He did.
But the self he found was new. It did not fit into the Minneapolitan mold prefabricated for him by his parents and peers. He would be his own man. No longer would he work for others. He would become an entrepreneur-the guy who gives the other guys ulcers.
But more than anything else, he would become Somebody. No longer would people identify him as Jay Galloway, ad salesman. He would become Jay Galloway, celebrity. No soiree would be complete without him. He would have his picture in the newspapers regularly, as well as on the TV screen, as part of the news and, perhaps, the entertainment scene. He would leave behind this relative anonymity that was now his lot. He had to become Somebody.
That was what he concluded during the first half of his retreat. Just how he would become Somebody was the subject of the final portion of his retreat.
At length, he decided to follow the maxim, Go with what you know. He knew newspapers. He would start his own. Nothing to attempt to compete with the Star or Tribune. He hadn’t the clout to take on even a small portion of the Cowles empire. He would begin a kind of shopping guide for the thriving Minneapolis downtown.
And so he did.
He invested everything he owned, mortgaging up to his hairline, to start his publication. He found there was more to this business than he had realized. In the beginning he found it necessary personally to stand at the corner of the Mall and pass out complimentary copies of his tabloid to indifferent Minneapolitans. He was close to panic.
That was when he sensed Marjorie was beginning to drift. It began with disenchantment with Jay. In her eyes, he had blown it all. Their comfortable life had degenerated into counting coins. Dinner out had degenerated into eating at the Jolly Troll occasionally. Marjorie completely lacked her husband’s vision of a rosy future. She began to see other men.
Galloway learned of his wife’s dalliances. He was neither terribly hurt nor surprised. But the fact that he felt neither emotion was surprising. Something subtle and subconscious had happened. He had harbored a latent feeling of contempt for her. The feeling had begun the moment she consented to marry him. It had grown steadily since then. He still was not cognizant of the contempt, only that he felt neither strong anger nor surprise.
It was a phenomenon that would occur within him time and again throughout his life. He would court the very best-executives, staff, athletes, women-and the moment they consented to associate with him, either as employee or mistress, he would lose all respect for them. But never consciously.
If ever he had gone into psychotherapy honestly, he might have discovered that he was simply projecting his self-loathing onto others. Unconsciously, he had no respect for himself. Thus, subconsciously, he could not respect anyone who proffered services or love.
In any case, his downtown paper began to thrive. It was a tribute to his tenacity and talent at salesmanship. While remaining complimentary to readers, the ad sales skyrocketed. As with most ad salespersons, he was slipshod about picking up the pieces, attending to detail. Thus it was fortunate for him when he could begin hiring a staff.
He was able to take on a full-time editor, who was given a rather generous budget for attracting freelance writers. He then hired two more salespeople. His greatest coup-a singular tribute to Galloway’s salesmanship-was in luring his old friend, Dave Whitman, from International Multifoods to become business manager of the paper.
Whitman was such a prize that Galloway almost-but not quite-retained his respect for his friend. The others he hired he quickly but quietly began to despise. They became aware that there was something peculiar about their relationship with their employer. He noticed there was something peculiar about his relationship with his employees. But no one could identify just what was going on.
From the paper, Galloway moved into the pizza business-a sleeper enterprise in the capitalistic society. He took with him Dave Whitman. Together they managed to garner solid, six-figure incomes. Thence they moved into the subculture of professional football. As he did with his Minneapolis paper, Galloway sold his interest in the pizza business. Now all his financial eggs were in the Cougars basket. He worried a good deal about that. The income from attendance, television, and other sources was extremely gratifying. But the expenses, particularly in players’ salaries, were enormous. And growing annually. Unlike other owners, Galloway had no resource to satisfy expenses other than the income created by the Cougars. He had cause to worry.
One of his major worries involved Hank Hunsinger. The Hun posed a serious dilemma for Galloway. On the one hand, Hunsinger drew a crowd, not only on the playing field when he carried the ball, but in the stands. A hefty percentage of the Silverdome crowd came to see the Hun. But, on the other hand, his salary demands grew more preposterous by the year. There was a time coming, if indeed it had not already arrived, when the two would counterbalance each other and the Hun’s salary and fringe benefits would offset the crowd he drew.
It was just possible Hunsinger stood in the way of Galloway’s master plan: to be Somebody. Galloway could not let that happen. He could brook no impediment to his goal. He had to find a solution to the problem of the Hun.
“I understand you have to investigate this matter.” Galloway, fingers trembling slightly, lit a Camel. “But I’m a very busy man. And you don’t have an appointment.”
“We haven’t time to make appointments during a homicide investigation,” Sergeant Ewing explained affably. “We’ve just got to go where the investigation leads.”
“But I don’t know anything about it,” Galloway protested. “Besides, I’m trying to put this whole thing back together. I still can’t believe we’ve lost Hunsinger!”
Koesler thought Galloway made it sound as if he had lost a prized tool.
“Look, Mr. Galloway,” said Lieutenant Harris, “we can ask you a few questions, get a little information from you here and now. Or we can all go downtown to police headquarters, where you can make a statement.”
“Y-you can do that?” In moments of great stress, Galloway suffered a slight stammer.
Harris nodded.
“Okay.” Galloway blanched at the very thought of being taken to police headquarters where the dregs of society were led through the corridors. He virtually collapsed into his black executive chair. With a vague wave, he motioned the others to seat themselves. He glanced at Koesler. “What’s he doing here?”
“The department,” Ewing explained, “has decided to use Father Koesler as a consultant in this investigation.”
“Why?”
“That’s all you need to know,” said Harris.
Galloway appraised the two officers. From all he’d seen on television and in the movies, they were playing the tough-cop/nice-cop routine. He decided he would be able to handle Ewing with no problem. But he’d better be cautious about Harris. He was not entirely correct.
Galloway sank deeply into his chair. He dragged on his cigarette. It was several seconds before he exhaled through his nostrils. He sank his thumb into his cheek. The cigarette was clenched between his index and middle fingers. A thin curl of smoke followed the contour of his head, then disappeared above him. His eyes darted from one officer to the other, waiting for the questions.
“Mr. Galloway,” Ewing began, “we want to pinpoint the last time Mr. Hunsinger was in his apartment before he returned to it after the game.”
“H-how should I know?”