Susan knew.
She-and, for that matter, Judy-had been selected by Cameron. And Susan had been there during the brief democratic transition. She was happy to return to the days of yore. She had learned to trust Cameron’s judgment. He wasn’t good at much more than evaluating female flesh. But at that he was very, very good.
Cameron approached Susan while the girls were filling out forms. “What’s number one’s name?”
Susan smiled. She knew what would follow. It had been quite a while since they’d gone through this routine. She had no idea what had caused this transformation, but she knew she’d find out. For the moment, she was just happy for Cameron and pleased that this enterprise would be on target once more. She looked through the papers. “Betsy Dorsey.”
“How old?”
“Nineteen.”
“Sure?”
In spite of herself, Susan smiled. “Yes. We checked everyone out better than airport security.”
As Cameron approached number one, Susan sighed. Very definitely, things were back to normal.
“Betsy,” Cameron said, “congratulations.”
Betsy’s eyelids fluttered. Here was the boss, the legendary Jake Cameron, paying attention to little her. “Thank you, Mr. Cameron.” She actually blushed.
“You were terrific!” he enthused. “Where’d you pick up that shtick with the curtain? In your opener, I mean?”
Damned if she didn’t blush again. “My mother.”
“Your mother!” As far as Jake could recall, this was a first. Mama teaching daughter to dance topless. “Your mother in the business?”
“Yes. A long time ago.”
A long time ago. Cameron rolled that around his mind for a few moments. A long time ago for a nineteen-year-old doesn’t have to be in the previous century.
It might just be a kick to get it on with Mama, who very possibly might be lots younger than Cameron.
After daughter, of course.
“Betsy, this is your first big job, right?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Cameron.”
“Jake,” he corrected forcefully. At the peak of his sexual arousal, he did not want her to call out “Mr. Cameron.”
“How would it be, Betsy,” he continued, “if we go out and celebrate tonight? Suppose I pick you up this evening and we go out for a great dinner and a good time?”
“Gee, Mr. Cameron-uh … Jake … that would be terrific. Just terrific!”
“Okay, you finish your paperwork. And we’ll take it tonight and play it by ear.”
Business and monkey business as usual. Cameron felt great. What a difference a brush with death can make.
Chapter Twenty-One
Father Koesler had eaten the sandwich and was on his third cup of coffee; Mrs. O’Connor always made a generous supply for him.
Now, digesting the sandwich, he would have been hard-pressed to tell what kind it was, so distracted was he. So much was happening so fast.
The phone was ringing off the hook. There were days when four or five calls would have been a lot. But not since Monday night. Too many of those calls were for directions to the church.
That amazed Koesler. St. Joseph’s had been founded in 1856-140 years ago. It was not new on the scene. So many adjacent buildings had been demolished that the church stood out more clearly than ever in recent history.
Anyone who could locate downtown Detroit should be able to find St. Joseph’s easily. It saddened Koesler to conclude that a lot of suburbanites could not locate, or were completely unfamiliar with Detroit’s downtown.
Spread out before him on the dining table was the Free Press. Later in the day, the News would be delivered. But he probably would do no better with the afternoon paper than with the morning paper. He was reading paragraphs over and over with no comprehension or retention.
He was so caught up with his own thoughts that he was startled when he realized Mary O’Connor was standing in the doorway, smiling as she waited for him to return to the present.
“Yes, Mary?”
“This call you really ought to take. It’s that Mr. Bradley from the Communications Office.”
He picked up the phone. “Father Koesler.”
“Father, Ned Bradley. We’re holding a news conference this afternoon at four. I’d like it if you could come.”
“But you had a conference this morning!” This was an invitation he didn’t want to accept.
“Yes, but there have been some developments since then. It’s important for us to stay on top of this. If we don’t, the media will take the driver’s seat.”
“Well, that’s nice, I guess. But I was there this morning.”
“You were?” Bradley was so taken aback that he asked a foolish question. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure. I left a little early; but I was there.”
“Oh. Well, that works to our advantage. You’ll be familiar with what went on then. It’ll be a good context for this afternoon.”
“Ned, I don’t want to give you the impression that all I’ve got to do is attend news conferences.”
Bradley was becoming accustomed to dealing with defensive priests. He considered this a case in point. He was wrong; Koesler was being neither evasive nor defensive. He meant simply that there was enough going on in his life without needlessly attending a news conference.
Without realizing it, Bradley spoke to Koesler’s reservation. “We need you this afternoon. After all, this whole thing began in your parish. We need you for some backgrounding and for questions concerning the parish.”
“I don’t know. This morning I saw a doctor come apart under questioning.”
“He was way too overconfident in handling the reporters. Reporters get into a feeding frenzy when they get their teeth into a guy who’s being careless with them. But you’ve got some journalistic experience. Besides, people who know you say you can handle it.” When there was no response from Koesler, Bradley put on his prize-winning petitionary tone. “Please.”
“I’ll be there at four.”
In the seminary’s huge parlor, things were much as they’d been that morning, except for the pastry. Apparently, seminary authorities had budgetary limits when it came to providing snacks more than once a day. However, there was plenty of coffee on hand.
Not having had a good look at them this morning, Koesler couldn’t tell whether the same reporters were here, held over for a second big conference. The usual paraphernalia was at the ready. He looked for Pat Lennon, but in the face of the blinding lights he couldn’t have picked out his own mother. Of course, Pat had told him she couldn’t make it, but there was always the possibility that her plans had changed.
In addition to Ned Bradley, Koesler shared the dais with the three-priest committee appointed by the Cardinal.
The committee was both diverse and complementary. Koesler knew all three priests.
There was Art Grimes, formally a seminary teacher specializing in ascetic theology. Miracles would be right up his alley.
Pete McKeever was a civil as well as a canon lawyer and a former defender of the bond for the marriage tribunal-in Koesler’s view, the worst of all possible combinations. Canon law, particularly, was stiff and unyielding, as was Pete. His job in the tribunal was to do his best to see that impossible marriages were preserved no matter the emotional cost to two miserable people.
Ralph Shuler rounded out the threesome. Like Gamaliel of the Old Testament, this pastor of St. Valentine’s parish was open to all things. And if for no other reason, Koesler liked him.
Bradley stepped to the microphone. “There’s been some movement today. And that movement is the result of the Cardinal’s committee. I’d like Father Grimes to explain.”
Bradley moved from the mike and stood to one side. He wanted to be ready to step in and head off any repeat of this morning’s fiasco.