Wise Guise

Wise Guise by J.B. Pravda

It was a thing other people had to want to give to a person, even if
that person didn't want it, sometimes because they did eschew it . That
was the giveaway, really, not seeking it out, even questioning its
belonging, that was a clue, a big clue.

There was the always-present danger that, even if someone possessed
wisdom, it would be so diminished by other less valuable qualities that
the tag 'wise-guy' would be what others inevitably volunteered as a
two-word resume. And, within that undesired realm, dwelt persons who
were seen as gangsters, certainly in possession of a certain brand of
wisdom having to do with streets.

Such wisdom belonged to Father Pauli, always knowing the right Bible
passage, quick with a handkerchief or an invitation to a hot meal, or
some drugs. The scam was perfect: knowing he would be protected,
especially if he occasioned a steady stream of sizeable donations to
the Diocese, the really smart money knew their contributions would be
recouped in a short time, in cash this time, so that even the tax-laws
were all to the 'good', the kind of good that accountants liked. And
what the beloved cleric got out of the arrangement money could only buy
in the far East or some other conspicuous locale way outside his
parish. He called it his 'in-kind' return for a job well done.

The slavers with an adequate knowledge of German were a bit more
direct, calling it the perverse thing that it was: 'in-kinder'.

"Things are getting outta hand, Lou" was the report at the monthly
meeting of the multi-ethnic gangs running kidporn throughout the
Western hemisphere.

"What the fuck you talking about, business is way up, and the street
trash is getting younger all the time; what could be wrong?" Lou
Parriste was among a growing complement of businessmen, of all stripes
and professed enterprises, for whom 'wrong' and 'right' were shorthand
for the sufficiency of financial gain.

"Seems that the padre is getting possessive with some of our
merchandise, wants um to hisself" Eddie Flambeau, his main assistant,
told him the wrong part of the balance sheet.

At the semi-annual banquet for the parish building fund Father Pauli's
seat had been empty to the point of causing some concern among
attendees.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I please have your attention; we've just
learned that Father Pauli is in hospital for emergency surgery. Will
you all please bow your heads and join me in prayer for his speedy
recovery?"

After a six-month recuperation period, word spread that Pauli had been
transferred to an ascetic monastery overseas for 'spiritual renewal';
well before then he had been replaced by a new younger priest, the kind
of man the Church had in such short supply from years of waning
membership and general disinterest in religion by candidates of all
ages.

Young Father Panache was a Mexican-American lad who had had a rough
childhood, having lived for years as a street kid, exploited and
generally abused in myriad ways. At the age of 23, he had had strictly
anonymous sponsorship of him to Seminary and, then, for the priesthood,
large donations having accompanied his candidacy.

In just a short year, since taking Father Pauli's place, the young
priest was a favorite among the throwaway youth of the parish----they
were well-loved by him as well, his having been among them. In many
ways the Archbishop was well-pleased, finally having a role-model for
these poor abandoned souls.

Also well-pleased with his work was the meeting of the gangs who took
so keen an interest in the fate of these street children. They were
especially proud of Pedro Panache: so bright, so willing to learn, so
cooperative. He had sworn allegiance to them, interested as he was in
the size of the donations flowing in, as well as his even more
intangible interest in keeping his scrotum intact.

They all agreed that their investments had been very wise, indeed.