Requiem for Moses (4 page)

Damn. If only he were better prepared!
If his performance was going to be reported, he’d prefer it be smashing.

As he stepped down to the main floor, a man approached. Koesler could not recall ever having met him. The man carried with ease his Celtic good looks: a full head of black wavy hair, heavy eyebrows, and a smile that grew more engaging as he drew near. “You the priest in charge?”

“Yes.” He extended his hand. “I’m the pastor, Father Koesler.”

“Jake Cameron,” the man said as they shook hands.

There was a pause as Cameron slowly turned to survey the assemblage. He continued to look over the crowd as he completed his 360-degree rotation. Still smiling broadly, albeit quizzically, he again faced Koesler. With both hands open and spread apart in a seemingly puzzled attitude, Cameron said simply, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is this going on here? This has got to be Moe Green’s first introduction into any kind of religious edifice since his bar mitzvah.”

“Oh, well, it’s at the request … or, maybe insistence of his widow.”

Cameron chuckled. “Tell me about it. Margie can be pretty persuasive.”

It occurred to Koesler that until this moment he hadn’t known Mrs. Green’s first name. “Margie … that’s Mrs. Green?”

“Margaret. To those who know her and have been persuaded by her it’s Margie.”

“Are you a relative? Friend?”

“Neither. A partner, you could say. A partner he definitely would say … if he could say anything.”

It seemed clear that Cameron was not grief-stricken. But then, glancing around the church, Koesler could find no one in evident mourning.

He looked again at the bier, and at Mrs. Green standing nearby in animated conversation with a number of visitors. This was one cool and composed widow. And still no indication that she was going to provide Koesler with the promised backgrounding for his talk.

The priest returned his attention to the still-casual Cameron. “In a little while I’m supposed to deliver some sort of brief eulogy. I confess I don’t know anything about this man. Perhaps you could …”

“You don’t know Moe Green! He’s in the media often enough. Society pages, black tie, Margie on his arm in a mildly exotic dress … some charity function or other.” Cameron studied Koesler more seriously. “Not your crowd, is it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“A thumbnail sketch then,” Cameron offered.

“As much as you can tell me in the time we’ve got,” Koesler said.

THE PAST

The year was 1974.

Jake Cameron managed a topless bar and restaurant on Michigan Avenue in Dearborn. Ford Country.

One of his regular customers was seated near a slightly raised stage on which a curvy young woman wearing a G-string, pasties, and, oddly, shoes, was writhing. Most of the lunch-hour crowd was gone.

That the customer was alone surprised Cameron. In his reckoning, this was the first time the man was not accompanied by at least one other diner. Cameron knew this because he knew his customers, at least the regulars. He paid attention to them.

He approached the table. “Another martini?”

The man looked up, appraising the manager for the first time. Previously there had been no need. This manager—a glorified waiter really—was not a subject to be manipulated. Just a server of food and drink. But now, with no one else to take advantage of, he took stock of the manager. “Okay … provided you join me.” Pause. “On me, of course.”

The manager quickly surveyed the room. Not many left. A couple of men at one table, an unaccompanied man at another. All absorbed in voyeurism, they gave no indication that they had any further interest in food or drink. “Okay.”

He went to the bar and built a martini precisely as this customer had initially described months ago. For himself, he filled a cocktail glass with water and added a twist. Tending bar was a downhill ride to alcoholism unless one was abstemious. Besides, he would bill the man for two drinks. One would be pure profit.

The customer observed and fully understood what Cameron had done. No problem there; greed was good.

Cameron placed the glasses on the table and sat down opposite the man, who extended his hand. “Green. Moe Green.”

Cameron shook hands. “I know who you are, Doctor. I read the papers. I’m Cameron … Jake Cameron. Get stood up today?”

Green hesitated. He hadn’t realized that Cameron was aware he never dined or drank alone here. “Yeah,” he said, finally. “His problem. A
big
problem next time he needs a favor. This is a seedy place,” he said without preamble. “You own it or manage it?”

Cameron snorted. “You skip the fine print, don’t you, Doc? I’m the manager.”

“Who’s the cashier?”

Weird
, thought Cameron. Nonstop entertainment by dancing girls who might just as well be wearing nothing. And Green gloms on to the cashier, who is fully dressed at all times. The doc showed good taste; she was worth all the dancing girls. “That’s Margie. Real name is Margaret. She likes Margie.”

“Mmm. Margie married? Got a significant other? Anything like that?”

“Yeah. Me.”

“Married?”

Cameron shook his head. “We don’t want to spoil a good thing.”

Green nodded.

Somehow Cameron interpreted the nod to be an entry on an adding machine. “If,” Cameron said, “you think this place is seedy—and I’m not arguing the point—why come here? You been here once, maybe twice a week for the past couple, three months.”

“That’s about when I discovered this place. Why? There’s a certain kind of mark who fits into a place like this. He doesn’t want to meet at a better place for fear he’ll be recognized. But he’s crazy for naked broads. This place is ideal for this kind of guy. And there’s no limit to what you can slip by him while he’s distracted by an undulating bare bottom.”

It was Cameron’s turn to nod.

“But how about you?” Green asked. “You look sort of out of place in a joint like this. Is this it for you? Or are you on your way somewhere else?”

Cameron saw a glimmer of hope he dared not believe in. This guy was a doctor. Doctors made big money. This one made very big money. On top of that, the papers, TV, radio reported high-profile deals he was constantly striking. And the media hinted at much more.

Could this guy be Cameron’s ticket out of here and into the life hitherto he had only dreamed of? He leaned nearer the doctor. “No, Doc, I got a dream. Most of us do.”

Green was amused. “What’s yours, Jake?”

“My place. My own place. And then a string of my places. High class. Great food, generous drinks. Tip-top service. Gorgeous, talented dancers. And much, much more. I’m gonna get the businessmen, fast trackers, the movers and shakers.”

“Sounds pretty ambitious. Think you can pull it off?” Green was smiling contentedly. He had a ball on a string. He could make the cat chase the ball. The cat was Cameron; the ball was Cameron’s dream.

“I could do it. I know exactly what I want and what I need. I refine blueprints of the place in my head every night before I go to sleep. I know just where to get the right guys and broads, the best dancers. I know exactly where on Eight Mile Road to put the place.”

“What’s holding you back?”

“Guess.”

“How much?”

“A hundred grand.”

Green whistled quietly.

They both sat back. For the first time they gave attention to the dancer. She was finishing her go-go routine. She’d been gyrating in four or five similar steps. The loud accompaniment ground to silence. With one final grind and bump, she left the stage to the lecherous applause of three unsteady patrons.

Close on her heels came the next dancer. She stood, shifting from one foot to the other until her music began. She was neither better nor worse than her predecessor.

Green tossed down the last of his martini. There was no evident reason why he shouldn’t leave. But he didn’t. He seemed to be weighing some sort of decision. Cameron, of course, was in no hurry to have him leave.

“A hundred grand, eh?” Green’s voice was just audible over the music.

“Yeah. That’d do it. You don’t …”

“Maybe. What kind of collateral you got?”

Cameron enumerated his worldly goods. The total was not impressive.

Green made no notations during the recitation. He ran an invisible tab in his head. When Cameron finished, after a short pause, Green said, “I make between fifty and sixty grand—total.”

“Maybe more,” Cameron suggested.

“Uh-uh. That’s it. Tops.”

Cameron’s heart sank. Not much against a hundred grand.

“Tell you what we might do,” Green said.

Cameron’s deflated hopes pumped up somewhat. “What? Anything.”

“You got a lawyer?”

Cameron shook his head.

“Well, get one. Then our lawyers can get together and make this nice and legal. But I’ll give you the gist of it now: It’ll be a five-year loan. If you default, we take over the operation, lock, stock, and boobs … okay so far?”

Cameron nodded wordlessly.

“One other thing,” Green said. “You throw in Margie.”

“What?”

“Think about it. This is not negotiable.”

The more Cameron thought about it, the less sense it made. “How can I possibly include Margie in the deal? I don’t own her. Besides, she’s not a bar or a supply of liquor.”

“You get out of her life. I don’t care how you do it. That’s up to you. But you do it within this month. Then I step in.”

“What happens if she doesn’t want to go with you?”

“Hell …” He smiled wickedly. “If I can’t make her my woman, you can have her back. I just don’t want to have to bother with you along the way.”

Cameron, shocked, examined Moe Green more closely. He wasn’t much to look at. He appeared to be in his late thirties, early forties. Margie was nineteen. He dressed well. Dark, thinning hair, maybe six feet tall, slender. Dusky skin, sharp features.

Physically, Green wasn’t in Cameron’s league. Financially, Cameron couldn’t begin to touch Green.

One thing was certain: Green’s taste in women was superior, if not impeccable. Not only was Margie almost a classic beauty, she had a sharp intellect. Indeed she was part and parcel of the plans for Cameron’s super topless club. He would front the establishment, run the place, see that everything operated smoothly. She would handle the books and keep them solvent.

Of course one could always find a bookkeeper. Not one better than Margie. But maybe at least not worse.

Still, this deal was strange … bordering on crazy. And so bizarre that he was completely taken by surprise. He wanted time to think. He sensed Green was not going to extend much more time. In just a few more minutes, Green would be gone. And Cameron knew this offer would never be repeated. It was now or forget it. His dream come true. Or a nightmare.

Green glanced at his watch. “I got just time to make my next appointment.”

“Deal!”

“Get a lawyer, then call me.” Green left more than enough to cover his check and quickly departed, pausing only to take one more look at Margaret who liked to be called Margie.

His interest was not lost on Margie. Periodically she’d noticed him looking at her attentively. Men who came in here had an obvious preference for nude girls over a clothed one. Her only conclusion regarding Moe Green was that he had good taste.

Cameron toyed with his martini-masquerading glass of water. How the hell was he going to pull this off? Probably no contract had been struck to match this, in this country, since slavery.

The problem was to get Margie to go along. He’d have to wait for the right mood—or create it. Then put it to her that this would make their dream come true. This was, at most, a trial. Green did say that if he could not make her “his woman”—absent Cameron—she was free to move on, or back.

Maybe she’d buy it.

Chapter Four

THE PAST CONTINUED

It was 1977.

Three years had passed since Moe Green had lent the money that financed Jake Cameron’s dream, Virago, a flashy, upscale bar and grill that featured topless dancers.

This evening there was a gathering in the meeting room off the restaurant. Present were Cameron, Joe Blinstraub—his lawyer—Moe Green, and his wife, Margie.

Green assumed the occasion had something to do with the loan. The money was the lone bond that had linked Green and Cameron since the deal had been struck. Were he forced to guess, Green would expect Cameron to plead for an extension on the note. Ha! No way in hell.

Green had launched many deals since that loan to Cameron. A string of slum dwellings, prison real estate, and the like had absorbed Green’s time and attention. And of course there was always his medical practice. Cameron had been on the back burner these three years. Left alone, Green would remember the loan in another two years, at which point it would be time for Cameron to pay up or get lost. But, for now, Green would enjoy this well-prepared meal.

Cameron kept stealing glances at Margie. In the three full years since he had seen her in person, Margie had been photographed regularly at benefits and other social events. In society columns that featured celebrities’ names in boldface type, Moe and Margie were mentioned more often than not.

It was through such columns that Cameron had learned of the birth of Margie’s children. Two in the first two years of her marriage, a girl, then a boy. She hadn’t called to tell him about her babies … or anything else, for that matter.

He dared not attempt to contact her. Green had made it clear that if Margie became his woman Cameron was completely out of the picture.

And she surely had become Green’s woman.

When Cameron had explained to Margie the deal he’d been offered, he had expected hesitancy or downright refusal. It didn’t happen. Instantly, Margie had seen herself in a no-lose situation. If she chose Green it would be on her terms. Otherwise, she would return to the situation she’d left. After all, Cameron wasn’t so bad.

It now appeared to Cameron that these three years had not been kind to Margie. A few furrows and wrinkles questioned a hitherto flawless complexion. They seemed to denote disagreements, hostility, perhaps even pain. Maybe her relationship with Green was a lot less than loving. But it seemed she had decided to stay with the money.