Tracer Bullet and the Smoke of Libville. Episode 1: “Ashes, Stale Coffee, and Bad News”

Tracer Bullet and the Smoke of Libville

Episode 1: Ashes, Stale Coffee, and Bad News

It was a Thursday. Or maybe a Friday. The kind of evening that sagged like 70’s chasuble left too long in a damp sacristy – stale, hiding something rotten underneath. I was sitting in my office, the blinds casting penitential stripes from the streetlight across my desk like a confessional gone sideways. The name on the frosted glass read TRACER BULLET – PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. Below it, in smaller letters: LATIN OPTIONAL.  DISCRETION MANDATORY

That’s when he walked in.

Fr. Tommy.

Black cassock. Blacker sleepless circles under his eyes. The kind of guy who knew the difference between a chasuble and a cheap polyester cope, and who probably kept a loaded thurible under his bed just in case.

“I need help,” he said, tugging off his biretta like a man pulling the pin on a grenade, his Beretta subtly printing at his waist.

“You and me both, Padre,” I muttered, tipping back the remains of my cold coffee. “What’s the play?”

I took my feet off the desk as he took a chair like he owned the place.

“Libville’s burning”, the priest said.

“Still? Last I checked, that place had more committees than sacraments.”

“Yeah, well now they’ve got a cabal. Secretive. Organized. Liberal pastors trying to corner the bishop, force him to shut down all the few Latin Masses we have, rip out remaining communion rails, and slap the priests around till they grin like a game show hosts.”

“What’s His Excellency doing about it?”

Tommy shook his head. “That’s the problem. Bishop McButterpants thought it was a pastoral dialogue group. Then he caught a whiff of something he didn’t like in a letter from the “Noonch”… you know, the Nuncio. He asked me to find what’s going on. I want you to help me.”

“I’m flattered. And underpaid. What’s this group call themselves?”

He pulled a slightly rolled file from his cassock. The top sheet inside had a tasteless letterhead, the font sinfully Comic Sans.

“The Council for Inclusive Liturgy Innovation.” Underneath, a tagline: “Spirit-led, People-fed.”

I winced. “I need a drink.”

The cleric mumbled, “I’ve needed a drink since the conclave of 2013.”

“Lemme ask”, I said.  “Libville?  You’re a long way from home, Chaps! Why me?

Father Tommy narrowed his eyes.

“I’m too well known there and because you’re the only one who won’t end up writing a blog post about it halfway through the investigation.”

He had a point.

I turned the sheet and found his list of the usual suspects: Fr. Timmy Warmflannel, D.Min. at St. Odilia in Point Blank, Fr. Wally Wainright of Holy Innocents in Bovina, Fr. Blair McBreathy at Our Lady of Perpetual Help (aka Perpetual Reinterpretation), and – bingo – Fr. Bruce Hugalot.

Fr. “Just Call Me Bruce” Hugalot. Community animator aka “pastor” at Sing A New Faith Community Into Being Faith Community.

All of them part of a so-called “Libville Listening Circle.”

I slammed the folder shut.

“I’m on it, Padre.”

The priest rose with a rustle of cassock to leave. Pausing with his hand on the doorknob he turned his head half toward me.

“Try not to get any of it on you.”

He closed the door and his black figure faded away in frost of the door’s glass window.

TO BE CONTINUED…