The prospect of meeting the cardinal made Devlin nervous, but he couldn’t argue. What the cardinal wanted to do was judge Devlin, exactly what Christians were forbidden to do. But you couldn’t debate theology with a cardinal, especially when the old bastard held your future in his fist. At the age of forty-three Devlin thought he was capable of sitting obediently like a schoolboy in front of a desiccated old bozo asking the most intimate questions. Devlin would be able to deal with his anger. At twenty, thirty, maybe even thirty-five, Devlin would have wanted to slap His Eminence around like a suspect.

“Tuesday,” Devlin said to Loncaric. “South Street Seaport, at that joint where the carrots look like Lucille Ball’s hair.”

“Angel hair julienne,” Loncaric said. “Uh, you know the cardinal is going to be sitting next to Jack Brennan at his Liberty Dinner at the Waldorf Monday night. Their chitchat might impact negatively on your personal timetable, whatever that might be. I’ve been thinking that it’s in Jack Brennan’s interest to let the annulment slide until after the election. Purely a political thing—nothing personal at all. Brennan might even expect you to understand that. Some of our beloved laity object to annulments, you know. They think annulments go to the rich, like the medieval sale of indulgences.”

The beloved laity was right, but Devlin couldn’t say that to Steve Loncaric. Devlin’s bank account was ten grand lighter since he had begun the long walk to Rome to dissolve his marriage. “Those people don’t know the difference between an annulment and a divorce.”

“With no grounds for annulments themselves, they don’t want to know,” Loncaric said. “It isn’t going to help Jack Brennan in the voting booth if they think the Brennans are getting special treatment from Holy Mother Bingo.”

With Devlin and perhaps a few others, Loncaric could be as irreverent as the most ratchet-mouthed lapsed Catholic, which was what Devlin had been before he had fallen in love with Eileen O’Sullivan and started to have thoughts about getting an annulment from Maryellen Brennan. “So what are you telling me?”

“What I’m telling you,” Loncaric said, “is to stay light-hearted. You’ll live longer.”

“I’m forty-three,” Devlin protested. “My meter’s running.”

“What am I saying? See that your taxi’s going to the airport, and live one hell of a long time. Do you know what you’re asking of God? A second life, nothing more or less than that. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“God bless you, too,” Devlin muttered, thinking that Loncaric was cuffing him around for not addressing Eileen’s concern: having a child of her own. Devlin wanted it for her, but if it didn’t happen, all his wanting wouldn’t lift her pain for a split second.

No, it was going to happen. He would do whatever it took.