William Kienzle - Requiem for Moses

“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.

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.