Free The Temptations of St. Frank by Anthony Bruno Page A

matter what color their constituents were.
    Monsignor Fitzgerald sat between the two Italians but two steps higher than them. He was tall and broad-shouldered with perfectly combed light brown hair. He wore dark Ray-Bans, a black suit and a black priest shirt with a stiff white Roman collar. He kept his hands clasped in his lap as he surveyed the baseball diamond, hovering over the other two men like God the Father.
    Frank wondered what these three had to talk about. Confessing their sins to the Monsignor? Then who does he confess to?
    As Frank passed by, he got a cold, creepy feeling that Monsignor Fitzgerald was watching him. Frank couldn’t see the headmaster’s eyes through his dark glasses, and Frank didn’t want to look right at him, but he could swear Fitzgerald was giving him that disdainful fish-eyed stare of his.
    Frank kept walking, picking up his pace so that it looked like he knew where he was going. He walked all the way around to the rear of the bleachers where small groups of guys and girls were hanging out in the cool shade, some smoking cigarettes, the boys acting goofy and lascivious because they all had the same thing on their minds: they wanted to get into some girl’s pants. But what girls wanted was much harder to figure out, at least for Frank it was. Some of them looked hot to trot, like they wanted it as much as the boys did, but when it came down to put-up-or-shut-up, most girls—no, just about
all
girls—backed off and sent the guys packing. It was like they really didn’t want sex—ever. And yet they looked like they wanted sex and they acted like they wanted it, but when it was right in front of them for the taking, they didn’t take it. They wanted something else, or they wanted it presented some other way, or they were holding out for somebody better. Frank just couldn’t figure it out.
    Larry Vitale was in the middle of this group of kids, making an ass out of himself in front of two Lady of Mercy girls—a dirty blonde and a brunette, both of them with long flips, the Nancy Sinatra, these-boots-are-made-for-walkin’ look. Larry jumped and mugged and shook like a wet dog for them, even managed to do pretty decent James Brown foot shuffle on the dead grass. He thought he was being cool, but he really looked like an organ grinder’s monkey. The girls laughed at his antics, but they weren’t amused in an I-think-you’re-so-cute-I-want-you-to-fuck-me way. Their laughter was sharp and metallic, a you’re-so-pathetic-you’re-funny laugh. At least Frank knew enough not to act like that.
    He wandered a bit, seeing more kids hanging out farther down. He searched for Yolanda’s face, even though he didn’t think he’d find her back here. She wasn’t an under-the-bleachers type. At least he didn’t think she was. He didn’t want her to be an under-the-bleachers type. Unless she was an under-the-bleachers type
with him.
That would be different.
    He started to feel self-conscious being there by himself with all this flirting going on, so he stepped toward the sunlight, intending to take the long way back to Mulvaney Hall so that he wouldn’t have to pass by Monsignor Fitzgerald again. But then he heard a voice from above, like the times when God spoke to some poor shmuck in the Bible. It was right above his head. He recognized the voice right away. It was the headmaster’s deep monotone. Frank looked up and saw the heels of his shoes.
    â€œI would think that would be the case,” the monsignor said. “If fault cannot be pinpointed, there is no liability.”
    â€œExactly! That’s exactly how I read it.”
    Frank peered around the footboard when he heard the second voice. It was Mayor Palmeri, his big belly blocking Frank’s view of the sky. Frank was standing right under the unholy trinity.
    â€œI don’t care what anybody says.” John Trombetta’s voice was gruff and