Greenwich by Howard Fast

must go.”
    â€œOne more thing. I wouldn’t say this to anyone else in the world, and maybe it’s because I’m sixty-three, and every time my heart skips a beat, I think that this is it. I’m not much damn good. I think I love my wife, but tonight, when my friend Muffy was leaving, I tried to make a date to see her in New York—”
    Donovan interrupted him: “No, Mr. Castle! I can’t have you confessing to me.”
    Castle’s smile was unexpected. “You’re right. You know what Groucho Marx said, ‘I wouldn’t join a club that would have me as a member.’”
    â€œI don’t mean it that way,” the monsignor said softly.
    â€œNo, of course not. Do me one favor, let me write out a check for your church.”
    Donovan looked at him searchingly. “Why?”
    Castle shrugged. “I feel I’m in deep shit up to my neck. Something happened to me tonight. I never talked like this before. I dumped on you; I don’t dump on people. On Wall Street, I’m one crafty, nasty son of a bitch. That’s what I am and I’m no damn different now, but I’m tired. I’m just so fuckin’ tired.”
    â€œWill it help if you write me a check?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAll right. I’d like to help. Make it out to St. Matthew’s Church.”
    Castle went to his desk, took out a checkbook, and wrote the check. He handed it to the monsignor.
    â€œThis is for ten thousand dollars,” Donovan said.
    â€œI won’t miss it.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œFor Christ’s sake, don’t thank me.”
    â€œI must, Castle. It will do a lot of good.”
    â€œI’ve spent a lifetime hating do-gooders. I still do. I haven’t changed.”
    T he monsignor and Sister Brody left. Sister Brody kissed Sally and said she would see her again. The monsignor thanked Castle for a good evening. When he and the nun were in the car, driving back to the neighborhood where their church was located, Sister Brody said, “I suppose you have no intention of telling me what went on between you and Castle?”
    â€œThat’s an excellent supposition.”
    â€œI have the right to be curious, considering what I’ve heard about the man.”
    â€œEveryone has the right to be curious. We can thank God for that.” Then, after a moment, he added, “Castle gave me a check, made out to St. Matthew’s, for ten thousand dollars.”
    â€œWhat! I don’t believe you.”
    â€œSister, Sister.”
    â€œTen thousand dollars—that’s wonderful.”
    â€œI argued against it. I didn’t want to take it.”
    â€œYou argued against it? For heaven’s sake, do you know how much we need that money, how much we can do with it, how many hungry mouths can be fed, how much food and medicine we can send to El Salvador and Guatemala—”
    â€œSister, please don’t lecture me! I happen to know exactly what we can do with it.”

Thirteen
    H arold Sellig drove away from the dinner party to join his wife at the hospital. He was full of good food, two glasses of wine, the lingering taste of the Cuban cigar, and a heavy load of guilt. He felt that he should have been with his wife at the hospital, that she was facing perhaps the most serious crisis of her life and that he had allowed her to go and keep a vigil alone because he selfishly desired to make a clinical study of a very rich man and his trophy wife. He had gone with her urging and with Dr. Ferguson’s assurance that the operation was a “lead-pipe cinch.” Harold said he had no idea of what a lead-pipe cinch was, and Dr. Ferguson had carefully explained that in ancient times—some fifty or sixty years ago—underground utility connections were sealed with hot lead. Harold had grown up with a father who never understood him, and when he married Ruth, Dr. Ferguson had adopted him as the son he