Nelson rumbled his shopping cart to a stop at the corner of Superior and State and looked up at the white stone of Holy Name Cathedral. The morning had gone as wel as he could have hoped. Robles had gotten their attention. Kel y was involved. Now it was time to make them understand why.
Nelson stashed his cart in an al ey and trudged up the steps. With the push of a finger, ten tons’ worth of bronze door swung open, and he slipped inside. The 12:30 mass was just starting. The regular crowd was there. Maybe fifty people, mostly folks from work who used their lunch hour to pray. Nelson took a seat in the back and looked them over. The standard hypocrites, getting on their knees and groveling when they needed something: a clean X-ray from the doctor, a phone cal from an old girlfriend, a pregnancy test with an empty round window. When you got right down to it, there were very few atheists in the foxholes of life. It was something the Catholic church had understood for centuries and counted on. To his right, Nelson saw a bench ful of three bums like himself, except they were already asleep. The church tolerated them as long as they didn’t smel too bad or snore too loud. The service usual y ran twenty-five minutes, tops. The priest was an old one. No surprise there. He was talking about running through your own personal Rolodex, checking off the people you’ve met, places you’ve been, and things you’ve done.
“How does your Rolodex look?” the sanctimonious bastard croaked, staring down his saintly nose at the great unwashed. “Does it bear up under scrutiny? Do you have the right balance in your life? The right priorities? Or are you al owing your time on earth to be bought and sold, bartered away in the minutiae of the everyday, the pursuit of the material and your own comfort? Indeed.”
The priest let the last flourish hang as he shook his long head from side to side and tucked his hands inside embroidered robes. I’l show you some fucking priorities, Nelson thought and let his eyes wander up to the ceiling. Five galeri hung there, red hats with wide brims, representing five dead Chicago cardinals. Five princes of the church, more hypocrites presiding over an empire that was as rotten as it was rich, as calculating as it was pretentious.
Nelson felt inside an inner pocket for the smal brown bottle. It had a cork stopper in it. He stood up and wandered into the rear vestibule. A Chicago cop was there, loaded down with a radio, nightstick, and gun and sweating in a bul etproof vest. He considered Nelson’s filth and turned back toward the service. Nelson shuffled over to the stone cistern that held the holy water and waited. Communion was cal ed, and the cop went forward to get his wafer. Nelson dipped dirty fingers in the bowl and blessed himself with the magic water. Then he slipped the brown bottle from his jacket and tipped its contents into the bowl.
Communion was over and people were starting to wander to the back of the church. Nelson stepped away from the bowl and watched a mother approach, young child in tow. Nelson smiled. The woman recoiled. Stil , she was Catholic and soldiered on, pretending to like the bum and nodding in his direction. She touched her fingers to the water and blessed herself. The young girl beside Mom held her arms up. Before the woman could react, Nelson lifted the girl so she was level with the cistern. He smiled again at the mother as her child sprinkled the water across forehead and cheeks. The mother reached for the child, hustling away once she had the girl back in her arms. Nelson watched them go. Then he crouched in a corner as the rest of the congregation filed out. A couple dozen took holy water. After a bit, the church was empty. Nelson walked outside and shuffled his way to the back of the building. He found his shopping cart, gritted his teeth, and began to push into the wind along State Street.