Adam Blakeney sat on a barstool in Murphy’s Tavern on Jefferson Street in Detroit. As he drank the last of his Irish coffee, he lit a cigarette. The blue smoke wafted in the bar fan. He heard the honking horns of the traffic outside. He heard a siren wail. Whether it was a police car, fire engine, or ambulance, he didn’t know and didn’t care.
“Hey, Murph,” he said, pointing to his cup. “Refuel, please.”
“Sure, Father,” said the portly man. He brought Adam another drink.
“Thanks. And don’t call me Father.”
Murphy leaned on the counter, propping his chin in his hands, elbows on the bar and stared at Adam. “What’s wrong, Father? Bad day at McDonald’s?”
Adam still wore his green McDonald’s uniform and reeked of grease, onions, and pickles. “No. Don’t you have other customers to tend to?”
Murphy looked over his right shoulder, then his left. “You’re the only one in the joint, Father.”
Adam drained his cup. “Another, please.”
Murphy brought him another. “It’s the bookie, right? You bet on the wrong pony or the wrong football team…”
Adam buried his face in his hands. “Yes…”
“I told you to stay away from that crook, Father.”
“You know the bishop defrocked me three years ago. Stop calling me father!” he exclaimed, blue veins throbbing in his temples.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. So, you fucked a parishioner. So what? At least it wasn’t a choir boy,” he said wryly. “She was of age.”
“It violated my vow of chastity. That’s so what. And she was vulnerable. She’d just gone through a tough divorce from an abusive husband.”
“That’s all bullshit. You’re human, not Jesus. You helped her heal. How much do you owe the bookie?”
Adam drained the third cup and tapped at it. “It also violated my duty to my flock.”
Murphy brought another. “How much?”
“$10,000,” he said, sighing.
“For a guy with a master’s in theology, you’re one dumb son of a bitch.”
“That’sss not all,” said Adam, his speech slurred. “Electricity off. Gas off. Water off. My car might be repossessed, and I’ll likely be evicted.”
“Christ! Drinks are on me, and you can shack up in the back room. There’s a cot there.”
“Thanks.”
“Why are you a cook at McDonald’s for fuck’s sake? With your education.”
Adam remembered how proud his mother was when he earned the Theologiae Magister from Loyola seminary—third in his class.
“How long have we known each other, Murph?” he asked. “Ten years? Fifteen?”
“It’s more like 16 years, Father,” said Murphy.
“Dammit, Murph!” howled Adam, spilling his drink. “Stop calling me that! I’m a disgraced priest.” He paused and reflected. “I’m a crew chief at a fast-food restaurant now.”
“Okay, Adam,” said Murphy with a sigh. “But you can still make something of yourself.”
“Oh, can I?” He said with a smirk. “You remember, my mother, Murph?”
“Of course, I do. Your sainted mother, Angela, may she rest in peace.”
“What would she think?”
“Father Adam, she loved you more than I’ve ever known a mother to love her son,” said Murphy. “And I can tell you that she’d want you to find a recourse. A new life.” Murphy paused. “Do you have any ideas, Adam?”
“What can I do?” Adam said, smiling and chugging his drink. “Being a priest is all I’ve trained for.” Murphy brought another Irish coffee.
“Adam, you’re only 45. Lots of people that age go back to college,” said Murphy.
“Nah. Not for me…but I do have an idea,” Adam said. “You know the silver crucifix in the reliquary?”
“At the cathedral? Cathedral of the Most Blessed Sacrament? Aye. Knelt before the crucifix many times.”
Adam stroked his unshaved face and mused. “A Benedictine monk carved it in Santa Marta 600 years ago. It’s worth about half a million.”
Murphy’s jaw dropped. His face went pale. “Faith and begorrah! You’re thinking about robbing the church? Screwing one of the flock is one thing, but you’ve lost your mind. And Angela, your mum, would tell you the same thing!”
“I’m at the end of my rope, Murph. I need your help.” Adam’s watery, besotted eyes pleaded.
“I’m gonna forget you said this. Go to your bum bookie.” Seeing the plaintive look in Adam’s bloodshot eyes, Murphy relented. “Okay. I know some guys who know some guys. But, Father, you’re making a mistake.”
“Probably.” Adam walked out of the pub with a phone number.
A month later in the wee hours of the morn, Adam and two thugs broke into the Cathedral of the Most Blessed Sacrament. Adam thought this fitting retribution for his defrocking by Bishop Stephen whose see this cathedral was.
Neither Adam nor his accomplices, Bruce and Chris, knew how to disable the security system. So, alarms blared as they bored through the back door with sledge hammers. Then, they busted through the door leading to the basement. The three burglars descended into the dank cellar reliquary. They found the glass case which housed the silver crucifix. The hoodlums shattered the three-inch-thick glass with their sledge hammers. Adam retrieved the cross and held it in his hands. He dreamt of paying off his debts.
Adam felt an ethereal presence engulf his body. At first, he thought it was his now-sated greed, but then realized that wasn’t it. This energy, this presence suffused him with preternatural power and knowledge. Maybe it was the Archangel Michael who guided his hands.
But maybe it was the fallen Archangel Asmodeus.
Adam put the cross back in its place. He found another relic and picked it up—the legendary Holy Prepuce—the foreskin of Christ the Saviour after His circumcision. Adam fell to his knees and removed the prepuce from the silver cylinder which encased it. His member engorged with the power of God.
Three police officers rushed into the basement, pistols drawn. The goons, Bruce and Chris, drew their nine-millimeter Berettas and fired all 18 rounds at the cops. Bruce nailed one in the cranium. Blood spouted from his forehead.
One officer checked the downed man’s vitals and shouted, “No pulse! Shit! He killed Sean!”
The two remaining cops tumbled and shot Bruce in the lungs and Chris in the heart.
Adam had no firearm but was armed with the Holy Prepuce, which he held high. “I hold the Holy Foreskin,” he screamed, musing to himself, “that sounds like something Robin would say.” He unzipped his pants and placed the prepuce on his phallus. The foreskin grafted onto his body.
The police officers fired three rounds each at him from their .38 revolvers. The bullets bounced off Adam without harm.
The defrocked priest approached the two. Although he had the largest erection in human history, unearthly thoughts agitated, churned, and coruscated through his mind and soul.
He touched each on his forehead and said, “Blessed are you, Brian, and so are your wife Georgia and your children, Andrew and Mary.” He said to the other peace officer, “And blessed are you, Joseph.”
The two uniformed officers rose and left the cathedral.
Adam returned to Murphy’s Tavern. He sat, and Murphy asked, “Did you pull the job? How did my friends of friends work out?”
“We pulled the job, and your friends of friends are dead,” Adam said, head bowed in regret.
“What did you get in the heist?” Murphy paused. “And why are you still alive?”
“I’m still sorting those two questions out, old friend.” His eyes wandered off. “Perhaps I got peace of mind.”
“Peace of mind? What does that mean, old friend?”
“It may sound trite, but maybe I received spiritual enlightenment. An epiphany, if you will. Perhaps, I discovered the error of my ways.”
Murphy sighed. “That doesn’t sound like you, Father Adam. Oh, shit. You don’t want me to call you that anymore. Sorry.”
“No. That’s quite all right now, Murph.”
Murphy raised an eyebrow. “It’s all right now? Do you want another Irish coffee?”
“No,” said Adam. “I’d like a glass of red wine.”
