needs of the Bureau that he began to slip.
I was recruiting in Green Bay a few weeks after Hoover’s death when I get a call from Pam. She tells me the priest wants to meet with us a few days before the wedding. I’m convinced he thinks he can convert me to Catholicism and score some points with the Church brass. But Pam is a good Catholic who’s been brought up to respect and obey what the priests tell her. And I know she’ll badger the hell out of me if I don’t surrender peacefully.
We come to St. Rita’s Church together, only she goes in to see the priest by herself first. It reminds me of the police station back when I was in college in Montana, when they separated all of us to check our stories. I’m sure they’re planning the conversion strategy. When they finally call me in, the first thing I say is, "What do you two have in store for the Protestant kid?"
The priest is young and friendly, probably in his early thirties. He asks me these general questions, such as "What is love?" I’m trying to profile him, trying to figure out if there’s a particular right answer. These interviews are like the SATs; you’re never sure if you’ve prepared properly.
We get into birth control, how the kids are going to be raised, that sort of thing. I start asking him how he feels about being a priest—being celibate, not having his own family. The priest seems like a nice guy, but Pam has told me St. Rita’s is a strict, traditional church and he’s uncomfortable around me, maybe because I’m not Catholic; I’m not sure. I think he’s trying to break the ice when he asks me, "Where did you two meet?"
Whenever there has been stress in my life, I’ve always started joking around, trying to relieve the tension. Here’s my opportunity, I think, and I can’t resist it. I slip my chair closer to him. "Well, Father," I begin, "you know I’m an FBI agent. I don’t know if Pam told you her background."
All the while I’m talking I’m getting closer to him, locking in the eye contact I’d already learned to use in interrogations. I just don’t want him to look at Pam because I don’t know how she’s reacting. "We met at a place called Jim’s Garage, which is a topless go-go bar. Pam worked there as a dancer and was quite good. What really got my attention, though, was she was dancing with these tassels on each of her breasts, and she got them spinning in opposite directions. Take my word for it, it was really something to see."
Pam is deathly quiet, not knowing whether to say anything or not. The priest is listening in rapt attention.
"Anyway, Father, she got these tassels spinning in opposite directions with greater and greater velocity, when all of a sudden, one of them flew off into the audience. Everyone grabbed for it. I leaped up and caught it and brought it back to her, and here we are today."
His mouth is gaping open. I’ve got this guy totally believing me when I just break up and start laughing, just as I did for my phony junior high school book report. "You mean this isn’t true?" he asks. By this point Pam has broken up, too. We both just shake our heads. I don’t know whether the priest is relieved or disappointed.
Bob McGonigel was my best man. The morning of the wedding was rainy and dreary and I was itching to get on with it. I had Bob call Pam at her mother’s house and ask if she’d seen or heard from me. She, of course, said no, and Bob offered as how I hadn’t come home the night before and he was afraid I was getting cold feet and backing out. Looking back on it, I can’t believe how perverse my sense of humor was. Eventually, Bob started laughing and gave us away, but I was a little disappointed not to have gotten more of a reaction out of her. Afterward, she told me she was so shell-shocked about all the arrangements and so concerned about having her curly hair frizz up in the humidity that the mere disappearance of the groom was a minor concern.
When we exchanged our vows in
I was recruiting in Green Bay a few weeks after Hoover’s death when I get a call from Pam. She tells me the priest wants to meet with us a few days before the wedding. I’m convinced he thinks he can convert me to Catholicism and score some points with the Church brass. But Pam is a good Catholic who’s been brought up to respect and obey what the priests tell her. And I know she’ll badger the hell out of me if I don’t surrender peacefully.
We come to St. Rita’s Church together, only she goes in to see the priest by herself first. It reminds me of the police station back when I was in college in Montana, when they separated all of us to check our stories. I’m sure they’re planning the conversion strategy. When they finally call me in, the first thing I say is, "What do you two have in store for the Protestant kid?"
The priest is young and friendly, probably in his early thirties. He asks me these general questions, such as "What is love?" I’m trying to profile him, trying to figure out if there’s a particular right answer. These interviews are like the SATs; you’re never sure if you’ve prepared properly.
We get into birth control, how the kids are going to be raised, that sort of thing. I start asking him how he feels about being a priest—being celibate, not having his own family. The priest seems like a nice guy, but Pam has told me St. Rita’s is a strict, traditional church and he’s uncomfortable around me, maybe because I’m not Catholic; I’m not sure. I think he’s trying to break the ice when he asks me, "Where did you two meet?"
Whenever there has been stress in my life, I’ve always started joking around, trying to relieve the tension. Here’s my opportunity, I think, and I can’t resist it. I slip my chair closer to him. "Well, Father," I begin, "you know I’m an FBI agent. I don’t know if Pam told you her background."
All the while I’m talking I’m getting closer to him, locking in the eye contact I’d already learned to use in interrogations. I just don’t want him to look at Pam because I don’t know how she’s reacting. "We met at a place called Jim’s Garage, which is a topless go-go bar. Pam worked there as a dancer and was quite good. What really got my attention, though, was she was dancing with these tassels on each of her breasts, and she got them spinning in opposite directions. Take my word for it, it was really something to see."
Pam is deathly quiet, not knowing whether to say anything or not. The priest is listening in rapt attention.
"Anyway, Father, she got these tassels spinning in opposite directions with greater and greater velocity, when all of a sudden, one of them flew off into the audience. Everyone grabbed for it. I leaped up and caught it and brought it back to her, and here we are today."
His mouth is gaping open. I’ve got this guy totally believing me when I just break up and start laughing, just as I did for my phony junior high school book report. "You mean this isn’t true?" he asks. By this point Pam has broken up, too. We both just shake our heads. I don’t know whether the priest is relieved or disappointed.
Bob McGonigel was my best man. The morning of the wedding was rainy and dreary and I was itching to get on with it. I had Bob call Pam at her mother’s house and ask if she’d seen or heard from me. She, of course, said no, and Bob offered as how I hadn’t come home the night before and he was afraid I was getting cold feet and backing out. Looking back on it, I can’t believe how perverse my sense of humor was. Eventually, Bob started laughing and gave us away, but I was a little disappointed not to have gotten more of a reaction out of her. Afterward, she told me she was so shell-shocked about all the arrangements and so concerned about having her curly hair frizz up in the humidity that the mere disappearance of the groom was a minor concern.
When we exchanged our vows in
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