“Mendez, make a note. A plaque should be prepared on which the church recognizes and applauds the contribution of the Air Pollution Board of Mexico
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, A Miracle of Sntatt Fishes
City, making particular note of the activities of chairman Gustavo Marcos.”
“Yes, sir. Your mail, sir.”
“Thank you, Mendez.”
The secretary put the stack of letters and brown manila envelopes on the archbishop’s desk. Estrada glanced down at his watch. Plenty of time to bless the new elementary school and still make the meeting of the Urban Renewal Commission.
Most of the mail looked the usual. Requests for information, blessings, money, advice, praises for the active role the archbishop was playing in city affairs, damnations for the active role the archbishop was playing in city affairs.
He went through them rapidly, occasionally putting one aside for more personal scrutiny. His secretary could handle most of these. An invitation from the Colombian ambassador to a formal diplomatic dinner, a letter from a certain lady in Guadalajara …
Then he came to the letter from San Quintin.
“I’ll be damned! Oh, sorry, Mendez,” he said hurriedly at the stunned look on the young man’s face. “Don’t take it seriously.” He lowered his voice, muttered to himself in surprise.
“Madre de Dios, a letter from Father Peralta!”
He slit the unlucky envelope with sharp anticipation. He’d known Father Peralta since they had played together on the university’s champion soccer team. What a prof Peralta had a brain as fast as his feet. True, he, Estrada, had risen much farther and faster in the church hierarchy. Peralta had chosen to take over the tiny church in San Quintin and pursue his scholarly anthropology.