A Society of Friends

Rushing Out of Philadelphia in the sleek, gray Lincoln, Monsignor Martin de Porres Fisher crested the high point of the Ben Franklin Bridge and drove into the blinding rays of first dawn. In a moment, his welling spirit escaped the our, was airborne, To an undertone of the Magnificat, it fled the long distance over land and sea to his favorite all black beach in Jamaica, where he'd often lain naked and at peace, his relentless vigilance against the white world, temporarily put aside. Then, almost instantly, he had to slow down and pull up at the toll booths on the Camden side of the river. The fugue through the air, the flash of tropical-beach serenity vanished in banal, banal considerations.

He fumbled awkwardly through the slit of his skintight, specially tailored cassock, groping in his pants pocket for change, until the toll collector, obviously, an Irishman, his brows knit in the consternation of needing; to choose between the blackness of Martin de Porres Fisher and the splendid robes and hat of a monsignor, apparently opted, for the latter and gave him the familiar wink, Martin passed through, smiling humbly, untaxed, At the traffic signals immediately beyond the booths, two Camden cops slid up beside him, stopped for a light and doffed their hats in unison after a moment at surveillance. Again Martin merely smiled his humble smile, nodded his head, then took off like a shot out of hell when the light changed, leaving the two hapless cops-fearing death abnormally as he knew cops always must-to suspect that, he bore viaticum to the dying.

He cruised at 90 all the way through the ugly Jersey Pine Barrens toward Beach Haven and the sparkling ocean, considering at one point along the way that it was thoughtful of Arthur Farragan to have waited until early October to kill himself. But Arthur, despite inherent weaknesses, had been a somewhat humane, perceptive man, a point Martin might eulogize if a eulogy were called for that morning before they dumped his weighted body into the Atlantic. Arthur had understood the seasonal ritual of a city's Catholics and struck himself down only when the moment was right: after the return of Philadelphians from the shore, so that the summer sojourn of his wife and daughters would not be ruined, so that there would not be an embarrassing dearth of mourners in a baking summer cathedral, so that his burial would fall upon a day when everyone's hordes of children would be blessedly in school and his widow not responsible for a whopping caterer's bill because of the necessity of feeding all those greedy, undignified little mouths that would tag along with their sorrowing parents. Yes, in some ways Arthur had been an exceptional man. Very humane. Very Christian.

At Beach Haven, less than an hour from his apartment, an island virtually empty now in the face of impending winter, Martin drove to the bayside dock where Emilio Serafina's enormous yacht, the Stella Maris, was tied up and waiting to bear its burden out to sea. Martin, drawing near the gorgeous shimmering white-and-teakwood vessel, felt the first pangs of apprehension for that day. Serafina, rich from construction, the rackets and Lord knew what else, was, after a fashion understood but never defined, Martin de Porres Fisher's godfather. The beautiful Lincoln that Martin so loved belonged to Serafina, was merely on loan. His apartment, lavishly appointed, made to look like a cardinal's chambers, had been furnished by the Serafinas. His cassocks and vestments came from Italy via that family. When he chanced to say Mass in the cathedral, splendid as a peacock, his tall, thin, light-colored extraordinary handsomeness (as he knew) decked out in the gold-threaded finery conceived and executed thousands of miles away by little old Italian ladies, the Serafinas were often present. To see what they had wrought: They were proud of their monsignore nero.

But lately Martin had come to suspect that perhaps the car would be recalled for a long, punitive overhaul. For the monsignor had, in early September, failed his godfather, refusing to officiate at the christening of Serafina's granddaughter, an event that took place only four months after the monsignor had married Serafina's daughter to a terrified young man who had been made to understand only at the very last exactly whose offspring he had been screwing. It was not that Martin was overcome by moral scruple, though he made Serafina think it was so, the better to control the mogul: The Lord knew young people made mistakes, and at least they had not taken it to an abortionist. No, it was simply that after a hot and tiring summer, during which he was overworked at the chancery, and growing alarmed at his burgeoning fondness for cooking gin and tonic, he felt he could not once again face the prospect of all those thousands of sweaty Italians gathered for a bacchanalia on the lawn of Serafina's great estate in Pleasantville, dancing, singing, eating and drinking, pressing forward their look-alike children for the monsignore nero's blessing, then easing sly, unsolicited envelopes of gratitude into his pockets. (He had cleared over $5000 at the wedding, most of which he sent to his Baptist mother in Georgia, trying to buy, as it were, her forgiveness for the travesty of his conversion to Roman Catholicism. But an old woman, stern and full of black prejudices, she refused to see what a good thing he had lucked into.) And he knew the christening would be the wedding again, twice over: For Serafina, a man of undeniable purpose, meant to simply obliterate any sniggering over the moral lassitude of his daughter, burying it beneath the awesome magnificence of the day. But as the event drew near, Martin thought of it, graphic in detail, until it produced cold sweats. On the morning he awoke whimpering from the nightmare that he had been blinded by the fire of the sun itself, trapped in the burnished slab sides of acres upon carefully parked acres of the guests' Cadillacs and Imperials, he had opted for Jamaica, his quiet beach, his secret nakedness.

Now he exited the car, gazing fondly at it for an instant as if it were meant to be his last trip, before he dared look up at Serafina. His godfather stood on the check, peering steadfastly down at him, enormous and stern in his Italian admiral's uniform, framed by his three burly crew members, Sicilians from Palermo with names like Tico, Rico and Chico, whom Martin De Porres Fisher could never tell apart and to whom he had given, for his own purposes of identification, the names Niña, Pinta and Santa María. But, like their admiral, they now stared fiercely down at him, and Martin knew he was in the doghouse for sure. Desperate to save the Lincoln, he thought he saw the way. He paused for a long moment before the yacht's bow, staring fixedly at the five-foot figurehead of the Virgin. He bent his head, praying deeply, then gave the boat a faultless benediction. When he looked up, Serafina, uncertain now, had removed his braid-covered hat and stood crossing himself. Niña, Pinta and Santa María followed suit. Serafina, more susceptible to flattery than anyone Martin had ever met, was also more terrified of dying. He would not dare forgo the blessing of his yacht: He loved the sea, gloried in his gilded possession that glided so majestically over its surface, but had never learned to swim. Martin de Porres Fisher moved slowly toward the gangplank, hoping the yacht would not plummet to the bottom because of his sacrilege. At the top, Serafina stood waiting for him.

"Ammiraglio ..." Martin crooned humbly, imploring forgiveness.

"Monsignore ..." Serafina chided softly, his arms flying open. They exchanged the kiss of peace (the whole universe seemed to sigh in relief) with the nameless fondness that Martin had long ago decided perhaps only a gangster and his priest can have for each other.

"Come, Monsignore, to the rear deck. We'll have a little breakfast before the others arrive. Café et croissants," he called to the cook who shoved his head through the galley opening. "Also catfish steaks and marmalade."

• • •

Binky Applebaum, the Beach Haven lifeguard captain-whom Martin dutifully presumed he would be marrying in combination with a rabbi to dead Arthur Farragan's widow after a discreet time of mourning; was next to arrive. He pulled up beside the gray Lincoln in his Toyota, carefully locking the car, whisking specks of dust, imagined or real, from its roof. He waved toward the admiral and the monsignor, then started aboard.

"A little wedding, Monsignore, do you think, for our friend Binky?" Serafina chanced.

"I have heard it said many times, Ammiraglio, that our friend Binky is an impotent. He could not, apparently, consummate a marriage."

"Oh-ho-ho-ho! Ha-ha-ha-ha!" Serafina howled out his pleasure. His laughter ripped off the morning stillness, sent sea gulls flapping off the pier pilings. Martin looked at him questioningly, naïveté, a practiced art, written all over his face.

"And who was it that said it all those times, Monsignore? It was Binky himself! And always in front of the husbands on the weekends!" Serafina was in hysterics now, tears rolling down his face, slapping his palms on his knees. He loved a good cuckolding as long as it came nowhere near Serafina. "Oh, that Binky!"

"Oh ... I see ..." Martin said in a soft voice, feigning shock, so that Serafina, uncertain again, stopped laughing abruptly. On the instant, Martin (continued on page 100)Society of Friends(continued from page 78) decided to really stick it to the godfather: He would not eat any of the catfish steaks, make him feel guilty of double offense. Perhaps, by nightfall, he might wheedle another credit card out of Serafina....

"You see, Monsignore, it's just that me, a man of the world, I see things different from the way you do...."

"Yes. Well, of Binky, of course... a quiet person, I hadn't known...."

But Binky was already there.

"Hello, Monsignor. Hello, Emilio."

"Good morning, Binky," Martin de Porres Fisher greeted him. "A truly sad day, n'est-ce pas?" Serafina still wiped tears from his face. He stared pointedly at the bulge in Binky's crotch and almost convulsed himself out of his chair.

"Extremely, Martin. Arthur was such a fine man. It's too bad he had to go like that."

Binky took a seat and Martin saw that he was dressed the same as ever. The screaming Sixties had done nothing to him on the exterior. A Korean War vet, he had become unrelentingly locked in the casual golden styles of an Arnold Palmer or Jack Kennedy, and always, even on this day of burial at sea, had the special look of being on his way to play golf. In another moment, Serafina regained control and called out to the galley: "Bring smoked salmon also. And those Jewish onion rolls from the delicatessen."

In minutes more, Muriel Farragan arrived, driving her own car, following Vecchio in the mortician's hearse that bore the body of her husband. Vecchio backed the hearse up to the gangplank and opened the rear door as Muriel parked her convertible. Serafina, Martin de Porres Fisher and Binky Applebaum went to the railing to greet her, and Serafina snapped his fingers at Niña, Pinta and Santa María to help Vecchio carry the body, sewn into a weighted canvas sack, on board. Vecchio looked carefully about-for police, perhaps, since Arthur was already supposed to be underground-then urged the crew members to their task. The four lifted the sack, laid out on a metal stretcher, out of the hearse and strained up the gangplank toward the deck. Muriel, dressed all in black, and throwing the lace of her mourning mantilla over her face, followed behind. At the top, once Arthur had been placed on the deck, Serafina welcomed her aboard. He took her in his open arms, swallowing her petiteness: "Muriel, dearest Muriel, such a tragic day."

"Oh, Emilio, you've been so kind to help out," she spoke, crushed into the brace of medals on his chest. "A poor widow can simply not have enough friends."

"There, there, Muriel," the admiral comforted. "Nothing is too good for you."

"And you, Martin ... how can one thank you ... for your understanding?"

"Holy Mother the Church is not without compassion, dear Muriel," Martin de Porres Fisher assured her. They kissed, brushing each other's cheeks as they always did when they met, Martin feeling the wetness of her tears beneath the veil, imbibing the subtle odor of her perfume, her woman's delicious smell that always set him to wishing he were not a priest at all, no matter how good he had it.

"And you, Binky ... thank you so much for being here today." Binky did not embrace her. He would get his later. All afternoon and into the evening, probably. Now they merely shook hands in deference to the nearness of the sack on the deck, and Binky offered his simple condolence:

"I think it's truly tragic about Mr. Farragan, Muriel."

"Yes, a great sadness for me, as you can imagine."

"Yes, truly tragic," Serafina added.

"Most unfortunate," Martin said.

"Yes," Binky agreed.

In the paling of condolences (everything having been said the day before at the cemetery when they buried the rocks), Serafina remembered the envelope for Vecchio, who departed the madness immediately down the gangplank, not looking back. Then the admiral gave orders to Niña, Pinta and Santa María to cast off. The mighty engines started with a roar and Serafina encouraged them to breakfast. Martin de Porres Fisher proffered his arm and Muriel took it, walking slowly toward the rear deck with him: "The Time of the Troubles is ended, Martin, don't you feel it? The country has returned to normalcy, the President seems firmly in command. Vietnam will just become an awful memory."

"One hopes for that, dear Muriel. There has been enough of anguish and violence already."

The Stella Maris eased out into the bay as they took their places. Serafina called out to the galley: "Cuisinier: two two-minute eggs for Mrs. Farragan, and lots of bacon, very crisp."

• • •

They moved into the open ocean that was calm and shimmering, then headed north toward Asbury Park, where Arthur Farragan was to be dumped overboard. Martin, disdaining his catfish steaks, reflected instead on the "Time of the Troubles," as Muriel called them, the same that in the past she had narrated for him blow by blow in the confessional. For her, the troubles had erupted in the summer of 1968, sometime around the violent days of the Democrats' convention, when he had known her slightly more than a year. She had telephoned him one afternoon, asking if she might come by his apartment, saying simply: "Martin, I would confess to you and only you."

Her language-a formalese that she always spoke to priests-delighted him and he had come to think of her, dark-eyed and lovely, as a woman of Verona, the duke's wife. He readily invited her by.

When she arrived, dressed in mourning black, he had had time enough to prepare. Incense circled the rooms and he sat hidden behind a silk screen Serafina had sent him from Portugal, depicting the flaying of Saint Bartholomew. She knelt on the other side and confessed to having planted a bomb beneath her horrid sister-in-law, Anna Farragan.

"And do you repent of your sin, Muriel, so that I may give you absolution?"

"I cannot, Martin," she spoke sadly. It mattered little. Though he smelled no alcohol through the screen, he thought she was drunk. No such crime could have been perpetrated. What did trucking tycoons' wives know of explosives?

"And you, Martin, would you break the seal of the confessional and accuse me to the police?"

"I cannot, Muriel."

"I was sure." She crossed herself, her rosary wrapped about her hands clacking with the motions, then slowly withdrew. Martin de Porres Fisher, clucking to himself over her delusion, got up and mixed himself a gin and tonic, then switched on the early-evening news. The newscaster confirmed that Anna, nee Farragan, Bigalow Furgueson Mailey had, indeed, been blown to bits by a bomb. Martin collapsed before the television set in a dead faint.

A month or so afterward, Jim Farragan, Arthur's brother, went straight through the roof of his Cadillac at the trucking-company terminal, spattering many of his employees. Martin heard of it on his car radio, drove straight home, piled covers onto his bed and dived underneath them, the better to contain the cold sweat into which he had erupted. He thought of calling her, warning her to stay away from him, but in the end he did not. The next morning he went to his office in the chancery, haggard and gray-looking after the manner of blacks, and dictated letter upon letter to his secretary, not wanting to be alone. She phoned about 11 a.m.

"Martin, I would confess."

"I am indisposed, Muriel." His voice quivered whole octaves in answering; his secretary discreetly left the office.

"I will come to your apartment at five o'clock, Martin." She hung up abruptly. He left his office at four, steadied himself (continued on page 218)Society of Friends(continued from page 100) with a batch of hastily consumed martinis and was seated behind the Saint Bartholomew screen when she entered.

"Martin, I have sinned."

"I know. It's in all the newspapers, Muriel."

"He deserved to die. He was an odious man. I hated him."

"It is given only to God to determine who deserves to die, Muriel. You have an accomplice, I take it?"

"Of course, Martin," she giggled at his naïveté. "What would a poor woman like myself know about explosives?"

"Who is he?"

"Binky Applebaum, the lifeguard captain."

"Who?"

"You know, the good-looking Jewish one from Beach Haven who always goes to Emilio's cocktail parties."

"Oh, him ... hmmm." At last there was a motive for this madness. It had to be the Farragan money. Binky, while not indigent, was at best seasonal. Lifeguard during the summer, ski instructor in the winter. Then he remembered something, a joke overheard between two weekend husbands at the shore: "But Muriel, it is said of him that he is impotent."

She sniggered behind the screen: Bloom's wife. The lewdness of Irishwomen that he learned no amount of veneer could disguise when they got tipsy. He grew angry, supposing that everyone thought him an inefficient Uncle Tom of a cleric.

"And do you repent of your sin, Muriel, so that I may give you absolution?" he demanded harshly. "Will you go to the police and tell all?"

"I cannot, Martin," she sighed mournfully.

"And you, Martin, would you break the seal of the confessional and accuse me to the police?"

"I cannot, Muriel."

"I was sure. Now I'm sure, Martin, that you're sure." He stared wide-eyed with fright as the barrel of the gun edged about the end of the screen and waggled a few times at him, then withdrew. In another moment, she was gone.

But he was not sure. He suffered at night from chills and frequently vomited in the morning like a woman. He researched the Farragan family endlessly, an easy task at almost any gathering these days, since everyone in the city seemed to do nothing but speculate where the mad bomber would strike next. Only Arthur, her husband, stood between Muriel and the lover, Binky, and more than 1300 units of rolling stock, as nearly as he could determine. There was one other brother, Edmund, a monk, but he had long ago been drummed out of the will, so that in the event of a three-member calamity, the Farragan board of directors would not be replaced by a party of button-lipped, note-passing Trappists. Of the next generation, only Simon, the son of Muriel and Arthur, had been a contender for inheritance, but his name had been scratched, too, when, over the Vietnam war, he had fled to Canada. Now, it was whispered, he was on his way to becoming a naturalized Canadian citizen and had no more interest in the Farragans or America.

So Arthur was next. Martin de Porres Fisher was convinced of it. In the mornings, leaving his apartment to walk the two blocks to the chancery, where his archbishop awaited him, he felt himself struggling against a powerful magnet that might pull him backward, drawing him irresistibly an identical distance in the opposite direction toward the city's center, where his friend Rizzo, the police commissioner, had his office. He would be welcome there, take breakfast coffee and Danish with the cop, and somehow, without exactly breaking the rule of the confessional, would let the other know what he, Martin, knew, would suggest the profit motive, would speculate pointedly on the next target. But in the end, by 9:30 each workday morning, confronted by the red-robed sternness of his boss, he knew there was no compromise. Either he told Rizzo about Muriel and Binky or he kept quiet. Muriel had him by the jugular: He revered the sanctity of his priesthood, would not violate it; Muriel needed only to confess her sins; she cared not a whit about his absolution.

He lost weight constantly and fainted dead out when she struck next. Incredibly, it was at Edmund, the monk, whom Binky zapped right between the eyes, firing with a high-powered rifle from the forest while Edmund innocently tended his tomato plants in the monastery fields up in the Pennsylvania Poconos. Martin de Porres Fisher's motive theory was zapped, also, and he took two days off, relentlessly pacing the carpets of his apartment, glad he had not gone to Rizzo, waiting for her to call, pondering the why of it all, yet not having a clue. His moral indignation had fled: He was a dumb character, stomping on the inside of some Ellery Queen of a mystery thriller, anxious as the reader on the outside to know the reason. On the second day, after the early-evening news, she phoned.

"Martin, I would confess."

"Yes, yes, hurry over, Muriel."

He dispensed with the Saint Bartholomew screen this time. When she entered, he sat at his desk and bade her sit before him. She hustled her rosary from her purse and crossed herself before beginning.

"Martin, I have sinned."

"That's elementary, Muriel. Quite elementary. The question is why? He was an innocent. A fat cherub of a monk tending his tomatoes. He had no claim on the Farragan money."

"Is that how you see it, Martin? For the money? I don't give a damn about the Farragan money. My own people, the O'Haras, have piles of it."

"Then why?"

"This summer, when we are said to have had our national nervous breakdown, and my son, Simon, left for Canada, the Farragans took out a contract on his life. Your fat cherub included. Simon lacked proper patriotism, apparently."

"A contract? Who? Serafina?"

"Serafina's not like that, Martin. He's like you and me and Binky. The friends. No, the hit man was to be Arthur, my own husband. Simon's own father."

"Muriel, you're crazy! No one would do a thing like that!"

"They were crazy, Martin. Not I. And you are good, but very naïve."

She stood up and went to his kitchen, took the ice bucket from his refrigerator freezer, returned to the room and made a pitcher of martinis. She placed two glasses on the desktop, then expertly filled them. Martin de Porres Fisher drained his in a single gulp and felt his hands cease trembling. She filled his glass again.

"And of Arthur ... ?" he chanced.

"I will not, Martin."

That news astounded him. He had meant to tell her, "You'd better not," threaten her with Rizzo, gangs of Black Panthers, excommunication, anything to make her slow down.

"How, then, Muriel?"

"Arthur will find the means to his own expiation, never fear, Martin. And Simon will live." She drained her martini, poured two more, wiping her lips after each sip she took with the tiny pink towel of her tongue.

"Martin," she said after a long silence, broken only by the ticking of his clock, "may I have my absolution now?"

He gave it to her, perfunctorily, not really caring after three stiff ones if it took root or not.

• • •

It took until October of 1972 for Arthur to find the means to his expiation. In the interim, the seasons turned: Serafina grew richer; Rizzo became mayor of Philadelphia; there were constant whispers about the chancery of a bishopric for Martin De Porres Fisher, probably in some Northeastern, sort of liberal state (Massachusetts was often mentioned), where the anticipated grumbling would be minimal; Muriel and Binky were lovers for sure; Simon Farragan was into his fourth year of Canadian naturalization.

Arthur Farragan just wasted away, once a fine front of a man, before the lamprey eel of guilt suckled itself to him, draining him, as Muriel had intended. He went almost everywhere the gang went, since they traveled more or less the same social routes, but seemed always alone, frightened-looking, unable to speak of his son, Simon. He drank too much, and soon the knowing looks-that Muriel traded with Martin de Porres Fisher and Martin with Emilio Serafina and Emilio with Binky Applebaum and Binky back to Emilio and thence to Martin, and so on, about the mirrored walls of their grouping-conspired to make of Arthur a kind of pariah whose condition grew gradually more recognizable to a larger circle of friends and acquaintances. The last year was particularly hard for him. In the winter, he shook visibly from the cold, like a very old man, and hardly ever "went outdoors; Muriel went skiing in Aspen, where Binky worked. In the spring, he seemed better, but tending his roses even for a brief time exhausted him; Muriel played tennis with Binky. In the summer, when others sweated profusely from the heat, Arthur's sweats were clammy and cold; Muriel spent the entire three months at Beach Haven, where Binky was lifeguard captain. In the fall, when Arthur dispatched himself, the few who knew it to be a suicide were not particularly surprised. It was conveyed to the rest of the world-with a few spurious details-as an accident.

Martin de Porres Fisher read Arthur's funeral Mass at the cathedral before visibly relieved throngs that did not include Emilio Serafina and Binky Applebaum. After the graveside ceremony, he led a nearly prostrate Muriel to the Lincoln, preparing to take her home. Inside, once beyond the cemetery gates, she revived herself measurably.

"You just buried a pile of rock, Martin."

"And Arthur ...?" Nothing startled him now: He asked the question with a level curiosity.

"Tomorrow morning from Beach Haven on Emilio's yacht. Burial at sea, off Asbury Park."

"But why, Muriel?"

"You couldn't expect me to bury him with that awful family of his, could you, Martin? I mean, he was my husband."

"No, I mean why Asbury Park?"

"Oh, well, he'd been going down to the shore for summers since he was about ten, and he'd always wanted to go to Asbury Park but had never quite gotten around to it. Better late than never, I always say."

"Yes, quite right, Muriel." He had taken her home, gone back to his apartment, changed into his oldest and shabbiest cassock and passed what was left of the day at a movie matinee, eating loads and loads of buttered popcorn and wiping his greasy fingers on the cassock.

• • •

Two hours after leaving Beach Haven, they dropped anchor off the just-visible hulk of the Convention Hall at Asbury Park. Martin de Porres Fisher was certain they had the makings of an anticlimax on their hands. The prayers were short, he intended no eulogy, and neither Muriel, Binky nor Emilio was vengeful enough to attempt one either. He called for a minute of silence that was punctuated with heavy sighing. Then Serafina checked for observers in all directions with his binoculars and pronounced the coast clear. Niña, Pinta and Santa María upended the metal stretcher that bore the canvas sack over the yacht's brass railing, and Arthur Farragan, with a minimal splash, joined the fishes in the deep. Serafina saluted his departure. They stood for a long moment peering over the railing, watching him descend until he became a very small white pin point, then was gone altogether.

"He's gone," Muriel said finally.

"Yes." There was a general garbled agreement about that, then silence. Martin de Porres Fisher could think of absolutely nothing to say.

"There's good blues runnin' today, Binky," Serafina spoke, when they all began restlessly shifting. "Want to try a little casting? That is, if it's Ok with you, Muriel ...?"

"Of course, Emilio. It's such a lovely day. A poor widow has nothing to go back to, anyhow, but a big cold house full of memories." She stripped for action, kicking off her shoes, pulling the hairpins that held her mantilla in place.

"How about you, Martin?"

"I arranged to be gone the entire day. Emilio."

"Good. It's settled, then. Get the poles," he barked to the crew. "Set them up in the stern."

They fished for hours, the Stella Maris trolling slowly up toward Sandy Hook, the friends sipping wine or beer from cans as they always did when they went out together, even though it was morning. While they waited, they regaled one another with stories of their times together, Serafina carrying off the trophy by recounting how (hitherto unknown to Martin and Muriel) Binky had first crashed one of his cocktail parties at Beach Haven by telling the guards at the gate he was Charlton Heston, then ended up being carried home that night clad in only his Jockey shorts. By noon, only Emilio had a hit, reeling it in with an elaborate fakery, splitting the shoulder seam of his Italian admiral's uniform, convulsing the other friends and the crew with mirth as he expectantly screamed "Baccalà! Baccallà! Codfish!" at the placid water. It turned out to be only a sea robin. Serafina chose to have it mounted anyhow. He would give it to Muriel in memoriam.

Around one, Binky and Muriel complained of tiredness and went below. Serafina engaged Martin de Porres Fisher in planning a late-lunch menu. Almost predictably, they decided on lobster. With a green salad and as much Soave as they might hold. Then they reversed course and went looking for the lobsters they would eat.

The greatest achievement of his sacred ministry as far as Martin was concerned was convincing Serafina to pay for the lobsters he raided from other people's traps. Formerly, he stole them, raising the pots, sometimes in view of their hapless owners, who dared not shoot at Serafina because Serafina would shoot back. These days, converted, he estimated by weighing the fair market price of what he took, slipped that amount into a plastic envelope and taped it to the marker buoy before releasing the pots to the water again. Also, when Martin was along, they rebaited the traps from the pungent supply of chicken guts and redfish that Serafina kept handy in an auxiliary food locker, though Martin sadly supposed Emilio did not bother when be was not along.

In little more than an hour, cruising in front of the mansions off Deal, they took eight lobsters-all chicks or mediums-from six pots, then sent them to the galley to be broiled. When they were prepared. Serafina buzzed Binky and Muriel in their cabin. They appeared almost immediately, yawning, yet looking refreshed by their sleep. The friends sat down to eat and drink and Serafina ordered the Stella Maris out into the shipping lanes, where for a time they chased after a rust-covered banana freighter heading north toward Ambrose Lighthouse, bucking and plunging into its wake and laughing at the froth of spray that occasionally came over the railing to wet them. Then Serafina, getting drunk, grew tired of the game and look over the wheel, raced up the banana boat's starboard side and, heedless of all the blaring and shouting from above them, darted across the freighter's bow and then cut the engines to drift down the port side, laughing at the captain who bellowed at him from the larger ship's bridge through a bullhorn. He returned to the table, drank some more wine, ate another lobster, then repeated the maneuver with a tanker that moved southward, riding high in the water toward Philadelphia or Baltimore, perhaps. As they passed in front of the boat, Martin de Porres Fisher noticed dimly it was one of those newfangled types whose bow jutted forward beneath the water line like some hidden aspect of an iceberg, and he wondered how far they were from being sliced in two.

"Emilio will be the death of us someday," Martin spoke distantly. Before him, Muriel fed grapes to her lover, Binky, who swilled them down with wine.

"Never, Martin," Binky judged. "Emilio can't swim."

In another moment, the tanker's curses receding, Serafina came back, collapsed into a lounge chair, thumping his chest to assert that macho was still macho, then promptly fell asleep. Seeing that it was safe, Binky and Muriel rose to go below again. Martin was left at the table, sipping at his wine. Niña and Pinta, wiping the sweat of fear from their brows, crept back to him.

"Monsignore, a Beach Haven?"

"Si. Lente, lente."

"Si, Monsignore."

They began moving slowly down the coast, the first streaks of sunset appearing in the western sky. Martin de Porres Fisher sipped longer at his wine, reflecting that today's events-the funeral, the funeral supper, everything-conclusively marked the end of his innocence. He was home to stay. There had been a time, back in 1968, when Muriel and Binky had set out on their determined campaign of extinction, when he had wanted out. When he had been a thousand times on the verge of heeding the tiny black-folks' voice that urged him to flee, to ride the rails in mufti back to Baptist Georgia and his mother's kindly, logical congregation, to take solace from the Philadelphia madness among his own kind. But the decadence, he supposed, had already taken root and he stayed until he had survived his trial by fire, entered and found his niche in the Mediciland of the Catholics, a place from which there would be no turning back. The future was dimly perceived but promising. He would almost certainly get his Massachusetts bishopric, innovate nothing radical but rule by compromise, make the wealthy Irish and Italians pay for their guilt as Serafina did. His life would not be unpleasant.

Serafina awoke as they moved past the Asbury Park Convention Hall, perhaps over the very spot they had dumped Arthur Farragan that morning. The godfather pointed toward the shore and the lights of the boardwalk. He took a chair beside Martin as he spoke: "That's where they beached the Morro Castle, Monsignore, in the Thirties, when it caught fire at sea."

"Were you there, Ammiraglio, when it happened?"

"Yes, Monsignore, I was. It made me cry so much to see the poor people drowning in the water...."

"I would that I were there, Ammiraglio, at the time to weep with you."

Tears sprang instantly to both their eyes, and Serafina took out a handkerchief to blot his dry, clasping Martin de Porres Fisher's hand tightly in his own. "Oh, Monsignore, would that you had. Would that you had. It would have been such a great sharing."