Man Who Loved God (6 page)

“Time to break this up and join our wives,” Whitston said. “You know it’s time to break camp when Lou starts in on the heavy stuff. Cover up the men and let the women show what they’ve got, I say.
Vive la différence!”

“Yeah,” Fradet agreed. “The little ladies are glaring at us. Oh well, an anatomical study of Babs Ulrich is worth whatever we have to suffer now.

“Let’s go.”

Father Tully paid his respects to the three VP wives. To a woman, they were far more taken with the hors d’oeuvres than they were with him. So, causing barely a ripple, he raised anchor and moved on.

As he gazed about the room, Father Tully spotted Barbara Ulrich talking with Tom Adams. Just before turning to leave him, she reached up and straightened the white handkerchief in his breast pocket. Was it his imagination, Father Tully wondered, or had she inserted a piece of paper in the pocket?

One message delivered.

As she completed her turn away from Adams, Barbara was face to face with and only a short distance from Father Tully. He held out his hand. She took his fingers lightly, briefly. They introduced themselves.

“Now, what was it you were supposed to do?”

“Present the award to Mr. Adams.”

“Oh yes: the Peter Favor Award.”

“Claver.”

“Whatever.” She thought for a moment. “He gives your group lots of money, doesn’t he?”

“Mr. Adams has been quite generous.” Why, he wondered, should he find that question embarrassing?

She giggled. “I suppose you’re the reason his marriage broke up.”

“Hardly!” Embarrassment gave way to umbrage.

“Mickey used to give him trouble about all his donations. That’s why he split. He must have given a lot of that money to you. That’s why you gave him the award. So, instead of a wife, he’s got another plaque.” She giggled again, gave him a limp wave, and strolled away.

Somehow, for at least a few seconds, Barbara Ulrich had made Father Tully feel like a home-wrecking leech.

He heard a throat clearing behind him. He turned to face a smiling Nancy Groggins. They had been introduced when the pictures were being taken, but this was their first opportunity to actually converse.

“She’s something!” Nancy said.

“She certainly is,” Father Tully agreed.

“Did you notice her slip something in Mr. Adams’s pocket?”

“That was it, eh? I thought she might have been arranging his handkerchief. All in all, whatever it is, I thought it was a gesture halfway between wifely and sisterly.”

“‘Sister’ is not a title that fits Babs the way her dress does none of the women here would consider her a sister in the feminist context. And the men—in one glance—would know better.”

“Why would she do something like that? Such an intimate gesture, I mean?”

“Follow the money trail, Father. Her husband and I are up for the same position: manager of the new branch. It wouldn’t be any more money than we’re making now. But success at that position in that locality could mean a lot more to whoever gets it—and makes a success of it. And I firmly believe either Al or I could do just that.”

“I’m completely in the dark here. What might this position mean for the winner?”

“I—or Al—might displace one of the executive vice presidents. And don’t you think for a moment they’re not considering that possibility.”

“And an executive vice presidency would mean, that much more … financially?”

Nancy raised her eyes. “Roughly three to four times what we’re making now.”

Father Tully whistled softly. He never ceased to be amazed at the attraction high money circles held for so many people. It was almost literally a different world from that inhabited by priests and religious who worked with Christ’s poor. “That much!”

Nancy nodded. “Of course, financially, I don’t need the job as much as Al does. Only because my husband is in construction. He makes about what these VPs make.”

“And Mrs. Ulrich?”

“She’s not employed. Of course, if she ever wanted to really cash in on what she’s good at—never mind; I don’t want to go into that with a priest.”

“Well … what separates you and Al?”

“He’s white and I’m black. And it’s a black neighborhood. It’s a tough ’hood too. Are you going to confront that toughness with a feminine or a masculine personality? There are lots of intangibles. ‘We each have our own style of business, of employer/employee and customer relationships. We’re both successful where we are.

“Which of us stands a better chance in this new location? It comes down to a decision based on all these things and anything else the arbiter considers. And it’s Mr. Adams’s call.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Father, I really should mingle.”

They parted with a handshake.

Father Tully looked about. He had greeted, at least cursorily, nearly everyone. Right now there was no one nearby to meet. Host and guests had visited or were visiting the hors d’oeuvre table.

The three VP wives had clustered, balancing small helpings of appetizers in one hand and a drink in the other. Tom Adams was working the room. In a nice ecumenical move, Nancy Groggins chatted with Al Ulrich. Barbara Ulrich was flitting from one flower to the next. At the moment Father Tully spotted Barbara, she was shaking hands with Lou Durocher. Durocher exhibited only momentary surprise to come away from that greeting with a note in his hand. Which he immediately slipped unread into his pants pocket.

Second message delivered.

Just beginning his trek down the appetizer board was Al Ulrich. Father Tully reflected that he had talked with Nancy, the other candidate. And that Mr. Adams had asked his opinion on the two hopefuls. He joined Ulrich in line.

Ulrich looked up, did a doubletake, and smiled. “I haven’t had a chance yet, Father, to thank you and your order for honoring our boss.”

“Not at all. If anyone deserved the award, it’s certainly Tom Adams.”

“You just met him for the first time tonight, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to be in town for a while?”

“About two weeks. I’m filling in for a local priest so he can go on vacation.”

“I hope that doesn’t tie you down too much. What I mean is, I hope you’ll get a chance to get to know Mr. Adams. He really is a terrific guy—above and beyond his financial contributions.”

As Ulrich selected another appetizer, Father Tully looked up to see Barbara Ulrich hand a paper napkin to Jack Fradet. Apparently the napkin contained a note of some sort. Fradet slipped it into his pocket.

Third message delivered.

Father Tully began to wonder about these missives. Did Mrs. Ulrich have one for everybody? Were they like party favors or fortune cookies? Strange.

Returning his attention to the table, there before the priest was a large platter containing an ample supply of deviled eggs, one of his favorite morsels. Would anyone notice if he went overboard? He slipped five onto his plate.

Ulrich chuckled. “Like ’em?”

“Well, yes, now that you mention it.”

They moved down the table.

“Speaking of liking,” said Father Tully, “it seems pretty clear that you like Tom Adams.”

“I’ve never met anyone like him,” Ulrich responded. “I mean, I’m not a particularly religious person. And I tend to be skeptical of people who wear their religion oh their sleeve.

“But it’s not like that with Mr. Adams. He puts himself and his pocketbook where his mouth is. I think if he could, he’d be the manager of the new branch himself. Of course, that’s not possible.”

“Speaking of that”—Father Tully, finished at the hors d’oeuvre table, stepped aside with Ulrich—”isn’t this some kind of cruel and unusual treatment to keep you and Nancy Groggins on tenterhooks over that job?”

Ulrich reacted as if he himself had been challenged. “Certainly not! This is a difficult decision. There’s a lot riding on this new branch. We aren’t one of the conglomerate banks. We’re taking a big risk opening in that part of town. If we succeed, we’re going to be a lot stronger. The city of Detroit needs a lot of this type of financial commitment. It needs a presence like ours.”

“And if this move fails?”

Ulrich shook his head. “The biggies will laugh us out of town. They’ll pretend that it would take the clout only
they
could deliver to make this work. It would weaken our position in communities where we’re already established. It would be a disaster for us. We really can’t afford to fail.”

“And it makes that much difference … who the manager is?”

“The manager sets the tone—or should. The policy of the banking unit. The measure of contact with our customers. That’s basically the role of the manager.”

“You sure you’d be the better choice?”

Ulrich’s smile was slightly twisted. “Nancy is qualified. So am I. I would never claim that Nancy couldn’t do the job. I think I could do it better. But Mr. Adams will be the final judge of that.”

“You really have confidence in him, don’t you?”

“Completely! Whatever he decides, I’ll accept.”

The priest took a glass of wine from a tray being carried by an ever-present waiter. As he turned, he noticed Barbara dabbing her lips with a lacy handkerchief. As she did, she slipped another of her notes to Martin Whitston.

Fourth message delivered.

What an interesting sideshow, thought Father Tully.

He had no idea how many at this party had been favored with one of Barbara Ulrich’s notes. He had seen at least four recipients: Adams, Durocher, Fradet, and Whitston. The president and his three executive vice presidents.

Somehow, Father Tully had a sneaking feeling that he would not be receiving one of Barbara Ulrich’s missives. Nor would he even learn what they contained.

The lights dimmed, then brightened.

Dinner was served.

Seven

Guided by the place cards, Father Tully found himself between Barbara Ulrich and Joel Groggins, the only guest the priest had not yet met.

Each guest, upon finding his or her place, remained standing. They knew that Adams dinners always opened with a prayer.

It was expected that Father Tully would lead them. After Adams issued the invitation, the priest complied with the traditional, “Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord.”

And everyone—at least so it seemed—responded with a hearty “Amen.” There were no atheists at an Adams banquet.

After seating himself, Father Tully turned to Mrs. Ulrich. But she had already turned away to launch into conversation with Patricia Durocher. That conversation was aided and abetted by Lou Durocher, seated across from Mrs. Ulrich.

Evidently, the priest had been weighed and found wanting as far as Barbara Ulrich’s interests were concerned. So, with little regret, Tully turned to his left, where sat a smiling Joel Groggins.

Groggins was African-American—though not nearly as light-skinned as the priest. He was a six-footer, and hefty; his clothes could have been a size larger. “Just in case no one’s said it,” Groggins said, “welcome to Detroit.”

“In point of fact,” the priest responded, “no one has. At least a couple of people have made me feel welcome, but no one has said it in so many words. Thanks.”

A trolley stopped behind them, offering still more hors d’oeuvres, including something the waiter identified as fresh Petrossian Ossetra Malossol caviar.

“Do you happen to know,” the priest asked Groggins, “how much that caviar costs?”

“Forty dollars for a thirty-gram serving.”

The priest passed on the caviar, selected a sampling of several other offerings, and the waiter moved on.

“I should mention;’ Groggins said, “that the price I quoted you was a bit high. I quoted you the price fixed at the Lark, one of our very best dining spots. We’ll be going right down a Lark menu, unless I’m very mistaken. Tom Adams could do far, far worse than copy a Lark meal.”

“I was talking to your wife earlier. She said you were in construction?”

“That’s right. Mostly in Detroit. It’s really sad, the kind of image this city’s got. It went down on a roller coaster for about thirty years under the previous two or three mayors. But Aker, the present guy, is inspirational. He’s got things moving. Of course, we’ve still got a long way to go. But I’m doin’ okay. And lovin’ it.” His laugh was full-bodied.

“Congratulations. But that brings up the question that’s been nagging at me after speaking with your wife, Mr. Groggins—”

“Joe.”

“Okay. Joe. Why is she fighting for this position? She is, after all, a bank manager. She didn’t mention her salary ….”

“Forty-five thousand in round figures.”

“And she did say you were pulling down about what the bank’s executive vice presidents were making. So why should she compete for the new job and all its headaches?”

Groggins found Father Tully’s naïveté surprising in this day and age. “A generation or so ago—and practically forever before that—it would have been cause for scandal. Women were homemakers. Women—and I know that you know this was the measure of their success, Father—anyway, women stayed home, nurtured their husbands and their kids, went to church and church meetings. Husbands did
important
work and brought home the paycheck.

“But that’s history. Women still enter the workforce with a strike or two against them. But they definitely compete.

“And that’s what Nancy’s doing: She’s competing—in this case, against Al Ulrich. It doesn’t make any difference how much
I’m
making; she has to score on her own.

“I’m sure you know there’s a side issue here, Father. Whoever gets the new job will be Tom Adams’s fair-haired child. I mean, Nancy and Al are already favored employees of Adams Bank. But whoever is chosen here will … have a chance to go on to greater things.”

The seemingly never stationary waiters bestowed pasta as the next course.

“So,” Tully said, “there’s a lot hinging on Tom Adams’s choice.”

Groggins nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll say! You’re about the only one at this entire party who will be unaffected by that choice.”

Father Tully thought for a moment. “Me? Myself, alone? What about you? You don’t seem to have much riding on this event. How would your lifestyle be involved?”