New York City
Monday, Oct. 13, 2002 8:15 a.m.

    What the hell are all the cops doing outside?  Baba Booey, get in here!"
Howard Stern turned to Robin Quivers, sequestered in her own booth oppposite him in the WBLT studio.  "Robin, our driver Ronnie reports there are at least a dozen police downstairs. You got any outstanding warrants?"
     "Don't look at me, Howard," she said.  "My money's on one of the interns.  Did you see the bunch we have this term?"
     "Yes, and they are very scary, some of them.  Here's Gary.  Gary, what's going on down there?"  In the corner of the studio Howard's sound effects man, Fred, played the tape cartridge he always played when Howard's producer entered the studio: "Baba-booey!  Baba-booey!"
     Gary stepped up to one of several microphones in the customized studio and quickly donned a set of headphones stationed there.  "Half those cops are off-duty, Howard," he said.  "They're here to escort your next guest when he's finished."
     Robin laughed.  "Escort him where, to Rikers Island?"
     Howard consulted his notes.  "Who is our next guest?  It's that priest, isn't it?"
     "Yeah, Father Soriano," said Gary.  "He's a bishop now."
     "That's right," said Robin.  "I remember reading that last year.  He's come a long way since we first met, Howard."
     "Haven't we all?  I have become the King of All Media, and he has become a bishop.  What's next?"
     "Well," said Robin, "clearly when you're a bishop you want to become an archbishop, and then a cardinal."
     "And then pope.  That's the job to have.  The pope gets the best hat.  You ever see that thing, when they schlep him around in that, ah, portable throne he's got, and he wears that big golden hat?
     "Yes.  Very impressive."
     "Man!  I want one of those things, Robin."
     "Well, run for pope."
     "Well, how do I do that?  Do I have to run in some kind of primary?  Do I campaign and stuff?"
     "I don't know, but I think it involves becoming a Catholic at some point."
     "What?  No Jews?"
     "No Jews, Howard.  It's restricted."
     "This is an outrage.  Let's get the bishop in here and straighten this out."
     "May I finish the news?" asked Robin.
     "Of course.  We're running late and I got excited.  Gary, tell the bishop he's up next.  Wait a minute, you never told me what the cops are doing downstairs."
     "Yes," said Robin, "where are they escorting the bishop?"
     "Some testimonial breakfast," said Gary.  "He's, like, donated a bunch of money to the N.Y.P.D. Widows and Orphans Fund.  They've got to get him to the breakfast on time, I guess."
     "Well," said Robin, "breakfast is the most important meal of the day."
     "It's funny," said Gary.  "I pulled the tape of the last time he was here, and he was doing all that vigilante stuff, and he stole a cop's horse, remember?"
     "That's right," said Howard.  "Now I remember."
     "A horse thief!" said Robin.
     "So the cops wanted to lock him up last time —" said Gary.
     " — and now they can't do enough for him ‘cause he gave ‘em a lot of money." said Howard.  "How much money?"
     "I think he said it's reached $10 million, which is why they're throwing him the breakfast."
     "Hey, for 10 million, I'd want more than a damn breakfast."
     "It's funny, Howard," said Gary.  "He showed me his badge."
     "His badge?" said Howard.
     "That's right," said Robin. "He was decorated by Mayor Fazio.  He carries that thing around?"
     "I think he's real proud of it," said Gary.  "It's an honorary N.Y.P.D. inspector badge.  He has a little case for it and everything."
     "A priest with a badge!" said Howard.
     "A bishop!" said Robin.
     "A bishop with a badge!  How scary is that, Robin?"
     "I'm still processing that, Howard.  Can we finish the news?  I need to use the powder room sometime this hour."
     "Hold it in, Robin. You're supposed to be a professional."
     "I'll bear that in mind."
     "OK, we got a lot of questions for the reverend.  Go tell him he's up next."
     As Gary hustled out of the studio, Fred pushed in the cart again.  "Baba- booey!  Baba-booey!"
 

W. 52nd Street
8:16 a.m.

     Just after Yellow Cab No. 4843 ran the red light at Sixth Avenue, its driver, identified as Harris, Steve on the Taxi Commission license displayed on the dashboard, turned the Stern show down and picked up the microphone of his two- way radio.  "Car 4843 to base, come in."
     After a moment, a bored male voice crackled from the speaker.  "Stand by, 4843."
     The driver pulled over and stopped in front of a fire hydrant.  He wiped his brow, rolled the window down and breathed the cool air deeply, oblivious to the New Yorkers hustling past the dented cab.  "This is fate," he muttered.  "I can't change this."
     "Go ahead 4843."
     He hesitated a second, then pushed the microphone button.  "Kelly, I need an address for a radio station. Over."

     The Most Reverend Rom Soriano, Order of St. Kevin, bishop and successor to the twelve disciples, sat in Howard Stern's "green room" trying not to look at two strippers who were there to plug their X-rated website.  Rom was there mainly to assuage his long-suffering agent, who for the last ten years had a client who was forbidden to do publicity.  This time, however, Rom's order had permitted the radio appearance because, he assured them, he would be promoting the Soriano Foundation, which had also dumped a few million into various archdiocese projects.  And because he was on vaction and he just wanted to.
     As Rom found himself glancing at the strippers again, the door burst open.  Rom jumped.  "Sorry, father," said Gary.  "You're up in a couple minutes.  They're gonna finish the news, then a couple commercials."  He turned to the strippers. "Girls, I'm sorry about the wait.  We're a little behind today, but the father is gonna be in and out."
     "Mmm, don't we wish," said one languidly.  She winked at the handsome, fityish man in the tailored black suit.
     "Ah, you can wait in the hall if you like, Father," said Gary.  "It's like two minutes."
     "Yes, perhaps I'd better," said Rom, following him out.  "Break a leg girls."

     Outside 600 Madison Avenue, home of WBLT, Yellow Cab No. 4843 pulled up and stopped in a No Parking zone behind an unmarked poilce cruiser.  The driver, a stocky, middle-aged man with dark features, got out.  He was dressed in dirty sneakers, black jeans and a drab down vest and walked purposefully toward the big glass front doors.   One of the uniformed cops standing there whistled to him and nodded toward his cab.  "No parking there, pal," said the cop.
     "Oh, sorry," the cabbie said.  "Lady on the 15th floor got sick and wants me to bring her down to the cab.  I'll get her and come right down."
     "Ah, let ‘im go," said another cop.  "You got two minutes."

     Gary opened the studio door and beckoned Rom.  "OK, he's ready for you," he said.  "You're gonna sit at the far end of the couch.  There's a pair of headphones there.  Put ‘em on and talk into the mike.  Good luck."
     "Thanks."  Rom followed Gary into the studio, which had been expanded and heavily customized, thanks to the successful national syndication of the program.  Rom made his way to the semi-circular guest couch, past portraits of Howard and the staff, blow-up photos of fallen celebrities, a lifelike female mannequin and other unorthodox ornaments.  Robin waved hello from her booth, and there, behind his console, sat Howard, wearing dark glasses and a flannel shirt, his mane of wavy black hair barely constrained by headphones.  In the corner, Fred nodded a greeting and sorted tape cartridges.
     "Still a handsome man," said Robin.  "A little salt and pepper, but the bishop looking good."
     "Control yourself, Robin," said Howard.  "Here's the bishop, the Son of Zorro.  Welcome, bishop.  I see you're not wearing the hat today."
     "Your invitation said ‘casual,' Howard," Rom said, sitting and donning his headphones.  Gary stepped up and moved Rom's microphone closer to him.
     "What do you call that hat you guys wear, anyway?"
     "You mean the biretta?"
     "Not your gun, Father, your hat."
     "He carries a Beretta?" said Robin.
     "No," said Rom, "the biretta is that small black hat you often see priests wear."
     "Oh, with that little fuzz ball on top," said Robin.
     "Right."
     "Oh, I meant that other hat," Howard said.  "The big pointy one."
     "Ah.  That's called a miter, Howard.  It's worn mainly during services and official functions."
     "A miter.  And are non-bishops allowed to buy those?  I want to buy one."
     Robin piped in. "Actually, Howard was interested in the hat the pope wears."
     "Yes," said Howard, "the big gold one."
     "Ah, the Crown of St. Peter."
     "That's the one."
     "Sorry, Howard, there's only one, and you have to be pope to wear it."
     "I see," said Howard.  "And I understand I have to be Catholic, as well."
     "Of course."
     "Well, my father is Jewish, but my mother was Catholic.  Can't I, uh, qualify?"
     Rom laughed.  His nervousness had vanished. "Well, first things first, Howard," he said.  "Let's see how you do in the seminary."
     "Semen-ary?!  I don't like the sound of that word."
     "Don't go there, Howard," said Robin.
     "Alright, alright.  The father has to get to some breakfast they're throwing him, and I'm told we have to get him in and out.  So, Reverend, now that we've worked out the hat situation, let me welcome you to the show."
     "Thank you."
     Robin, shuffling through her notes, leaned toward her microphone.  "Welcome back, actually."
     "That's right," Howard said.  "Now, you were here ten years ago, and a lot has happened since then."
     "You could say that."
     "For the benefit of our listeners who may not remember," said Robin, "or who haven't read the book or seen the movie, Father Soriano had a sort of nervous breakdown in 1991 and went on a vigilante spree, and wound up getting decorated by Mayor Fazio."
     "And then," said Howard, "there was that poor bastard who tried the same thing and got shot on the ferry, along with the mayor."
     "And Melody Marven," added Robin.  "By a crazy cabdriver."
     "Yeah," said Howard.  "You gotta watch out for those cabdrivers."
     Through the headphones came the sounds of screams, then gunshots.  Rom looked at Fred, who smiled and deftly loaded another cartridge that produced the sound of an immense water splash.
     "He was angry, remember, because he had to wait for the mayor's motorcade to get on the ferry before him," said Robin.
     "Yeah," said Howard.  "That's a shooting offense in New York.  So tell me, Father, or should I say Your Holiness."
     "That's what you would call the pope," laughed Rom.
     "Sorry.  I mean Your Eminence."
     "That's how you'd address a cardinal, Howard.  A bishop is addressed as the Most Reverend so-and-so, but you can just call me Father."
     "Thank you.  He's the Most Reverend So-and-So, Robin."
     Robin was busy leafing through her notes.  "Be respectful, Howard."
     "Father, how did you get to be a bishop?  How does somebody do that?"
     "Well, basically you are nominated by your peers and superiors, and your name is sent to the Papal Nuncio here in the U.S., who forwards the list to the College of Bishops in Vatican City.  The next thing you know, you're getting a letter from Rome telling you you've been, uh, promoted.."
     "And that happened when?"
     "Just last year."
     "And you have a new job, new duties?"
     "They kicked me upstairs, Howard.  I work out of the archdiocese office now and coordinate the community outreach program.  I miss teaching, but I love my new job."
     "So how did he get the promotion?" asked Robin.
     "Yeah, why you?  How do you become a bishop."
     "That's a big jump," added Robin.
     "Well, what was cited were my efforts in community outreach, which are now being replicated in other parishes across the country.  And probably the good work the Soriano Foundation does. "
     "So you didn't have to campaign or anything?" said Howard.
     "No, there's no campaigning involved."
     "Now there was a time," said Robin, "when he was in hot water with his religious order, wasn't there?  Over his vigilante activities?"
     "Yes, " said Rom, turning to Robin.  "I was definitely in the doghouse."
     "And after that," said Howard, "there was all the publicity from your book and from the movie — which we were not happy with, right Robin?"
     "Well, the actors who portrayed us did a good job, but we would have liked to have been asked to play ourselves."
     "Exactly.  Who better?  Whoopi Goldberg did a better job of you than whatsisname did for me."
     "Gary Busey?" said Robin.  "He was a scream."
     "Yeah, I was screaming at the end of that movie.  Don't get me started."
     "The rest of the cast was good," said Robin.  How did they get Sean Connery to play the, uh, cardinal?"
     "Well," said Rom, "I think the producers offered him a lot of money."
     "That'll do it," said Howard.  "And didn't it get an Oscar?".
     "Well, no.  The soundtrack received a nomination, though."
     "That was a good soundtrack," Robin said.  "I bought my copy."
     "Bishop," Howard said, "you must have made a ton of money on all this.  How are you spending it all?"
     Rom chuckled. "You can have a lot of fun with money if you don't spend it on yourself."
     "Does his order take a vow of poverty?" asked Robin.
     "The order of St. Kevin does not require a vow of poverty, but we must still observe the other vows — chastity and obedience."
     "Well," said Howard.  "One outta three ain't bad."
     "So," said Robin, "where does all the money go?"
     Rom took a deep breath and sketched the details of his philanthropy.  There indeed had been a lot of money, with a successful autobiography, film rights and his generous settlement from the Savarin Clinic.  He'd hired a financial planner, who through skill or luck had invested wisely enough to maintain a charitable financial fund now worth almost $60 million.   First had come a few symbolic investments.  He'd bought his mother's house on No. Fifth Street, had it renovated into five apartments and rented them for $100 a month each to Newark policemen — a move that had effectively wiped out the drug trade on Rom's old block.  For neighborhood kids he'd also provided funds for a Roseville Rec Center on Orange Street, where Gruning's soda fountain had once stood.  And in ‘95 the foundation had bought the dilapidated Bodholdt's Diner, renovated it and leased it for $5 a year to St. Rose of Lima parish, who now ran the restored eatery at a respectable profit.
     A few expenditures Rom did not detail for Howard and Robin.  For himself,  he'd splurged only on better suits and a black Mercedes Benz.  For his rectory he'd financed a new roof.  He'd bought Cassandra, now executive editor of Travel Set, a house in Linden, which she shared with her husband, an airline pilot; Rom had married them at Sacred Heart in ‘97.  Lopy, who'd refused to give up his rent- controlled apartment, happily accepted a check for $100,000.  (Lopez had sat on it for six months, and when Melody Marven negotiated herself a syndicated morning show, he'd turned in his camera and enrolled at Columbia to complete his Bachelor's degree in Communications.  Shortly after that, Melody, having been through two producers already, hired him to produce the "Morning Melody" show, and he quickly boosted the show's ratings with his resourcefulness and dry wit, to which Melody turned frequently during the show.  Indeed, his old friend "Fitz" had helped guide the show to national syndication, and for his efforts he now had a sizable salary, a modest cult following and an Emmy on top of his refrigerator.)
     But Rom spoke with pride of the foundation's gifts to the Newark Fire Department and the N.Y.P.D., whose Widows and Orphans Fund had now received $10 million.  "That's why I'm here today, Howard.  Some very fine policemen are going to make me breakfast and I'm going to make a speech."  He looked at his watch.  "And I really do have to get going, or the scrambled eggs will get cold."  He reached for a slip of paper in his inside jacket pocket.  "But before I go, may I please share the number for the Widows and Orphans Fund?"
     "By all means," said Howard.
     "I want to tell your listeners that the fund has been strained considerably in the last year, what with the tragedy at the World Trade Center, when we lost so many brave police and firefighters, and they really need our help."  He read the website address and phone number for the police fund and looked at his watch.  "Howard, Robin, I hate to be rude — "
     "Father, you gotta get out of here," said Robin.
     "Bishop Zorro, there are so many questions I didn't get a chance to ask you," said Howard, "like what was it like to bang Melody Marven?"
     "Oh dear," said Robin.  "I knew that was coming."
     Rom rose.  "Hmmm.  That was a long time ago."  He removed his headphones and put them on the seat.
     "Yeah," said Howard, "it's been like that for me, too.  Thank you for coming by, your holiness."
     "He ran out of here last time, too, Howard," said Robin.  "Come back and see us, Bishop."
     "He's got his headphones off, Robin, he can't hear you.  Bishop, how long will you be in town?  Can you come back and see us?"
     "Well, I'm flying out in the morning, Howard, but you know what it's like at the airport."
     "Yeah, you practically have to camp out there.  Listen, before you go, a lot of weird stuff happens in this studio, unsavory stuff, if you will.  Can you, uh, exorcise the place for us?"
     "Well, I don't know, Howard.  Are there demons in here?"
     "There's something in here," Robin said.  "You can smell it when you walk in."
     "Robin says it's not demons, just a bad smell."
     "Well then," said Rom, "Exorcism is not indicated, I guess."
     "Ask him for a blessing, then, Howard."
     "Yeah, how about a blessing?  I've seen priests do that all over the place.  We had neighbors on Long Island that used to have the priest come out every summer and bless their swimming pool."
     "I've blessed a few myself," said Rom.
     "Well," said Robin, "this is a kind of pool — a cesspool!"
     "This is a cesspool, so we qualify for that, right?"
     Rom laughed.  "I would be happy to bless your cesspool, Howard."  In the air in front of him he made the sign of the cross and softly pronounced the blessing: "In nomine patri, et filii, et spititus sancti, amen."
   Howard beamed.  "Now that's better.  I feel holier, Robin.  That stuff really works.  Thanks, Bishop. You're a good guy."
     "You're welcome.  Bye, all."  He waved to Fred in the corner and smiled at Robin on his way out of the studio.
     Howard sighed.  "Another important show, Robin."
     "This is where they come, Howard."
     "If you want inspiration, this is the place.  The holy men come here, and our studio is, ah —"
     "Sanctified."
     "Sanctified by them, yes.  You can feel the holiness in this studio.  We're going to take a break, and then we've got two strippers waiting to tell us about their website. Gary says they do things with fruit."
 

     In the hallway, Gary came out of his office and shook Rom's hand.  "Thanks for the blessing, Father," said Gary.  "We need it around here."
     "Anytime."
     "You did great.   Listen, the lieutenant called up a few minutes ago, and I told ‘em you'd be right down."
     "Thanks," said Rom. "I'm sorry I can't stay longer.  I enjoyed it a lot."
     "More than last time?"
     "Considerably."
     Rom grinned and headed for the elevators.  In the eleventh-floor reception area he nodded back to a couple of young staffers who smiled to him and waited next to a man who'd just pushed the elevator call button.  Rom glanced at the man, who looked straight at the closed elevator door.  He was a bit younger than Rom, dark complected, very short salt-and-pepper beard, plainly dressed.  He was perspiring and seemed to be clenching his jaw.  There was something familiar about him, Rom thought.
     When the elevator doors opened, the man stood, waiting for Rom.  "Thanks," Rom said, and entered.  The man grunted but didn't look at him.  Rom pushed the button for the lobby.  "Floor?" he asked.
 Now the man looked at him darkly.  Rom squinted in recollection; where had he seen this man?
     As the elevator doors started to slowly close, a uniformed cop, who'd just come out of the next elevator, saw Rom and stuck his hand between the doors, making them slide open again.  "There you are, Father," said the cop, a white- haired, fiftyish Irishman in a lieutenant's dress uniform.  "We were about to send out a search party."  He entered the elevator and looked at the other man.  "Hey, ain't you that cab driver?  I told you two minutes."
     As the doors closed, the man said  "Ten.  I get off at the next floor."
     Rom pushed the button for the 10th Floor.
     "Excuse me, Father," said the cop.  He eyed the man.  "Listen, pal, you've had your cab down there 20 minutes.  Where's the sick lady from the 15th Floor?"
     The man looked nervously at the floor indicator lights over the door.  "I, ah, got the floor wrong, I was looking for her."
     "Yeah, well your time's up.  Move that cab now or I'll tow it."
     The car stopped and the doors opened to the 10th Floor.  The cab driver quickly pulled a .38 revolver from under his vest and pointed it at the cop.  Before another word could be said, a shot rang out and the cop reeled backwards from the elevator.  The man now pointed the gun at Rom.  As the doors closed again, Rom, his ears ringing from the shot, caught a glimpse of the cop on the hallway floor, clutching his shoulder.  The car started slowly down again.
     "I ran like a fucking dog last time," the man hissed, "but not now.  Do you remember me, Soriano?"
     Rom froze in recollection.  The young gypsy man who had offered to fix his driveway in South San Francisco!  The frightened man who had bolted from the hospital hallway in Portland.  It was him — older, fatter, bearded, angry.  Rom gasped. "Ziko!"
     "Yes, Stefan Ziko, son of Gregor Ziko.  You picked the wrong fucking day to come to my city.  I had it with you and your fucking book and your fucking movie, making money off my family, and I gotta drive a fucking cab."
     Now Rom's anger overruled his fear.  He inched closer.  "Your family?  What about my family?  Your father killed my father. And my mother.  And then you helped him kill my girlfriend."
     "And you killed my father and pushed him out a window.  So now I will murder you and fulfil the amria!  My father's curse!"
     "You'll never get away with it.  There are cops all over the place downstairs."
     "I'll walk right past them.  ‘Oops, I have the wrong building.'  Goodbye, Soriano.  I avenge my father!"  He cocked the trigger.  The elevator slowed again.  Rom glanced up at the indicator lights.  The Third Floor.  Now he saw Ziko's eyes flick toward the indicators.  With one quick motion Rom went to one knee and grabbed Ziko's wrist, twisting it and pulling him to the elevator floor.  The doors now opened, and two men in suits started to enter but jumped back when they saw the commotion.
     "Call for help!" Rom yelled. "He's got a gun!"  Ziko now pushed Rom across the elevator, the gun dropping to the floor as the doors closed again.  Rom reached for the gun, but a sharp punch in the face sent Rom bouncing off the back wall.  For a second he saw stars, and when he focused again the gun was pointing at his face.  He ducked as another shot rang out, then delivered an uppercut that made Ziko's head snap back.  Rom grabbed Ziko's wrist again, twisting while pushing him hard against the doors.  Ziko shook his head, spittle flying from his mouth.  He glared at Rom, a demonic smile on his contorted face, and brought his knee sharply up into Rom's groin.  Rom collapsed to the floor in agony, and Ziko stood over him, again pointing the gun at the priest's head.
     "You should never have come back here," Ziko said.  "Say your fucking prayers."
     Winded, Rom looked up as the doors behind Ziko opened.  Men in the lobby were shouting.  As Ziko started to say something, seven bullets tore into his back.  Shocked, he fired one bullet into the elevator wall and collapsed on top of Rom.
     In a second, two cops were pulling the Ziko off Rom, and two more helped the bent-over, blood-smeared priest out of the elevator.  A fifth cop spoke into the  small two-way radio attached to his jacket's epaulet.  "Lieutenant, we got the cab driver, we got shots fired, and he's gonna be code seven, and the father's OK. How you doin'?"
     An angry voice came from the radios of the cops around Rom as he shook his head to clear it.  "I'm comin' down in another car.  I'm bleedin' like a bastid."
     "Medics are comin' now, lieutenant.  Everybody's comin'."
     Through the ringing in his ears Rom could hear sirens approaching.  He looked at Stefan Ziko, son of Gregor Ziko, whose limp form had been laid out on the lobby floor.  Blood was seeping across the green marble.  Ziko's head jerked a bit, and his lips twitched.  His dark eyes, wide open, stared upward.
     The cop next to Rom, a sergeant, examined the priest's face; alongside tears of pain, a welt was now rising on his left cheek.  "Take it easy, Father," the cop said.  "This is all his blood, on your suit here.  Any idea why this guy started shooting?"
     Rom slowly straightened up.  He was still looking at Ziko.  "Yes," he grunted, "and it's a long story."
     The cop took Rom by the arm.  "OK, we can talk about that.  Let's go out to the car.  The detectives will be here in a minute, and we gotta get get a medic for you."
     Rom resisted the cop's gentle tug.  His voice was quiet and clipped.  "That can wait a minute."   He took a slender, purple silk stole from his jacket pocket, kissed it and put it around his neck.  He made the sign of the cross and knelt beside the gypsy.   "First I've got to forgive this son of a bitch."
 
 

Copyright 2001 John F. Crowley