Father Mulrooney - A Craven Danger Mystery

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was—”

“Yeah, I know, Craven. It was twenty minutes ago. I ain’t even had a chance to wipe the spittle off the confession screen yet. You’re the only guy I know who can’t make it out outta church on one confessional. Maybe you shouldn’t be coming to church with that secretary a yours. Ya cause each other nothin’ but grief. Which ends up causin’ me nothin’ but overtime. I don’t get paid extra for that! And don’t go givin’ me that malarkey about how my reward will be comin’ to me when my time comes, neither. I got a pretty good idea what’s comin’ to me when my time comes. Two deaf ears an’ a case a high blood pressure from listenin’ to the likes of you and that red-headed ticker tape machine ya call Betty Felcher. That woman could talk Rip Van Winkle out of a good night sleep. Now, if ya don’t mind, I got a nice little bottle of twenty year-old Irish hootch collecting dust in the rectory on account of I ain’t been payin’ it the kind of attention it deserves. So, what is it this time?”

“Father Mulrooney, it’s like this—“

“You been puttin’ a pinch on the poor box again?”

“I was eight years old when I did that!”

“The only thing that’s changed since then is ya hat size, Craven. And what’s that smell ya brought in with ya? My nose hairs are startin’ ta twitch. I ain’t smelled a smell like that since the trenches in France.”

“Ya see, it’s like this, Father—“

“Ya really gotta start bathin’ more than once a week, dear boy. You may be winnin’ the battle on savin’ soap an’ water, but ya losin’ the war on good personal hygeine.”

“Father Mulrooney! Can I get a word in edgewise? I thought your job was to listen. But all you ever do is yap away like a burlesque comic when all we’re really waitin’ for is the stripper.”

“I see, Mr. Danger, sir.  Maybe you’d like the good Lord himself to make a personal appearance in the confessional so’s you can air out ya grievances about the life ya been givin’. Like ya never had no say in the matter. Ya wanted to be a detective. So ya went to some fly-by- night detective school found on the back of a matchbook and got yourself a diploma ta cover the holes on ya wall. Ya put a sign on ya door — Craven Danger Detective Agency -- Have Mercy on Those Who Run From the Man Who Carries the Biggest Gun! — Then ya sit there in that creaky desk chair a yours shootin’ at cockroaches and complain that no one’s beatin’ down your door wavin’ murder mysteries under yer nose. Ya know what? They oughta change the name of this confessional to the whine-ateria. I could charge two bits a head make a fortune off characters like you!”

“Father Mulrooney!“

“I love ya, dear boy, but ya gotta start showin’ some gumption. A little get up and go, go, go! That’s how ya achieve things. The good Lord gave ya a choice. So be or don’t be. It’s all up to you. Get me? Craven?”

“Ah, geez. Are you cryin’, Craven? Oh, go and say two Our Fathers and three Hail Mary’s. But blow your nose first. The good lord don’t like it when ya blubberin’ in His house like that.”

“Thank you, Father! Ya lettin’ me off easy this time.”

“And remember, Detective Danger. Be or don’t be.”

They don’t pay me enough, thought Father Mulroney. I shoulda be a monk and not have to talk ta anyone. Next time I’m bringin’ the whiskey in with me!

“Next!”