17
It had been years since Brother Armagh had been to the American West Coast. During his prison ministry in Chicago, he had been to San Francisco several times, and he was shocked by the change that seemed to have taken place since his last visit. Back then, the city was lively, vibrant, full of bustle, with people on the streets, buskers playing music, restaurants overflowing, pop-up art markets in vacant lots. Today, there were some big, new, shiny buildings to be sure, but they seemed empty and forlorn. The city had a postapocalyptic air to it, as if most of the population had disappeared in some disaster—all except the poor and forsaken homeless, who had started spreading from the Tenderloin into other neighborhoods.
He called the driver the Vatican had set up for him—a silent mouse of a man—and slipped into the back of the car to the address he had for Javier Castillo. He had contemplated at length what would be the best way to approach the man—whether to call him ahead of time or just show up. The Vatican had provided him a file on Castillo, which contained details about the man’s life, including his cell phone number and email address. In the end, Armagh had opted to show up unannounced. Calling ahead would allow Castillo to prepare a response or, worse, vanish. He was a criminal, after all. Better to surprise and corner him unprepared.
As he stood below the building, he felt a twinge of misgiving. The file said Castillo was well-off—family money, supposedly—but this was more than just money. The man lived in a beautiful glass low-rise condoin the Marina District, with unobstructed views of the Golden Gate Bridge and the boats in the bay. Armagh could only imagine how much it cost—millions, to be sure. This Javier Castillo was no common thief or dysfunctional obsessive. A man with this kind of lifestyle had risked a great deal to steal that relic, and he must have had an important reason to do so. But what could that reason be? Either way, it was highly unlikely Castillo would give the relic back to him without pressure being brought to bear, and as he looked up at the gorgeous low-rise, Armagh felt the answer was to come down on Castillo like a ton of bricks and threaten him with criminal prosecution. A fellow like this had so much to lose. Appealing to his better nature would be useless. Putting theliteralfear of God in him was the way to go.
Brother Armagh now approached the building at a brisk walk, and as he neared the door, it was whisked open by a doorman in a blue uniform with red piping, who greeted him with fake geniality. Armagh entered a lobby of chrome and marble. There, at the far end, a second uniformed gentleman sat behind a counter.
The person glanced up from his phone, an expression of surprise on his face as he saw that Armagh was a monk.
“Good afternoon, Father,” he said.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said Armagh. “And a lovely afternoon it ’tis.” He laid the Irish accent on thick—that always seemed to impress Americans.
“Yes, Father, a beautiful day. How can I help you?”
“I am here to visit Mr. Javier Castillo,” said Armagh. “In apartment 5C.”
“I’m sorry,” said the man. “But Mr. Castillo is out of town. Did you have an appointment?”
“No, I’m just an old friend,” Armagh lied, feeling guilty but not overly so. It was exciting, playing the role of an investigator. “I found myself unexpectedly in town and thought I’d drop in. Where has he gone, if I may ask, and when is he expected back?”
At this, the man looked uneasy. “I’m sorry, Father, but we have strict rules about giving out any information about our tenants.”
Armagh brought forth a smile. “Not even to his old friend and priest?”
“I’m sorry, it’s the rules.”
Armagh could see that the man was not going to be shaken. “Ah well, I’ll have to catch up with him another time.”
As he turned to leave, the man said, “I can take your name and let him know you stopped by when he returns.”
Giving out his name would not be a good idea. “Not necessary, sir. I’ll just give him a call later.”
He crossed the lobby, and the man in the uniform opened the door. He found himself on the sidewalk in front of the building, wondering what to do now. Castillo had been fired from his position at the university, so he would get no help there. He ran some sort of UFO organization, but it was rather secretive and the Vatican had not been able to dig up any contacts there. Castillo belonged to a fancy club, but Armagh suspected he’d run into the same brick wall of privacy.
He decided to stroll around the block and get himself a cup of coffee while he pondered the problem. As he turned the corner of North Point and Divisadero, he saw, God bless, an elegant little espresso shop. He strolled to it and went inside. The place was empty, except for a brawny man with a big beard and lumberjack shirt behind the bar, who looked like he should have been on the American frontier chopping wood instead of manning a fancy espresso machine.
“Good afternoon to you, sir,” Armagh said cheerfully, again laying on the Irish brogue.
“Afternoon. What can I get you?” the man asked.
“A triple shot of espresso, if you don’t mind,ristretto e forte.”
“Coming right up.”
Armagh pretended to peruse the pastries in a case. “I wonder, sir,” he said, “if you know a dear old friend of mine who lives around the corner, by the name of Javier Castillo?”
“Javi? Sure. He comes here every morning.” There was a sound like the blasting of air from the espresso machine and a rumbling vibration that shook the entire shop, and then a cup of espresso with a lovely thick head of crema was set down in front of him. Just as Brother Armagh liked it.
“But not this morning,” said Armagh, “as I understand he’s away.”
“Yeah. He said he’d be gone a week.”
Armagh leaned forward earnestly, gripping the edge of the counter.“It is of utmost importance that I get in touch with him. You see, a member of our congregation—his godmother—is extremely ill. So ill that, frankly, I’m not sure she’ll last the week. They had a falling-out, years ago, but I know he would want to be there… for her passing.”
The man stroked his beard. “Well, I’m not sureexactlywhere he went off to. He used a sort of vulgar expression that I wouldn’t want to repeat to a man of the cloth.”
