“Father William," Variety began the introductions. "This is Mr. Thomas Bowie, one of our parent leaders." She pointed to fancypants. "I'd like you to meet Mr. James Purcival, a respected business leader and long time financial supporter of the school, and this young man..." she put her hand on young Pancho Villa's shoulder "...is Ricky Esquivel. He is the big brother of two of our state ward children and their primary provider. He is here at the request of the missing ward children."
The little bandit figited like a cat in a cage and had that same cold defiance in his eyes I had seen on the faces of so many other children in the last twenty-four hours. On him, however, it had clearly developed into an art form. The priest acknowleged each of us by repeating our names and nodding but made no eye contact. The old guy knew how to stay in control of a meeting.
"I have been in contact this morning with representatives of the church and it appears that similar, if not more difficult conditions, are occuring in parishes around the world..." He paused to let that sink in, then looked over at Ricky Esquivel. "Mr. Esquivel, it seems that young children from this school have left their parents and I suspect that you are aware of their location. Their parents are understandably distraught. We are all concerned for their safety. I suggest that it would be to all our best interests if they returned to the ones who love them."
Esquivel wore a red plaid shirt and a bluejeans jacket with no arms and some kind of gang logo on the back I couldn't read. His long, charcoal hair was oiled and combed back. It rose up from his forehead in a dome then slid `em." He turned and spit on the floor behind him. It was quite a tough guy act. I was impressed. He turned back with a cold smile. "They ain't ever goin' back. Might as well get used to that. You wanna talk. Okay I'm here, but you and the Pope needa listen, not talk. Things are changin' on the street man."
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