With sack of groceries in hand and one pocket of his coat a wide open, bullet-punched mess, the soggy priest went into the nearest pub to get dry. The crowded counter diverted him to a table by the window, where a cracked pane breathed knives into his face.
"Evening," said the same voice he'd mistaken in the alley for Bob Dylan's, belonging to the leonine youth in dredlocks. "Sorry to bother you, father, but I wanted to apologize."
"Keep it down," Rob said, "or they'll hear you."
"Them? But they's the ones told me who you are, Father Barclay."
Rob pulled the sack off the table and set it beside the wall. "Go ahead," he told the boy, nodding toward the other chair, "we might as well have a party."
A tall showpiece blonde brought them glasses and told Rob not to worry, the owner heard about his troubles and it was a donation for the parish. Standing behind the counter was the man inherited the place from his father, looking more construction worker than bartender with his build. He gave a little wave and Rob tilted his head back in acknowledgment, a smile too much to ask but the kindness appreciated.
TO BE CONTINUED
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