Ah, there it was. That lovely sound of something heavy being dragged.

Malachi did not bother to mask his frown as he continued to peek out from the cracked door. It was about as far open as he could get it, what with Mister Fa'afili standing in the way. He fixed a look on the older fellow's side-profile, but what he thought about the situation (beyond the note of nervousness, that seemed only to excite his otherwise calm demeanor) was unclear.

"Suppose the church must not have been charitable enough," joked Malachi, tone as dead as whatever poor thing the thief was dragging about.

Seeing as his companion had apparently decided not to let him out just yet, the priest disappeared back into the washroom.

If Fa'afili did not want to let him out, then this damned church would receive the cleanest priest they'd ever seen.

With a frustrated sigh, Malachi wet his hair. It would probably smell like mosquito soap, but it was better than confronting whatever nonsense was happening outside the washroom door.

While his fingers threaded through the soapy strands, he called, "you ever sell to this church?"