Kenna shook off the hood. Father Ralph was five foot-four, about a half-inch taller than Martin. His dark brown hair was thinning rapidly. Mrs. Kenna swore that Father Ralph used Sultan of Africa shoe polish to cover his bald spot; she said she could smell it when she stood next to him.

“What can I help you with, Martin?”

“It's Bren, Father, my brother. He wants me to do somethin’ I don't feel right about doin’.”

“Sit down,” said Father Ralph.

Both the priest and the boy sat down on the nearest bench. Father Ralph had one blue eye and one green eye. Martin looked mostly into the green one.

“Now, tell me, what is it Brendan wants you to do?”

“You know, Father, I work four days a week after school at the Swedish bakery on Belmont and Broadway.”

“Lingenberg’s, I know. Your mother told me. Go on.”

“Well, it's this way, Father. Bren hangs around with this older guy, DT—Double Trouble—his last name is Korzienowski, I don't know his Christian name.”

“A Polish boy.”

“Yeah, I guess. Anyway, he talked my brother into helpin’ him rob the bakery. They want me to leave the back door unlocked next Thursday night so they can boost the receipts which Babe Lingenberg don't deposit in the bank until Friday mornin’.”

“How do they know this, Martin? That the receipts will be there overnight.”

Kenna unzipped his coat, then zipped it up again. “I told ’em, I guess.”

“And do they know where the receipts are kept?”

Kenna nodded. “In a desk drawer that's locked, but it'd be real easy to bust open.”

“And you also told them where this desk is, did you?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Why did you provide them with this information, Martin?”

Martin Kenna looked away from Father Ralph's green eye and down at the floor.

“I don't know,” he said.

“Was the robbery Brendan's idea or the Polish boy’s?”

Martin looked up again.