I’d never seen a Bentley Mulsanne in the flesh, not even in the chop shops where I sold the luxury cars I boosted. Yet there it was, parked behind an inner-city soup kitchen with its signature hood ornament of silver wings stretched wide to the heavens. An insult to the entire neighborhood, if you asked me. A wonder its tires weren’t slashed or its gleaming paint job scratched nose to tail. A wonder it was still there at all.

I leaned on the car to finish my smoke while squinting up at the old church that housed the Bun In The Oven Cafe. The city archives had pictures of the church taken decades ago when it was St. John’s Lutheran. Back then, the building shone like gold, with soaring towers and sparkling stained glass windows. But today the windows were dark and the brickwork crumbling, ruined by its environment like everything else in the downtown core. Including me.

I heard a jangling of keys, and the doors on the Bentley locked with a thunk.

A solemn-faced man holding a funeral umbrella stood nearby. He’d appeared out of nowhere, as if he’d sprung from one of the dark puddles. His eyes slid from my face to the large bulge under my raincoat, then his expression softened.

“You look like you could use a hot meal,” he said, shaking his head pityingly.

“I’m not here for that.”

“Nonsense. Your baby needs nourishment. There is no shame in hunger.”

“I’m not pregnant.” I unzipped my windbreaker to reveal the large paper bag I was protecting from the rain. “Happy now? I’m looking for Father Ashley.”

He glanced quickly around the lot. “You’ve found him. But call me Father Ash.”

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