“Damn!” Monsignor Al Thomas intoned admiringly. This was the second such performance he had witnessed.
“Anonymous Gourmet!” repeated Father Ted Neighbors, wonderingly. “You’re not the Anonymous Gourmet. I don’t think you could even find the Free Press Building.”
“Sure I could,” beamed Curley, supremely self-satisfied. “It’s the one beneath the great big sign that says ‘The Free Press.’ You can see it from almost anywhere in town. That’s it over there.” Curley stood and pointed. It was virtually impossible to see the sign from their table while seated.
“Now, Ted,” Thomas addressed Neighbors in a conspiratorial tone, “just watch what happens after the busboy gives his message to the maitre d’.” Thomas was enjoying this almost as much as Curley.
The three priests went back to studying their menus in silence. After some moments, a waitress came to their table.
“Fathers,” she said in her brightest mechanical stewardess tone, “this is not a very good table. The management would like you to have a better view. Would you mind please following me?”
Curley could barely contain himself. Thomas, who admired Curley’s wheeler-dealer qualities, wondered if there were any way he could lure him into joining the Matrimonial Tribunal, all the while knowing there was no way of prying him from old St. Joseph’s, where Curley had found the best of all possible worlds.
Neighbors, for his part, was impressed. Any maneuver that could improve the quality of life was welcome in his world.
In total this afternoon, creating the impression that the Anonymous Gourmet was evaluating the Summit gained for the three clergymen an improved view, impeccable service, and better-than-average preparation of food. Nothing free. But it was enough to satisfy Curley and inspire him to future performances as the great Gourmet imposter.
Earlier, another threesome had been immediately seated at one of the best tables in the room. Two of the diners were top executives of the First Standard Bank and Trust. They might well have commanded this preferential seating. But the real reason for royal treatment was the presence of Mr. Alphonsus (Dutch) Strauss. His picture had been in the papers and on television frequently enough so that nearly everyone was familiar with his reputation as king of the Detroit drug empire. While that status classified him as allegedly one of Detroit’s top criminals, it also guaranteed the fact that he was a millionaire many times over.
Seated at the neighboring table were four men who could have been professional football players or heavyweight wrestlers. Each seemed about to burst through his large but confining jacket. None seemed to have a neck. They were Dutch Strauss’ bodyguards.
“We’d like to show you, Mr. Strauss,” began the first banker, “some of the advantages of investment with us at this point in time.”
A busboy removed the fourth place setting from the table.
“Whaddya think of them Tigers!” Strauss interjected. “If only they could keep The Bird healthy,” he shook his head in dismay, “they’d be contenders, all right!”
A second busboy brought a basket replete with rolls, breadsticks, sliced rye, and pumpernickel. This threesome’s status would ensure attention afforded few other tables.
“Oh, you’re absolutely correct, Mr. Strauss,” the second banker unhesitatingly agreed. “A healthy Bird and some heavier hitters in the infield. Oh, yes, indeed, contenders!”
A third busboy began pouring water in their glasses.
“So,” said Strauss, gazing about the room and nodding perfunctorily as his eyes met those of important people he knew, “what’s so special about investing now?”
The two bankers looked at each other and sighed inaudibly. This was going to be one of those follow-the-depositor business luncheons.
“Well,” the first banker picked up the ball, “because there is an outstanding percentage interest rate now available on short-term certificates of deposit.”
“Ouch!” Strauss cried out more in surprise than in pain. The busboy, while withdrawing the water pitcher, had apparently nicked Strauss’ hand.
Instantly, the four bodyguards were on their feet. Two of their chairs clattered to the floor. The two nearest Strauss’ table grabbed the now cringing busboy by the shoulders. Many nearby diners, fascinated by the sudden violence, stopped eating and talking to watch the scene.
“It’s O.K., boys,” Strauss reassured, “just a clumsy nigger.”
The two released their grip on the busboy, and all the principals resumed their places.
‘Nigger,’ thought the second banker; one rarely heard that racist insult these days. On further reflection, he decided Strauss could pretty well call anybody anything he wanted to.
“You were saying ...” Strauss turned toward the first banker.
“Well, for instance, Mr. Strauss, a 180-day deposit of $100,000 brings a 10.42 percent increase.” He looked expectantly at Strauss.
“One hundred thousand dollars.” Strauss picked up a fork and began drawing lines on the tablecloth. He smiled a humorless smile. “One hundred thousand dollars! Guys, I am talkin’ three million.”
The two bankers looked at each other. Their mutual expression of disbelief melted into a visage of greedy desire. Simultaneously, each removed a pencil-thin computer from his attaché case and began figuring furiously.
The early fall breeze pushed gentle waves along the surface of the Detroit River. Pat Lennon sat on a park bench in an otherwise deserted area on the south side of Belle Isle.
In the past, she had come many times to this beautiful island that rested midway between Detroit and Windsor. A bridge connected it with Detroit. Unspanned water flowed between the island and Canada.
Lennon sat, legs crossed, arms folded, facing Windsor and lost in thought. She had begun by trying to evaluate her position at the Free Press. She had been deeply embarrassed, hurt, and infuriated a few hours earlier when she had been removed from coverage of The Red Hat Murders.
There wasn’t a single doubt in her mind that Karl Lowell was responsible. And there wasn’t a single thing she could do about it. She had no intention of attempting to get into his good graces by climbing into his bed. Besides, Lowell’s well-recorded history in such matters indicated that his invitation to couch was issued one time only. A determined refusal at such a time became conclusive.
Her future at the Free Press, at its brightest, promised little more than a continued existence in the stable of staff writers. She would get pay raises as the union negotiated them. Important assignments would be withheld from her. And this would continue until she slumped into the cobwebs of retirement.
At worst, she thought, she would be directed toward the worst assignments. Perhaps the night desk.
At best, Lowell would finally be fired. Perhaps he would die. Perhaps he would be murdered. A smile crossed her face. For the first time in history, almost every employee of a major metropolitan newspaper would be under suspicion of murder.
The smile was fleeting. It was all so depressing.
She freed her thoughts to float through her stream of subconsciousness.
A passing freighter caught her eye. Wasn’t this the spot, she pondered, from which Prophet Jones, of happy memory, claimed to have received the divine inspiration to name his church?
She tried to recollect. The colorful prophet claimed to have been sitting somewhere near here, as she recalled.
He had been told, so he said, by God to watch the names of the passing freighters and be ready for instructions.
The first freighter had been named something like Universal Transport. God told the prophet, “You takes ‘Universal’ and drops the rest.” That had been followed by a ship named Triumph of the Seas. God said, “Take ‘Triumph’ and drop the rest.” The final ship had been named something like Dominion of Canada. God said, “Take ‘Dominion’ and drop the rest.”
And then, according to the prophet, God concluded, “You gots ‘Universal,’ ‘Triumph’ and ‘Dominion.’ Now you adds ‘of God’ and YOU
GOTS IT!”
And so was born The Universal Triumph and Dominion of God, Inc. The Very Reverend Prophet Jones its humble pastor and master.
The memory caused Lennon to laugh aloud. And that brought her out of her reverie.
As she began gathering her belongings preparatory to leaving, her eye was caught by an impressive yacht passing by. Quite evidently, there was a full-scale party going on aboard. The decks were filled with people, most of them young, most holding drinks. Loud disco music thrust itself over the waters.
Her eyes focused on the hull of the craft to its name.
Newport News.
She sat back on the bench. She could almost hear a voice saying, “You takes ‘News,’ drops ‘Newport’ and substitutes ‘Detroit.’ NOW YOU GOTS IT!”
The shiny black Fleetwood glided to a stop at the side of an unlikely looking building on Alexandrine near Grand River. It was a dilapidated moderate-sized warehouse not far from downtown Detroit.
Five business-suited men grunted their way out of the car. Each was bulky. In a way, the scene was a macrocosm of the classic circus act wherein lots of midget clowns exit a midget car.
The unassuming building was headquarters for Dutch Strauss’ drug empire. Wordlessly, the five entered the building. Inside the front door was an unfurnished, white-walled reception area. A one-way glass, a small counter area, and a door were all that broke the white monotony. Customers, after being scrutinized, identified and cleared, received their merchandise through the slot behind the counter. Never did a customer see who was behind the panel.
Strauss’ four bodyguards disappeared through the door. Strauss pushed a button hidden behind a light switch. A stairway slowly lowered from the ceiling. He climbed the stairs, pushed a button on the wall just inside the upstairs room and the stairway returned to its former concealed position.
The room was something out of the Arabian nights. A basic decor of soft blacks and reds. Overstuffed leather furniture tastefully placed throughout. The light was indirect with one exception. In the far corner of the room was a mammoth round bed covered with a red crushed velvet spread. This area was illuminated by several spotlights and set off by mirrors on both walls and ceiling.
The smoothness of the velvet spread was disarranged slightly in one small area. Someone was in the bed.
Good, thought Strauss. He would use the girl, shower, and get back to work.
He dropped his clothes in a heap near the closet. They would be tended to later by one of his flunkies.
On his way to the bathroom, he glanced at the bed. Only the girl’s head was visible. She had pulled the spread tightly under her chin. She was black. That was all right. Perhaps she was frightened. That was even better.
As Strauss entered the bathroom, he lost his balance and fell against the door. A wave of dizziness swept over him. For the first time, he was conscious that he had been perspiring more than usual. He tried to remember what he had eaten at the Summit. Nothing out of the ordinary. He shook his head and relieved himself.
He glanced in the mirror. Staring back at him was his father’s face. The old-world, hard-working German looked at him from the mirror. An expression of unutterable sadness was on the old man’s face. Confused, Strauss reached out and touched the mirror. His father was no longer there. But neither was Strauss. There was no reflection at all.
For the first time in his memory, he was close to panic.
At least the girl was there. She was real enough. She would bring reality back. If this got any worse, at least she could fetch help.
He staggered toward the bed, weaving almost out of control.
He threw back the spread. The girl was fully clothed.
“What’s the idea?” He heard himself as if he were in a tunnel. “You’re supposed to be naked.”
She did not answer. She simply continued to stare at him.
He thought he recognized her. Hadn’t he seen her picture in the paper the other day? Oh, yeah; she was the kid from Cooley who had O.D.’d.
“But … but …” Words were resisting him. “… you … you’re dead!”
Laura Gates did not respond. She continued to stare without expression.
Behind the bed near the wall stood a young man. Strauss had been unaware of his presence until now. Nor had he any notion how the man had gotten in. Strauss more easily identified this stranger who had invaded his apartment. His picture was in this morning’s paper. He had been killed in a gunfight with a policeman.
Willie Monroe bent down and touched the floor. A flame flashed up and quickly spread along the wall.
A powerful nauseating odor filled the room.
Strauss stumbled backward, trying to get as far from the fire as possible.
The room began to tilt toward the fire.
Strauss fell. He began to slide toward the fire, which now appeared to be coming from a vast cauldron of molten lava. Desperately, Strauss clung to the base of the closet door.
Willie Monroe on one side and Laura Gates on the other pried his fingers from the door.
Strauss clawed at the deep pile of the rug, but it did not provide sufficient anchorage to maintain his clutch.
He began to tumble toward the fiery pit.
He opened his mouth wide to scream his final terror. No sound was made. No sound ever again would be.
Joe Cox lay on the couch reading the current Newsweek. Outside Lafayette Towers, the sun had almost set. The days were getting shorter. Soon it would be winter and Detroiters would again wonder what to do with all that snow.
Cox checked his watch. 7:30. If it got much later and Pat still was not home, he would begin to worry.
He heard a key turn in the lock. “That you, Pat?”
“Yeah!” There was a trace of barely concealed excitement in her voice. “Have you eaten?”
“No. Been waiting for you.”
Pat Lennon entered the living room and began to pile parcels on the coffee table. She removed her coat and sat in a chair near the couch. “Let’s have a treat and go out for dinner tonight.” Her cheeks were slightly flushed.
“Sure.” Cox laid down the magazine and for the first time took careful note of her emotional high. “What is it with you? Where’ve you been?”
“Oh, I’ve been talking to a nice man named William Gilbert.”
“That’s nice … and I suppose a man named Sullivan was humming along.” Cox returned to Newsweek. Suddenly he dropped the magazine and stared at Pat. “Gilbert? William Gilbert of the News?”
“The very one.” Pat was smiling broadly.
“Why were you talking to Bill Gilbert?” Cox’s astonishment threshold was high, but he was obviously reached by this news.
“I was talking to Billy Gilbert about a job.”
“A job? At the News?”
“At the News.”
“And?”
“I got it.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“Don’t I look a bit different? A little more conservative?”
“But … why?”
“Joe, this morning was as good a description of my future at the Free Press as anyone could draw. I’m going nowhere retroactively. As long as Lowell is around, I can’t even work on a major story.” Recalling this morning’s incident angered her all over again.
“But Lowell isn’t eternal. Sooner or later he’s got to go.”
“Joe, I just decided that I’m not about to wait for that silver lining. Although,” she smiled, “I did reach my decision rather peculiarly. I’ll tell you about it over dinner.”
“Well, O. K.,” he said, glumly, “but I really feel rotten about it.”
“Don’t feel bad, Joe. It’s for my own good. We’ll probably get to see more of each other now than when we were at the same paper.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I meant I’ll feel kind of bad now when we beat the News.”
“You forget, Sweetie, I’m with the New
s now.”
“I haven’t forgot!” It was Cox’s turn to grin from ear to ear.
“You!” she shrieked, and launched herself at him, laughing.
They rolled off the couch onto the floor.
Gradually, their wrestling took on more tender tones. Then there was no more wrestling. It had segued into lovemaking.
Dinner would be delayed.
Although the temperature was in the high forties, it felt colder this rainy Thursday morning. Quite possibly, one of the chilliest spots in Detroit at such times was Washington Boulevard, where the wind whistled in off the Detroit River and whipped along the wide street in the canyon formed by large buildings on both sides. Girl-watchers occasionally referred to that windy stretch of downtown Detroit as Thighland.
Inside St. Aloysius, in the 1200 block of Washington Boulevard, Father Thomas McInerny was offering Mass, trying as best he could to avoid distractions.
Avoiding distractions was no easy task in St. Aloysius. It had been easier before the Second Vatican Council, with the great high altar against the church’s rear wall, his back to the congregation mumbling along in Latin. The altar now was a table flush against the railing at the edge of the opening in the first floor revealing the basement church; he was facing the congregation; the Mass was in English and, worst of all, he not only could hear the almost constant racket, he could see the constant movement that went on.
Both the upper and lower levels of the church had many shrines here and there against the walls. Many of those shrines had stands holding as many as fifty votive candles. Incessantly, worshippers would visit the shrine of their choice, noisily drop a coin or two or three into the metal container, and light a candle.
Added to this was the regular changing of the guard as downtowners stepped into the church, knelt, said a few prayers, then continued on their way to the office or store.
Because it was a centrally located downtown church and because it was almost in the middle of the business section, but only a few blocks from skid row, St. Aloysius frequently was reluctant host to some strange characters.
Death Wears a Red Hat Page 8
