Requiem for Moses (28 page)

Cameron, still slumped, waved a hand. “Nah … you go ahead, Lou: Pick anybody you want.”

What difference does it make to me?
thought Cameron.
I’ll be out of here as fast as Green can move me. The only thing I’ve got going for me is maybe he’s got to recuperate. But as soon as he gets his oars in the water, I’m history.

He looked about. His club. His Virago. Just the way he wanted it. Just the way he’d created it.

Soon he would be out of it. He would have a case full of dough. But no club. No dream.

He had considered the possibility of starting over. He’d have the money to do it—but not the drive. To succeed one had to have a surplus of get-up-and-go.

If he were to start again, not only would he have considerably more competition than he’d had when he began the first time, one of those competitors would be Moses Green.

And if Dr. Green had demonstrated anything over time, it was that he was a force to be reckoned with. Green and Cameron had tangled many times over the years; Green had won every battle.

No. He would not begin again. He would go away and lick his wounds.

He sat alone, buried in dour thoughts. Susan had joined the male judges, mostly to make sure they didn’t make any drastic mistakes in selecting two out of ten.

A chair slid close to his and someone sat down. Cameron dropped the hand that had been shading his eyes. It took a minute to focus.

“Joe …” Cameron was mildly surprised. His lawyer was supposed to be getting Cameron’s affairs in order so he could depart with a modicum of style. “Joe, what are you doing here?”

“You aren’t going to be believe it, Jake.” Blinstraub certainly looked as if he was the bearer of good tidings.

“Try me.”

“You’re still on the board and still manager of Virago—both of them.”

“Say again?”

“You heard me!”

“How’d that happen? The board couldn’t have voted against Green! Somebody kill the bastard, finally?”

“None of the above. Green did it.”

Cameron had to chew on that. “Green did it! What are you talking about?”

“Green has been on the horn to all the board members. He wants them to junk the plan to buy you out.”

Another pause.

“Don’t get me wrong. I really want to believe you, Joe. but I got a hunch somebody’s been feeding you a pile of bullshit.”

“I’m not kidding. And nobody’s been jerking me around. You’re in, old buddy.
We
’re in!”

Another pause as Cameron worked on accepting this incredible turn of events.

“Why? Why would he do this? He didn’t leave this fight unmarked, but I don’t think he even hates me. It’s like I’ve been nothing more than a pebble in his road and he had to kick me out of the way. But I fought him. And dammit, he knows he’s been in a fight. Why would he do this?”

“Search me. Maybe, while he was dead, he got religion.”

“Ha!” It was not just an exclamation; some genuine joy was returning—cautiously, but definitely. “Are you sure, Joe?” Cameron looked up much like a child seeking unvarnished truth. “I know you’re going to say yes. But think about it: Are you sure?”

Blinstraub retained his ear-to-ear grin. “When the first board member called with the news, I reacted just like you: I thought it was somebody’s idea of a very bad joke. So, just to make sure, I called them—all of them. Green had talked to every one of ’em.

“Actually, Jake, none of them wanted to squeeze you out. They were all knuckling under to Moe. When he took the pressure off, they popped up like corks in water.”

Cameron began to pace, a silly smile on his face.

“It’s probably going to take you a while for this to settle in,” Blinstraub said. “It took me a while.”

Cameron continued pacing.

He halted abruptly. “Girls!” he bellowed. “On stage!”

All ten contestants came out and stood attentively.

“Number one and number seven, come on down here. The rest of you—thank you very much.”

The survivors of the cattle call enthusiastically bounded from the stage and were directed to Susan to take care of the paperwork, dot i’s and cross t’s. Those who had not made the cut sighed, packed up, and left.

The “judges” were at first bewildered, then upset. What the hell was the point of inviting them to evaluate talent and performance if there was no role for them to play? That was the feeling of those few who had been doing this during Cameron’s depression period. Older hands recognized the way things used to be and, apparently, were again. Formerly, all knew they were invited to enjoy a little harmless voyeurism; Cameron himself made all the decisions. Now the uninitiated left grumbling as the older hands tried to explain what had transpired.

Susan knew.

She—and, for that matter, Judy—had been selected by Cameron. And Susan had been there during the brief democratic transition. She was happy to return to the days of yore. She had learned to trust Cameron’s judgment. He wasn’t good at much more than evaluating female flesh. But at that he was very, very good.

Cameron approached Susan while the girls were filling out forms. “What’s number one’s name?”

Susan smiled. She knew what would follow. It had been quite a while since they’d gone through this routine. She had no idea what had caused this transformation, but she knew she’d find out. For the moment, she was just happy for Cameron and pleased that this enterprise would be on target once more. She looked through the papers. “Betsy Dorsey.”

“How old?”

“Nineteen.”

“Sure?”

In spite of herself, Susan smiled. “Yes. We checked everyone out better than airport security.”

As Cameron approached number one, Susan sighed. Very definitely, things were back to normal.

“Betsy,” Cameron said, “congratulations.”

Betsy’s eyelids fluttered. Here was the boss, the legendary Jake Cameron, paying attention to little her. “Thank you, Mr. Cameron.” She actually blushed.

“You were terrific!” he enthused. “Where’d you pick up that
shtick
with the curtain? In your opener, I mean?”

Damned if she didn’t blush again. “My mother.”

“Your mother!” As far as Jake could recall, this was a first. Mama teaching daughter to dance topless. “Your mother in the business?”

“Yes. A long time ago.”

A long time ago.
Cameron rolled that around his mind for a few moments. A long time ago for a nineteen-year-old doesn’t have to be in the previous century.

It might just be a kick to get it on with Mama, who very possibly might be lots younger than Cameron.

After daughter, of course.

“Betsy, this is your first big job, right?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Cameron.”

“Jake,” he corrected forcefully. At the peak of his sexual arousal, he did not want her to call out “Mr. Cameron.”

“How would it be, Betsy,” he continued, “if we go out and celebrate tonight? Suppose I pick you up this evening and we go out for a great dinner and a good time?”

“Gee, Mr. Cameron—uh … Jake … that would be terrific. Just terrific!”

“Okay, you finish your paperwork. And we’ll take it tonight and play it by ear.”

Business and monkey business as usual. Cameron felt great. What a difference a brush with death can make.

Chapter Twenty-One

Father Koesler had eaten the sandwich and was on his third cup of coffee; Mrs. O’Connor always made a generous supply for him.

Now, digesting the sandwich, he would have been hard-pressed to tell what kind it was, so distracted was he. So much was happening so fast.

The phone was ringing off the hook. There were days when four or five calls would have been a lot. But not since Monday night. Too many of those calls were for directions to the church.

That amazed Koesler. St. Joseph’s had been founded in 1856—140 years ago. It was not new on the scene. So many adjacent buildings had been demolished that the church stood out more clearly than ever in recent history.

Anyone who could locate downtown Detroit should be able to find St. Joseph’s easily. It saddened Koesler to conclude that a lot of suburbanites could not locate, or were completely unfamiliar with Detroit’s downtown.

Spread out before him on the dining table was the
Free Press.
Later in the day, the
News
would be delivered. But he probably would do no better with the afternoon paper than with the morning paper. He was reading paragraphs over and over with no comprehension or retention.

He was so caught up with his own thoughts that he was startled when he realized Mary O’Connor was standing in the doorway, smiling as she waited for him to return to the present.

“Yes, Mary?”

“This call you really ought to take. It’s that Mr. Bradley from the Communications Office.”

He picked up the phone. “Father Koesler.”

“Father, Ned Bradley. We’re holding a news conference this afternoon at four. I’d like it if you could come.”

“But you had a conference this morning!” This was an invitation he didn’t want to accept.

“Yes, but there have been some developments since then. It’s important for us to stay on top of this. If we don’t, the media will take the driver’s seat.”

“Well, that’s nice, I guess. But I was there this morning.”

“You were?” Bradley was so taken aback that he asked a foolish question. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure. I left a little early; but I was there.”

“Oh. Well, that works to our advantage. You’ll be familiar with what went on then. It’ll be a good context for this afternoon.”

“Ned, I don’t want to give you the impression that all I’ve got to do is attend news conferences.”

Bradley was becoming accustomed to dealing with defensive priests. He considered this a case in point. He was wrong; Koesler was being neither evasive nor defensive. He meant simply that there was enough going on in his life without needlessly attending a news conference.

Without realizing it, Bradley spoke to Koesler’s reservation. “We need you this afternoon. After all, this whole thing began in your parish. We need you for some backgrounding and for questions concerning the parish.”

“I don’t know. This morning I saw a doctor come apart under questioning.”

“He was way too overconfident in handling the reporters. Reporters get into a feeding frenzy when they get their teeth into a guy who’s being careless with them. But you’ve got some journalistic experience. Besides, people who know you say you can handle it.” When there was no response from Koesler, Bradley put on his prize-winning petitionary tone. “Please.”

“I’ll be there at four.”

In the seminary’s huge parlor, things were much as they’d been that morning, except for the pastry. Apparently, seminary authorities had budgetary limits when it came to providing snacks more than once a day. However, there was plenty of coffee on hand.

Not having had a good look at them this morning, Koesler couldn’t tell whether the same reporters were here, held over for a second big conference. The usual paraphernalia was at the ready. He looked for Pat Lennon, but in the face of the blinding lights he couldn’t have picked out his own mother. Of course, Pat had told him she couldn’t make it, but there was always the possibility that her plans had changed.

In addition to Ned Bradley, Koesler shared the dais with the three-priest committee appointed by the Cardinal.

The committee was both diverse and complementary. Koesler knew all three priests.

There was Art Grimes, formally a seminary teacher specializing in ascetic theology. Miracles would be right up his alley.

Pete McKeever was a civil as well as a canon lawyer and a former defender of the bond for the marriage tribunal—in Koesler’s view, the worst of all possible combinations. Canon law, particularly, was stiff and unyielding, as was Pete. His job in the tribunal was to do his best to see that impossible marriages were preserved no matter the emotional cost to two miserable people.

Ralph Shuler rounded out the threesome. Like Gamaliel of the Old Testament, this pastor of St. Valentine’s parish was open to all things. And if for no other reason, Koesler liked him.

Bradley stepped to the microphone. “There’s been some movement today. And that movement is the result of the Cardinal’s committee. I’d like Father Grimes to explain.”

Bradley moved from the mike and stood to one side. He wanted to be ready to step in and head off any repeat of this morning’s fiasco.

Father Grimes approached the mike almost bashfully. From force of habit, he tapped it several times, to make sure it was on and projecting.

Bradley moved forward. “It’s okay, Father. Just speak in a conversational tone.”

“Yes,” Grimes said. “Well, we were able to visit with the Zabola family and Mrs. Zabola’s sister, Theresa Waleski.”

There was a murmur among the reporters. Waleski was a good sidebar. But they wanted to get into the main event: the resurrection of Moses Green.

Bradley raised a quieting hand.

Grimes continued as if nothing had happened or threatened to happen. “We ascertained that Theresa has been unable to use her legs since her sister’s wedding. She has been a paraplegic. She has had good medical care. Yet with all of this, the doctors have agreed in their diagnosis that there is no physical cause for her paraplegic state. In their collective and unanimous opinion, Theresa’s illness is psychosomatic.

“We are dependent on medical science to tell us what is going on. We are not physicians. We represent the Church … or, more specifically, the Church in the archdiocese of Detroit.

“The physicians also are unanimous on the prognosis of Theresa’s condition. Since her illness seems to be, in popular expression, all in her mind, a deeply moving emotional trauma could remove the internal blocks that cause her paralysis, and she would be cured.

“That is what we believe happened.” And Grimes turned and took his seat.

“There’s more,” Bradley said. “But before we move on, are there any questions? Yes, Andy ….”

“Unless I missed something in all the briefing we’ve had, doesn’t time have something to do with this?”

Monsignor McKeever moved toward the microphone as the question continued.