“Licensed?”
“Use whatever criteria you want. But insist they have licenses. And, as in driving points, once they make X number of factual errors in reviews, they lose their license. “What do you think?”
“You’re kidding?”
“No.”
“Okay, but you said reviews are not all that important in selling books. So what happened to you? How come your books haven’t done better?”
Hogan bit his lip, seeming to weigh explanation. Finally, he said, “There’s a word for it—actually, two words . . .” He paused. “Ridley Groendal.”
Koesler felt he should not be surprised. Still, he was. “Rid? But, how—?”
“He’s powerful, Bob . . . at least he was. Especially when he was at the New York Herald. He reviewed my first book—although by his criteria he shouldn’t have. My publisher wasn’t that significant. Anyway, he went way out of his way to rip hell out of it. He even went so far as to question the motives and intelligence of my publisher. I think it was easily the worst review of anything I’ve ever seen.”
“But I thought you said reviews were not all that important when it came to book sales?”
“His carried more clout than maybe any other. Besides, the review was not only grossly negative; it was symbolic. The review predated publication by several weeks. So he was sending a message to other reviewers.
“But much more importantly, he was going out of his way to influence the bookstores . . .” Hogan stood before the mirror combing his hair. He smiled, but there was no joy in it. “I’ll have to give him that: He went to one helluva lot of trouble.”
“Trouble? What—?”
“This wasn’t just any ordinary vendetta. He went way out of his way to get me. He made sure his review was seen by influential editors.
“The thing that really gets me is the job he did in the stores. He managed to get his negative review reprinted in a publication influential on booksellers—that sort of thing. He really did a job!”
“This is all Greek to me. I thought all you had to do was write a good book.”
“Ha! Even without the determined opposition of a Ridley Groendal, that’s not even in the ballpark. If you’re a nobody like me, in addition to a damn good book you’ve gotta have promotion, publicity, packaging, marketing, distribution—and a helluva lot of luck.”
“Holy crow!”
“People like me don’t get big advances. So the publisher is not going to lose a lot of sleep trying to recover the millions he didn’t advance me. If he runs into a big enough brick wall—in this case one built by Rid—he’s just not going to bother. And word gets around.”
Koesler had difficulty getting his shoes on. Not unexpectedly for him, with all the exercise and steam, his feet had swollen. “How long have you known about this, Charlie?”
“How long have I suspected is a better question. A long time. It was a combination of strange happenings. Why couldn’t I get a job at one of the metropolitan papers? Why did I have so much trouble—at least in the beginning, selling my stuff as a free-lancer? And most of all, why all this determined opposition from critics and editors and book chains?
“Of course the initial supposition is: It’s my fault; I can’t cut it; I should be out digging ditches. But it just didn’t wash. I knew I was better than that. I knew it. And some friends I could rely on—including you—reinforced my confidence.
“No, it was something else, some third person or force or something. I must confess I didn’t suspect Rid until fairly recently. And then only because I had investigated and dismissed almost every other possibility.”
“But you did find out, Charlie. From what you said, you know it’s Rid now.”
“Yeah, I know.” Again the joyless smile.
“Then, how . . .?”
“It happened a few months ago. I was doing a piece for the Suburban Reporter. I’ve done lots of stuff for them.”
“That’s the same paper Rid writes for, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, only he’s never there. Or he’s there so infrequently he might just as well never be there. I don’t know how many times I’ve been in that editorial office, but lots. He’s hardly ever there. It’s like a throne the king never sits in. It’s just there. And he isn’t.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Not many do. He mails most of his stuff in. About the only time he ever comes in is when he’s covering something like a concert and he’s on deadline. Then there’s almost no way out; he has to come in and bat out the copy. But he doesn’t stick around . . . just goes through his mail and leaves.”
“You seem to know an uncommon amount about Ridley’s comings and goings.”
Hogan shook his head. “Bob, everybody does. Everybody but you. Almost everybody’s done at least one feature on Rid, especially since he came back from New York. You’re just not keeping up on local gossip columns. Besides, in effect, I work at least part-time at the Reporter free-lancing. I’m there lots more often than Rid. And I talk to the staffers.”
“Okay, but how did you find out about Rid . . . I mean about his negative influence on your career?”
“As I was saying, a few months ago I brought in one of the pieces I’d done for the Reporter. It just so happened that Rid was making one of his rare appearances there at the time. As I was handing my article to the editor, I glanced over—and there he was. I guess my chin hit the floor. I never expected to see him. In fact, I hadn’t seen him since the seminary. And what was that . . . more than thirty years ago?
“Anyway, I decided I’d challenge him . . . why not?”
“And . . .?”
“It was incredible. It just spewed out of him. His friend—uh, Harison, is it?—was there. He tried to stop Rid, but he couldn’t Rid was citing chapter and verse. How he had reached the “right people” at the Free Press and the News. How he’d programmed and manipulated and poisoned so many of the reviewers, book editors, bookstores, chains, against me. How he had singlehandedly screwed my career:”
“He admitted all that?”
“Admitted? He bragged about it! It was as if he’d been storing it all up, just dying to let me have it.”
“Then why did he keep it a secret all these years?”
“That was the only way it would work. If I’d known what he was doing, I might have been able to head him off. No, it worked only too well.”
“So what did you do?” Koesler was well aware that Hogan had always operated on a notoriously short fuse.
“It’s what I almost did. And you can guess that. I almost beat the shit out of him. I think I would have if he hadn’t taunted me about that very thing. I was on the verge of hitting him when he seemed to read my mind. ‘What are you going to do about it,’ he said, ‘hit me? Like you did the last time? Go ahead . . . go ahead, then. Only I can tell you: No matter what you do to me now, what I’ve done to you was worth it. Go ahead! Go ahead!’ He was shouting. Everybody in the office stopped work to listen.
“Somehow, it took the spontaneity off the moment. I don’t know; I suppose I would have passed up most of the fights I’ve had if I’d ever stopped a minute to think about it. It certainly worked this time: All he had to do was invite me to do exactly what I was about to do, and I lost the urge.
“God, now that I think of it, maybe that’s what the bastard had in mind . . . do you suppose the son-of-a-bitch was programming me right to the last?”
“I don’t know, Charlie. I doubt it.
“But that was it? It ended like that? With Rid daring you to hit him?”
“Not exactly. I cooled off enough so I no longer felt like belting the hell out of him. But I was still damn mad. And . . . well . . . I warned him that if our paths ever crossed again, I’d . . .”
“You’d . . .?”
“I’d kill him.”
“You said that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did the others hear you? The others in the office?”
“I guess—I had
n’t thought about that—but, yes, I suppose so. They all heard Rid challenge me. And I wasn’t exactly whispering my threat. Yeah, they heard me. They had to.”
Koesler shook his head. “Not good. What if something were to happen to Rid?”
“Something like death? Then we celebrate.”
“Seriously, Charlie: What if Rid were to get hurt—or actually die under suspicious circumstances. All those people heard you threaten him.”
“So?”
“So, if I were you, I’d hope I had a really good alibi for the time in question.”
“Come on, Bob, you don’t think anyone would actually think I would kill somebody!”
Briefly, Koesler envisioned a prosecuting attorney describing for a jury the brutal beating Hogan had given Groendal years before, reminding them of the damage Rid had caused to Hogan’s career, and bringing up examples of Charlie’s quick temper.
If their paths did, indeed, cross again, Koesler could not predict the consequences. But he could well imagine a Hogan beyond anyone’s control.
“Just the same,” Koesler wrapped the familiar clerical collar around his neck and snapped it shut in the back, “let’s hope that Rid lives a long life and passes away quietly in his sleep.”
“You can’t expect me to drink to that, Bob.” Hogan completed knotting his tie, and slipped on his jacket. “I know only the good are supposed to die young, and, while we are not all that young, God could make an exception for this bastard. He’s screwed up too many people’s lives. I’d be doing mankind a favor if I were to . . . well . . .” Again his laugh held no mirth.
They parted in the parking lot, promising to get together again soon, although, privately, Koesler resolved not to meet at the spa again. Entering his car, he quickly started the engine and turned the heat on full. He was intolerant of the time that it took for the forced air to heat up. He was tired and shivering. He hoped this would not mark the beginning of one of those lingering Michigan colds. He had escaped both the flu and a cold for several winters. And he’d accomplished this without benefit of a “health” spa. No use ruining a proven formula. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, he thought grimly.
As the air warmed and he started feeling more comfortable, he thought about the just-completed scene when he had donned his clerical collar and Hogan his tie. Koesler recalled the time of Hogan’s momentous decision that would take him out of the world of the Roman collar and put him in the world of the tie.
What would have happened to Hogan if he had not made that drastic change? If he had remained a priest, undoubtedly Rid would never have been able to reach him. Charlie would have been not only secure in the priesthood; he would have been safe. Safe from Ridley Groendal.
Among the elements Hogan had considered in his decision to leave the priesthood, he had not figured on Groendal. There was no reason to include the all-but-forgotten Groendal in his plans. But once Charlie left the comparative shelter of the priesthood, he had become unknowingly vulnerable. And, silently, behind the scenes, Groendal had struck—again and again.
And what had this cost Hogan? Only the work for which he was qualified and which he so desired. Plus a possible and even more desirable career as an author. And finally, the children he and Lil had planned for and wanted.
Quite a bit, all in all.
And Charlie knew it, of course. He knew it in far greater detail than Koesler could ever realize.
With all of this in mind, was it possible to totally disregard Hogan’s death threat against Groendal? Koesler wondered about that.
The time of Communion was over. The communicants had returned to their places as had the visiting priests who had helped in the distribution. Optional at this point was a period of silent prayer. The option was favored by Koesler, who regularly observed this period of quiet. All were seated; the silence was unusually profound.
A beautiful sound wafted over the congregation, as a rich mellow violin began a solo of the “Meditation” from Massenet’s opera, Thais. Appropriate, thought Koesler.
His next thought was of the presence in the church of another musician, Dave Palmer, a violinist of rank. Koesler wondered what Dave thought of the performance of the “Meditation.” As far as Koesler was concerned, it sounded great. But he suspected that a gifted musician was equipped with a special ear that could discern a level of perfection—or lack of it—denied to the ears of the general public.
Could it really be more than forty years! Koesler did not want to admit it had been that long since they had graduated from elementary school. But the arithmetic didn’t lie. Palmer off to Interlochen and a priceless musical education, training and performance opportunities. Groendal leaving his heart at Interlochen and going instead to a seminary.
Dave Palmer and his ulcer. Of course the cause could have been any number of things. Privately, Koesler had named the ulcer “The Groendal Connection.” God and the reading public knew that Ridley had been harsh—many would say vicious—to any number of performers. But no one would dispute that for frequency and intensity of attack, Dave Palmer was certainly one of his favorite targets.
Strange; as far as Koesler could tell, Palmer and Groendal had not exchanged a word face to face in these past forty years. Yet in peculiar ways, they had been virtually in constant communication. When Groendal was not writing snide and bitter comments about Palmer’s performances, Rid frequently could be found badmouthing Dave to other critics, impresarios, and symphony directors, as well as those of the general public who were interested in serious music.
As for Palmer, he spent a generous amount of his time complaining and griping about fate in general and Groendal in particular. For those close to Dave, it was moot which had come first: Groendal’s unrelenting persecution or Palmer’s grouchy and offensive disposition. In time they seemed to feed on each other.
Much of the problem, as far as Palmer himself was concerned, stemmed from the quality of his talent. How much talent did he possess? Still more basic, how could talent be measured?
In the seminary attended by Koesler and Groendal had been a young man of great athletic ability. Of all the sports in which he participated, clearly he was most outstanding at hockey. Consensus had it that he was of professional caliber, not merely big-league but superstar. In time, the young man dropped out of the seminary and later won a tryout with the Detroit Red Wings. By his own admission, the Wings, led at that time by Sid Abel, Ted Lindsay, and Gordie Howe, had skated circles around him. Thus was the young man’s talent measured: not against fair-to-middling amateurs, but in the league of gifted professionals.
In some such way were Dave Palmer’s musical abilities weighed.
In the setting of a parochial grade school, little David Palmer was looked on as a child prodigy. And perhaps he was. But he was being measured against mediocre-to-good musical students. For the final concert of his primary school presentation, Palmer was paired with Ridley Groendal. The billing alone created the impression there was some element of equality between the two. That simply was not true. Groendal was paired with Palmer solely because Ridley was a good pianist, not because he was a gifted musician destined, as was Dave, to become a professional.
So, when it came to oneupmanship, Palmer left Groendal in the dust—an inevitability that everyone but Groendal would have recognized. However, no one told Groendal. No one could have. And there was the rub.
Groendal believed—as it turned out, to his dying day—that he might have had a magnificent musical career had it not been for Palmer’s “cheap trick.” Thus, Palmer went on to get his specialized musical training and Groendal did not.
No one, with the exception of Ridley and his parents, in any way expected Groendal to attend a school such as Interlochen. People were not at all surprised when Ridley went off to the seminary. He was a religious young lad and lots of religious young lads of that vintage routinely at least gave seminary a try.
Few besides Ridley knew that the seminary was his second choice. Even Groendal did not
know at that time that his hatred for Palmer would endure to the very end of Ridley’s life.
Dave Palmer went blithely off to Interlochen and immediately suffered a severe case of specialized culture shock. Though his talent was considerable, it no longer placed him head-and-shoulders above his campmates. He was now merely one of many gifted young people.
Nonetheless he was good, very good. And he worked hard. A combination that won him honors and predictions by at least a few of his teachers that he would achieve great things.
Then he left academe. Like all who do so, Palmer found a cold, challenging world that dared him to find his place in it.
The first place he wanted was a chair in the Detroit Symphony Orchestra.
That was understandable. If he had been an athlete it would have been quite natural for him to have wanted to play for the Detroit Tigers, or Lions, or Red Wings. Of course, if he’d been an athlete he would most likely have been subjected to a draft or a bidding war between teams. As a musician, he didn’t have to worry about anything like that. So long as there was a vacancy and he qualified for an audition, he could try for his boyhood dream: to become a member of the DSO.
As luck would have it, shortly after graduation, there was a vacancy; he qualified, auditioned, and was chosen.
That was about the last bit of unmixed good luck he was to have for many, many years.
A few months before graduation, Palmer had married Anna Krause, an art student he’d met at Interlochen. Anna was not nearly as talented an artist as Dave. But they did share at least two qualities: Both were extremely fertile and both were—for that day—exemplary Catholics, which led to a family of formidable proportions.
A few of their nine children were baptized by Father Koesler. The Palmers and Koesler kept in contact only sporadically. When not distracted by his family, Palmer was kept busy at the DSO. He had time for little else.
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