Fucking errors!

Echoed,

“You mean the child molesters, the Magdalen Girls, our local bishop who refuses to resign despite the whole country howling for his head?”

He winced.

An actual physical tic appeared under his left eye, began a rat-tat-tat like the drumbeat of the fallen.

He reined it in, said,

“Recovery must come from within. To that end, a group was formed within the church to deal with misconduct before it becomes public.”

I said,

“A splinter group, like the Provos breaking from the official IRA?”

His efforts to control his temper were admirable. He almost sneered,

“I don’t believe we have been accused of bearing arms?”

I said,

“Yet.”

And before he could muster, I added,

“Least with the IRA, we could see the weapons.”

He asked, in a patient, icy tone,

“Might I continue?”

“Go for it, Gabe.”

“Our reform group are known as the Brethren, and, despite your cynicism, Mr. Taylor, we have managed to avoid further unsavory revelations.”

He said avoid. I heard, cover up. I let him drone on.

“Alas, our chief fund-raiser and most active member, Father Loyola Dunne, seems to have disappeared.”

I sat back, let the moment linger, then,

“Let me guess: him and your slush fund?”

He was silent, seething. I pushed, “How much?”

He had to drag it from deep down, gritted, “Three quarters of a million.”

I gave an appreciative whistle, said,

“And you can’t go the official route. You want him found, discreetly, No, let me rephrase that: you want the cash back?”

His eyes burning on me, he said, “In a nutshell, yes.”

I said,

“Tried Vegas?”

His patience with me was well gone. He shook his head, flicked the briefcase again, slid over a photograph, said, “This is Loyola; his details are on the back.”