“We need to find out what the deal is with Galileo’s trial,” said Ron. “Where he’ll be taken, what he’s charged with, who his lawyer is, that kind of thing.”
That sounded practical enough. “I could see if Father Mazzare knows anything,” Frank volunteered.
Gerry looked skeptical. “He’s a Catholic priest, remember. Won’t he go tell someone if we start asking questions about Galileo?”
“Paranoia, Gerry?” Ron asked. “Been at Dad’s stash?”
Gerry didn’t answer, but just stood straight up and glared at Ron.
“Well, come on!” Ron snorted. “Father Mazzare, an Inquisition spy?”
“Yeah? You notice why he’s called ‘Father’?” Gerry demanded.
“Cool it, guys,” said Frank. Testosterone poisoning, for sure. “Gerry, you’re right, but for the wrong reasons. Now, I’m not saying we should go help spring Galileo, and I’m not saying we shouldn’t, but Ron’s right, first we need info. And if we come right out and say why we want it, we’ll be actually grounded for the first time in our lives.”
That brought silence. Their dad and the words “harsh disciplinarian” barely belonged on the same continent, let alone in the same sentence. Tom Stone had the sneaky, awful, borderline-abusive practice of being reasonable with teenagers, which was a lot harder to deal with than other kids’ parents’ ways of dealing with the occasional high spirits. Be that as it may, there was a line across which they had never taken him, a line on the other side of which there was the real possibility of Dad getting old-fashioned. Taking part in a commando raid on an Inquisition prison was definitely on the far side of that line.
“So, what, you’re just going to go ask him?” But Gerry had lost some of the snarl from his tone.
“Yeah, why not?” Frank said, shrugging. “I just got to be subtle, but straightforward so’s he doesn’t suspect anything. How hard can it be?”
“Um, Frank?” said Ron, “You remember what Father Gus told us about playing poker with Father Mazzare?”
Frank remembered. “Yeah, whatever you do, don’t do it, not for real money.” To hear the Jesuit tell it—and despite appearances, there was plenty of brain to go with the brawn when Gus wasn’t pickling it—Father Mazzare could see clear through playing cards, read minds and had ice water in his veins. There was a lot of admiration on Gus’ part for Father Mazzare, although how he squared that with Mazzare being a card-shark Frank didn’t know.
“Yeah, so be careful, hey?” said Ron.
“Uh, sure,” said Frank. “But how’s he going to suspect anything? I don’t believe we’re planning this, and I’m involved in it.”
That, at least, got a chuckle.
* * *
There was a reception room on the second floor of the palazzo, and, the next morning, Frank waited outside it for a good five minutes wondering if they could hear his heart hammering through the big wooden doors. He’d gotten his brothers to agree to leave it to him. Just one of them being curious about the stuff they’d “heard around town” about Galileo was all very well, but all three of them would look suspicious.
Calm, he thought. Use the force, Frank.
He went in. He’d checked with the staff, and he knew Father Mazzare was in there. Sure enough, just as Frank came in the priest was sending Gus Heinzerling off somewhere. Mazzare had laid out a whole bunch of stuff on a table by the window, getting the best use he could out of the daylight to go through what looked like the world’s supply of paperwork. Frank didn’t envy him that one little bit.
“Morning, Frank,” said Father Mazzare. “As you see, growing up doesn’t stop the homework.” The priest indicated the stacks of paper and vellum in front of him. “And this is just to rent a small palazzo. I’m glad we didn’t hire a big place.”
Mazzare’s face twisted up into a wry grin. “How it’s going to be when we start putting together trade deals, I dread to think.”
“Morning, Father,” said Frank, when Mazzare had run down. “Should, I, uh . . .” He looked back at the door.
“Oh, no, no. Sit down, there’s coffee in the pot there; good stuff, too. Get yourself a mug.”