Call No Man Father

by William X. Kienzle

  In a sense, these layers of priests and bishops, added to the considerable covering provided by federal agents, county sheriffs, and Detroit police, would shield the pope from almost any conceivable successful attempt to harm him.

  No one not credentialed could get close to the pope. And no one in the inner circle would want to harm him. That seemed certain.

  9

  The story is told of a priest who was head of Detroit’s Tribunal, or marriage court. He began each working day with the words—intended solely for the ears of his fellow priests—“Let the perjury begin!”

  Admittedly, it was a jaundiced view. But it was an indication of how frequently he heard, or thought he was listening to, lies told under oath.

  A similar cynical attitude was common among journalists, especially the investigative variety. They would follow leads, rumors, gossip, innuendo. That was part of their job. But all the while, their experience indicated that a lot of what they uncovered was deceit—bald-faced, straight-out lies.

  Patricia Lennon had heard the stories, the rumors, the gossip. Her background as one of Detroit’s premier reporters had taught her to doubt them. More than that, she didn’t want to believe them.

  Once, many years before, she and Joe Cox had worked at the Detroit Free Press. The newspaper was lucky to have the two of them. They were superior reporters, who gave the Freep, as it was colloquially called, a virtually unbeatable one-two punch.

  As is all too common, the paper did not appreciate its good fortune until it lost its advantage. That was when Lennon moved the couple of blocks down Lafayette to the Freep’s arch-competitor, The Detroit News.

  But even though they no longer worked for the same paper, their love affair did not suffer in the least. Not that their relationship didn’t have its hills and valleys. For one, Cox found monogamy, even without benefit of clergy, an unnatural state.

  It was as if they were bound by elastic. Cox, straying, would seem to come to the end of the rubber band and snap back to Lennon. Sometimes, slowly, often reluctantly, she would leave the door ajar and, gradually, they would resume almost at the point of their latest parting.

  Then, responding to an offer he felt was irresistible, Joe moved to Chicago and the renowned Tribune.

  Absence, in this case, made the hearts grow forgetful and the passion tepid. It didn’t happen all at once. But in small ways they lost a personal interest in each other.

  A little more than a year ago, Joe Cox had accepted yet another enticing offer.

  Dan Darlton, his editor at the Tribune, had wooed and won a sufficiency of backers to finance a slick city magazine that could take on the established and highly successful Chicago.

  This wet-behind-the-ears publisher offered Joe Cox the position of editor-in-chief of the new magazine, Chicago Monthly. It was a journalistic function Cox had never had the opportunity to try his hand at.

  The pay would be only slightly higher than at the Trib. But Cox found the challenge intoxicating.

  Leaving behind hard feelings on the part of the Trib’s executives, and moving into the gun sights of the long-established and financially powerful Chicago, Joe Cox launched on his new career.

  He enjoyed the competition Chicago provided. He continued to be captivated by this fascinating city. He was overjoyed to be able to direct the thrust and policy of a splashy magazine.

  For a while.

  After a few months, Darlton began to invade the magazine’s editorial realm. The invasion was insidious in its beginnings. He started dropping in on, then gradually taking over, the planning meetings.

  Next he demanded that all manuscripts, whether assigned, submitted “on spec,” or over the transom, be run by him. These he would notate—notations that were at best unkind, but more usually nasty, hurtful, and humiliating to the writers.

  Cox was careful to blot out or erase all notations before either processing the pieces or returning them to their authors. Cox was a writer; he knew how thin-skinned they frequently were. He knew how tactful one must be, especially with work that has been sincerely and hopefully submitted. At that moment the writer is at his or her most vulnerable.

  Little by little, but increasingly, Darlton began meddling in editorial ground.

  He had a monthly column in the magazine. That was not unusual. Many publications carried their publisher’s opinions. But this publisher’s column usually arrived on Cox’s desk in scribbled longhand at the blueprint stage and regularly overran the page reserved for it. Which obliged Cox to find something in the otherwise print-ready magazine that had to be killed for the publisher’s column. However, should anyone else not write for space, Darlton would go berserk.

  Even then, Darlton’s unprofessionalism might have been tolerable had he not taken every opportunity to undermine Cox’s position at the magazine.

  Cox faced a many-sided conundrum. If he challenged the publisher, in all likelihood he would be fired and made to look incompetent. If he continued in this position, he would soon be psychologically emasculated. If he quit, where would he go? The print world—which was Cox’s world—would assume he had failed and might well be reluctant to take him on.

  At long last, swallowing a lot of pride and not a little gall, he contacted Nelson Kane, celebrated city editor of the Detroit Free Press. Darlton had once worked for the Freep; Kane, from personal experience, knew what an obnoxious prick he could be. He also knew that Cox had been deflated to a shell of what he’d once been.

  Kane was willing to gamble that Cox could come back. So it was with mixed emotions that the two resumed their former relationship.

  That Cox had signed on with the new magazine, that this was his first crack at being editor-in-chief, that Chicago Monthly was beginning to lose in its challenge to Chicago —these were facts.

  When it came to the inner workings of the new magazine, rumor ran rampant. Gossip had it that Cox had been given a free hand and had blown it, that his promiscuity had brought about his downfall, that he could no longer cut the mustard in either arena.

  Many Detroit area newspeople had lost many a page-one story to Cox’s journalistic cunning and doggedness. Some still harbored bitterness. Now that he seemed to be slowly swinging in the breeze, they used him for target practice.

  Pat Lennon had known both men when they worked at the Freep. Darlton had been one of her pet peeves. She knew what a fourth-class human being he was. In fact, when Cox had been offered the magazine position, she had warned him of what probably would happen.

  Her instincts—which were superb—enabled her to see through the lies, the innuendo, the rumors, and the gossip. She hoped Cox would succeed against all the odds that faced him. She felt sorry for him. That’s about all she felt for him.

  Earlier this Sunday, Cox had had to call on his vaunted investigative skill to locate Lennon. So out of touch were they that he knew neither her current address nor her unlisted number. Once and present colleagues were not cooperative.

  Finally, he did nail her phone number, only to be greeted by an answering device. Her voice, even recorded, still bore that provocative mixture of strictly business with a touch of seductiveness.

  By early evening he was about to resign himself to spending another lonely night, when she returned his call.

  He sensed her deliberate distancing from him. He wanted to meet her for … anything. Dinner would be fine. She offered excuses. He persevered. They agreed to meet at Carl’s Chop House. The food was good, and it was one of the few restaurants that still would be serving Sunday dinner at this hour.

  He waited for her in the lobby. Their meeting was awkward. He leaned to kiss her cheek. She offered her hand. They had lived together for more than ten years before their what then seemed final breakup. The memories were like heartburn.

  The huge restaurant was nearly empty. They sat in a booth. He ordered a double scotch straight up. She ordered warm-water. He ordered a steak. She ordered a small salad. She claimed she had eaten earlier. He wondered.

&
nbsp; He carried the verbal ball almost single-handedly, narrating the chronology of his time at the Tribune and Chicago Monthly. She listened without comment.

  He did not overly badmouth the magazine’s publisher. But she knew Darlton well enough that chapter and verse were unnecessary to document his essential evil.

  As Cox talked, he could not help but reveal his present state of life. She saw clearly through his conscious and unconscious defenses.

  He had not once mentioned his social life in Chicago. Knowing him as she did, she was willing to credit the scuttlebutt about his prolific dalliances. As sailors were reputed to have a girl in every port, so Cox was rumored to have one in every neighborhood. Probably an overstatement in a city with as many neighborhoods as Chicago. But not total exaggeration.

  By the time he ordered pie à la mode and she orange sherbet, she was pretty much up to date in The Life and Hard Times of Joe Cox.

  All the while she had viewed him in an unreal sepia sort of light. What had she seen in him? He was, as the song in Show Boat went, “… an ordinary guy.” Certainly neither a hunk nor debonair. In short, nothing extra-special to look at. However, appearances had never been high on her desirability list.

  He had been fun. Imaginative, with a good sense of humor. Self-confident to the point of overconfidence. It had not been his looks that had attracted her; it had been his personality.

  And now that personality was all but shredded. His eyes, which she had always found warm, lively, and interesting, now had a hangdog cast to them. She felt sorry for him, genuinely sorry. But nothing more.

  As he spun his latter-day autobiography, his mind virtually in neutral, he studied her.

  Some women, he considered, start out being attractive and grow more beautiful as the years progress. That was Pat Lennon.

  Her hair was flecked with gray. Obviously it didn’t bother her; she had done nothing to disguise it. She had put on just a tad of weight. With that, she had become voluptuous. She wasn’t trying to be anyone else. She was who she wanted to be.

  And she no longer had strong feelings for him. His purgatory at Chicago Monthly had not completely impoverished him. His instincts were still operative even if he did not trust them as he once had.

  Dinner was over. But Cox would continue to ask for coffee refills to postpone the inevitable parting.

  Pat was willing to extend the evening. She genuinely wanted to help him; she just did not know how. “So, Joe, where’re you living now?”

  “Southfield. In a high-rise on Nine Mile near Greenfield. Here …” He handed her a small, neatly folded piece of paper. “… my address and phone number. Just in case …”

  “Sure.” She tucked the paper in her bag after briefly scanning it. “Any contact with any of the guys?”

  “Tried. Not much luck. Doesn’t seem to be much enthusiasm out there for the prodigal son.”

  She didn’t doubt that. He exuded dark depression and pessimism. Nowhere near close to the Joe Cox of happy memory. She was even willing to believe that he had no belle du jour. And good old Joe sans a woman in hand and at least one in the wings was almost a contradiction in terms. “Have you checked in at the Freep yet?”

  “A few days ago.”

  It was near closing time; the waitress was showing signs of wanting to wrap this up. She didn’t want to have to clear their table and settle their tab on her own time. Cox smiled at her with what he hoped was irresistible charm. “I’ll have another decaf.” With a forced plastic smile, she refilled his cup.

  Lennon caught the message. She felt as trapped as the waitress. Whatever business she and Cox had this evening had to be concluded here in the restaurant. She did not want to go through “your place or mine” or “maybe we can drive around for a while.” She wanted to wrap things up within the protective walls of Carl’s. And soon. “How’s Nellie Kane?”

  “Seems the same as always.” Cox sounded surprised. “Don’t you ever bump into him? I mean it’s only a matter of a couple of blocks. There’s the Press Club ….”

  She shook her head. “Not any more. Downtown was pretty dead even before you left. It’s a little deader now.” Pause. “You did talk to Kane, didn’t you? About the job?”

  “I talked to a lot of people about a job. Nellie’s the one who came through for me. I won’t forget that.”

  Lennon felt even sorrier for him. At one time, and not all that long ago, Joe Cox could’ve written his own ticket anywhere. Now in order to get a job, he had to rely on what was in reality a favor from a former employer. Cox was down. Lennon would not kick him.

  “Well”—she tried to sound bright and upbeat—“at least you’re settled. I assume your apartment is comfortable … and you’re certainly familiar with your workspace and the job.” No sooner had she mentioned the apartment than she regretted it. It opened the door to a potential invitation.

  Cox’s libido flirted with the idea. But he was fairly sure such an invitation would be rejected out of hand. Moreover, the evening had gone better than he had hoped. It was obvious that her feeling toward him approximated something a benevolent person might harbor toward a frightened, abandoned pet. He decided not to press his luck. “The apartment’s okay,” he said, “for starters anyway.” Pause. “Starters! That’s about what I’m doing … starting all over. About one step up from copy boy.”

  “Oh, come on, Joe, it can’t be that bad. The Freep is still an important paper. Part of its past glory was yours. No,” she insisted, in response to his expression, “I’m not trying to pour it on. You really had some major stories while you were there. They can’t take that away from you.”

  Silence.

  “Joe?”

  Cox grimaced. “They can’t take that away from me, huh? Well, guess what Nellie has me covering.”

  Lennon shrugged.

  “How about the pope’s visit?” His smile was half sneer.

  “What the hell’s wrong with that?” She was animated for the first time this evening. “We’ve only had one previous papal visit. There’ll be dignitaries from all over the world. Likewise the media. My God, Joe, you’ll be sitting on top of one of the year’s major stories!”

  He deliberately held her gaze. “Lemme ask you something: What are you working on now?”

  She hesitated. “A Recorders Court judge on the take.”

  “How close are you to breaking the story?”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” she replied almost guiltily.

  “And then?”

  “Well, I’m working with Bob Ankenazy on a nursing home scam.”

  “Are you still top gun in the Detroit media?”

  “Well …”

  “Don’t bother: You are. So how come you’re not doing the pope story.”

  She had no good reason for the embarrassment she felt. “It’s … it’s not my kind of story.”

  Cox was triumphant. “Remember when we were working this city on our separate but equal beats? The pope coming to town was not my kind of story either. The pope is coming to town! So is Santa Claus. I’d rather be good for Santa’s sake.”

  “Joe, you’re not being fair. Not to yourself. Not to Nellie Kane. You’ve only just got back in town. I’ve never left it. You know as well as I that you’ve got to build these stories. One lead gets you to another. Pretty soon you’ve got a string of leads. You know how that works. For all Nellie knows, you do have to start over to build, or maybe rebuild your sources. In the meantime, the pope is one helluva goddam good story!”

  He flipped his napkin to the center of the table in disgust. “One helluva goddam good story to whom? The Catholics get out their rosaries and get them blessed. Daddy told me never to take seriously men who go to work wearing dresses!”

  “Come on, Joe, don’t exaggerate for my benefit. I don’t have to tell you it could be a major piece. There’s plenty of speculation on why he’s coming to Detroit, of all places. And just before Christmas. It’s just possible that his message is going to affect not only Catholics, but ma
ybe the whole world.”

  “And where would you expect to see that story? The AP? Reuters? One of the news services? This isn’t my kind of story. You know that, Pat.”

  She snapped her pocketbook closed. Dinner and the evening were definitely drawing to a close. “Maybe not, Joe. Maybe not. But you’ll be on the beat again, I’m sure of that. Nellie knows what you can do.

  “And meanwhile this is a big story … maybe lots bigger than you give it any credit for.”

  Cox scrutinized the bill, figuring the tip. “Remember the guy who used to be the Freep’s religion writer? Long time ago … Harlen … Harley something …”

  “I know who you mean.”

  “I didn’t agree with much he said or wrote. But one thing I thought carried a lot of weight: He said something about religion being basically dull and he didn’t want to touch religion stories unless there was something that made them sensational.”

  “Yeah … it rings a bell.”

  “And good old Harley was not above being personally responsible for injecting that sensational element. Well, that’s the direction I’m leaning in just now.” He left enough on the table to take care of the bill plus a generous tip.

  Lennon was reapplying her lipstick. Suddenly what Cox had just said sank in. “Joe! What the hell are you talking about? You wouldn’t … you couldn’t—”

  He smiled, but his eyes refused to meet hers. “You never know. You just never know.”

  He stood, shrugged into his coat, and waited. Lennon was staring at him in disbelief. What was he thinking of?

  He couldn’t mean that he might actually … She tried to push this thought from her mind. When it came to journalistic integrity, Joe might step on the line, but he’d never cross it; she knew him well enough to be certain of that. But … this was not exactly the same Joe Cox she had known a few years ago.

  What might he do, how far would he go now to regain his former eminence in Detroit journalism?

  What sort of mayhem—figurative or literal—might he be capable of to achieve a page-one breakthrough?