Requiem for Moses afkm-18 Read online

  No. It had gone way too far.

  In his lifetime, Father Koesler had been the cause of things hitting the fan more than once. But never had anything escalated as rapidly as this simple wake that he had agreed to host.

  Reichert was some six years older than Koesler. They were, at best, acquainted. Definitely not fast friends. He knew, mostly by reputation, of Reichert’s sharply conservative leanings. But some of the things Reichert had just said, the charges he’d made, were beyond any rational extreme. There was no question that Reichert meant what he said. With that, there was no question the man was dangerous.

  The thought that such a man still officiated at a parish Mass sent chills through Koesler.

  There was no doubt that the Catholic Church was running short of priests. The crisis was worldwide. Nor was there any doubt that many parishes were in critical need of priests. Some priests were suffering burnout. Like everything else in this vocation crisis, the phenomenon was comparatively recent. Parishes that had been served by three or four priests now generally had one, only rarely two.

  The overriding tendency was to accept any offer of help. And the pool of available help was deepest among the retirees.

  It was in this atmosphere that a priest so flawed in personal theology and philosophy, not to mention Christian charity, was welcomed in a parish. A body temperature in the neighborhood of 98.6 degrees was sufficient qualification. Even if he would have made an effective Nazi.

  When Koesler had decided not to phone Cardinal Boyle in transit, he had given little thought to the possibility that the matter would be brought to the Cardinal’s attention. Or that, if he did hear about it, that much would be made of it.

  Now Koesler was certain that neither the Cardinal nor he himself would be allowed to sweep the matter under any rug. Father Dan Reichert would see to that in spades.

  It was time to push the start button under the casserole Mary O’Connor had left for him. He wasn’t sure he had any appetite. One ought to more eagerly anticipate one’s last meal.

  Since Reichert’s call, the phone had not ceased ringing. The answering service, from the questions asked, must be wondering what was going on at St. Joe’s this evening. Just as well they didn’t know. This communications gap might possibly hold down the crowd.

  Chapter Three

  Father Koesler entered the church through the sacristy. Over his plain black cassock and a clerical collar he wore a black topcoat. He wanted it to be unmistakably clear that he wore no liturgical vestment, not even a surplice. No service. A wake.

  Standing in the sanctuary, elevated as it was several steps above the nave, he had a good view of the gathering. It was difficult to estimate the number in attendance, as few were seated in pews. Mostly they were standing in small or large groups, some moving from one group to another.

  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 thumbn
ail 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.”

  “Mmm. Margie married? Got a significant other? Anything like that?”

  “Yeah. Me.”

  “Married?”

  Cameron shook his head. “We don’t want to spoil a good thing.”

  Green nodded.

  Somehow Cameron interpreted the nod to be an entry on an adding machine. “If,” Cameron said, “you think this place is seedy-and I’m not arguing the point-why come here? You been here once, maybe twice a week for the past couple, three months.”

  “That’s about when I discovered this place. Why? There’s a certain kind of mark who fits into a place like this. He doesn’t want to meet at a better place for fear he’ll be recognized. But he’s crazy for naked broads. This place is ideal for this kind of guy. And there’s no limit to what you can slip by him while he’s distracted by an undulating bare bottom.”

  It was Cameron’s turn to nod.

  “But how about you?” Green asked. “You look sort of out of place in a joint like this. Is this it for you? Or are you on your way somewhere else?”

  Cameron saw a glimmer of hope he dared not believe in. This guy was a doctor. Doctors made big money. This one made very big money. On top of that, the papers, TV, radio reported high-profile deals he was constantly striking. And the media hinted at much more.

  Could this guy be Cameron’s ticket out of here and into the life hitherto he had only dreamed of? He leaned nearer the doctor. “No, Doc, I got a dream. Most of us do.”

  Green was amused. “What’s yours, Jake?”

  “My place. My own place. And then a string of my places. High class. Great food, generous drinks. Tip-top service. Gorgeous, talented dancers. And much, much more. I’m gonna get the businessmen, fast trackers, the movers and shakers.”

  “Sounds pretty ambitious. Think you can pull it off?” Green was smiling contentedly. He had a ball on a string. He could make the cat chase the ball. The cat was Cameron; the ball was Cameron’s dream.

  “I could do it. I know exactly what I want and what I need. I refine blueprints of the place in my head every night before I go to sleep. I know just where to get the right guys and broads, the best dancers. I know exactly where on Eight Mile Road to put the place.”

  “What’s holding you back?”

  “Guess.”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred grand.”

  Green whistled quietly.

  They both sat back. For the first time they gave attention to the dancer. She was finishing her go-go routine. She’d been gyrating in four or five similar steps. The loud accompaniment ground to silence. With one final grind and bump, she left the stage to the lecherous applause of three unsteady patrons.

  Close on her heels came the next dancer. She stood, shifting from one foot to the other until her music began. She was neither better nor worse than her predecessor.

  Green tossed down the last of his martini. There was no evident reason why he shouldn’t leave. But he didn’t. He seemed to be weighing some sort of decision. Cameron, of course, was in no hurry to have him leave.

  “A hundred grand, eh?” Green’s voice was just audible over the music.

  “Yeah. That’d do it. You don’t …”

  “Maybe. What kind of collateral you got?”

  Cameron enumerated his worldly goods. The total was not impressive.

  Green made no notations during the recitation. He ran an invisible tab in his head. When Cameron finished, after a short pause, Green said, “I make between fifty and sixty grand-total.”

  “Maybe more,” Cameron suggested.

  “Uh-uh. That’s it. Tops.”

  Cameron’s heart sank. Not much against a hundred grand.

  “Tell you what we might do,” Green said.

  Cameron’s deflated hopes pumped up somewhat. “What? Anything.”

  “You got a lawyer?”

  Cameron shook his head.

  “Well, get one. Then our lawyers can get together and make this nice and legal. But I’ll give you the gist of it now: It’ll be a five-year loan. If you default, we take over the operation, lock, stock, and boobs … okay so far?”

  Cameron nodded wordlessly.

  “One other thing,” Green said. “You throw in Margie.”

  “What?”

  “Think about it. This is not negotiable.”

  The more Cameron thought about it, the less sense it made. “How can I possibly include Margie in the deal? I don’t own her. Besides, she’s not a bar or a supply of liquor.”

  “You get out of her life. I don’t care how you do it. That’s up to you. But you do it within this month. Then I step in.”

  “What happens if she doesn’t want to go with you?”

  “Hell …” He smiled wickedly. “If I can’t make her my woman, you can have her back. I just don’t want to have to bother with you along the way.”

  Cameron, shocked, examined Moe Green more closely. He wasn’t much to look at. He appeared to be in his late thirties, early forties. Margie was nineteen. He dressed well. Dark, thinning hair, maybe six feet tall, slender. Dusky skin, sharp features.

  Physically, Green wasn’t in Cameron’s league. Financially, Cameron couldn’t begin to touch Green.

  One thing was certain: Green’s taste in women was superior, if not impeccable. Not only was Margie almost a classic beauty, she had a shar
p intellect. Indeed she was part and parcel of the plans for Cameron’s super topless club. He would front the establishment, run the place, see that everything operated smoothly. She would handle the books and keep them solvent.

  Of course one could always find a bookkeeper. Not one better than Margie. But maybe at least not worse.

  Still, this deal was strange … bordering on crazy. And so bizarre that he was completely taken by surprise. He wanted time to think. He sensed Green was not going to extend much more time. In just a few more minutes, Green would be gone. And Cameron knew this offer would never be repeated. It was now or forget it. His dream come true. Or a nightmare.

  Green glanced at his watch. “I got just time to make my next appointment.”

  “Deal!”

  “Get a lawyer, then call me.” Green left more than enough to cover his check and quickly departed, pausing only to take one more look at Margaret who liked to be called Margie.

  His interest was not lost on Margie. Periodically she’d noticed him looking at her attentively. Men who came in here had an obvious preference for nude girls over a clothed one. Her only conclusion regarding Moe Green was that he had good taste.

  Cameron toyed with his martini-masquerading glass of water. How the hell was he going to pull this off? Probably no contract had been struck to match this, in this country, since slavery.

  The problem was to get Margie to go along. He’d have to wait for the right mood-or create it. Then put it to her that this would make their dream come true. This was, at most, a trial. Green did say that if he could not make her “his woman”-absent Cameron-she was free to move on, or back.

  Maybe she’d buy it.

  Chapter Four

  THE PAST CONTINUED

  It was 1977.

  Three years had passed since Moe Green had lent the money that financed Jake Cameron’s dream, Virago, a flashy, upscale bar and grill that featured topless dancers.

  This evening there was a gathering in the meeting room off the restaurant. Present were Cameron, Joe Blinstraub-his lawyer-Moe Green, and his wife, Margie.