the ghost who walks

Ireland's greatest living poet moved like a ghost through the Old Folks Retirement Home.
(By Ireland's greatest living poet Heelers means himself. - Ed note)
I was searching for Fred Scalia a former theatre director.
According to some accounts, Fred had lived a scandalous life.
He has been variously described as a reprobate, a black sheep, a malefactor and any other number of things you care to mention.
His legend is big.
But now he is dying.
And here I am.
(Heelers gets no eternal credit for trumpeting his virtues in visiting the sick. Nor does the Heelers Diaries have the endorsement of heaven and/or my Catholic Church. - God note.)
The old theatre director stirs in his bed.
His face brightens.
"Jim," he says finding the strength to clasp my hand.
I sit by the bed and lean close.
"Do you want me to pray with you Freddy?" I ask softly.
He lies back on the pillow with a groan.
"Oh God no," he proclaims a bit louder than I might like. "Jim. A man like you. With your reputation. Please no. Jim. No. Oh God no."