The Violet Hour Read Free

that very unpriestlike tattoo he had gotten in the navy.
    Gil Strauss, the rectory handyman at St Francis, had called and left a message the night before, reminding Nicky of the upcoming food drive. Nicky hadn’t talked to his cousin Joseph in a while, and figured to kill two birds here. No pun.
    Click. ‘This is Father LaCazio,’ the voice said weakly. Nicky put the gym sock over the phone and lowered his voice, wondering if this was the right time for a practical joke. He doubted it, but he plunged ahead anyway.
    ‘Yes, Father LaCazio, I was wondering if you could tell me how to make holy water.’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘I want to make my own holy water. Can you tell me how to do it?’
    Pause. ‘You want to make your own holy water,’ Joseph said, a fathomless well of patience when it came to his flock. ‘At home.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Nicky said. ‘I saw the recipe once. It said, “Put the water in a pan, put the pan on the stove, and boil the Hell out of it.”’
    There was a brief silence, then: ‘I’m going to kill you, Nicky.’
    ‘Boil the Hell out of it. C’mon. It was funny. Admit it.’
    ‘Not that funny,’ Joseph said, laughing anyway. Then, after the appropriate pause, ‘How’s your father?’
    The question reminded Nicky that they were all getting to be an age when a long-delayed phone call usually meant a death, a sickness, something bad. This time, everyone was okay. ‘He’s good, Joseph. The same. You know. Still chasing the waitresses around Fort Myers.’
    ‘God bless ’im,’ Joseph said. ‘He’s a good-looking man, your father.’
    ‘Gets it from me.’
    ‘You wish,’ Joseph said. ‘And how’s your sister?’
    ‘She’s fine. Everybody’s fine.’
    ‘So what’s up? You gonna make it to the food drive, help out on the dock?’
    ‘I’ll be there.’
    ‘Donating some canned goods too, right?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Good, good . . .’ Joseph said, drifting off.
    The two men fell silent for a few moments. Nicky sensed a weariness in his cousin, who was usually the one to cheer him up, clerical duty and all. He asked. ‘What’s the matter, cuz? You don’t sound too good. And what’s with you rolling out of bed at eight o’clock in the morning?’
    ‘Long story, Nicky. We’ve had kind of a tragedy around here over the last few days. I didn’t get to bed until four o’clock this morning.’ There was a slight pause; Nicky heard his cousin draw a troubled breath, release it slowly. ‘Johnny Angelino is dead.’
    ‘ What ?’ Nicky said. John Angelino was one of his cousin’s oldest friends. Joseph had been elated to learn recently that Father John was finally transferring to St Francis after fifteen or so years at other parishes in the diocese. And now this. ‘What happened?’
    ‘It’s not a pretty thing, Nicky. They say he overdosed on heroin. There’s an article in the paper this morning.’
    ‘Holy—’ Nicky began, then bit back his holy shit , considering the circumstances. He had met John Angelino once and remembered being impressed with the man’s striking looks and calm, affable manner. Father John could have been a recruitment poster for the priesthood.
    ‘They say he was with a prostitute. They say she fell from a window,’ Joseph said, the anger in his voice now outpacing the grief. ‘Needless to say, it’s been pretty rough around here.’
    ‘Did you know he was . . . uh . . . you know . . .’
    ‘Not a clue,’ Joseph said, lowering his voice. ‘And that’s what pisses me off more than anything. I walk around thinking I have some sort of divine insight into the human condition.’
    ‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ Nicky said. ‘It can’t possibly be your fault.’
    ‘I don’t know . . .’ A few moments of silence, then, ‘Listen, Gil just walked in, and I gotta go. You guys work out a time. I’ll call you in the next few days, we’ll talk.’
    ‘Okay, cuz.’
    ‘God bless you,’ Joseph said.
    ‘Thanks,’