He was home free. After a lifetime of saving souls, dipping into the collection plate and running from Satan, Fr Mackenzie finally had a shot at retirement. But the Bishop had other plans. And you don't bash the Bishop.
'It's the Randle brothers. They'll be in town next month. Sinners and filthy rich. Could be our biggest score'.
'I told ya, Bish. I'm never goin' back'.
The Bishop looked around the tiny apartment. 'Call this home? You could be in St Anselm's playing chess with the others'.
Fr Mackenzie sighed. He knew the conversation. 'I'm alone, Bish; I am not lonely'.
It was futile, though. For a man like Fr Mackenzie, the action is the juice. He knew it, Bish knew it. And Satan was hovering, waiting for him to make a slip.
'You live simply'.
'Yeah, well, a wise priest once told me: Don't let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out on in 30 seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner. Remember that conversation, Your Grace?'
The Bishop shrugged. 'I'm not an Archbishop yet. My Lord will do. This score, though – the Randle Brothers – you could retire a Monsignor'.
He was retired already, but he needed the action. Bish knew it. They both did. He missed the juice.
'Ah, what the hell. One last job, yeah?'
The Bishop smiled. 'I'll bring the incense. Pack your rosary beads Jack, we're goin' hunting'.
