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with the tomato,” said the waitress. She smiled and moved away toward the kitchen.
    Kinderman stared at Dyer’s plate. “You’re not eating. Are you sick?”
    “Too spicy,” said the priest.
    “Too spicy? I’ve seen you dip Twinkies in mustard. Here, my son, let the expert tell you what’s spicy. Chef Milani to the rescue.” Kinderman picked up his fork and took a bite of Dyer’s omelette. Then he put down the fork and stared without expression at Dyer’s plate. “You have ordered an archaeological find.”
    “Getting back to the movie,” said Dyer. He exhaled his first drag of smoke.
    “On my list of the ten greatest movies ever made,” declared Kinderman. “What are your favorites, Father? Maybe name the top five.”
    “My lips are sealed.”
    “Not often enough.’’ Kinderman was salting the fried potatoes.
    Dyer shrugged diffidently. “Who can pick the five best of anything?”
    “Atkins,” the detective immediately responded. “He can tell you at the drop of a category: movies, fandangos–whatever. Mention heretics, he’ll give you a list of ten, and in order of preference, without hesitation. Atkins is a man of hurried decision. Never mind, he has taste and is usually right.”
    “Oh, really? And so what are his favorite films?”
    “The top five?”
    “The top five.”
    “Casablanca.”
    “And what are the other four?”
    “The same. He is absolutely crazy about that movie.”
    The Jesuit nodded.
    “He nods,” said Kinderman bleakly. “ ‘God is a tennis shoe,’ the heretic tells him, and Torquemada nods and says, ‘Guard, let him go. There is much to be said on both sides.’ Really, Father, these rushes to judgment have to stop. That’s what comes of all this singing and guitars in your ears.”
    “You want my favorite movie?”
    “Kindly hurry,” glowered Kinderman. “Rex Reed is in a phone booth waiting for my call.”
    “It’s a Wonderful Life,” said Dyer. “Are you happy?”
    “Yes, an excellent choice,” said Kinderman. He beamed.
    “I guess I’ve seen it twenty times,” the priest admitted with a smile.
    “It couldn’t hurt.”
    “I sure do love it.”
    “Yes, it’s innocent and good. It fills the heart.”
    “You said the same about Eraserhead .”
    “Don’t mention that obscenity,” Kinderman growled. “Atkins calls it ‘Long Day’s Journey into Goat.’ “
    The waitress had come over and set down a dish of tomato slices. “Here you are, sir.”
    “Thank you,” the detective told her.
    She looked at the omelette in front of Dyer. “Something wrong with the omelette?”
    “No, it’s just sleeping,” said Dyer.
    She laughed. “Can I get you something else?”
    “No, that’s fine. I guess I just wasn’t hungry.”
    She gestured at the plate. “Shall I take it?”
    He nodded, and she took it away.
    “Eat something, Gandhi,” said Kinderman, pushing the plate of potatoes toward Dyer. The priest ignored them and asked, “How’s Atkins? Haven’t seen him since Christmas Eve Mass.”
    “He is well and in June will be married.”
    Dyer brightened. “Oh, that’s great.”
    “He is marrying his childhood sweetheart. It’s so nice. It’s so sweet. Two little babes in the woods.”
    “Where’s the wedding going to be?”
    “In a truck. Even now they are saving their money for furniture. The bride is employed at a supermarket checkout stand, God bless her, while Atkins, as usual, assists me in the daytime and by night robs 7 - Eleven stores. Incidentally, is it ethical for government employees to work two jobs, or am I just being finicky about this, Father? I welcome your spiritual advice.”
    “I didn’t think they kept very much cash in those stores.’’
    “Incidentally, how’s your mother?”
    Dyer had been stubbing out his cigarette. He stopped and looked at Kinderman oddly. “Bill, she’s dead.”
    The detective looked aghast.
    “She’s been dead for a year and a half. I thought I told you.”
    Kinderman shook his