It was a show. Johnny comes in yelling for his money and Terry meets him with a machete and tells about death in Africa.

Two buddies from cigarette-smuggling days. Terry in Levi's and a blousy white starched dress shirt that had to be Fran's. Johnny in a long black-leather jacket, collar turned up behind his thin dark hair slicked into a half-assed ponytail. He wasn't bad-looking. He was shorter than Terry, five eight or nine, one of those skinny tough guys with a slight stoop to his bony shoulders. He said, "You're a priest, huh? I don't fuckin believe it."

Which could mean, the way Debbie heard it, he did believe it. She watched Terry make the sign of the cross over Johnny, saying, "in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancd…"

Johnny waved the machete at him, saying, "Get outta here, for Christ sake. I want to know what you did with my money, ten grand, and Dickie's."

"Dickie gave his to an orphanage."

It stopped Johnny and he got with it saying, "Oh, is that right?

And who'd I give mine to?"

"Some lepers."

"Oh, some lepers."

"They bought booze with it," Terry said, "to relieve their suffering.

I told them it was okay, you wouldn't mind. But then when the money started to run low they switched to banana beer."

Johnny said, "Banana beer."

Terry said, "You know when you change your oil and you see it drain out of the crankcase? That's what banana beer looks like."

"You try it?"

"I was never tempted."

"But the lepers drank it, huh?"

"They couldn't get enough. It took their mind off of being lepers."

Johnny said, "Tell, luck the lepers. You spent my money, didn't you?"

Debbie watched Terry shrug, a helpless gesture, and hold up his empty hands.

"I was over there five years, Johnny. What do you think I lived on?"

"What do other missionaries live on?"

"Contributions. Don't you remember at Queen of Peace giving to the missions? You gave to the St. Martin de Porres Mission in Rwanda. You can deduct it on your income tax."

"You think I pay income tax?"

"If you ever do. You put down 'ten grand to the lepers.' Johnny, you kept me alive during those five long years. I was able to buy sweet potatoes, meat once in a while. Mostly goat, but that's all I could afford.

If you can look at it as your gift to the mission, Johnny, then I can forgive you for what you did."

Debbie loved it. What a cool move, turning it around on Johnny, no match, Johnny frowning now.

"Forgive me, for what?"

"Dragging me into it, saying the whole thing was my idea."

"Man, you were gone. Me and Dickie're in the Wayne County jail, for Christ sake. That place is so bad you can't fuckin wait to get sent to prison. I'm telling you, man, almost six months they're trying to decide should it go state or federal."

"Yeah, but Johnny, I'm not off the hook. I gotta go down this afternoon and see the prosecutor about my indictment, Gerald Padilla."

"That's the same fuckin guy put us away."

"And now he's got a chance, because of what you told him, to put me away."

"But you're a priest, for Christ sake."

"Doesn't matter," Terry said. "I'm gonna have to tell Mr. Padilla you lied, all I did was drive the truck."

"Go ahead."

"Is that okay with you?"

"Tell him anything you want, I'm out, man."

Terry said, "Was it pretty bad?"

"What, Jackson? Live with five thousand morons screaming and fuckin with each other? Watch your back every minute you're outta your cell? You fuck was it pretty bad. I ran a sports book in Four East, hired two of the biggest boon coons in the block keep me from getting robbed. I still got shanked, in the gut. Sewed it up myself."

"How's Dickie making it?"

"He practically lives in Five, the Hole, in and out on account of his attitude. Dickie keeps selling his radio to fish, new guys. Takes fifty bucks off 'em but never gives 'em the radio. I told him, 'You're gonna sell it to the wrong guy one of these days.' He says, 'Fuck it.'"

"Is he ever coming out?"

"That's a good question."

"How's Regina?"

"You know she's born again. She's got a bumper sticker now on the car says MY BOSS IS A JEWISH CARPENTER. You two oughta get together, sing some hymns."

"What about Mercy?"

"She's a senior at Wayne State, wants to get into computer programming."

"You never know," Terry said, "do you?"

Johnny said, "You never know what?"

On the way downtown, Debbie driving, she said, "Last night when we were talking about Johnny, I said I wouldn't want to owe him ten grand, and you said don't worry about it. I guess you knew you could handle him."

"Get him confused enough," Terry said, "he'll believe whatever you tell him."

"Like your being a priest."

"You could see he didn't want to believe it, but he does."

"Will you ever tell him you're not?"

"I don't know. Maybe someday," Terry said. "In the meantime let's keep Johnny in mind. We might be able to use him."

They had lunch at the Hellas Cafe in Greektown: calamari in olive oil, lamb shanks that Terry said tasted a lot like goat, and rice pudding Debbie swore was the best in town. The diners in the cafe wearing I.D. tags were jurors from Frank Murphy courtrooms, like tourists here for the first time, looking up wide-eyed when they heard "Opal" and would watch a waiter present the flaming cheese dish to a table. They walked the two blocks from the Hellas past the back end of 1300 Beaubien, Detroit police headquarters, and past one of the newer county jail buildings to the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice, all criminal courtrooms and the offices of the Wayne County prosecutor.

Terry went in to ask about Gerald Padilla. He came out and said to Debbie, "He's either out to lunch or in a courtroom on four; he's got a trial going."

They took the stairs to the fourth floor and passed groups of people waiting along the corridor.

"It sounds like he's working me in during his lunch hour," Terry said, "so it shouldn't take too long. Get me out of the way and back to sending some poor asshole to the joint."

"Are you nervous?"

"Why? Fran says the guy's an usher at Queen of Martyrs."

"You're too much. Is it okay if I go in with you?"

"I don't see why not."

"Good," Debbie said, "I like to watch you."

It was another show.

Terry, with the black parka, his gaunt face, his beard, takes on the suit, a navy blue one, the prosecutor pushing his glasses up on his nose, a neat-looking gent who turns this way as Terry announces:

"Mr. Padilla? I'm Fr. Dunn, from Rwanda. Sir, I understand you want to see me."

From Rwanda. Like he'd come all the way from Africa for this, Terry's voice subdued but level, a touch of humility in his tone, completely at this guy's service.

Debbie hung back.

She watched the prosecutor drop papers on the table where he stood and come out through the gate in the railing to the rows of benches that were like church pews, Gerald Padilla saying, "Father, I'm so glad you were able to make it. I won't take up much of your time." He gestured. "Let's sit down, anywhere here, and get this business out of the way."

Terry moved into the second row from the railing, then half turned and extended his arm. "Sir, this is Miss Dewey, an associate of my brother Francis, here to represent me."

Making her a lawyer on the spot.

Padilla nodded as he took a long look, smiling in a nice way. He said, "Gerry Padilla, Miss Dewey, it's a pleasure. You're welcome to sit in, though I don't see that Fr. Dunn needs legal representation."

Debbie smiled. She said, "That's good to hear, but I'm really only his chauffeur. Fr. Dunn's been so busy working on mission appeals he hasn't had time to renew his driver's license."