“He surprised me.” The priest flicked a long light-tar Benson & Hedges out of the pack. “You can print what you want, within reason, but I don’t need city agencies shutting us down because they think this is Love Canal. If you have a good story, just tell me, and you, me, and Father Argerlich will figure out the way to tell it. You want to be critical of this school? By all means. Believe me, I know better than anyone that this place ain’t perfect.” Dallanach took another sip of whiskey and lit the cigarette. Friday vespers were well under way. “But just don’t try to sneak some chickenshit past me. Got it?”

“Got it—will bury the story about Father Argerlich being responsible for the JFK assassination.”

Dallanach chuckled and had that self-satisfied, half-lit glazed look, like he had performed a Jedi mind trick and now he and Mr. Malone were in cahoots. “That you can publish! I want to send that story to the provincial.”

The priest then stood up and came around the desk. He gave Dan a squeeze on the neck and then a push out the door. He squinted through the smoke and the drink and jabbed at the layouts under Dan’s armpit.

“Just make this worth reading again. Be good, Mr. Malone, in all senses of the word.”

Dan raised the Mexican flag at their table, signaling the waiter for a refill on Dr Pepper. For his birthday dinner, he had chosen Santa Anna’s on Webb Chapel, which featured a giant mariachi riding a caballo on the roof. His mother, Anne, ate her soft taco platter (the Ponce de Leon) with a knife and fork, eyeing the refried beans and pico de gallo suspiciously. His father, Pat, was on his second Dewar’s and molared his way through the gristle of his Cabeza de Vaca entrée. Dan had the chicken enchiladas (the de Soto platter) and wolfed down two baskets of chips and salsa.

It seemed everyone in Santa Anna’s that night was celebrating life’s minor victories, and the mariachis were busy serenading anniversaries, birthdays, and the like at each table. Their waiter told the band it was Dan’s cumpleaños, but they misheard and sang something in Spanish to the tune of “He’s a jolly good fellow” very loudly that went on for two verses longer than needed. When they were done, the Malones smiled uncomfortably, Pat thanked them, and Anne asked for some ice to water down her house red.

Dan was given a big IOU in terms of presents from his parents, who reminded him that if he wanted a car next year, he had to be good. So that left him with a Chess King sweater from his aunt Catherine, a horror show of blue and purple pastels. Earlier, in the parking lot of the restaurant, his father had palmed him a ten-dollar bill with a handshake.