Chapter Two

Being so close to the Luckie Duckie Lounge pushed the thought of being homeless and jobless far to the back of mind. I was still clutching the bills in my pocket, but instead of worrying about the fact that they were all the money I had in the world, I just played a game with myself and pretended every Washington was a ten, every Lincoln was a fifty, and every Hamilton was a hundred dollar bill.

Knowing that Elliott Carbuncle was at the Luckie Duckie made me hopeful. If anyone had the brains and know-how to turn the worst event of my adult life into something grand and destiny-changing, it was Elliott.

However, I felt invincible when I saw the priest from St. Ambrose Catholic Church hiding in the bushes in the alley between the Black Cat Laundry Mat and Books Inside, Ford Bloom’s bookstore.

Father Max felt pretty great about seeing me, too, I could tell. “Oh, thank God!” he said, and beckoned me over with a crooked finger. “I need your help.”

I knew what help he needed. We’d been through this routine before.

“Is Sister Mary Paul looking for you?” I asked him.

He didn’t need to answer. His eye-roll, a head shake, and a sigh-based grunt told me everything I needed to know.

“Do you need me to find her and throw her off the scent?”

“I’d be so grateful if you did, Martha,” he said.

There are only two people who call me Martha without a fight from me, and Father Max is one of them.

“I just wanted to slip into the Luckie Duckie for a wee drink before I have to see some parishioners at the senior home.”

“Where around here does she usually look for you?”

“She’s already been to Donut Hut and the Luckie Duckie, so my best guess is that she’ll walk across the street to Annie’s, and then to the Duffys’ restaurant.”

Annie’s was Annie’s Candies. Annie’s is a place where a severe diabetic like Father Max should never go but seems to find his way at least twice a week for a pound-bag of root beer barrels and half a pound of peanut butter logs.

The restaurant I needed to stake-out is called Surprises. Probably because most people are surprised at how awful the food is, and also by the ridiculous prices they’re charged for it.

Because the owners go to St. Ambrose, they give Father Max whatever he wants completely free of charge. And since Sister Mary Paul is always trying to make Father Max eat meals that are more suited to his diabetic condition, high cholesterol, and gout, she tries to discourage the owners of Surprises from serving Father Max the rich foods he craves—as if old school Irish Catholics like Danny and Rosemary Duffy would ever dream of refusing a priest anything he wanted.

But Father Max’s dilemma wasn’t about food. It was about booze, and I could certainly sympathize with that.

“I’ll just hang out by the front door of Surprises, and maybe surprise Sister Mary Paul by asking her to pray for me when I see her,” I said.

Father Max winked at me and shoved a five dollar bill into my hand. He looked right to left, then at the bushes behind him before turning back to me. “Get me a wee bag of root beer barrels from Annie’s, child.”

“I’d like to, but—”

He cut me off. “You’re a good girl, Martha. If I see your aunt at the retirement home, I’ll put in a good word for you,” he said.

He was referring to my Aunt Jeezy, the only other person who was allowed to call me Martha. She’d been living at Locust Crossing for a couple of months, and was still angry about it, though not as much at me as my sister Jenny.

I could sympathize with that, too, since I’d spent most of my life mad at Jenny.

Father Max stood to his full height and laid a hand on my shoulder. “I know what happened this morning. If you need a place to stay for a night or two, the middle pews of the church are open to you. There’s a pillow and a blanket under the pew where the Bellottes usually sit. That’s where I hide sometimes from…her.”

Without another word, he sprinted off in the direction of the Luckie Duckie Lounge, and I strolled across the street to wait for Sister Mary Paul.

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