I'm simultaneously reading Kathleen Norris's Acedia and Me and Raymond Chandler's The Long Goodbye. It's the monastic tradition and seedy L.A. detective grit. And it's creating some weird cognitive dissonance in my mind, although it's pretty much an unbeatable combination:
"Hand over the nun, padre" I told him. "And the copy of St. Benedict's Rule while you're at it. Come on, I don't have all day."
The padre hesitated, and I didn't blame him. Sister Stella had a beatific face that would have made an archbishop kick out a stained glass window. She was one righteous nun; sweet, pink, white.
"Not so fast, gumshoe," the monk countered. "Look, a stigmata!"
I looked. I knew immediately that I shouldn't have looked. The monstrance cracked against the back of my head, and I saw stars. And I was nowhere near Hollywood.