I don’t have to go far to find a place to wash the sticky feelings from my mind. You never do in a city this size. Holy water may cleanse the soul, but liquor works better on the mind. Given that I’m barely maintaining a grip on the latter and have long since given up hope on the former, I’m eyeballs deep in whiskey before anyone even finds the body.

I can hear the shocked church-lady’s scream two blocks away. I think that blue hair dye does something to the vocal chords.

Between shots I do my reassuring mathematics in my head. I killed Peter; Peter was known to have killed 47, 15 of whom were women, 3 of whom weren’t whores. I killed the priest; he perped on at least 5 altar boys and 1 poor Jewish kid lost on his way to synagogue.

I drink to God being a CPA.

I notice how drunk I am just before I notice the suit beside me. He says calmly and low, “I understand you’re an acquaintance of Father Calligeri.”

Standard practice would be to deny, deny, deny.

My drunk response is, “So what’s it to you?”