“Okay.” The priest sliced a thin portion of steak and swirled it in the sauce. “Forgetting for the moment who gets the appointment, then what?”
“No one knows for certain. But the smart money would be on an inevitable shakeup near the top.”
“That I gather. But why?”
“Top priority as this new branch becomes a reality is getting a good start. Becoming a part of that community. Treating customers with respect and understanding. And everything that this entails.
“After that …” Groggins shrugged. “This doesn’t figure to be a permanent placement. After all, both Nancy and Al would be moving from Bloomfield Hills or Troy to core-city Detroit. It’s one thing to pour in everything you’ve got to insure a successful beginning. It’s another thing to subsequently be buried there.
“Everyone expects a major promotion to follow success at the new branch. And where is a manager going to go when he or she steps up?”
“An executive vice presidency?” The priest was the first to finish his steak. The others were as occupied with their conversations as they were with this superb meal. And Groggins had been explaining the terrain.
“Right on.”
“A fourth vice presidency?”
Groggins shook his head. “From what Nancy tells me, three is the magic number for executive vice presidents.” Noting the priest’s puzzled expression, Groggins made haste to explain, “I didn’t mean to confuse you, Reverend. Don’t get me wrong: There are plenty of vice presidents in the bank. So moving from branch manager to a vice presidency is not all that significant. That’s why the promotion we’re talking about would have to be to an executive vice presidency. And, as I said, the bank has only three of those positions.”
“Then …?”
“One of the three might very well get bounced. Or there is the possibility that a new position might be created between executive vice president and the CEO. But that’s as likely as the Lions, Tigers, Pistons, and Red Wings all winning a championship the same season.
“No, the smart money says one of the current VPs will eventually, and in the not-too-distant future, get bounced.”
“Then the magic question is … who gets the ax?.”
“That’s the question, okay. But the answer is buried deep in Tom Adams’s mind.”
“You think he’s already decided who it’ll be?”
“The way I read it, Adams does not believe in chance or uncertainty. He knows what he’s doing-and what he’s going to do-long before he has to make a decision.”
“So,” the priest asked with finality, “who do you think? Or, rather, I guess, what does Nancy think?”
Groggins chuckled softly. “Nancy has her opinion, of course. But I’ve been thrown together with this group often enough to have my own theory. Suppose I give you a thumbnail rundown on the candidates. Then maybe you can write your own synopsis.”
“Fair enough.”
“Okay. First of all, there’s Martin Whitston. He’s in charge of commercial lending.”
“Doesn’t anyone call him Red?”
“Because he’s got red hair?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Not that I know of.”
“Why not?”
“I guess because he doesn’t want to be called Red.”
“Just like that?”
“That will tell you something about Martin Whitston. He cares what others call him, as well as what others think of him. He is a very strong character.
“He services existing business. Develops portfolios. He’s got to bring in new business and investments. This is a hands-on operation for a bank of this size. He’s got two or three people who report directly to him. There’s maybe twelve in that whole department.”
Groggins’s description of this VP position seemed to fit the image projected by Martin Whitston. Whitston wore his hair very tight to the scalp … almost the brush cut of old.
He looked to be powerfully built, but not really overweight. Broad in the shoulders; he probably worked out at some gym or health club. Father Tully doubted that he would want to work for Martin Whitston under the best of circumstances.
“My impression of Whitston,” Groggins said, “is that he feels like he is confined by the financial limits of the Adams Bank. But, basically, he is satisfied at the moment. And he is supremely confident in what he does.”
“Then it sounds as if he’d be crushed if he were the one to be replaced.”
“Crushed?” The word was uttered at such a pitch that the others suddenly became aware of him. Immediately, Groggins lowered his voice. “I think if someone attempted to give him notice, he would do the crushing.”
Father Tully’s now empty plate was removed. What next? he wondered. “What about Mrs. Whitston?”
“Lois? She has her own personality, of course, but I’m not sure exactly what it is. Thing you have to remember, Reverend, is that all three ladies attached to these vice presidents have elected to lose themselves in their husband’s careers. Now, look at Lois for a minute.”
Father Tully looked. He saw a woman who seemed to be fighting. Fighting to keep her shape when she really wanted to compromise. Fighting to hold on to a youth that had passed maybe twenty or twenty-five years ago. It was a losing battle. But one she engaged in.
“Lois is a joiner. She’s a volunteer for the symphony, the art institute, the local PBS fund-raisers. She occupies herself with a lot of busy work. Occasionally, our paths cross at these events. Usually, she’s asking me to appear on behalf of one or another of ’em. She’s running after something, but I’m not sure what.”
The Fountain of Youth, thought the priest.
“Then”-Groggins had almost finished his steak-”there’s Jack Fradet, executive vice president for finance-the comptroller. He’s high-priced, and worth every penny. His job, mostly, is to forecast the financial climate in the United States. Marketing comes from his area. He audits the bank, complying with state and federal laws. He knows where all the skeletons are buried.
“Look at it this way: The bank is all about money. And Jack Fradet is in direct charge of all the money. Actually, the other two executive VPs report to him.”
Father Tully studied Fradet. A smallish man with thick, wire-framed glasses. Although Fradet wore a dinner jacket, the priest sensed he would be much more comfortable in corduroy trousers, a shirt buttoned to the neck, an elastic band holding up either sleeve, and an eyeshade. In short, Bob Cratchet in Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. Even his fingers seemed in eternal movement-as if he were figuring checks and balances.
“Plain, isn’t he?”
The priest nodded slowly.
“So is his wife.
“Marilyn is a stay-at-home. Their three kids are adults now. Once upon a time, they tell me, her entire life revolved around her kids while Jack’s life was immersed in his work, the bank. His reputation is impeccable. He’s really good at what he does. And he knows he’s good. But what he does includes very few people. He’s a loner. Among the few that are at all close to him there’s a sort of consensus that he considers himself a big fish in a very small pond. But the consensus goes on to hold that he would never make a move to leave Adams. This bank is his life-as far as anyone can tell.”
While Groggins finished his steak, Father Tully studied Marilyn Fradet. She was just “there.” Martin and Lois Whitston were seated on either side of Marilyn. The couple were talking to each other as if Marilyn were a pillar at Tiger Stadium that embodied the designation “obstructed view.”
When husband and wife had finished their dialogue and each began another conversation with others at the table, Marilyn continued to just sit there. She had barely touched her steak. She put Father Tully in mind of Lot’s wife immediately after turning back to, see Sodom and Gomorrah catch hell from God.
“Regular coffee, gentlemen, or decaffeinated?” A waiter filled their coffee cups.