William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

“I don’t know.” He smiled self-consciously. In reality, he was buoyed by her confidence. “That’s a pretty gigantic task . . . I mean, a book!”

“Every book starts with the first word.” Hey, thought Liz, I just might have coined a cliché.

So Hogan began writing a book, a mystery-adventure whose characters were mainly people he knew, and with a plot he thought had some unique twists.

A few weeks later, after Sunday Mass, Hogan bumped into Dr. Payne, a dentist and prominent member of the parish.

After an exchange of pleasantries, Hogan said, “By the way. Doc, guess what? I’m working on a Catholic murder mystery.”

Payne pondered a moment. “You mean you think Catholics murder people differently than other murderers?”

Taken by surprise, it was Hogan’s turn to ponder a moment. “No, it’s not that, Doc. It’s . . . well, there’s a reason why it’s a Catholic murder mystery, but I can’t think how to explain it Wait, I’ve got it! Remember that old cop series on radio and then TV. . . the LAPD . . . Jack Webb . . .?”

“Sergeant Joe Friday. ‘Dragnet,’” Payne supplied.

“That’s it! Very good, Doc. Well, there was this episode—maybe you remember it—where there was a theft of some drugs from a Catholic hospital?”

Payne shook his head.

“Well, Joe Friday was there to get ‘just the facts, ma’am.’ Except that the ‘ma’am’ he was getting the facts from was, of course, a nun, since it was a Catholic hospital.

“Sergeant Friday is interrogating the nun.

“Who might have had a motive for taking the drugs? A key? Access to the cabinet? Who was on duty? Were there any security precautions? Questions like that.

“The nun answers all Friday’s questions. And when he’s done getting all the facts, ma’am, she says, ‘Have you solved this case yet?’

“Friday says, ‘Well, no, ma’am. We’ve just begun the investigation.’

“And the nun says, ‘Father Brown would have solved it by now.’”

Payne laughed.

“And then,” Hogan continued, “Friday’s sidekick nudges him and says, ‘Joe, I didn’t know they had their own police force!’”

Payne laughed a bit harder.

“That’s it, Doc,” Hogan said. “That’s why I’m working on a Catholic murder mystery: I’ve got my own police force. And it’s a Catholic priest.”

“Like Chesterton’s ‘Father Brown.’”

“And that’s all I’ve got in common with Chesterton.”

“That’s enough,” Payne said. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you, Charlie?”

“Un-huh. I’m running mostly on Lil’s encouragement. But, I must admit, it’s sort of Walter Mitty-ish to think that I might actually get this thing published. It’s exciting to think I might be able to earn a living writing.”

“Charlie, what do you think you’re doing now?”

“Doc, I’m not ‘writing’ at the Weekender. I’m pushing words. And it’s not a ‘living.’ This is different. Oh, I try not to get my hopes up, but it’s hard not to. If I could make enough from books, Lil could quit her job and a lot of our dreams could come true. I’m trying not to count on this. But if it works . . .

“By the way, Doc, I haven’t told anyone else. Let’s keep it between the two of us. I don’t want a bunch of people asking me all the time how it’s coming.”

Dr. Payne agreed, with a silent reservation. Surely Charlie Hogan wouldn’t want his news kept from his good friend and one-time schoolmate Ridley Groendal.

Before leaving town, Groendal had entrusted the responsibility of keeping him informed about all that was happening in Hogan’s life to Dr. William Payne. Groendal had taken great pains to explain his abiding interest in Hogan. Since Payne was a mutual friend, he could understand why Groendal would ask the favor. He could also understand the rather complex reasoning which demanded that this news-gathering be kept secret.

Dr. Payne took pride in his commission. He was doing a favor for both Groendal and for the man Groendal had promised to help in every possible way, Charlie Hogan.

Payne had faithfully reported to Groendal Hogan’s overtures to the Free Press. The doctor attributed that vague promise of a future job at the paper to the good offices of Ridley Groendal. Someday, Payne hoped, Charlie Hogan would know what a friend he had in Groendal.

For now, the doctor could hardly wait to get home and write Groendal about Hogan’s new venture into literature. Surely Ridley would want to be alerted. A budding author could use all the help he can get.

Payne shook his head as he walked briskly home. No doubt about it: There were very few people like Ridley Groendal.

17

Among those things that could be said of Ridley Groendal was that he did not wait around for opportunity to knock. At least he had not since he’d left the Detroit area and entered the University of Minnesota. From that time on, he was the master of his fate, the captain of his soul.

A significant number of men and women dragging their shredded careers behind them could testify to that. Some had befriended him at the university, some there had fought him. It didn’t matter. Groendal had manipulated them all, trusted none of them, and used them indiscriminately as stepping stones to advance his academic life.

Once he had wrung out and discarded them, he scarcely ever thought of them again. They, however, never forgot him.

But while many plotted vengeance, none succeeded. Groendal left nothing to chance. He trusted none of his victims, before or after exploiting them. Ever vigilant, he was prepared for them at all times.

After all, hadn’t Jesus been ever alert? How many times his enemies, the Pharisees, had tried to entrap him, but never successfully. Just one example of so many: when they challenged him on whether it was right to pay a tax to Caesar.

It was a source of constant frustration to the Jews that they were obliged to pay a tax to a foreign power. So, with their question, the enemies had Jesus on the horns of a dilemma. If he approved of the tax, he would needlessly have lost most of his following. Needlessly because it was not a relevant question, since the presence or absence of Caesar had nothing to do with his mission.

On the other hand, to oppose the tax would put him on a collision course with civil authorities—again needlessly. But he was ready for them. He asked to see the coin Caesar claimed as a tax. He demanded to know of his enemies whose image and inscription was on the coin. They could answer nothing but “Caesar’s.” “Then,” he told them, “render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s. And to God the things that are God’s.”

Magnificent! But hardly something done in the heat of the moment. Jesus consistently outsmarted his enemies because he was prepared for them. He anticipated them. He was ready for them at whatever time, theirs or his.

And so would Ridley Groendal be ready for his enemies. He would anticipate and defeat them. Just as Jesus had.

His enemies might find it hard to believe, but Groendal prayed regularly and frequently. However, his meditations were subconsciously programmed to fit his new lifestyle. In effect, he was not trying to conform his life to that of Jesus. Rather, he was “prayerfully” twisting the life of Christ to fit the new theology of Ridley Groendal.

Thus, Groendal climbed over the torpedoed careers of reporters, columnists, here and there an editor, staff writers, authors, playwrights, actors, musicians, musical directors, and such, across the nation.

The higher he climbed, the more human debris he left in his wake. And the more angry people he left behind, the more he was forced to keep looking over his shoulder. For his newly made enemies, sorely wounded, would not forget. Almost to a person, they sought revenge. While churning ahead toward the pinnacle of success, Groendal also needed to protect his rear.