William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

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 hadn’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.