“And that’s the way it went, Bobby. When Dick got to the end of his studies in theology and was about to be ordained, the seminary authorities had to petition Rome for the necessary dispensation. It was the final indignity for Richard.
“That’s why, you see, so much depends on getting him free and clear of this ridiculous charge against him. His self-concept isn’t all that strong to begin with. Can you imagine what this is doing to him as he finds himself locked up in a jail with criminals? Treated like a criminal himself?
“That’s why we’ve got to do everything we can to clear his name and get him out of there just as soon as possible. That’s why we’re counting on you to help . . . from the inside, as it were.”
As Monsignor Meehan concluded his story, Koesler felt an increased and intensified sense of urgency. Up to this moment, he had been devoting practically 100 percent of every possible moment to clearing Kramer of the charges against him. But what was it they said in sports: From now on, he would give 110 percent.
During his drive home, Koesler reflected that for the first time in memory, he and Meehan had visited without telling each other a single anecdote. That seemed to emphasize the gravity of Kramer’s plight.
When, finally, he returned to his rectory, he looked it up. Sure enough, in the current Code of Canon Law, A.D. 1983, there was no mention of illegitimacy as an impediment to ordination. But in the old Code, A.D. 1917, there it was: Canon 984 noted that among the “irregularities” prohibiting ordination was illegitimacy, unless one were subsequently legitimized.
There was no doubt about it: Sometimes the Church had a heart of stone.
32
It had been a very good day. Sundays, particularly Sundays that he didn’t have to work, were Tully’s favorites.
This day had begun with the relatively recent routine with which he was becoming very comfortable. He had wakened, retrieved the papers, started coffee and breakfast. Later, Alice joined him, rubbing sleep from her eyes and shuffling around the kitchen in soft, warm slippers.
They ate a leisurely breakfast, wading through the papers, reading aloud items from stories or columns that particularly interested them, conversing about implications.
Afterward, Tully lit the fireplace in the living room where, to a background of Ed Ames and Sinatra records, they made love.
It was well after noon before they began the process of considering what to do with the rest of the day. It was a testament to Alice’s persuasive powers that she talked him into going down to the ice-skating rink in Hart Plaza adjacent to the Renaissance Center. It was an outdoor rink and Tully liked neither the out-of-doors during winter nor ice-skating. Alice, on the other hand, was an excellent skater and loved the brisk beauty of a rigorous winter.
Skating—or in Tully’s case, slipping, sliding, and falling—was followed by a relaxed dinner at Carl’s Chop House, one of downtown’s few quality restaurants open on Sundays.
Now they were on their way home. Tully decided to skip life in the fast lane of the freeway in favor of laid-back Livernois—once far more appealing than it had become.
“You’re a good sport, Zoo.” Alice had abandoned the passenger seat to cuddle against Tully, her head resting firmly on his shoulder.
“If I was such a good sport, I wouldn’t have been cleaning off the ice all afternoon.”
“So you’re not one of the Red Wings. You try.”
“Actually, it’s easier with both ankles flat on the ice . . . more like roller skating that way.”
She chuckled. “I meant you are a good sport for humoring me in the first place. I know you’re not nuts about the cold. And there’s no place in town colder than where the wind whips right off the river.”
“Don’t remind me. This afternoon you almost saw a black guy turn into a white guy . . . come to think of it, that way I might be more acceptable to your Nordic parents.”
“Stop worrying about my Nordic parents. I am no longer subject to their approval. This isn’t Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. Besides, if we ever find ourselves in Minnesota, my father and mother will be nice to you. Right after I tell them that you pack a rod.”
“Al, you’ve been watching too many Edward G. Robinson movies. It’s a gun. It’s okay to call it a gun. And I don’t pack it; I wear it.”
“Whatever.”
“Feelin’ pretty high, aren’tcha?”
She smiled and snuggled closer. “Yeah.”
“And with good reason. You saved that kid just about single-handed. What was his name again?”
“M’Zulu.”
“I don’t know how you keep those African names straight.” It was Tully’s turn to smile.
His sally sailed right over her head. “Actually, I didn’t come to his rescue; Kronk Recreation did.”
“You know about Kronk Recreation? Until now, I figured you thought Everlast was an eternal reward in the hereafter!”
“Actually, somebody told me about Kronk and I took the kid there. It was kind of an accident. But it made sense, don’t you think? I mean, the kid was fighting all the time anyway—sort of nonprofessionally. The trouble was, he was winning all the time. Police very seldom run in the losers.”
“They’ve suffered enough.”
“Anyway, Mr. Steward thinks he has a great future.”
“Another Tommy Hearns?”
“Who’s Tommy Hearns?”
“You may be right, Al. Maybe M’Zulu’s getting tied up with Kronk was a bit of an accident.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Uh-huh. What weight’s he gonna fight at?”
“What what?”
“It was an accident. Is he gonna be a flyweight, middleweight, welterweight? What?”
“Oh, that. Mr. Steward says with some decent food and dedicated conditioning he can become a very good heavyweight.”
Tully whistled. “Another Joe Louis!” Pause. “You do know who Joe Louis was?”
“Of course, silly. He’s the guy they built the monument to—the fist—on Jefferson.”
“That’s it—the Brown Bomber. Well, Al, if Steward is right—and he usually is—in a few years M’Zulu will be able to buy and sell us.”
“Really! There’s that much money in it?”
“If a guy really makes it, more than basketball.”
“Wow.”
“Indeed! It’s times like this I kind of envy you, Al.”
“How so?”
“You really work at rehabilitating people. We can joke about it but M’Zulu was on a direct approach toward my department. He’s already got an impressive record: assault, battery, B&E, car theft. He was one step from getting in over his head in drugs. And after that it was almost sure that he would either kill or be killed.
“But you reached him, got him into Kronk. Now if Steward stays on his case, the kid’ll stay clean. That’s not bad for a day’s work, Al.”
“That’s nice, Zoo . . . good words. But you shouldn’t put yourself down. Take M’Zulu, for instance. Supposing he hadn’t gotten into Kronk. Supposing his life had gone the way you just outlined it. Once he got a gun and maybe killed somebody, where would he stop? He’d be a killer and one more threat to innocent lives in this city. You’d be the one to stop him. You’d solve one of your ‘puzzles,’ as you like to call them, and get him off the streets.”
“Yeah, get ’im off the streets.” They passed the University of Detroit campus—almost home. “Get ’im off the streets. Like I got Kramer off the streets.”
“That was different, Zoo. You haven’t closed that case yet ... I mean, in your own mind you haven’t closed it.”