The Green Revolution

by Ralph McInerny

  “We had signs,” Potts said, having got the drift of the conversation. “SAVE OUR CLUB.”

  “Old Carmody would have torn that up, too.”

  “I thought he was retired.”

  “Retired, not dead.”

  “I know the distinction.”

  “They had to bring him back,” Armitage Shanks said, in the tones of an insider. “These young pups can’t handle anything.”

  “Do you approve of the humiliation of a colleague?”

  “When it’s self-administered.”

  What had happened on the steps of the Main Building the previous day might have been unknown by most and forgotten by the few who had witnessed it had not the local television station played the film made of the occasion over and over and over. By the magic of television, it loomed as large as another lost football game. Of course, the station could now justify this repetition because of the disappearance of Lipschutz.

  “They should drag the lakes,” Horvath advised.

  “My wife reported me missing once.”

  “Missing what?”

  “I had gone to Chicago, on impulse. Got caught in a snowstorm coming through Michigan City. Slid off the road and spent the night there.”

  “So you were missing.”

  “I was gone, not missing.”

  The others left Potts to his memories. Who would report any of them missing if they failed to show up someday?

  “Whatever happened to the guy they found on the putting green?”

  “I suppose they buried him.”

  “Was he killed or what?”

  “What,” said Potts, and it didn’t seem to be a question.

  “Potts is right. The verdict was suicide.”

  “Have they looked for Lipschutz on the golf course?”

  “They should check the ball washers for missing towels.”

  Debbie, the hostess, was scooting by, but Shanks caught her attention by catching her arm. Stopped abruptly, she teetered, then fell onto his lap, smiling saucily, then jumped up, and looked around her favorite table.

  “Where are you hiding him, Debbie?”

  “Who?”

  “Lipschutz.”

  She wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue.

  “You have him locked in your basement,” Bingham mused. “Your love slave. Probably drugged. Sooner or later, the neighbors will notice.”

  Debbie pulled out a chair and sat. “Not a chance, sweetie. You spoiled me for anyone else.”

  “What do the Algonquins say about Lipschutz?”

  “That isn’t how they pronounce it.”

  “It is the lowest form of humor to make fun of another’s name,” Potts said.

  “Who’s the big guy with them?”

  Debbie’s eyes lifted. “What a dream. He used to play football. George Wintheiser.”

  “What are they talking about?”

  “Does anyone know what Hittite is?”

  “I think you wash sweaters in it.”

  “Well, that’s what they’re talking about.”

  “Must be a salesman. There is life after football.”

  “Tell it to Lipschutz.”

  “Let him go, Debbie. Kidnapping is a federal charge.”

  Debbie got up. “Anyone want dessert?”

  A chorus of groans.

  “Another drink?”

  A chorus of happy affirmations.

  4

  George Wintheiser had taken to stopping by Rimini’s office, although they had pretty well exhausted any topics they had in common. Hittite did not seem a promising substitute for football. George was staying through the week, at either end of which was a Notre Dame home game. He would provide color during the contests and throughout the week appear on various ESPN panels dissecting the collapse of Notre Dame football. He wanted Rimini too be a guest and an ally defending the Fighting Irish.

  “If we aren’t there, they will be writing our obituary.”

  George always sat in the easy chair, which was low, and when he crossed his legs, his huge feet seemed suspended in the air between them. Today he was wearing sneakers that were the size of snowshoes. It was the memory of those huge feet that had disturbed Rimini when he read the third news story about the Cinderella Fella.

  “Those aren’t Strombergs, are they?” He tried to laugh as he said it.

  “Nikes.” George jiggled his feet, bringing back olfactory memories of locker rooms of yore. “I do own a couple pair, however.”

  “Strombergs?”

  George nodded. “I know what you’re thinking. I read that story in the local paper. A pair of Strombergs was stolen from my motel room.”

  “I wouldn’t tell the police that.”

  “Will you?” His smile was pleasant enough, but Rimini, in the circumstances, found it slightly menacing.

  Imagine what the police would say if they asked George if he wore Strombergs and he said yes, but a pair had been stolen. Who would want shoes his size anyway?

  “Have you heard anything about the effort to find out how many Catholics are on the team?”

  “Did you read Bartholomew’s story about the Methodist kicker and the Muslim wide receiver?”

  “Interesting.”

  “Incredible. Admission has refused access to the press.”

  Rimini heard more of the same from Bartholomew Hanlon later.

  “They told me all those records are confidential. Like grades. I told them about the Freedom of Information Act.”

  “So you’re stymied?”

  “Up to a point.”

  “You might have better luck following up on the death of Ignatius Willis.”

  Bartholomew ran his hand over his face. Was he trying to grow a beard? “We got a funny call. Some woman said, ‘George Wintheiser wears Stromberg shoes.’”

  “He does.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “How do I know you’re wearing Rockports? I can read your sole.”

  “Is Wintheiser still around?”

  “He’s staying at the Morris Inn.”

  * * *

  That was all Rimini could do. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed that Wintheiser wanted the whistle blown on himself. It was as if he were telling Rimini: You tell them, I can’t. He thought he owed it to George to let him know that Advocata Nostra wanted to interview him.

  “They got a call telling them you wear Strombergs,” he told Wintheiser.

  “Was it you?”

  “George. It was a woman.”

  “That would be Pearl.”

  “Your wife!”

  “I wonder if it was a local call.”

  “Who can tell anymore?” Why would Wintheiser’s wife give that kind of information to the police? “She mad at you or what?”

  “Are you married?”

  “A long time ago.”

  “Divorced?”

  “Hey, I’m Catholic. No, she died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Rimini had felt sorry at the time; at least, he told himself he should feel sorry. How many people realized he had been married to an untamed shrew? She hated academic life and had nagged him about getting another job.

  “You’re an economist. There must be a lot better jobs than this.”

  “No doubt.” No doubt. Thelma had not understood the addictive power of academic discontent. Had his griping put it into her head that he wanted out of academic life? Find me a professor who doesn’t sound as if he were the lead man in a Volga boatmen crew. He suggested that she read the dialogues of Plato. She preferred Stephen King.

  It was after one of their four-alarm arguments that she stormed out of the house, jumped in the car, and tore down the driveway. He heard the crash from the kitchen, where he had gone for a beer. He stood very still, refusing to think what he was thinking. He carried the still unopened bottle of beer into the living room and looked out. The street looked like a demolition derby.

  Thelma had been hit first by a northbound vehic
le, and that sent her spinning into the path of a southbound vehicle. Rimini had stood at the window for minutes, transfixed. The sound of their argument seemed still to be echoing in the house. A neighbor put in a call to 911. Squad cars and ambulances came screaming. There was a traffic jam for miles in either direction. Rimini waited in the house until someone rang the doorbell.

  * * *

  At the wake, after the funeral, he had longed to tell someone how their marriage had ended. He accepted the inarticulate condolences of friends and colleagues. He realized he was regarded as a tragic figure. Who would understand that, under a minimum of sorrow and sadness, what he really felt was relief?

  Now, all these years later, he told George Wintheiser how Thelma had died.

  “Right in front of your house?”

  “We’d just had an argument.”

  The remark seemed not to register with George. But then he said, “All married people have arguments.”

  “You, too?”

  “I may get an annulment.”

  “At least she remembers what brand of shoes you wear.”

  “Yeah. Look, I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself.”

  “Redeem myself?”

  “Consider what your talking to reporters stirred up. I’ve talked to my director at ESPN, and he likes the idea of a professor who is a former player defending the team on our channel. What do you say?”

  Rimini was excited, and terrified. “Let me think about it.”

  “It’s too late. I already said you would do it.”

  It helped to think it wasn’t an act of free will. If he bombed, he could blame Wintheiser.

  5

  “First Lipschutz, now Roger,” Phil said solemnly when Jimmy Stewart arrived at the Knight apartment on campus.

  “You think they’re connected?”

  “He has an office near Roger’s.”

  “Did you call there?”

  “It’s the first thing I did.”

  “Well, as long as it’s pointless, let’s go have a look.”

  They walked across campus. It was mottled with gold and brown leaves, but there were still many on the trees, providing a vision of loveliness that did not match Phil’s mood. Going to Roger’s office at least was doing something, however futile.

  “No clue in the apartment?” Jimmy asked.

  “None. I don’t think he was there all night. I went to bed early.” And feeling no pain, but Jimmy probably guessed that.

  “There are faculty offices down here?” Jimmy asked as they were going down the steps beside Brownson.

  “Roger prefers it.”

  “This has got to be one of the oldest buildings on campus.”

  “I’m told it was once a convent.”

  Jimmy said nothing to that. What was there to say?

  The door was locked, but Phil used the key Roger had given him. “Just in case.”

  The fear went through Jimmy that this might be the case Roger had had in mind. It was with trepidation that he unlocked Roger’s office. He took a deep breath and entered, flicking on the light. He went to the desk and peered over it, half fearing to find the fallen Roger lying there. But the office was empty.

  “Where’s Lipschutz’s office?”

  They went down the hall to a door that was unlocked. This office, too, was empty, but it looked messed up in a way that suggested this was not its normal condition. The wastebasket was overturned; papers had slid from their piles on the desk.

  “Looks like he left in a hurry.”

  They went back to Roger’s office to give the matter thought before they did anything else. They would have to make the rounds of everyone Roger knew, professors and students.

  “Can I smoke in here?” Jimmy asked.

  “Only if you light up. I’m going to call Father Carmody,” Phil said. He dialed the old priest’s number at Holy Cross House.

  Father Carmody answered in a hearty voice.

  “Father, something terrible has happened,” Phil said without preamble.

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s Roger. He’s disappeared.”

  “That would take some doing.”

  “Father, I’m serious. Roger’s gone, and Professor Lipschutz has disappeared as well.”

  A slight pause. “You’d better come here so we can discuss what to do.”

  “I have Jimmy Stewart with me.”

  “Good, good. A wonderful man.”

  Phil hung up. “He says you’re a wonderful man.”

  “Only my confessor knows for sure.”

  It was the kind of remark that reminded Phil that he was surrounded by Catholics.

  Jimmy just shrugged when he said so. “You could always join the football team, Phil.”

  “He wants us to come to Holy Cross House.”

  They were outside when Phil said this. Jimmy stopped. “You mean walk?”

  “We could go back to the apartment and get my car.”

  “That’s as far as Holy Cross House.”

  So they walked, two middle-aged men who needed the exercise but didn’t enjoy it. On this walk they were silent in order to save their breath. When Holy Cross House came in sight, Phil had a stitch in his side and Jimmy was breathing with an open mouth.

  * * *

  Father Carmody came to the big bowed reception desk to fetch them. The little priest was brisk, bouncy, and seemingly pleased with himself.

  “Father,” Phil began, but the priest held up a staying hand.

  “We’ll talk in my room.”

  Down the hall, then, where Father Carmody pushed his door open and went inside. Phil and Jimmy followed.

  Roger was enthroned in the center of a sofa, a book in his hand, a beautiful view of the lake from the window he faced.

  “Phil!” he cried and made a rocking motion in preparation for getting up.

  “No, don’t.” He put a hand on Roger’s shoulder and felt a great wave of tenderness go through him. That was soon followed by anger. “Have you been here all the time?”

  “Well, since last evening.”

  “You didn’t call! You didn’t tell me where you were!”

  Father Carmody intervened. “That was at my suggestion, Phil.”

  “Even so,” Roger said. “You’re a detective. I thought you would figure it out.”

  6

  The network television crew was staying in a motel on 31, but their trucks were parked next to the stadium, where they had been throughout the season, it being more economical to just leave them there. Inside, technicians were at work and the directors confronted a huge console with a dozen or more screens. On one of them, Piero Macklin was testing field locations. He moved around as he talked, bobbing and weaving, like a boxer, like a dancer.

  “Switch to Betty Boop.”

  This seemed to be their name for the female analyst who tossed her head, made love to the camera, and talked a mile a minute. Back to Piero then.

  On one of the screens, there was an image of George Wintheiser, waiting patiently, silent. Beside him sat a nervous Professor Rimini.

  “Where is he?” Jimmy asked.

  “The press box.”

  Everything pointed to George Wintheiser. His wife, Pearl, had called to tell them her husband wore Stromberg shoes. Not an indictable offense, and Jimmy didn’t want to rock the boat until he had more than the word of an obviously estranged wife. Then Larry Douglas had come in and put a plastic bag on Jimmy’s desk and sat, smiling from Dumbo ear to Dumbo ear.

  “What’s this?”

  “A present.”

  Jimmy looked in the bag. Shoes. Strombergs.

  “Look inside them.”

  Jimmy looked and saw the name George Wintheiser.

  “You been breaking and entering?”

  “Let me tell you how I got hold of those.”

  Jimmy listened. He owed the kid that much at least. So it was as much dumb luck as anything that Larry had got hold of them, but nonetheless here were the shoes that matched
the prints taken from the putting green and from the ground around the ball washer on the first tee. They went together, he and Larry, to the evidence room to confirm the match.

  “He must have run up those stairs, down the mall, then stopped and took off his shoes and threw them in a trash barrel.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “We’ll have to ask him.”

  We. Fair enough. He took Larry along when he went to have a talk with George Wintheiser. At the motel, they learned that the crew was at the stadium. Jimmy told himself that the campus was Larry’s turf, he wasn’t doing him any favors, but the truth was he was proud of Larry. Jimmy should have paid more attention to the story about the two women on the cleanup crew. When he dismissed them from his thoughts, it was with the notion that they couldn’t tell him anything that he didn’t already know.

  They rose in the elevator to the top, coming out into a large reception area off which the descending levels of the press box opened. George Wintheiser was talking at the camera now. Jimmy went down to him, got his attention, and showed him his ID. The big man looked at it, nodded, and went on talking. When he was done, he swung his chair toward Jimmy.

  “We found your shoes.”

  “How did you know they were missing?” He thought a moment. “You?” he asked the nervous bald man beside him.

  “I swear to God,” said Rimini.

  “Tell them,” Wintheiser urged.

  Jimmy said, “I’d rather hear it from you.”

  “Someone stole a pair of my shoes. They have my name in them. You say you found them?”

  “I want you to come downtown where we can talk at leisure.”

  “Downtown.”

  “To my office.”

  Wintheiser looked at Jimmy as if he must be kidding. “You’re arresting me because someone stole my shoes?”

  “No one’s arresting anyone. I just want to talk.”

  Wintheiser thought about it. After a minute, he pressed a button and announced, “Look, I have an errand to do. Any need for me to stick around?”

  A voice as if from the heavens told him he could go. He turned to Rimini. “It’s up to you.”

  When he stood up, Jimmy saw that he was wearing shoes just like the pair Larry had brought downtown.

  * * *

  About an hour later, George Wintheiser decided to take the advice Jimmy had given him at the outset. First he called the network, taking down what they told him. Then he made a call to a local lawyer, Alex Cholis, who soon arrived and went into conference with his client, after which Wintheiser answered Jimmy’s questions.