Free The Good Shepherd by Thomas Fleming

malacologists were swiftly dispatched. Yes, the Archbishop had a Purple Drupe and a Spiral Babylon whelk. But he would like to see an Eye of Judas, from the Galapagos Islands. No, he did not want a Grinning Tun or a Wide-Mouthed Purpura, and hence declined to trade his Magnificent Wentletrap from Japan for either of them.
    “So many people think I’m a sucker, just because I wear a round collar,” the Archbishop growled.
    Next came a long memorandum from George MacNamara, the diocesan lawyer, advising Matthew Mahan to settle out of court with a parishioner who had fallen down the front steps of the cathedral last winter and was suing the archdiocese for $1 million, claiming his back injuries had left him permanently disabled.
    “I thought it was a mortal sin or something to sue the Church. “Them days are gone forever,” said Matthew Mahan. “We’ve had at least one, and sometimes two and three of these suits every year since I became the ordinary. Everybody thinks we’re rich. It’s like suing General Motors. Draft a letter making me sound very indignant and swearing by all the angels in heaven that I won’t pay a cent more than $25,000. Then do a covering letter to George MacNamara and tell him to show it to the other lawyer. If it doesn’t work, we’ll settle for 50,000, as he’s telling us to do here. After that, draft a memorandum to Monsignor Delaney over at the cathedral, telling him the bad news. It’s going to send our insurance premiums out of sight.”
    Next came invitations to Matthew Mahan, orator. Yes, he would be happy to be the speaker at the annual dinner of the 113th Division; he was sorry, but conflicts in his schedule made it impossible for him to address the St. Francis Xavier University alumni dinner. To his even deeper regret, he was unable to give the university any money out of the diocesan treasury this year.
    A tough smile played across Matthew Mahan’s mouth. “I’ve been giving those former colleagues of yours $100,000 a year for the last few years. What thanks do I get for it? Five of their so-called theologians sign that statement attacking Paul for Humanae Vitae. Let’s see how they enjoy practicing that vow of poverty for a while since they don’t seem to have much taste for obedience.”
    “Chastity stock is pretty low out there, too,” Dennis said. “I know at least a half-dozen men my age who are dating regularly.”
    “I can’t understand it,” Matthew Mahan said. “I thought the Jesuits would be the last ones to fall apart, not the first.”
    Dennis smiled wryly. “The Jesuits always like to be in the vanguard, even when the line of march leads to the abyss.”
    Matthew Mahan roared with laughter. “I like that. I’ll have to use it the next time I have dinner with President Reagan.”
    They went swiftly through the rest of the correspondence, with Matthew Mahan roughing out his answers, leaving Dennis the job of putting them into decent English. By the time they finished, Dennis was sitting with at least a pound of papers in his lap. “Well,” the Archbishop said, “that takes care of that.”
    For a moment, Dennis was inclined to remind the Archbishop that five or six hours of secretarial labor were still needed before that was taken care of. But he found it more satisfying, on second thought, to say nothing. You really prefer your bitterness, don’t you? whispered a mocking voice in his mind like the voice of an ironic angel. Yes, he replied. Yes. I do.

 
    They were out on the freeway now. The fading light seemed to soften the landscape on both sides of the road, turning the ugly factories and gas tanks and power grids into inoffensive suggestions of themselves, less grotesque and strangely human, capable of being welcomed in spite of their ugliness. They were part of his city - unchangeably, so it seemed to a man Matthew Mahan’s age. Even the acrid odor of cooking ink, the sweetish stench of refinery oil, the stink of rotting flesh from the