Free Chameleon by William X. Kienzle

Luca’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Angelo, something is going to happen very soon that will make you very happy. In fact, it’s already in the works. And we won’t have to wait for Rome to act.”
    Luca looked into Carson’s eyes hopefully. “What? What, Arnie?”
    “I can’t tell you, Angelo. I can’t tell anybody. But when it happens—or when it keeps on happening—remember, you heard it here first.”
    Morgan’s curiosity also was piqued. “What are you talking about, Arnie?”
    “Yeah,” Luca said, “for God’s sake, if you can’t tell us who can you tell?”
    “We’re with you, Arnie,” Morgan said. “You know that. Is it you who’s doing whatever it is you’re talking about? You need help. Who else could help you like we could? We want to help!”
    Carson smiled smugly. “All in good time. As far as you guys are concerned, pretend I didn’t say anything at all. And you keep what I said to yourselves … got it?”
    “Got it,” Morgan said. “But …” His brow furrowed. “… we don’t know what you said.”
    “Keep it that way! Swear?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Yeah.”
    An attendant leaned into the cubicle. “You okay now?”
    “I think so,” Carson said.
    “Then you better go on home. We need the space.”
    They left, Carson wondering if he had said too much.

6
    Sister Joan was the last to leave the funeral home. She had waited until all who lingered after the rosary had offered condolences. The funeral director had assured her that all would be ready for the 9:30 prayer service tomorrow morning at the funeral home followed by the fifteen-minute drive to St. Leo’s for the 10:00 A . M . Mass. She donned her coat and boots and started the drive home. The drive that would be repeated tomorrow morning with her sister as the main attraction, the star of the show.
    Helen would like that. She had always conducted herself as the star performer in whatever was going on. It could be sports or amateur theater or dating, whatever: Unbashful Helen was the whole show. And so it would be tomorrow. For the last time , thought Joan, and choked on the unspoken word last.
    She must get her mind off Helen and her horrible sudden death. She tried to pay attention to the neighborhood through which she was now driving.
    This was easy. She was traveling up Trumbull past Tiger Stadium, whose one and only remaining attraction was the Detroit Tigers baseball team. Once upon a time, the Detroit Lions football team had played here also. The footballers had moved out to Pontiac.
    This spot marked the site of professional baseball from shortly after its inception in Detroit before the turn of the century. It was almost hallowed ground. To the baseball purist it was holy ground. Here Babe Ruth and Ty Cobb and Ted Williams and Al Kaline had all excelled in this game that they loved so well.
    Sister Joan was not a baseball aficionado, nor was she particularly drawn to sports, but she could appreciate the historical distinction of this stadium.
    It was eerie to drive these brightly lit streets, now so barren and deserted. The snow, while it still covered the sidewalks, had been mashed into slush in the streets. In another four months these streets would be alive with people participating in the national pastime in Detroit. Trumbull Avenue and Michigan Avenue and Kaline Drive and Cochrane Street would be teeming with happy folks doing a happy thing.
    But that would be later. Right now it was difficult to focus on a happy thought. Her mind was filled with the image of her only sister in a casket. And Helen’s soul …? Joan tried to focus on the words Archbishop Foley had spoken. Words of hope and promise and understanding and forgiveness in a judgment of love.
    As she thought back on the events of this evening at the funeral home, she recalled the voice that had spoken so loudly, jarringly. What was it he had said—something to the effect that he could have killed the story?
    She hadn’t had to turn around to know