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Jafar,” he said. “Maybe we should talk to Fong again.”
    Gold shook his head. “If you want to know what’s going on in Polish Town, you need to talk to a priest.”
     
     

 
    Chapter 6
    “THE OLD NEIGHBORHOOD IS CHANGING”
     
    Father Stanislaus Sobczyk flashed a gap-toothed smile and extended a huge hand to Gold. “Good to see you, David.”
    Gold returned the smile. “Good to see you, too, Father Stash.”
    Father Stash had been baptized at St. Hyacinth’s Catholic Church seventy-two years earlier, and he’d spoken Polish before he’d learned English. At ten-forty-five on Monday morning, Gold and Battle had found the gregarious priest chatting amiably in Polish with an elderly parishioner on the front steps of the church next to the polished bronze plaque reading “Jesus Christ—Yesterday, Today and Forever. Jubilee 2000 Millennium.”
    The majestic triple steeples of St. Hyacinth’s had been a reassuring landmark on the Northwest Side for more than ninety years. The church’s namesake was born in Poland in 1183, and he was ordained in Krakow. Seven centuries later, a modest wooden church bearing his name was erected near the corner of Milwaukee Avenue and Central Park to serve forty newly arrived Polish families in a city called Chicago. The parish quickly outgrew its original building, and in 1921, Father John Sobieszczyk blessed a magnificent new brick church a few blocks away. Its two thousand seats were filled for each of the five masses that followed—four in Polish, and one in English. For many years, when the Milwaukee Avenue bus approached Woolfram Street on Sunday mornings, the driver called out “Jackowo,” which meant St. Hyacinth in Polish. The church still attracted over ten thousand worshippers every weekend, where masses were celebrated in Polish, English, and, more recently, Spanish.
    Father Stash moved his reading glasses to the top of his bald dome. “How’s your father, David?”
    “He’s doing okay, Father Stash.”
    “I’ll drop him a note. We’re Facebook friends.” Father Stash had met Harry Gold when they’d marched against the Vietnam War. St. Hyacinth’s Parish had lost two dozen of its sons to that conflict, where Father Stash had served as a chaplain. The priest held out a hand to Battle. “Stan Sobczyk. Around here I’m Father Stash.”
    “A.C. Battle. I’ve heard good things about you.”
    “Thanks.” The priest’s expression turned serious as he spoke to Gold. “I saw you on the news. Do you have any idea who’s setting off the bombs?”
    “Getting closer.”
    “You wouldn’t lie to a priest, would you?”
    “Absolutely not. We were hoping you might be able to help us. Do you have time to answer a few questions?”
    “Give me a moment.”
    Gold and Battle waited patiently as Father Stash took out his iPhone and fired off a text. Then he opened the bronze door and led them inside, where he nodded to the few parishioners scattered in the pews. Gold took a breath of cool air as he admired the statues of St. Peter and St. Paul standing guard on either side of the altar. The serenity provided a welcome respite from Gold’s chaotic morning. A marble etching of the church’s namesake looked down from above, his ruddy face colored by light filtered through a refurbished stained glass window.
    Father Stash escorted Gold and Battle to an empty pew in the Alcove of Our Lady of Czestochowa. “It’s always nice to see you,” he said to Gold, “but shouldn’t you be out looking for the bomber?”
    “We were at the Shrine of Heaven.”
    “The old neighborhood is changing.”
    “So I gather. What’s the vibe about the mosque?”
    “Mixed.” Father Stash chose his words carefully. “Polish Town is like South Chicago, David. We never embrace change enthusiastically, but we try to be respectful of our neighbors. We’re trying to encourage inter-faith dialogue and activities.”
    “You know Ahmed Jafar?”
    “Yes. Good guy. He’s an honorable man