Koesler was taken aback. “You certainly don’t have to apologize … but now that you have: why?”
“Because you were right and I was wrong. Simple as that.”
“How did you reach this conclusion … uh, if you don’t mind?”
“You were right to welcome the healing power of God into your church.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. You were the last person still in the church after the incident with Dr. Green. You sure weren’t in a forgiving mood then. In fact, you laid it on pretty thick.”
“I said I’m sorry. But it wasn’t the first miracle that convinced me you were right all along. It was the second miracle, when that poor crippled woman was healed. The doctor’s return to life was going to happen, no matter what. That was a true miracle, I have no doubt. But it could have happened anywhere since it involved an unbeliever.
“But without the doctor’s miracle in St. Joseph’s, we never would have experienced the second miracle. That woman—a strong Catholic—believed in the One, True Church. Because of that faith and the previous miracle, she spread her faith at the feet of Our Dear Savior.
“It is immaterial to me how you knew this was going to happen. Only that you knew. So, I apologize. I assure you I will be there to witness and to testify. There will be more. There will be more!”
“Wait a minute ….” But before Koesler could remind Reichert that the Church was discouraging such precipitate conclusions, this zealot had hung up.
Koesler set the phone back in its cradle. This, he thought, is a good argument against allowing priests to retire. Some among his brethren needed something to keep them busy.
Chapter Twenty
It was show—or rather, sing and dance—time at Virago I.
Two young women, beautifully built and more talented than most, were waiting backstage to audition for two openings. A performer at either of the Viragos could expect the possibility of moving on to legitimate theater or lucrative advertising work. It had happened with some frequency over the years.
One who had decided, in spite of very attractive offers, to stay with the company was Susan Batson. Years ago, she had won a spot when she’d auditioned with Judy Green. The story of what had gone on between Judy and Jake Cameron had never been told in its entirety. But rumors that linked the diverse facts painted a credible scandal.
Jake was here this early Wednesday afternoon. He continued to attend every audition, though he no longer played the role of one who had the last word. Green’s periodic pummeling had sapped his self-confidence.
He was in a blue funk. Over the past several months, this foul mood had come to enshroud what had once been an ebullient personality.
He sat slumped on a folding chair. Susan Batson sat next to him. Others who traditionally participated in this pleasant avocation were nearby.
“How many openings?” he asked.
“Two,” Susan replied. A measure of how far he had slipped; in the past he would’ve known.
“How many girls?”
“Ten.”
“Did you check their résumés?”
“Yeah.”
“Any young ones? Eighteen or so?”
“Two. But I checked them out real good.” This, of course, was one of the better-grounded rumors: that Judy had faked her date of birth. Everyone familiar with Jake’s M.O. knew that the night of the first audition he would hit on her. It had been routine for him. And he hadn’t worried about age; after all, she was eighteen. Until her father the doctor let Jake in on the fact that she was underage and Jake could be put away for statutory rape.
A partnership in Virago had been Green’s price tag for not pressing the rape charge. That had taken a sizable amount of wind out of Cameron’s sails.
Everyone had thought that that was the end of it. Everyone but Moses Green.
All had been quiet until Green, cautiously at first, began pressuring the board of directors to squeeze Jake out of the enterprise entirely.
Jake had fought like a drowning man. But he had no possibility of beating Green back. Too much money, too much power, too little humanity. It was all too much for Jake.
Green’s death had solved most of Cameron’s problems—all of the more serious ones anyway.
No one was more surprised or despondent than Cameron when Green seemed to beat death and lived again. Cameron’s bitterness was all the more profound because he had so enjoyed that short, happy period that turned out to be the eye of the hurricane.
“Well,” Cameron said, “it’s show time.” He had used the cue to start the dancing since the first topless bar he had managed. Until recently, the phrase had been imbued with a sense of enthusiasm and anticipation. Now it carried not much further than Susan’s hearing.
In fact, since it was not audible backstage, Susan called out, “All right girls, let’s go. Number one.”
Number one danced onto the stage. She clutched a corner of the curtain and wrapped it around herself as she pirouetted further onstage. About three-quarters of the way, she hesitated and danced back to where she had begun. Thus she delayed for a few seconds letting everyone see how little she was wearing.
It was a well-planned maneuver. Not original, by any means. It dated back at least to Gypsy Rose Lee, if not to Salome. Number one made the move gracefully and effectively.
Cameron noted all this, but he was out of steam before the trip began.
The dancers continued in order until all ten had performed.
“Hey, Jake, you wanna get in on this?” one of the judges called. “We’re gonna vote.”
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 bu
llshit.”
“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.”
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