"I asked you a question, cop," said Ratchett. "Are you Irish like our deceased Mister McCarthy?"

"Shhhhh," said Brewster angrily to Remo who was silent.

"When I speak to you, you will answer me," said Ratchett, huffing himself in his chair. "Answer me."

"I don't think I'm Irish," Remo said. It was a bland tone, one used for getting rid of annoying questions and questioners.

"You don't think you're Irish. You don't think. Don't you know? After all, I thought all Irishmen knew they were Irish. Otherwise, why would the little dears all be policemen and priests? I'm playing against a priest, now, you know."

Father Boyle did not look up, but moved his rook from an inactive corner to the center of the board. Ordinarily, it would not be a bad move. But now it was a bad move because Ratchett had more men attacking the square than the priest had defending. Under those circumstances, the priest would succumb.

Ratchett was suddenly quiet and on the board with all his attention. Father Boyle looked over his shoulder and extended his hand to Remo. "Hi, I'm Bob Boyle. We're all a little bit nuts here. I think it's a function of intelligence."

"I'm Remo Pelham," said Remo, taking the hand. Well, pleasant or not, the priest would go with the rest if the word came down. Remo wasn't a judge, just an operative.

"Shhhh," said Nils Brewster.

"Get off it, Nils," said the priest.

"He's not to disturb anyone," Brewster snapped back. "I don't really like his presence here in the first place. If we didn't need federal funding, I wouldn't allow him on the premises. You know how they are, the whole fascistic mentality."

"You're the biggest fascist I've ever met, Nils. And also the worst snob. Now get off it."

Ratchett, red faced, snapped a piece angrily down on the board, putting more pressure on the imperilled square.