Me an’ my partner, Nunez, was answering a Code Kent,” ‘Code Kent’ was a well known bit of NYPD slang for a call regarding superheroes and/or supervillains, “at the Times Square subway station. O’Keefe took a deep breath and scratched the back of his head. “So, what’s the matter?” Father John asked, genuinely intrigued. O’Keefe sat the person- a boy, from the jeans and ski jacket that the Father could see under the blanket- on a shabby couch. O’Keefe steered the person into the rectory, followed by Father John. “I think that we oughta take this into the rect’ry.” Officer O’Keefe bustled out the side door to the alley, and quickly came back in with someone whose head was covered by a gray blanket. Well, lem’me get ‘im in here before I say anything more.” “Well, my son, exactly what happened to you?” He quickly checked the cop’s nametag, which said ‘O’Keefe’. ‘Well, John,’ the Father thought to himself, ‘you wanted something interesting to happen.’ You didn’t see blue-suits coming in driveling about trivialities. New York mostly deserved its reputation as one of the toughest cities in the world. “Something’s happened, and I think that we need a Priest.” “This isn’t a Confession, Father.” That’s when Father John saw the strange look in the Cop’s eyes. “Well, get in line, Confession will start as soon as I can get out of these things.” “Excuse me, Father,” the cop said in the slightly nasal accent of Hell’s Kitchen, one of New York’s Irish working class neighborhoods, “but I really need your help.” But before he could make it to the rectory, a uniformed policeman stopped him. Father John finished the liturgy, and went into the rectory to change his vestments. You can only hear about the same sins over and over for so long, before you feel the urge to say ‘For Christ’s Sake, go out and do something Interesting!’īut even nervous old ladies need their hands held. Father John Carmody was leading the Mass, and wasn’t looking forward to hearing Confession from the regulars. Gregory’s was a rather run of the mill, working class Roman Catholic church, tucked away in a not terribly glamorous part of Manhattan. But even those better days weren’t exactly what you’d call Grand. THERE’S AN ANGEL IN FATHER JOHN’S BASEMENT a Whateley Universe story
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