Man Who Loved God (7 page)

Groggins shrugged. “If Nancy isn’t the choice, we’re going to have some instant replays, a lot of recrimination, and not a small amount of resentment and even anger.”

“And if she wins this appointment?”

“There’ll be some arguments about our enhanced capability. Should we wait for what seems certain to be an executive vice presidency? Should we be upwardly mobile right away? Should we move up even after the appointment? Things like that.

“But let me tell you, Reverend, whatever Nancy and I go through one way or another will be nothing—
nothing
—compared with what the other folks will have to manage.”

“All of them?”

Groggins spread his large hands on the table and nodded gravely.

The pasta was followed by a scoop of Italian ices as a palate cleanser. Then came the salad.

Groggins leaned toward the priest confidingly. “Romaine with cashews and hearts of palm and mustard vinaigrette. And, Reverend, it might be a good idea for you to forget how much all this costs. Otherwise you might be sorely tempted to turn down everything like you did the caviar.”

Father Tully forked through the salad. It was delicious, as had been everything so far.

As they ate, both the priest and Groggins briefly studied the other diners. There might have been five or six separate conversations going on. No one was paying any attention to the Tully-Groggins tête-à-tête.

Apparently, they were free to talk of anything or anyone they pleased with no repercussion from the other diners, who seemed to have forgotten them.

“God forgive me,” the priest said, “but I find this captivating. I mean, I don’t have any stake in any of this. I’ll probably never see any of you again. So why am I so interested in what’s going on?”

Groggins grinned. “Ever watch a soap opera, Reverend?”

“Can’t say that I have.” A smile spread slowly across the priest’s face. “A living, breathing soap opera, is it? Well, God help me, I’m hooked. I never thought such a thing could be. But I am.”

The pièce de résistance arrived.

“Steak!” Tully exclaimed.

Groggins was amused. “Black Angus sirloin strip with onions and pinot noir sauce,” he clarified. “And vegetable garnish.” Noting the priest’s somewhat quizzical expression, Groggins grinned again. “Nancy was in on the planning. She told me—in great detail—what we’d be eating tonight.”

As they fell to, the priest and Groggins again studied the other diners, who, unimpeded by the food, continued their separate conversations, still uninterested in the only two who were least affected by the intra-company dynamics.

“For one who is only marginally involved in these office politics,” Father Tully said, “you seem pretty knowledgeable.”

“Nancy and I talk … or, rather, Nancy talks. I listen.”

“All I know at this point in the soap is that, apparently, either Nancy or Al Ulrich will be the new manager. No chance of. a dark horse coming out of nowhere?”

“None that anybody can imagine. If there were any doubt, this party with this cast of characters would not be taking place.”

“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.

“She certainly seems to be a million miles from this party,” the priest commented.

“Who?”

“Marilyn Fradet.”

Groggins glanced at her. “I’m told that’s the way it is. Seems like her kids would be doing her a favor to take her in. Talk is Jack has something on the side—if you catch my meaning.”

The priest caught it.

“I don’t know,” Groggins continued, “whether Jack’s paramour is a cause or an effect of his relationship with his wife.”

The priest shook his head. “Pitiful.”

“You said it. One of those relationships that, right at the beginning, should have been declared a failure and dissolv—” Groggins caught himself short. “Uh, sorry, Reverend. That’s against your religion, isn’t it? Divorce, I mean.”

The priest smiled. “No, no. The Catholic version of divorce is annulment. But before we work on the annulment—which has no standing in civil law—the couple has to get a divorce—which has no standing in Church law.”

Groggins’s brow furrowed.

“Don’t try to make heads or tails of it.” The priest chuckled. “Let’s just say that divorce has its place in Catholics’ lives. And if what you say is so, I guess it should have had a place in Mr. and Mrs. Fradet’s life. They certainly do not appear to be happy people.”

The waiters removed the last of the dinner plates and filled the remaining coffee cups.

There was a general shifting about in the chairs. Some fresh conversations were begun. Still, no one sought to engage either Father Tully or Jack Groggins in small or large talk.

“That,” the priest said, “leaves one vice presidential couple.”

“Lou and Pat Durocher,” Groggins identified. “Last and probably least.”

“Oh?”

“Lou is vice president in charge of mortgage and individual lending. This is the real meat and potatoes of the banking business. Lou and his staff do things—on Adams’s small level—like financing cars for college kids. And they provide mortgage money, of course. They make loans. They establish sales and market plans. This and commercial lending, run by Marty Whitston, are where the banks make money.”

“So why your remark that Lou Durocher was the least? The least of the vice presidents? A weak link?”

“A lot of people—Nancy among them—have their doubts about Durocher’s judgment. Some of his loans have been highly questionable. Now, whether or not a bank gives a loan is a judgment call. And not all loans work out. But Durocher’s batting average is as low as a rookie who’s struggling to make it in the majors. And, like it or not, even if it’s there by the skin of its teeth, Adams Bank is a major league organization.”

The priest measured Durocher in a more searching light.

“Nervous” seemed the appropriate word. He appeared uncertain about his smile. Should he turn it on or off? And the eyes … in almost constant movement. As if he felt tardy in comprehending what was going on. As if he had to catch up just to stay even with his conversational partners.

All in all, not the type to whom Father Tully would feel comfortable entrusting something precious, such as money.

Finally, Father Tully considered the other half of the last-and-probably-least team: Patricia Durocher, Lou’s wife.

In contrast to her husband, Pat seemed relaxed, enjoying a camaraderie beyond her husband’s grasp. And although she was sitting across the table from Lou, she seemed distant from him. She made no effort to include him in her attention or conversation.