William Kienzle: Requiem for Moses

One fact was certain: There were a lot of people here. Even a notice in the obituary column running two or three days would not have drawn many more than were here by phone invitation. What was it they said-the best marketing was the result of word of mouth? Dr. Green’s children and their relatives and friends had again proven that.

Added to this evening’s woes, Father Koesler had a grievously upset stomach. It wasn’t the casserole. It was that nasty call from Dan Reichert. Inviting food into a nervous tummy had not been wise. He was paying for that mistake.

Easily the most outstanding feature of this gathering was the corpse.

Ordinarily, Koesler took no notice of caskets. But, since Mrs. Green had mentioned telling the funeral director to use the best, Koesler focused on it. It was, indeed, a handsome box.

Of Dr. Green, there wasn’t much to see. His body was encased in a chalky shroud. Only his face was visible. A face with sharp features, thin and drawn-undoubtedly the result of his painful illness.

Koesler looked about for Mrs. Green. There she was: not far from the casket. His first thought was that she cleaned up nicely. From this afternoon, he recalled her as being rather plain. Now, he attributed that to the deadlines that had been forced on her. Undertakers, doctors, death certificate-not to mention the Church and the relatively hard time he had given her … all of it had taken a toll.

Obviously, she had found time to put things together. Coiffed, painted, stylishly dressed, she was quite attractive. Certainly those crowding around her-as well as all those in line-seemed attracted.

Admittedly it was still a bit early, but she was making no effort to link up with him and deliver the promised biographical anecdotes that would give him some information on which to build a brief eulogy.

Perhaps he had best follow the suggestion of one of his earlier callers and go generic. He looked around at the milling groups. She’d said she was a nurse. He looked for a white uniform. Nearly everyone was wearing topcoats. This September evening was chill. If she was here and if she was wearing white, he didn’t see her.

This would not be his first venture into a generic eulogy. The fact that the deceased was Jewish, and presumably that many of the mourners might also be, was an added challenge. He would have to try to confine his remarks to focus more on the mourners and how the sight of death puts our lives into a proper perspective since, one day, this will be our lot.

No, he was not really satisfied with that. He would have to try, in the time remaining, to either improve or discard this eulogy.

There he was, in a corner at the very rear of the church: Dan Reichert-hunkered down and ready to spring. Probably had a pen and a notebook to record everything for his protest to the Cardinal.

Damn. If only he were better prepared! If his performance was going to be reported, he’d prefer it be smashing.

As he stepped down to the main floor, a man approached. Koesler could not recall ever having met him. The man carried with ease his Celtic good looks: a full head of black wavy hair, heavy eyebrows, and a smile that grew more engaging as he drew near. “You the priest in charge?”

“Yes.” He extended his hand. “I’m the pastor, Father Koesler.”

“Jake Cameron,” the man said as they shook hands.

There was a pause as Cameron slowly turned to survey the assemblage. He continued to look over the crowd as he completed his 360-degree rotation. Still smiling broadly, albeit quizzically, he again faced Koesler. With both hands open and spread apart in a seemingly puzzled attitude, Cameron said simply, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is this going on here? This has got to be Moe Green’s first introduction into any kind of religious edifice since his bar mitzvah.”

“Oh, well, it’s at the request … or, maybe insistence of his widow.”

Cameron chuckled. “Tell me about it. Margie can be pretty persuasive.”

It occurred to Koesler that until this moment he hadn’t known Mrs. Green’s first name. “Margie … that’s Mrs. Green?”

“Margaret. To those who know her and have been persuaded by her it’s Margie.”

“Are you a relative? Friend?”

“Neither. A partner, you could say. A partner he definitely would say … if he could say anything.”

It seemed clear that Cameron was not grief-stricken. But then, glancing around the church, Koesler could find no one in evident mourning.

He looked again at the bier, and at Mrs. Green standing nearby in animated conversation with a number of visitors. This was one cool and composed widow. And still no indication that she was going to provide Koesler with the promised backgrounding for his talk.

The priest returned his attention to the still-casual Cameron. “In a little while I’m supposed to deliver some sort of brief eulogy. I confess I don’t know anything about this man. Perhaps you could …”

“You don’t know Moe Green! He’s in the media often enough. Society pages, black tie, Margie on his arm in a mildly exotic dress … some charity function or other.” Cameron studied Koesler more seriously. “Not your crowd, is it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“A thumbnail sketch then,” Cameron offered.

“As much as you can tell me in the time we’ve got,” Koesler said.

THE PAST

The year was 1974.

Jake Cameron managed a topless bar and restaurant on Michigan Avenue in Dearborn. Ford Country.

One of his regular customers was seated near a slightly raised stage on which a curvy young woman wearing a G-string, pasties, and, oddly, shoes, was writhing. Most of the lunch-hour crowd was gone.

That the customer was alone surprised Cameron. In his reckoning, this was the first time the man was not accompanied by at least one other diner. Cameron knew this because he knew his customers, at least the regulars. He paid attention to them.

He approached the table. “Another martini?”

The man looked up, appraising the manager for the first time. Previously there had been no need. This manager-a glorified waiter really-was not a subject to be manipulated. Just a server of food and drink. But now, with no one else to take advantage of, he took stock of the manager. “Okay … provided you join me.” Pause. “On me, of course.”

The manager quickly surveyed the room. Not many left. A couple of men at one table, an unaccompanied man at another. All absorbed in voyeurism, they gave no indication that they had any further interest in food or drink. “Okay.”

He went to the bar and built a martini precisely as this customer had initially described months ago. For himself, he filled a cocktail glass with water and added a twist. Tending bar was a downhill ride to alcoholism unless one was abstemious. Besides, he would bill the man for two drinks. One would be pure profit.

The customer observed and fully understood what Cameron had done. No problem there; greed was good.

Cameron placed the glasses on the table and sat down opposite the man, who extended his hand. “Green. Moe Green.”

Cameron shook hands. “I know who you are, Doctor. I read the papers. I’m Cameron … Jake Cameron. Get stood up today?”

Green hesitated. He hadn’t realized that Cameron was aware he never dined or drank alone here. “Yeah,” he said, finally. “His problem. A big problem next time he needs a favor. This is a seedy place,” he said without preamble. “You own it or manage it?”

Cameron snorted. “You skip the fine print, don’t you, Doc? I’m the manager.”

“Who’s the cashier?”

Weird , thought Cameron. Nonstop entertainment by dancing girls who might just as well be wearing nothing. And Green gloms on to the cashier, who is fully dressed at all times. The doc showed good taste; she was worth all the dancing girls. “That’s Margie. Real name is Margaret. She likes Margie.”