Sapphire stopped rubbing Simolzak’s back and stood straight up, placing her palms together just underneath her chin, the Buddhist symbol of peace. The small, frail priest walked from the doorway to their table, wearing an unobtrusive short-sleeve pullover that barely showed his priest’s collar. He smiled, returning Sapphire’s gesture, dipping his chin until it touched the top of his joined hands, and greeted her sweetly in her native tongue.

Simolzak gestured grandly to one of the empty seats. “Father Mike, you’re good to join us. Sapphire, get the father a beer, would you?”

“Well, I’ll take just one,” said Father Mike, a phrase Simolzak knew the old priest would continue to repeat with every new round of drinks.

Father Mike had come to Thailand’s mountains nearly thirty years before, as a Redemptorist missionary. For the past twenty years he had ministered to Bangkok’s few and desperately poor Christians, most of whom slaughtered hogs and lived in the ramshackle slums of Klong Toey. The bald, devout missionary was a wily provenance of Christ’s message. To smooth his way with the predominantly Buddhist Thais, he mixed his message with their own cultural symbols. He did not discourage his parishioners from setting up shrines similar to those in Buddhist homes, with a statue of Christ instead of Buddha at the center, on which they left fruit and flower offerings and burned their joss sticks. And Father Mike matched the raucous American expatriate community drink for drink, curse for curse, so long as they allowed him his moment of ministry.

The beers arrived. Simolzak and Father Mike toasted each other and drank Singha from the bottle.

“So, whose party is it?” asked Father Mike.

Simolzak puffed on his cigar. “Well, it’s a double blessing, Father. Sal Marino’s back from jail, and Brandon Condley’s back from . . . hell, I guess. Viet Nam.”

“I doubt that Brandon Condley will ever be back from Viet Nam,” shrugged Father Mike. “And may the Lord bless Sal, because he needs our help and understanding.” A teasing gleam shone in Father Mike’s eyes. “Will they be working with you, then?”

“No, Father. But I think they might find each other’s company useful for the evening.”

“Well, Sal does know where all the bodies are. And I heard that Brandon has been digging them up for the past few years.”

“Exactly,” smiled Simolzak. “Brandon is looking for somebody. And Sal is the man to ask.”

“And what has this got to do with you and me, Theodore?”

“Brandon needs Sal’s help, but as you will recall, they’ve never exactly been the best of friends.” Simolzak watched the door, anticipating their arrivals. He put an arm on Father Mike’s thin shoulder. “I may need your mediation if things get out of hand.”