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it with me.”
    â€œYou must have had many meetings with Giraldi over the years, Father. Would you have any notion about who he might have entrusted with that book?”
    He shook his head once, a solemn and final gesture. “I only met rarely with Mr. Giraldi. For many years, I dealt solely with his wife, Antoinetta, who was a wonderful, devout woman.”
    â€œHow could she be devout and married to a mob boss?”
    â€œOur Father’s house has many mansions.”
    â€œYeah, and compartments, too, I guess. And mob money can build plenty of mansions.”
    His smile was barely perceptible. “When were you last at mass, Michael? I assume you are of the faith, Irish lad that you are.”
    â€œI haven’t been a ‘lad’ for a lot of years, Father, and I haven’t been to mass since I got back from overseas.”
    â€œThe war changed you.”
    â€œThe war showed me that God either doesn’t give a damn or has some sick sense of humor. If you’ll forgive my frankness, Father.”
    The dark eyes didn’t look so hard now. “I’m in the forgiveness business, Michael. You hold God responsible for the sins of man?”
    â€œIf you mean war, Father, fighting against an evil devil like Hitler isn’t considered a sin, is it?”
    â€œNo. But I would caution you that holding God responsible for the actions of men is a dangerous philosophy. And I gather, from your words, that you do believe in God.”
    â€œI do.”
    There was nothing barely perceptible about his smile now. “Years ago, the headlines were filled with your colorful activities, working against evil men. You were raised in the church, so surely you know of your namesake, St. Michael.”
    â€œYeah, the avenging archangel.”
    â€œWell, that’s perhaps an over-simplification. Among other things, he leads the army of God against the minions of Satan, the powers of Hell.”
    â€œI’m semi-retired from that, Father. Let’s just say you don’t have time to hear my confession, but I bet you heard some beauts from Old Nic.”
    The smile disappeared and the priest’s countenance turned solemn again. “Nicholas Giraldi never came to confession. Not once.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOh, he will lie in consecrated ground. I gave him bedside Last Rites at St. Luke’s. But he never took confession here. And I will confess to you , Michael, that I was surprised when, after his wife’s death, he continued to fund her charities. If there was any purpose in it, other than his own self-aggrandizement, it might have been to honor her memory.”
    â€œThe old don bought himself plenty of good will here in Little Italy.”
    â€œHe did indeed. But I don’t believe his good works had anything to do with seeking forgiveness. And, before you ask how I could accept contributions from the likes of Don Giraldi, I will tell you that even a spiritual man, a servant of God, must live in this physical world. If suffering can be alleviated by accepting such contributions, I will accept that penance, whether sincere or cynical. You might consider this in itself a cynical, even selfish practice, Michael. But we were put here in this place, this, this …”
    â€œVale of tears, Father?”
    â€œVale of tears, son. We were put here in this problem-solving world, this physical purgatory, to exercise our free will. And if I can turn ill-gotten gains into the work of the Lord, I will do so, unashamed.”
    Why shouldn’t he? All he had to do was take confession from some other collar and get his sins washed away for a few Hail Marys. But I didn’t say that. Hypocritical or not, Father Mandano had helped a lot of people. He was a practical man and that wasn’t a sin in my book.
    I got to my feet, my hat in my hands. “Thanks for seeing me at short notice, Father. Listen, if you happen to get a line on that ledger, let me know. It