AGAINST THE ODDS:Still in a quandary over Tricky Dicky's last request, Vinny heads to his local church for some guidance

TO THE causal onlooker, of which there were few on a showery Bank Holiday lunchtime, the bulky figure hovering around the ATM outside the National Irish Bank in Killester aroused little suspicion.

In contrast, Vinny Fitzpatrick was convinced everyone was staring at him; the attractive power walker in the pink tracksuit, the old codger and his shaggy dog, the spotty youth having a drag at the bus stop.

Vinny felt they were peering deep into his conscience, somehow aware that he was involved in an act, which if not illegal, wasn’t exactly kosher.

“Dick Dowling, if I ever lay my hands on you, I’ll ring your scrawny neck,” he said to himself. Only cancer-stricken Tricky Dicky was in St Francis Hospice in Raheny and wasn’t coming out.

Vinny thought back to his discharge day from Beaumont Hospital where the formidable nurse, who reminded him of Gladys Emmanuel in Open All Hours, pressed a piece of paper into his paw, whispering “Mr Dowling asked me to give you this.”

The handwritten note included details of Tricky Dicky’s NIB bank account, into which 50k had been squirrelled away, and the account number of Dicky’s long-time lover, Alice, who was with the Finglas branch of the same bank.

Dicky’s final wish was that Vinny should transfer €1,000 a month into Alice’s account, for which he had offered €2,000 commission. It sounded simple, yet Vinny couldn’t get his potato-sized head around the stakes at play.

Was Mrs Dowling, as Tricky Dicky’s legal spouse, not entitled to a share of his estate in due course? What if she found out what Vinny was up to? Would she inform the gardaí and what would happen if the trail led to Alice? How would Mrs Dowling feel then?

Vinny had brooded all weekend over his dilemma and missed backing Homecoming Queen at 25 to 1 in the 1,000 Guineas – it was his favourite Karaoke song and he felt the least he could do was invest a tenner in memory of the late Davy Jones.

He’d also declined to back Ya Ya Toure, at 10 to 1, to score at any time for Manchester City against Newcastle.

As Homecoming Queen blazed clear in Newmarket, around the same time Toure curled in the opener at St James’s Park, or whatever it’s called now, Vinny had felt lower than a serpent’s belly. Not even a triumphant text from Niamh, his City-loving daughter who worked as a football writer in Manchester, could cheer him up.

He knew, of course, he should have opened up his soul to Angie but he didn’t want his wife labelled as an accomplice should anything go wrong down the road, which he feared it would.

Against the odds, he’d taken the decision to seek counsel from a man of the cloth, Leo Lavelle, the local parish priest in St Gabriel’s, who heard confessions every Bank Holiday morning at noon. Even though it had been donkey’s years since he’d sought a religious pardon, he still remembered the opening address “Bless me Father, for I have sinned . . .”

As he kneeled beside an old crone who was running through the rosary at the speed of light, Vinny anticipated sound advice from Fr Leo, an old school pal from their days together in St Joey’s in Fairview the 60s.

Soon, Vinny was kneeling in the creaky confessional box, where his sins had first been heard as a flap-eared fatty-in-shorts some 45 years earlier.

The wooden slat was pulled back and he heard a voice he recognised. “Yes, my son, how can I help?”

As if on automatic pilot, Vinny began, “Bless me father . . . ” before he checked himself.

“Leo, it’s me, Vinny. Can I talk to you about something?”

“Of course, my son,” replied Fr Leo.

Vinny bristled. “Leo, I’m not your son, for crying out loud. I sat beside you for three years in Joey’s and covered your backside, in every sense, the time you carved your initials on the desk with a penknife, remember?”

There was a pause. “I well recall the sacrifice, my son, er Vinny. What brings you here?”

Vinny retold his story. How he’d met Dick Dowling in hospital, the proposal that was put to him, and how it was doing his head in. He deliberately omitted the offer of the €2,000 “handling fee” for his services.

“A part of me is tempted to go to Mrs Dowling and put my cards on the table but I don’t want to give her more unnecessary heartache. Her husband is on his last legs. What do you think Leo?”

There was a silence which seemed as long as one of Leo’s Sunday sermons.

Eventually, the priest cleared his throat and pressed closer to the grate separating him for his old school chum.

“I think I see a way around this difficulty, a way which prevents any further hardship for Mrs Dowling, and which would spare you from your conscience.”

Vinny was intrigued. “Go on?” he murmured.

“The St Gabriel’s Restoration Fund has been up and running for several years but we are short of the target required to give our church an overdue facelift. The sum you mentioned would be of great assistance, and the parishioners would be more than grateful.

“I would give you my word that every penny donated would go towards the fund.

“Before you reply, consider also that the Lord would regard such a Christian act with compassion and understanding. It could, er, help your case when judgment day arrives.”

“Well, what do you think?”

This time, the silence was on Vinny’s side. It went on and on, so much so that Leo Lavelle became concerned.

“Are you okay, Vinny?” he asked. “Am I okay?” thundered Vinny in a voice that echoed around the walls of St Gabriel’s.

“No, I’m bloody well not,” he roared. “I came in here looking for advice and all I got was a grubby inducement to hand over money to fund your coffers in return for a possible free bus pass to heaven. Shame on you Leo Lavelle, shame.

“I wish I’d squealed on you all those years ago in Joey’s. Go boil your head.”

With that, Vinny pushed the confessional door open with a meaty fist and stomped angrily down the aisle.

An hour later, after circling the ATM for the umpteenth time, Vinny finally summoned up sufficient courage to slip Dick Dowling’s card into the hole in the wall. He keyed in the four numbers, pressed the amount button and looked furtively around. After several clicks and whirs, a thick wad of crisp €50 notes popped out, to be followed by a beeping noise.

Vinny glanced at the screen which was flashing ‘Do you want a receipt?’ For the first time that day, Vinny relaxed. “Like hell, I do,” he said with a grin.

Bets of the Week

1pt each-way Webb Simpson in The Players Championship (42/1, Betfair)

2pt win Athletic Bilbao to win Europa League final (2/1, Boylesports)

Vinny's Bismarck

1pt lay QPR to be relegated from Premier League (2/1, Coral, liability 4pts)