Codename: Mascara, part 4

WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ IS:

IRRELIGIOUS, IRREVERENT, AND IRRELEVANT.

THE PEOPLE, PLACES, AND EVENTS CONTAINED IN ST MUCKYMUCK ARE COMPLETELY FICTIONAL.  ANY AND ALL RESEMBLANCES TO REAL PEOPLE, REAL PLACES, AND/OR REAL EVENTS PAST, PRESENT, OR FUTURE IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.  

IN FACT, ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ANYTHING AT ALL WILL BE REMARKABLY COINCIDENTAL.

Monday: 2:00 pm

Archdiocesan Office Building

A long, black Mercedes pulled in front of the building on Scarlett Friars Street.  A tall, very good-looking and well-built Mexican gentleman dressed in a sleek black suit got out and opened the passenger door.  The driver extended a hand and a well-manicured one with an enormous ring took the driver’s and the Archbishop emerged, in full regalia.  He adjusted his mink miter  “Muchas gracias, Juan Carlos,” said the Archbishop.  “Right on schedule as always.  I don’t know how I’d ever get anywhere in life without you telling me where to go.”

“I’m so happy to help,” said the driver, a thick Latino accent coloring his speech.  “De nada, de nada….”

The Archbishop bowed to him and then swept him away dismissively.  He began to cross the street when a police officer pulled up.  “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” he said.  He was a well-built young man sporting a pair of glasses that resembled those in any given episode of CHiPs.

“Good morning, Ethan,” said the Archbishop, tipping his miter slightly.  “I say, those glasses are looking smashing on you, my boy.”

“You think?” said Officer Ethan, adjusting them in a very masculine way.

“Oh aye, wherever did you get them?”

“Just bought them off the new Kilcathclyde auction site.”

“I heard about that from a slapping – um – strapping CHiP – uh chap the other day.  What’s it called?”

“kForth,” responded Officer Ethan.  “Bought them off Erik Estrada himself!”

“Really?” said the Archbishop, his eyebrows disappearing into the mink of the miter.  “I must check that out for myself to see if there’s something I can get off, too.  Well done!”

“Thank you, sir.  You’re looking quite smashing yourself today.  You’ve been getting some sun.”

“Well, I did just get back from an eleven day holiday on the Black Sea.  I’m quite honored that you noticed, Young Ethan.”

“Well, there isn’t much I miss about you, sir,” said the officer politely.

“You’re very kind,” said the Archbishop, bowing slightly.  “Flattery will get you everywhere.”  And he blessed the officer, who responded by making the Sign of the Cross.  “Tell me, Ethan.  Did you notice if the repairman came for my equipment?”

“Yes, sir, he arrived first thing this morning.  I verified his qualifications immediately after he exited his vehicle, sir,” said Ethan.

“Splendid,” said the Archbishop, stamping his staff into the street with joy.  “My equipment will be fully functional very soon, I am quite certain!”

“Indeed, sir,” said Ethan.  “Well sir, I’d best be getting off.”

“Yes, my boy, that goes for both of us.  Especially now that my equipment is functioning.  Lord knows, I’ll have much catching up to do!  Good day to you, Officer Ethan, good day!”

“Good day, sir,” he said, speeding off after a quick adjustment of his sun glasses.

The Archbishop made his way into the building where he was greeted cheerfully, as always, by the masculine female security guard.  “Good afternoon, Archbishop Biscotti,” she said, in her unusually high soprano voice.

“Good afternoon, Jo,” said the Archbishop, bowing slightly.

“How are you today?” she said, bubbly.

“I’m in excellent health and spirits, my dear, thank you.  How are you?” the Archbishop said politely.

“No complaints today, sir, no complaints,” she said.

“Oh, how wonderful,” he said.  He then leaned in slightly and lowered his voice, looking around.  “How is your infection, my dear?  I take it that the rash is clearing?”

“Yes, sir,” she said.  “No visible signs remaining.  Just a slight itch and the occasional night sweat.”

“Good.  Glad to hear it.  I’ll say a prayer for the itching to subside, soon,” he said.

“You’re so kind, sir,” she said.  “Truly.”

“Oh, thank you, my dear,” he said, patting her arm.  Then he pulled her closer.  “Did anything arrive for me over the weekend, Jo?”

“No, sir,” she said.  They were practically whispering now.

“Be sure to let me know right away, won’t you?” he said, peering at Jo over his glasses.  “I’ve been waiting for weeks.”

“Oh, terrible sir.  You know, the Kilcathclyde Gazetteering Brigade is gaining a reputation for losing parcels.  Last night I heard on the KBC that the KGB loses a million pieces of mail a year!  A million!” she said, pounding her fist on the desk.

“Good Lord,” said the Archbishop, clearly outraged.  “I haven’t been able to watch the news in my office because of my malfunction.  A million pieces of mail?”

“Makes you wonder where it all goes, doesn’t it?” she replied.

“Indeed, it does!” he said.

“Maybe that’s hell, sir,” she quipped, seriously.  “Sitting around sorting all the KGB’s lost mail for the recipients who are in purgatory.”

“Oh, aye,” he agreed, gravely.  “That would be dreadful, wouldn’t it?”

“I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” said Jo.  “Just call me Emma Peal!”  They both laughed.

“Oh, I know her very well!” said the Archbishop.  “I have dinner with her frequently!”

“My goodness, sir,” she said, clearly awestruck.  “You certainly do get around.”

“Yes, I do, my dear,” he said, laughing loudly.  “Yes, I do.  Well, I’d best be getting off checking my equipment!”

“Oh, it’s all in order, sir, I’m sure.  The repairman was here at the crack of dawn.  Very nice, chap!”

“Splendid!” he responded and he made his way down the hall toward the lift.  He heard Jo singing, quite loudly, “Nothing walks like a dame..dum dumm…Nothing talks like a dame…dum dumm…”  He stopped at the lift and bowed at the picture of the Holy Father outside the lift and then adjusted his miter in the glass that protected the picture.  He then winked and blew a kiss at himself.  “Splendid, you stoatir!”

Exiting the lift on the second floor, he processed down the hall, blessing everyone as he passed them.  They all curtsied and bowed out of respect.

“Good morning, Mr. Leach,” he said, approaching the effeminate boy outside his office.  “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten my key.  Can you use yours?”

Mr. Leach let him into the huge mahogany doors into his resplendent office.

“Your equipment is fully functional, sir.  The repairman did a smashing job.  Had everything sorted in less than an hour.”

“Splendid, Stacy,” he said.  “Splendid.”  He picked up the telephone receiver and put it to his ear.  “Oh, that’s music to my ears.”  The very faint sound of a cuckoo clock could be heard announcing it was 3:00.

There was a soft knock on the door.  “Stacy, would you please answer that.  I’ve got to freshen up.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Stacy.  He crossed the large, plush burgundy and gold office and opened the very tall, mahogany door.  Into the office strode the most beautiful young man imaginable.  He was of average height and his hair was as black as possible.  His olive skin was radiant setting off his black, twinkling eyes.  He was lean and moved with the grace of a cat.  His short pants which came down just below his knees revealed bulbous and defined calves.  He set down his backpack and a large portfolio bag.

Stacy Leach was stunned into silence at the sight of this beautiful boy.  “Goodness,” he said.

“Is everything all right?” asked the boy.

“Oh yes, quite,” said Stacy.  “You must be the painter.”

“Yes, that’s right, I’m Rafaello, call me, Rafa,” said the boy, smiling.  His teeth were perfectly straight and as pearly white as possible.  The smile somehow made his complexion even more radiant.

“What a pleasure to meet you,” said Stacy, taking the boy in more fully.  “Yes, you’ll do nicely.  You may set up your equipment over there.”

The Archbishop came out from a hidden door to the left of the fireplace.  “Mr. Leach, please call the painter…”

“No need, Your Grace, he’s already here and getting his tools up.”

“Splendid!” said the Archbishop!  He made his way over to Rafa.  “My dear boy, how are you?”

“I’m well, Your Grace,” said Rafa, smiling.  The Archbishop seemed to bend slightly at the knee.

“And your pussy?” asked the Archbishop.

“A miraculous recovery, sir.  She recovered!”

“Well, wonderful!  I prayed for both of you last night and this morning.”

“Thank you, sir, it worked!”

“I’ll say it did,” said the Archbishop.  “What position would you like me in, my boy?”

“How about over there?  Perhaps sitting at your desk,” said Rafa.

“I’m going to get to work,” said Stacy, clearing his throat and exiting the office.

“Yes, good idea.  Lord knows, we’ll not be fooling around in here, will we, my boy?”

“No, sir,” replied Rafa, setting up his canvas and easel.  “Now just sit at your desk.”

“Would you prefer I was fondling my staff?” asked the Archbishop, pounding it into the burgundy rug, authoritatively.

“Yes, keep it in your hand.  That will look very strong.”

The Archbishop sat at his desk.  “Shall I pull something out?  Like a stylus or something?”

“Yes, we can position you so it looks like you’re slaving over something very hard,” said Rafa.

“Oh right!  Hard!”  He began rifling through the desk drawers looking for a pen.  “I’ve got an old quill…”  he stopped in mid sentence as he slowly retrieved an envelope from the right hand side.  “I say…what is this?”

He looked up and around and then opened it with great apprehension.  It was a photograph.  He gasped loudly and then rotated it, getting it from various angles.  He quickly looked up at Rafa.  He had noticed nothing.  The Archbishop breathed a sigh of relief and returned to examining the photograph.  Where on earth had it come from?

©2010 Steven Gorman.  All rights reserved.