yellow beacons, cruising at a safe and leisurely speed, while they gleefully recalled the highlights of their escape from the warehouse.
        Later, when the tension was somewhat relieved, when their giddy laughter had subsided to pleased smiles, Tommy said, "Jack, I gotta tell you that was a first-rate piece of work. The way you used the computer to create paperwork for the crate… and that little electronic gizmo you used to open the safe so we didn't need to blow it… well, you are one hell of an organizer."
        "Better than that," Mort said, "in a crisis you're just about the best knockover artist I've ever seen. You think fast. I tell you, Jack, if you ever decided to put your talents to work in the straight world, for a good cause, there's no telling what you could do."
        "Good cause?" Jack said. "Isn't getting rich a good cause?"
        "You know what I mean," Mort said.
        "I'm no hero," Jack said. "I don't want any part of the straight world. They're all hypocrites out there. They talk about honesty, truth, justice, social conscience… but most of them are just looking out for number one. They won't admit it, and that's why I can't stand them. I admit it. I'm looking out for number one, and to hell with them." He heard the tone of his own voice changing from amusement to sullen resentment, but he could not help that. He scowled through the wet windshield, past the thumping wipers. "Good cause, huh? If you spend your life fighting for good causes, the so called good people will sure as hell break your heart in the end. Fuck 'em."
        "Didn't mean to touch a nerve," Mort said, clearly surprised.
        Jack said nothing. He was lost in bitter memories. Two or three miles later, he said quietly, "I'm no damn hero."
        In days to come, when he recalled those words, he would have occasion to wonder how he could have been so wrong about himself.
        It was one-twelve a m., Wednesday, December 4.
        

    3.
        

    Chicago, Illinois
        
        By eight-twenty, Thursday morning, December 5, Father Stefan Wycazik had celebrated the early Mass, had eaten breakfast, and had retreated to his rectory office for a final cup of coffee. Turning away from his desk, he faced the big French window that presented a view of the bare, snow-crusted trees in the courtyard, and he tried not to think about any parish problems. This was his time, and he valued it highly.
        But his thoughts drifted inexorably to Father Brendan Cronin. The rogue curate. The chalice-hurler. Brendan Cronin, the talk of the parish. The Berserk Priest of St. Bernadette's. Brendan Cronin of all people. It just did not make sense. No sense at all.
        Father Stefan Wycazik had been a