"Soon, Harold," they'd tell him.

"Soon."

They kept at it for four days, and were beginning to think they were drilling a dry hole. But then the Spoiler got a break.

He was talking to a man who worked in an elegant little church on 11th Street off Fifth Avenue. The old man seemed to be a kind of handyman who polished pews and made sure the electric candles were working-jobs like that.

He examined Keisman's ID, then stared at the photo of Harold Gerber.

"What's he wanted for?" he asked in a creaky voice.

"He's not wanted for anything," the Spoiler lied smoothly.

"We're just trying to find him. He's in the Missing Persons file. His parents are anxious. You can understand that, can't you?"

"Oh, sure," the gaffer said, still staring at Gerber's photo.

"I've got a son of my own; I know how they'd feel. What does this kid do?"

"Do?"

"His job. What does he work at?"

"I don't think he works at anything. He's on disability. A Vietnam vet.

A little mixed up in the head."

"That I can understand. A Vietnam veteran you say?"

"Uh-huh."

"And he's a Catlick?"

"That's right."

"Well," the handyman said, sighing.

"I'll tell you. There's a priest-well, he's not really a priest. I don't mean he's unfrocked or anything like that. But he's kind of wild, and he's got no parish of his own. They more or less let him do his thing, if you catch my drift."

Keisman nodded, waiting patiently.

"Well, this priest," the janitor went on, enjoying his long story more than the Spoiler was, "Father Gautier, or Grollier, some name like that-he opened a home for Vietnam vets.

Gives them a sandwich, a place to flop, or just come in out of the cold.

I'm not knocking him, y'understand; he's doing good. But he's running a kind of scruffy joint. It's not a regular church."

"Where does he get the money?" the detective asked.

"For the sandwiches, the beds, or whatever? The Church finance him?"

"You kidding? He does it all on his own. He gets donations from here, there, everywhere. Somehow he keeps going."

"That's interesting," Keisman said.

"Where's his place located?"

"I don't know," the old guy said.

"Somewhere south of Houston Street, I think. But I don't know the address."

"Thank you very much," the Spoiler said.

He told Jason about the priest, and they agreed it was the best lead-the only lead-they had uncovered so far. So they started making phone calls.

They phoned the Archdiocese of New York, the Catholic Press Association, Catholic Charities, the American Ugion, asking if anyone knew the address of a Catholic priest who was running a shelter for Vietnam vets somewhere around Houston Street in Manhattan. No one could help them.

Then they called the Catholic War Veterans and got it: Father Frank Gautier, in a storefront church on Mott Street, a block south of Houston.

"Little Italy," Jason said.

"I used to pound a beat down there."

"Wherever," Keisman said.

"Let's go."

They found the place after asking four residents of the neighborhood. It looked like a Mafia social club, the plateglass window painted an opaque green, and no name or signs showing. The door was unlocked and they pushed in. There was a big front room that looked like it might have been a butcher shop at one time: tiled walls, a stained plank floor, tin ceiling.

But it was warm enough. Almost too warm. There were about a dozen guys, maybe half of them blacks, sitting around on rickety chairs, reading paperbacks, playing cards, dozing, or just counting the walls. They all looked like derelicts, with unlaced boots, worn jeans, ragged jackets.

One was in drag, with a blond wig and a feathered boa.

No one looked up when the two officers came in. Keisman stood close to a man holding a month-old copy of The Wall Street Journal.

"Father Gautier around?" he asked pleasantly.

The man looked up, slowly examined both of them, then turned to a back room.

"Hey, pop!" he roared.

"Two new fish for you!"

The man who came waddling out of the back room was shaped like a ripe pear.

He was wearing a long-sleeved black blouse with a white, somewhat soiled clerical collar. His blue Levi's were cinched with a cowboy belt and ornate silver buckle. He was bearded and had a thick mop of pepper and salt hair.

"Father Gautier?" Jason asked.

"Guilty," the priest said in a hoarse voice.

"A%o you?"

They showed him their IDS.

"Oh, God," he said, sighing, "now what? Who did what to whom?"

"No one we know of," Keisman said. He held out the photo of Harold Gerber.

"You know this man?"

Gautier looked at the photograph, then raised his eyes to the officers.

"You got any money?" he demanded.

They were startled.

"Money!" the priest repeated impatiently.

"Dough. Bucks.

YOU want information? No pay, no say. Believe me, it's for a good cause.

You'll get your reward in heaven-or wherever."

Sheepishly Jason and Keisman pulled out their wallets.

They each proffered a five. Gautier grabbed the bills eagerly.

"You, Izzy!" he yelled at one of the lounging blacks.

"Take this to Vic's and get us a ham. Tell him it's for us, and if it has as much fat on it as the last one, we'll come over there and trash his place. Bone in."

"Yassa, massa," the black said, touching a finger to his forehead.

"You two come with me," the Father said, and led the way into the back room. He took them into a cluttered office hardly larger than a walk-in closet. He closed the door, turned to face them.

"Yeah, I know him," he said.

"Harold Gerber. What's he done?"

"Nothing we know for sure," the Spoiler said.

"We're just trying to establish his whereabouts on a certain Friday night."

"He was here," Gautier said promptly.

"Hey," Jason said, "wait a minute. We haven't told you which Friday night."

The priest shook his head.

"Doesn't make any difference.

Harold is here every Friday night. Has been for more than a year now."

The two officers looked at each other, then back to the priest.

"Why Friday nights?" Keisman asked.

Gautier stared at him fixedly.

"Because I hear confessions on Friday nights."

"You trying to tell us," Jason said, "that Gerber has been confessing to you every Friday night for more than a year?"

"I'm not trying to tell you, I am telling you. Every Friday night. Take it or leave it. If you don't believe me, I'll put on a damned cassock, go into a court of law, and swear by Almighty God I'm telling the truth."

"I don't think that'll be necessary, Father," Keisman said.

"What time does he usually get here?"

"Around nine o'clock. I hear confessions from eight to ten.

Then he usually sits around awhile, bullshitting with the boys.

If he can spare it, he leaves a couple of bucks."

"No disrespect to you, Father," Jason said, "but the guy was going to a psychiatrist." ,"I know he was. I'm the one who convinced him to get professional help."

"So if he was going to a shrink, what did he need you for?"

"He was brought up a Catholic," Frank Gautier said.

"You don't shake it easily."

"You think he was making progress?" the Spoiler asked.

The priest got angry.

"Are you making progress? Am I making progress?

What's this making progress shit? We're all just trying to survive, aren't we?"

"I guess we are at that," Jason said softly.

"Thank you for your time, Father. I think we got what we came for."

At the door, Keisman turned back.

"Who does the cooking around here?" he asked.

"I do," the priest said.

"Why do you think I'm so fat? I sample."

Jason Two smiled and raised a pink palm.

"Peace be unto you, brother," he said.