"You don't want to see me take such a lead off first base that I get cut down and blow my chance of sliding home with the winning run." Father Barry grinned.

"I believe that expresses the idea," Father Donoghue smiled, "although I still think hurling has baseball beat a mile as a national sport."

"You foreigners have strange ideas." Father Barry grinned.

"Now to get down to cases," the Pastor said, wiping his lips and pushing the tea tray away. "I'm afraid I will have to forbid you to form a Longshoremen's Committee of St. Timothy's. I understand that was to be the name of it. I feel that would involve us far too directly in the interunion conflicts of the waterfront."

"Check," Father Barry said. "How about the basement chapel? Can we still use it for the protest meeting on Runty Nolan the boys are getting up for Sunday night? It's the eve of the Crime Commission hearings. Runty wasn't the most conscientious parishioner we ever had, but he did manage to show up for Mass whenever he was sober enough to find his way."

"If you can put the proof in my hands-in case the Bishop should call for it-that such a meeting cannot be held safely any place else in Bohegan. In that case I'll go along."

"And our mimeograph machine? The boys want to hand out a leaflet on Runty. He was popular with a lot of the fence-sitters. They want to run off what I said on the dock yesterday-and pass it out along the waterfront."

Father Donoghue sighed. "Since you have said it, I suppose they have a right to circulate it. As far as you are concerned it is a calculated risk. You'll find longshoremen and the business and political interests lining up for and against-er, Barryism. I think it would be best if our church was not associated with that. In other words, I want to make it very clear what you are forbidden to do, what you are permitted to do with my authority and protection, and what you may do on your own as an American citizen expressing your own opinion."

"Thanks for laying it on the line," Father Barry said.

The careworn but oddly boyish face of the old priest lit up with a faint smile. "If some of our parishioners want to borrow the mimeograph machine to run off something on their own, I don't believe I would have any objection."

"Father, I couldn't ask for more than that," Father Barry said. "You're solid."

"I'm a feeble reed leaning on the mercy of our Lord," said Father Donoghue. "But I'm an old reed. I've weathered some storms."

"And you're shoring this house against the next one," Father Barry said.

"Which reminds me," the Pastor said. "Be sure you don't slack off on any of your parish duties. You'd better not leave yourself vulnerable on any count right now. Arm yourself against the charge that you're shirking your regular responsibilities in order to interfere in a labor dispute."

"Which reminds me" Father Barry said. "I only have five minutes to wash up before hearing confessions." He took his leave of the old Pastor, who would never be more than a poor parish priest, and for reasons that Father Barry was beginning to appreciate.

"Take your time with the penitents." Father Donoghue's cautionary humor-touched words followed Father Barry into the hallway. "Don't brush them off with a snap judgment because you're in a hurry to get to other things. Hearing confession can either be an art or a routine."

In the stuffy confession box Father Barry tried to lose himself in the frailties of the poor sinners who mumbled through the dark screen their misdeeds and wrong thoughts, their mortal and venal commissions and omissions. An old man had pinched a plump middle-aged buttocks on a stairway. "It was right in front of me, Father. God help me. I just couldn't resist it, Father." Three Hail Marys and one Our Father. A teamster had stolen a side of beef. Father Barry tried to make of himself a scale to weigh these sins. "Six Hail Marys and three Our Fathers and make a really good act of contrition." Adultery. Failure to attend Mass on three successive Sundays. Calling your wife a bad name. Shoplifting from a Jewish department store. And a girl of eleven who had persuaded a little neighbor boy to lower his pants so she could examine the difference.

As Father Barry doled out the penances and prayed with the penitents for the cleansing of their immortal souls, he was guilty of a slight venal sin of his own. Instead of giving himself fully to the confessional experience, as the Pastor had cautioned him, he found his mind wandering back to the sins of the waterfront that seemed to him a graver lapse from the plan of God, for it involved more than the sins one commits against oneself. The sins against humanity on the docks were chain-reaction sins, turpitude on a wholesale, community, harborwide and even nationwide scale. While the frightened child with her natural, Eve-like curiosity must learn the wonder of sex in some deeper, later way, still her vice seemed to Father Barry a tiny one compared to the brazen denial of Christ's love that raged on the docks. Johnny Friendly was proud of his attendance at Monsignor O'Hare's Church of the Sacred Heart. He and his mother were a familiar pair at every Sunday Mass. How much did Johnny Friendly bare of himself when he made confession? How much of the black worldliness filtered through the screen of the booth? To what extent did the priests under O'Hare over at the Sacred Heart, in the newer section of Bohegan, press men like Friendly to confess their crimes of extortion, plunder and intimidation? To rob a man of his dignity is to rob him of the glory and mystery of his birthright; surely no less a sin than the more traditional plucking of a girl's virginity. That is what Father Barry was thinking as he listened to the young voices and the old voices reciting their ageless imperfections.

He still had a great many things to do before lunch, including a call on Mrs. Glennon to find out if her wayward husband Beanie was bringing the money home. Otherwise Father Barry would have to track him down and get it off him before he spread it around the bars. To gauge his time, Father Barry stepped out of the box a moment to see if the line of penitents was reaching its end.

Sitting in an empty pew was the young tough who had shown up at the basement meeting for Joey-Terry Malloy. He was crouched down, his face lowered and his hands pressed against his head. He seemed jumpy and rose quickly when he saw the priest. "Hey, I wanna talk to ya," he said gruffly.

"You mean you're waiting to be heard in there?" Father Barry said, thumbing toward the booth.

"Yeah, yeah. I guess so," Terry said uncomfortably.

"Wait a few minutes," Father Barry said. "That old lady's ahead of you."

He bent his head to pass through the black curtain into the box. With his ear against the screen he listened to the feeble voice struggle to think of a sin worthy of absolution. "Bless me Father, for I have sinned," she mumbled. "I lost my temper with the janitor for not coming up to fix the toilet. I scolded him something terrible."

Father Barry reminded her that a tenement janitor in the winter time can be a very busy man and that a little Christian understanding of his daily trials might get the faulty plumbing repaired more rapidly than angry words. He gave her one Hail Mary, absolved her in God's name, and dismissed her with a "God bless you, and pray for me."

Then he stepped quickly out of the almost airless booth, wiped the perspiration off his forehead, and hurried back to Terry.

"Lissen, I wanna talk to ya," Terry said impatiently.

Father Barry stared at him. The boy looked grimy, as if he hadn't shaved. The arrogant composure, the familiar, cocksure, street-corner smirk he had carried into the basement chapel the other evening were gone.

"That's no way to talk to a priest," Father Barry said. "I don't care for myself but ..." He touched his stole.

"Okay, okay, but I gotta talk to somebody. I need a-. How's about you stick your head back in there"-Terry nodded toward the confessional-"and listen to me a minute."

"How long has it been since you've been in this church-any church?" Father Barry asked.

Terry shrugged. "I dunno. I think I come in with Charley Easter a year ago."

"You've been pretty far away from us," Father Barry said. "I don't think you're ready to go to confession. Why don't you get back in the swing, and start examining your conscience?"

"Lissen, Father, do you have to make such a big deal out of it? I got somethin' I wanna tell ya."

"What brought you here, Terry? Can you tell me that first?"

"I'm here, aint that enough? That stuff you was sayin' on the dock yesterday about Runty. Sure, I know Runty was gettin' ready to stool but"-he hunched his shoulders in an expressive helpless gesture again-"but he had balls. He got a lot of kicks out of life. And then this Doyle broad. And those goddamn pigeons of Joey's." He wiped across his mouth and nose with the back of his hand in the defensive gesture of a boxer trying to smear the blood off his face. "I tell ya, Father, it's got me so I gotta come in here and sit down to find out what gives with me."

"Kid, I've got to change into my street clothes and make a call," Father Barry said. "Sure, something's eating you. That's your conscience. It's been buried in there pretty deep. It's like a clean white tooth covered with green scum and grit. You don't brush that away in five minutes."

"You mean you won't buy me in there, huh?"

Father Barry shook his head. "Not yet. I've got to run now. Why don't you stay here and pray? Try St. Jude. He's sort of a specialist on fellers who've got evil deep-rooted in 'em. He converted plenty of barbarians."

"Yeah? And how did he wind up?"

"Beaten to death with a broadaxe," Father Barry said. "Stay here and think about him. Pray to him. He's a saint of desperate cases. Ask him to intercede for you. Maybe something'll happen." He started rapidly toward the sacristy. "I'll see you later."

"Hey," Terry called after him, but Father Barry was hurrying down the side aisle.

A few minutes later, when Father Barry came down the steps of the church, two at a time, on his way to the Glennons', Terry was outside waiting for him.

"What is this, a brush-off?" Terry said.

"That was a real quickie of a prayer," Father Barry said, crossing the street into the park. A common pigeon was perched on General Pulaski's head, which was turning a mottled green with oxidation. Father Barry had long legs and was moving them in such rapid strides that Terry had to trot occasionally to keep up with him.

"Lissen, Father, I don't wanna pray. Hell, why kid ya, I'd be fakin' it if I prayed. But I got somethin' that feels like it's bustin' me open inside-like a fist was in there beltin' me from the inside ..."

Father Barry kept walking.

"Lissen to me, goddamn it, don't pull that high-and-mighty stuff," Terry half begged, half bullied. "Hell, the other night you was beggin' for someone to give you a lead on Joey Doyle."

Father Barry stopped and studied him.

"Oh? You got a lead?"

"Lead, hell." Terry almost shouted. "It was me, understan', it was me!" He grabbed the priest so fiercely by the arm that Father Barry thought for a moment he was going to attack him. Father Barry wrenched the arm of his overcoat free.

"You been up all night, on the bottle?"

"What difference?" Terry said, excited. It was like sticking a knife into your own carbuncle. You put it off as long as possible, but then it felt good to feel the pus ooze out. It hurt and felt good to squeeze the sore lips of the boil and empty out the infection. "I'm tellin' ya it was me, Father. I'm the one who set Joey Doyle up for the knock-off."

"Well, I'll be damned," Father Barry said.

"Now this is strictly between you and I," Terry said.

"I don't want it that way," Father Barry said. "When you're ready Father Vincent can hear your confession. I want to be free to use whatever you tell me."

"Listen, it's you I feel like tellin' this to. I'm takin' a chance you won't rat on me."

"I'm making no deals, Terry. I won't rat on you, as you put it. But you'll have to ride along on my judgment."

"Why can't I have it like confession?" Terry persisted. "What the hell difference does it make whether it's in that phone booth or out here with Palooskie lookin' over my shoulder?"

"Because you can't have it both ways," Father Barry said. "Now come on. Let's keep walking and give it to me straight. Fish or cut bait. Spill or button up. Go on, I'm listening."

"Well, it started as a favor," Terry began, and then the thumb of truth pressed against the sides of the inflamed lie and the pus oozed out in a relieving flow: "Favor? Who'm I kiddin'? They call it a favor, but you know their favors-it's do it, or else. So this time the favor turns out to be helpin' them whop Joey. But, Father, I didn't know that. I figgered they was only goin' to lean on 'im a little bit. Honest t' God, Father, I never figgered they was goin' t' go all the way."

"You thought they'd just work him over, and that didn't bother you," Father Barry said.

"Yeah, yeah, I thought they'd talk to 'im, try 'n straighten 'im out, maybe push 'im aroun' a little bit, that's all."

"And what I said on the dock yesterday about silence, that's what brought you to me?"

"Well, sorta. I'll tell ya the truth, Father. It's that girl. The Doyle broad. She's got a way of lookin' at me. I wanna yell out the whole goddamn truth. All the girls I know are like the Golden Warriorettes, crazy kids. But this Katie is, well, I didn't know they made 'em like that. She's so square, it's funny. I walk down the street with her and I feel like-well, like I'm back in trainin' and I just stepped out of the shower. I'd come home with that liniment smell on me and I'd feel clean for a while."

"What are you going to do about this?" Father Barry cut him off brusquely.

"What d'ya mean, do? What d'ya mean?"

"You think you should know a thing like this and keep it to yourself?"

"I told ya, this was just between you and I," Terry said quickly.

"In other words you're looking for an easy out," Father Barry said. "You tell it to me so I can help you carry the load. But it's still an open cesspool for other people to fall into-and drown in. Like Runty Nolan. Isn't that right?"

"You're a hard man," Terry said.

"I'd better be," Father Barry said. "I'm having a hard day."

"You should talk," Terry said. "A week ago I was doin' lovely. Now I'm in more trouble than a one-armed fiddle player."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"What? What? About what?"

"The Commission? Your subpoena?"

"How come you know about that?" Terry said defensively.

"You know the waterfront Western Union," Father Barry said. "I heard they were looking for you. Well? What are you going to do about it?"

"I dunno. I dunno. It's like carryin' a monkey around on your back."

Father Barry nodded. "A question of who rides who."

They had reached the grilled fencing at the far end of the park. Beyond them at the river's edge a giant pile driver began pounding an ear-shattering rhythm. A new pier was under construction.

"I'm no rat," Terry said. "And if I spill, my life aint worth a home-made nickel."

Father Barry stopped walking and put it to him hard. "And how much is your soul worth if you don't? Who are you loyal to? Murderers? Killers? Hijackers? You've got the nerve to put the bite on me for absolution when you're still buddy- buddies with that human meat you think are men?"

"Lissen, what are you askin' me to do, put the finger on me own brother? And Johnny Friendly. I don't care what he done, he was always a hunnerd percent with me. When I was a snot-nose kid, everybody lookin' to rap me in the head, Johnny Friendly used t' take me to ball games. He done that for a lot of us kids. Just pick us up off the street 'n take us in to the ball games. I seen Gehrig 'n Lazzeri. 'N Hubbell 'n Terry in the Polo Grounds."

"Ball games!" Father Barry exploded. "Don't break my heart. I wouldn't care if Johnny Friendly gave you a life's pass to the Polo Grounds. So you got a brother, huh? Well, let me tell you something. You've got some other brothers, and they're getting the short end while your Johnny's getting mustard on his face at the Polo Grounds."

Father Barry grabbed Terry's arm in a tight grip. "Listen, I think you've got to tell Katie Doyle. I think you owe it to her. I know it's a hell of a thing to ask you, but I think you ought to tell her."

Terry pulled his arm away angrily. "Hell, ya don't ask much, do ya?" Terry worked the fingers of his right hand into his scalp. "Ya know what you're askin'?"

"Never mind, forget it." Father Barry said abruptly. "I'm not asking you to do anything. It's your own conscience that's got to do the asking."

"Conscience ..." Terry muttered as if he were trying to translate a foreign word. "You mean that bill of goods you fellas keep tryin' to sell? Conscience 'n soul 'n all that stuff? That stuff c'n drive you nuts."

"You're making me late for Mrs. Glennon," Father Barry said as he walked away from Terry, down the steps, out of the park. "Good luck," he said crisply over his shoulder.

"Is that all you got to say to me?" Terry called after him. He hated this smart-aleck priest, but he didn't want him to walk away. He didn't want to be left alone.

"You want to have it both ways, brother," Father Barry called back over his shoulder. "Well, you got it."

He took the small park steps to the street-level sidewalk three at a time at so rapid a pace he almost seemed to be running.

"The round-collar bastard leaves me standin' here with my ass hangin' out," Terry muttered to himself in a fury of confusion.

The pile driver had been silent for a few moments, but now it swung into action again, pounding pounding pounding its steel pilings down through the soft bottom muck to the river floor. Pound! Pound! Pound! Pound! It echoed through all of Port Bohegan.

"Goddamn the goddamn noise," Terry said, with his hand to his head. A cock pigeon on the frost-yellowed grass was fussing himself up for the benefit of a tacky female cull. He blew out his chest and spread his tail, cooed importantly and cakewalked around her. Terry watched the performance and thought of his own birds. Of Swifty with his powerful frame, his shiny blue-purple neck and his fine, powder-blue head. He wished he was a carefree kid again, running from the cops, swimming in the scummy river and watching his birds skim across the sky.

Twenty.