Tracer Bullet and the Smoke of Libville. Episode 5: The Booth at Alibi Bar

Continued from Episode 4 – HERE

Episode 5: The Booth at Alibi Bar

Rain polished the streets of Libville into a mirror that only reflected bad decisions, the kind that start with a smile and end with crime scene tape.

I lit a cigar with a match struck off the dash and eased the ’68 Charger into gear. The engine rumbled low, the sound of an old promise you know won’t be kept. The black paint was worn thin in places, like a conscience you’ve talked yourself out of listening to.

I rolled past the shell of what used to be St. Vibiana’s. Now it was something called a “Center for Spiritual Re-Imagining.” Soft lights glowed in the windows and wind chimes tinkled like they had something to say. They didn’t.

The Alibi Bar squatted just off Route 6, where Libville’s faux-rural charm gave way to cheap gas and cheaper theology. The booths were sticky, the coffee bitter, and the jukebox hadn’t worked since Bishop Fatty’s consecration Mass. Come to think of it, neither had he.

I slid into the back booth beneath the flickering bulb. Fr. Tommy was already there, mood darker than the back of an unused confessional. He was like a man who hadn’t slept since Laudato Si’ dropped.

“You look terrible,” I said.

“You should see the other guy.”

I signaled the waitress for two coffees. No sugar. No illusions.

The priest slid a lumpy envelope across to me. “USB drive. Parish council minutes. Staff emails. Internal drafts of memos that never made it past the bishop’s secretary. Meeks has been ghostwriting them for months. Somehow she got Mrs. Kennedy’s username and password and she’s been hijacking her for who know how long.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And he signs them?”

Fr. Tommy shrugged. “Sometimes.  He thinks he’s being judicious.”

“This is enough to make the CDF twitch,” I muttered. “How’d you get it?”

Tommy glanced out the rain-streaked window. “Let’s just say not all the chancery staff are on Team Synod.”

I leaned in. “You know where this ends.”

He nodded. “Chancery. Tonight. Listening Session.”

“Let me guess: sacred circle seating, no agenda, pre-written consensus already drafted.”

“And printed on recycled paper scented with lavender.”

I tapped my cigarette on the edge of the saucer. “Patsy Meeks will be there.”

“She’s facilitating.”

“Of course she is. Anything said aloud gets transcribed. Anything inconvenient gets omitted.”

Tommy reached into his cassock. Pulled out a tiny mic the size of a rosary bead.

“I’ll be wired,” he said. “We get her to say it. Just once. The goal is suppression of the TLM.”

“That’ll be enough.”

I looked down at my coffee. It had gone cold and oily. Like most modern liturgy.

“You realize this could get ugly.”

Tommy looked me dead in the eye. “Tracer, for years in seminary I endured clown Masses in Crocs. I can handle ugly.”

We paid and left separately. Standard protocol. I took a side alley and circled back to the Charger. The rain had gone from drizzle to flagellation. The kind that made a man want to make a general confession and build an ark.

The headlights cut through the mist as I drove toward Libville’s cold concrete heart. In the passenger seat, the folder Tommy gave me opened under the blower – names poking at me in the alternating flashes and shadows.

Hugalot. Warmflannel. Wainwright. And now Patsy Meeks.

The Council for Inclusive Liturgy Innovation was about to have its final session.

And I planned to be there for the Dies Irae.

TO BE CONTINUED…