William Kienzle: Deadline for a Critic

For Javan

Part One

Preparation of the Body

1

There is something special about an execution.

Ordinarily, the condemned is suffering from no fatal disease. No mortal wound has been inflicted. At least not yet. All the vital forces of the body tell it to go on living. It is not time to slow down. It is not time to die.

But some outside force, some external element—authority—decrees that it is, indeed, time to die. And so, by fiat, it is.

That is what is so special about an execution, whether it be legal by way of capital punishment or illegal as in an act of murder. A life is taken before its apparent due course has been completed. One faces eternity prematurely. The ultimate trauma, as it were.

Often, some sort of quasi ceremony is observed. Sometimes the condemned is permitted to pray, to put his or her soul in order. Sometimes the morbid curiosity of the executioner must be satisfied: How will the condemned face death? Sometimes invitations are issued and a procession to the death chamber is formed.

Traditionally, the condemned is given the choice of a final meal. Such was the case with Ridley C. Groendal. Except that he was not aware that this was to be his last supper.

“Ramon,” Groendal said, tucking the napkin over his tummy, “what would you suggest?”

“Monsieur would enjoy the pâté tonight, I am sure.” The waiter exuded a poise that went with his job. After all, the London Chop House was the consensus prestige scene of Detroit restaurants. And its prices reflected that eminence.

Groendal nodded. “Yes, yes, yes. And I think some of your beluga caviar.”

“No . . .” Groendal’s dinner partner murmured to no one in particular.

“. . . and perhaps some Brie,” Groendal continued.

“Incredible,” Peter Harison murmured again.

“Excellent,” Ramon said. “And you, Monsieur Harison?”

“Nothing. If anything, I’ll help Mr. Groendal with his hors d’oeuvres.”

“Of course.” Ramon’s right eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly. “And something from the bar?”

“A double martini, up—chill the gin—with a twist,” Groendal said.

“Ah, the usual. Very good. And Monsieur Harison?”

“Nothing.”

Ramon left them.

“Would you mind telling me whatinhell you’re trying to do?” Harison’s fury was intensified by frustration.

“Not at all, m’dear. Just having a decent meal.”

“Decent meal! With all that fat and salt and cholesterol? You can’t have forgotten you’ve got a heart condition!”

“That’s not the only condition I’ve got.”

“That can’t be helped.”

Ramon brought the drink and hors d’oeuvres.

Groendal took a long sip of the martini. He wanted the drink to provide a mellow glow before its power was diminished by food. “That’s precisely the point, dear Peter: It can’t be helped. So—eat, drink and be merry. For tomorrow . . .”

“That’s precisely the point.” Harison spread some Brie on a portion of matzo. “We want as many tomorrows as we can possibly have. But we’re not going to have many if you let your diet go to hell like this.”

“Patience, Peter. After all, tonight is a special night.”

Ramon returned. “Would the gentlemen care to order? I know you have a performance to attend.”

“Thoughtful, Ramon,” Groendal acknowledged. “Care to join me in the Caesar salad?” he asked Harison.

His companion simply shook his head.

“Very well,” Groendal continued, “I’ll have the Mediterranean salad. And . . . how’s the Yorkshire pudding?”

“Perfect.”

“Of course. Then the pudding with the prime rib, and cottage fries.”

“And for dessert?”

“The coconut cream pie?”

“Excellent as always.”

“Perfect.”

“And Monsieur Harison?”

“Dover sole and baked potato.” His voice was barely audible.

“I beg pardon?”

“The sole and a baked potato.”

“No salad or dessert for Monsieur?”

“That will be all, thanks.”

Ramon left.

“Suicide!” said Harison.

“Hmmmm?”

“You know you’re going to make yourself ill, Rid. But worse than that, you’re flirting with another coronary. And you know the doctor said you can’t take another one.”

“Life is a mystery, Peter. Death is a mystery. We never know what we will die from or when. We live each day to the fullest, no?” As he spoke, Groendal continued to heap portions of matzo alternately with pâté, cheese, and caviar.

“That’s not you, Rid. You were never that way before. This fatalism has taken over your personality. It’s not healthy.”

“Life is not healthy . . . at least mine isn’t.”

Ramon brought the entrees, and Groendal’s salad as well. It was his custom to take salad and entree in the same course.

Before tasting either beef or potatoes, Groendal sprinkled salt generously on both. Harison winced and shook his head.

After servicing several other tables, Ramon returned to his station, from which vantage he could oversee the progress of his diners. He was joined by Vera, a waitress garbed, as was he, in black tie.

“Slow night,” Vera commented.

“Should pick up. It’s early,” said Ramon.

She nodded toward Groendal and Harison. “I see you’ve got the bastard.”

Ramon shrugged. “Rub kitty wrong, kitty scratches. Rub kitty right, kitty purrs. He’s not so bad.”

“He’s not so bad as long as he’s eating exactly what he wants. And from what I can see, he’s eating exactly what he wants. You should have seen him a couple of weeks ago when he was observing some kind of diet. I thought he was going to have me served with an apple in my mouth.”

Ramon suppressed a smile. “Have no fear: Harison keeps him on the straight and narrow.”

“Hmmph.” She pondered for a moment. “When was the last time anyone saw Groendal without Harison?”

Ramon winked. “Don’t be so coy. There are no closets anymore.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t care who’s screwing whom in this town. It’s just that there’s something to be said for discretion. As far as Groendal and Harison are concerned, flaunting their relationship doesn’t exactly show tact.”

“Don’t be so hard on them, Vera. As a matter of fact, it must be doing them some good: Look at all the weight Monsieur Groendal has lost in just the past few months . . . one of the fringe benefits of a mariage d’amour. One tends to try to improve one’s appearance for one’s beloved, n’est-ce pas?”

“There’s another name for it.”

Ramon waited.

“AIDS.”

“Oh, come now, Vera. That’s not nice.”

“Not nice, but probably true. Don’t tell me those surgical gloves you’ve been wearing are so transparent nobody’s noticed them.”

“No notice is taken when one is discreet.”

“So why do you wear them?”

“One cannot be too careful.”

“Well, if he does croak I can think of a lot of local artists who will not be at all sorry.”

Ramon smirked. “That’s not at all like you, Vera.” He noted that Groendal and Harison had finished. As he hastened to bring dessert and coffee while the table was being cleared, he pulled taut his thin rubber gloves.

Ramon’s habit of wearing gloves while serving at table had originated with the relatively recent proliferation of AIDS. He washed his hands so often that his skin was rough and raw, a condition which fostered the introduction of infection. Yet it was impossible to avoid handling used dinner utensils bearing diners’ saliva. And saliva, reportedly, might be one of the vehicles for the transmission of AIDS. One could not be too careful.