I gave him the mobile one. We shook hands and he headed off to do doctorly stuff, or maybe, if my smell was still vaguely intact, grab a sly cig. I was preparing to leave when a tall, stern-looking priest literally marched up to me. They ever needed a poster boy for the clergy or the Gestapo, this guy was it. A shock of steel gray hair, beautifully cut. I know, as I have the other kind. The cheap bad version. His black suit was immaculate. If Armani was doing a clerical line, he’d got the best of the bunch. Shit, I mean, if the current pope was releasing a CD wearing Gucci slippers, anything was up for grabs.

His face was deep tanned and I finally understood what an aquiline nose meant.

His eyes matched his hair.

Steel.

He moved like an athlete, assured, confident, and I thought,

“A player.”

A tiny pin in his lapel, shining in its gold almost-simplicity.

Opus Dei.

Memo to myself,

“Watch your wallet.”

He extended his hand, said, not asked,

“Mr. Jack Taylor.”

I took his hand, said,

“Yes.”

His grip was like the granite workers in Connemara. He smiled.

Fucking great teeth. I had great teeth but they weren’t my own.

He said,

“I’m Father Gabriel.”

Like I should know?

I asked,

“Like the Archangel?”

Too easy, but what the hell, how often do you get a Dan Brown moment, especially when he said,

“You know your angels?”

I countered,

“And my demons.”

The smile vanished. Just folded its tent and fucked off. He asked,

“Is there somewhere… less public we might talk?”

I bit down, asked,

“The confessional?”

He was seriously tiring of me, so I said,

“The River Inn, across the road, does a rather good lunch.”

I added the rather just to keep him off balance.