“Me?” Father Mike laughed lightly. “And which of them believes in God?” He watched Simolzak shrewdly. “And speaking of God, I ought to urge you to come to confession. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I became a Buddhist.”

“Didn’t we all, then?”

The door opened quickly, as if it were being kicked in. They turned to see Sal Marino standing just inside the room, dressed in baggy slacks and a too-tight T-shirt. He was a small, wiry man, dark and nervous. His face was etched and hardened, and his long hair was streaked with gray. His hooded eyes scanned the club for dangerous faces, shadowed threats. Finding none, he nodded to the two men, walking slowly to the table. He nodded again to Simolzak, then peered for a moment at Father Mike, and finally extended a thin, hesitant hand.

“I remember you.”

“Kind of you to say so,” answered Father Mike. “And how was Japan?”

“Cold and damp.”

“And what were you doing there?” teased Father Mike knowingly.

Simolzak interrupted, gesturing toward a seat. “Welcome back, Sal. I’ll order you a beer.”

Marino slowly took the seat, now squinting at Father Mike as if he’d been deeply insulted. “I was running whores, but I lost my license. So I got myself an office in Fuchu Prison and made paper bags.”

“Well,” said Father Mike, knowing what Marino was saying but deliberately ignoring it, “you must be one of a very few Americans who’ve been able to do business successfully inside Japan.”

“I could make about forty bags on a good day, depending on how cold my cell was,” shrugged Marino. “When it was colder, my fingers got kind of stiff so I had to move slower. When it was warmer and I felt good, sometimes I could hit fifty.”

“Forty bags a day,” nodded Father Mike. “A lot of bags.”

“I figure I made about twenty-five thousand bags. Think about that, Father. I personally reached out and touched twenty-five thousand Japanese, in less than two years. Consumers. People with careers and educations. And I didn’t even have to leave my . . . office.”

“And how did you come to this good fortune?” asked Father Mike.

“I lost a fight with an Okinawan cop. I thought he’d be easy. I mean, I had two keys of marijuana on me and I knew I was toast, so I thought I’d take him out with a quick punch and run off into the alley. But as soon as I pulled my fist back, the little bastard walloped my chest with a henbo stick, then floored me with a quick uchi taoshi. Right in the fucking throat. I couldn’t move. Thought I was going to be a quadriplegic the rest of my life.”

“Tough little bastard, indeed,” nodded Father Mike.