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car here, I’m going to repaint the thermometer. We’re going to get the building drive underway again. The new Saint Mary’s will be the flower of the desert, you mark my words.”
    The new Saint Mary’s. The flower of the desert.
    “I see an old Spanish mission of the type built by the late Father Junipero Serra. You are familiar with the late Father Serra, Mr. Spellacy?”
    It was like referring to the late Abe Lincoln. I nodded.
    “I think of him as the first Chicano.”
    I kept nodding.
    “I am taking your time, Mr. Spellacy, I am sorry. But when I think of the mission we will have here, I sometimes get carried away. The cactus flowers will be in bloom. We will have benediction in the sunset. A desert showplace for Catholics from the colder climes. And we must recognize the spirit of ecumenicism. We will have tours come up from Palm Springs. Are you aware of the Bob Hope Desert Classic?”
    “The golf tournament?” I wondered how it fit into Father Duarte’s plans.
    “In Palm Springs, yes, I plan to speak to Mr. Hope. I know I could convince him that the fans at his tournament would love to see the new Saint Mary’s. I’m sure he’d do a benefit. His wife’s a Catholic, you know. And one of my classmates at the seminary, Father Fabian Mancuso, is a curate at Saint Philip Neri in Palm Springs. Mrs. Hope’s church. You may have heard of Fabian Mancuso?”
    I shook my head.
    “He was on television in San Francisco. Tather Fabe, The Narco Priest.’ He worked wonders combatting the drug problem.”
    There was something mesmerizing about listening to Father Eduardo. I am sure that was what he would want to be called. Father Eduardo. Father Fabe. It was like listening to a murderer confess. You couldn’t break into the spiel. No wonder Des wasn’t a hundred percent. This mad Mexican was driving him crazy.
    “Tommy.”
    It was Des standing in the doorway of the rectory. He was holding a cigar and wearing a white polo shirt with a little blue alligator on the breast pocket. I left Father Eduardo to his faulty carburetor, the first step in the resurgence of the new Saint Mary’s, and went inside with Des.
    “Does he always talk like that?” I said. We were in what passed for Des’s study. An old desk, a few books, that morning’s newspaper folded to the obituary pages. It was cool in the study and so dark with the curtains drawn against the sun that I couldn’t get a good look at him.
    “It’s actually quite restful when you get used to it,” Des said. “Like tuning in to an FM station. You don’t have to listen very hard. Conversation to think by.”
    “Father Fabe . . .”
    “Oh, yes.” The old smile, softening his face. Des always could find a certain amount of levity in the priesthood, which I guess was a drawback in a priest. “He’s a good priest, Tommy. Doesn’t look upon the convent as a dating bureau, like some. Dedicated.”
    It was what Father Eduardo had said about Des. “How do the harps like him?”
    “Not much. He’s a Mexican. ‘It’s a well-known fact,’ Mrs. Gil-hooley told me, ‘that Mexicans have more hemorrhoids than other people.’ As if I should prepare a lethal dose of Preparation H for the poor man. But then when Father Stephanowski was my curate, Mrs. Gilhooley told me it was a well-known fact that the Polish had more midgets than other people. And if I ever have an Eskimo curate, she’d no doubt tell me that Eskimos get more blisters than other people. All that slipping around on the ice with their bare feet.”
    He always was good value, Des. The words came easy. “How are you, Des?” I said.
    The smile again. Which meant he wasn’t going to answer.
    “Let me see,” Des said. He pulled on his cigar. “This morning after mass, Mr. McHugh stopped in to see me. A nice man, Mr. McHugh, once you get past the palsy. But one thing you learn about being a pastor, Tommy, and that’s that no one ever rings your doorbell, even if it works, unlike mine, to tell