Fr. Z's Blog

Continued from Episode 9 – HERE

Two weeks later, the evening slouched in wearing the same cheap suit as the night before. Tracer Bullet stood in his office, blinds half-closed, watching fog slither in from the river. The neon lights at the Nickle Joint on the corner glowed like votive candles burning down to stubs.

The air was thick, as if someone had wrung out an old raincoat and left the damp clinging to the walls.

Suddenly, a faint rustle stirred behind him. He wheeled around, hand darting to his shoulder holster, and caught a flicker of movement through the frosted glass of the office door. A smear of shadow lashed across the pane, highlighting the backwards letters—TRACER BULLET – PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.

He yanked the door open in time to see… nothing. Whoever it was had been faster than Bishop Fatty at a buffet.

Crossing to the windows, he peered down at the damp street. Lamplight pooled in oily puddles. A shadowy figure slipped past the neon glow, coat flapping like a bat’s wing, and vanished into the alley’s hungry dark.

Turning back slowly, his gaze landed on the manila envelope now lying in the center of the floor. No name. No return address. It stared up at him like a steel trap waiting for his fingers.

Inside was a single grainy photo that looked as though it had been taken in low light from a distance.

Patsy Meeks.

She was in close conversation with a cassock-toting cleric wearing a red sash, a pectoral cross, and a grin sharp enough to clip a cigar in half.

The photo was time-stamped three days ago.

Tracer studied the background. There was something familiar a mottled shape here, an angle there, a doorway… the Via Rusticucci. Rome.

On the back, a message was scrawled in a hand he didn’t like remembering. His jaw clenched as he read it.

“There might be a new Pope, but the real power runs deep. Not everyone is smiling in the Eternal City. Fr T better watch his six.”

He struck a match and lit a cigarette. The flare threw long shadows across the clutter of old files and empty bourbon bottles.

“I looks like I’m not done with Libville after all,” he muttered, reaching for his fedora and trench coat.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Tracer Bullet will return in: The Red Biretta Conspiracy.

Continued from Episode 8 – HERE

“That’d be Chester.”

I stood with my back to the warped blinds, one hand in my coat, the other resting on the scuffed back up folder that contained every sorry truth we’d dug up like undertakers exhuming a coffin.  The rain was a steady percussion on the window, tapping out a dirge for the last illusions anybody here still nursed.

Across the room, Bishop McButterpants slouched in his chair like a deflated parade balloon, pink face shiny under the wavering fluorescents. He shifted nervously as he tried to pretend he wasn’t watching the door. He was waiting for more chaos. He was waiting for Chester. His barks getting louder.

Meeks arms folded in defiance, her smile stretched tight and bright as piano wire hiding her clear apprehension.

As the canine bellows crescendo I went to the doors and kicked them open just in time for Chester’s advent. “C’mon in boy!” I shouted but with a razor edge that cut.

Chester came barreling in. Sixty pounds of wiry fur, crooked ears and unsettling speed. His claws skittered on the linoleum as he made for the Bishop with the single-minded purpose of a loan shark or the Bishop himself at the All-You-Can Buffet.

Fr. Gilbert, hair still perfect, gasped in after Chester who was already halfway to the desk.

Time slowed.

With a snarl Chester took out Fr. Hugalot’s mime legs with rush that’d make a left tackle green. Then he raced two circles around the room, nails slashing for a grip on the slippery floor until, skidding sideways, four paws splayed he crashed onto the conference table.

The dog’s jaws parted in a grin no sane creature can muster. He lunged sliding across the long, wide wooden surface, and closed his teeth around the USB drive like it was a chunk of kielbasa.

Plastic cracked. Metal crunched.

“Chester, no!” Gilbert hollered, too late.

The Bishop emitted a noise somewhere between a squeal and a prayer.

Chester stood still for a moment, methodically chewing. He jumped down, tail whipping like a metronome, and planted himself in front of Meeks, contentedly reducing terabytes of incriminating evidence to a mush of doggy slobber and shards.

Meeks straightened, her eyes gleaming. “Well,” she purred, “I suppose that’s that, gentlemen.”

“Not so fast, lady”, I said.

I reached into my coat pocket, slowly and deliberately, and drew out the paper folder containing all that was on the drive. With my other hand I drew out… the duplicate drive.  

Father Tommy reached into his cassock and extracted the recording device he was wearing and took the tiny microphone off the button of his sable soutane.

“No, Patsy!” Tracer said. “It isn’t over by a long shot.”

Chester lifted his head, looking around the at the principles in the room. With a crooked and yet jaunty step, tail wagging in a deformed mobius strip of delight, he trotted up to Meeks,  ears flattening, and threw up on her left shoe. I could have sworn he was smirking.

Meeks exhaled through her nose, the last mask dropping. “You think you’ve won,” she said, voice like a snake uncoiling. “But you haven’t seen the last of me. This diocese—this whole rotten town—it never really changes.”

Her gaze flicked over Tracer and me. “I’ll be seeing you both.”

She turned on her heel and slipped out, the echo of her heels a count-down to whatever fresh hell she was planning.

Gilbert went to Chester with the remnant of his broken leash. The dog resisted for a second, tail wagging in a perverse rhythm. Finally, with a little woof, he acquiesced and was lead out of the room.

McButterpants pulled a handkerchief and wiped his hands, though it would take more than cotton to scour this business off his mind.

The bishop drew the spare drive closer and stared at it like it might sprout fangs. His face was pale, beaded with sweat. “God help us,” he whispered.

I leaned over the desk, close enough that the Bishop had to meet his eyes. “This gets buried the right way, or it all comes up again. Understand?”  I put the spare drive on the table.

The bishop nodded, a jerky little movement. He swallowed. “Thank you, Tracer… Father Tommy”, he managed, though it sounded more like a confession than gratitude.

His gaze drifted past us to some invisible horizon. as though seeing ghosts pressing their judgments through the cracked plaster.

Outside, the wind started up again, keening around the eaves. I could feel the chill settling into my bones, the same way it had the first night we’d followed the trail of betrayals down into Libville’s gut.

I straightened and gestured to the door. I moved to open it.

I paused at the threshold and turned back to the Bishop, voice soft but deadly. “Don’t mistake quiet for safety,” he said. “If she comes back, we’ll be ready.”

We stepped into the hall, Fr. Tommy and me, the door creaking shut behind us. The last thing I heard was the Bishop’s whisper, ragged and low.

Out in the night, the rain had made everything shine like it was wrapped in cellophane, but nothing sparkled in Libville for long. I pulled out my victory cigar. The flame from the lighter danced in the reflection on the wet pavement, a tiny beacon in a city that liked to swallow beacons whole.

Fr. Tommy stood beside me, cassock clinging to his legs in the wind, eyes fixed on the  chancery. Inside, ghosts were still whispering and the libs were still whimpering. We’d done our part for tonight.

We didn’t speak. Some endings don’t need words.

I slid behind the wheel of the Charger and turned the key. The engine growled, low and steady, like a warning.

I nodded to the priest.  “Padre.”

He nodded back. “Tracer.”

Somewhere in the dark, Chester barked.

One case closed, a hundred more waiting.  I gripped the wheel, the Charger rumbling like an omen, and put her into gear.

Who can tell what’ll come next in a town that thrives on secrets and devours the unwary whole?

Libville. A city that chews up your conscience and spits out regrets. Libville. Where a tough case never really stays closed.