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“God forgive me.” She shut her eyes and whispered, “Check that wedding invitation.”
I raised the invite and stared.
“Seamus Brian Joseph Rattigan, St. Vibiana’s Cathedral, celebrant.”
“Go tell ’im his sister is in two kinds of hell, and to send holy water. Scram! I got lots to do.”
“Like what?”
“Throw up,” she said.
I clutched Father Seamus Brian Joseph Rattigan in my sweaty palm, backed off, and bumped into Crumley.
“Who are you?” said Califia, finally noticing my shadow.
“I thought you knew,” Crumley said.
We went out and shut the door.
The whole house shifted with her weight.
“Warn her,” Califia cried. “Tell her, don’t come back.”
I looked at Crumley. “She didn’t tell your future!”
“Thank the Lord,” said Crumley, “for small blessings.”
Chapter Thirteen
Back down the steep cement steps we went, and under the pale moonlight by the car, Crumley peered into my face. “What’s that mad-dog look?”
“I’ve just joined a church!”
“Get in, for Christ’s sake!”
I got in, running a fever.
“Where to?”
“St. Vibiana’s Cathedral.”
“Holy mackerel!”
He banged the starter.
“No.” I exhaled. “I couldn’t stand another face-on. Home, James, a shower, three beers, and to bed. We’ll catch Constance at dawn.”
We passed Callahan and Ortega, nice and slow. Crumley looked almost happy.
Before the shower, the beers, and the snooze, I pasted seven or eight newsprint front pages on the wall over my bed, where I mi
ght wake in the night in hopes of solutions.
All the names, all the pictures, all the headlines big and small saved for mysterious or not mysterious reasons.
Behind me, Crumley snorted. “Horse apples! You going to commune with news that was dead as soon as it was printed?”
“By dawn, sure, they just might drop off the wall, slide under my eyelids, and get stuck in the creative adhesive in my brain.”
