Call No Man Father

by William X. Kienzle

Then came Pat Lennon from the Cleveland Plain Dealer. Pat was a native of Michigan and a graduate of Marygrove, then a women’s Catholic college in Detroit.

  Lennon had it all. She interviewed with the personnel director. He counted his lucky stars that she had chosen the Free Press over the News. He sent her to Kane, who managed to keep a straight face while being near overwhelmed by her accomplishments and ability while noting also that she was definitely less than ugly.

  It was like having Ruth and Gehrig in the same lineup. Lennon and Cox, Cox and Lennon. Two of the best in the same city room. They were golden years even when the two reporters began sharing everything but their bylines, muddying the situation.

  Then Lennon, victim of a couple of managerial blunders (not Kane’s) moved down Lafayette Boulevard to the Detroit News.

  For a long while, Cox and Lennon improved and refined as they fought each other for page-one leadership. Until Cox was wooed from Detroit to Chicago and the Trib. Then mere was that debilitating experience with the magazine, which led first to unemployment, then to a return to the Freep.

  Kane was aware he was out on a limb in rescuing Cox. No one else in management agreed wholeheartedly with me decision. The force of Kane’s clout alone proved decisive.

  So Kane brought Cox back into the city room, where the hostility was near overpowering. Some of the younger reporters knew Cox only by reputation. There were chips on shoulders daring Cox to live up to that one-time fame.

  Cox’s contemporaries at best pitied him. As far as they were concerned, he’d lost it in Chicago where he’d been a failure. Cox had never competed for the congeniality award. He now paid a price for that oversight.

  Cox finally sat back from the computer. Finished with his piece, he hit the button that would compute the length of his story.

  Kane called up the story through the reporter’s name.

  On their separate machines, both Kane and Cox read the story, a follow-up to Cox’s original piece on the symposium. “Cox!” Kane barked.

  Cox braced, then relaxed with a smile. In a split second almost twenty years dropped away. How often Cox had answered Kane’s summons with apprehension! Suddenly, it was like the good old days.

  Then, equally as suddenly, it was not. Not by a long shot.

  Cox looked around the sparsely filled room. Those faces he could see sported smug smiles, as if hoping Kane’s invitation was a command performance on a carpet that was not red. Cox felt like rising from his chair and loudly announcing to the assembled players, “Get a life!”

  Wisely, he thought better of it. Instead, he walked casually to Kane’s desk

  “You wanna get yourself some coffee?” Kane said.

  “Oh, it’s gonna be that way.” Cox took the chair next to Kane’s desk “Thanks, but no blindfold.”

  It wasn’t clear whether Kane was suppressing a smile. “You got any idea why the pope’s coming here?”

  Cox shook his head. “No … and frankly, I don’t give a damn.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “The story you did yesterday …” Kane gestured toward the morning edition lying open on his desk

  Cox looked at it blankly. “Uh-huh?”

  “The assignment wasn’t to cover rehearsals for a symposium that nobody’ll attend anyway.”

  “It was more exciting than anything else going on with the pope’s one-night stand.”

  “So I was told.”

  “Huh?”

  Kane ran his palm across his head, compressing some fine hairs. “The manager of Cobo called.” Kane waited for a response.

  There was none.

  “It seems the excitement was your contribution to the proceedings, by and large.”

  Cox straightened up. “How does he figure that? He wasn’t even there!”

  “Not when the fracas started. But right after, when security called.”

  “Look, okay, so there was a ruckus. But I wasn’t in it.”

  “No. But wasn’t it a lucky thing you were there when it started.”

  The sarcasm did not elude Cox. “I asked some questions!” he protested. “That’s what I’ve been doing since before I met you.”

  “According to the manager, it was your questions that set off the fight.”

  “That’s his opinion. And remember, he wasn’t even there.

  “Look Nellie, let’s cut the crap. The pope has an interesting history and heritage, I’m sure. He’s the good guy all in white. Only he could ride in a popemobile. But let’s face it: He’s about as exciting as a box of corn flakes.”

  “Cox, don’t be an idiot. When the pope comes to town, that’s news! How many things can you think of that could bump the pope off page one?”

  “That’s the kind of story that you find on page one with Veronica Lukashewski’s byline. Hell, you know I wasn’t crazy about this assignment in the first place—”

  “You mean it’s not worthy of your investigative talents? Look Cox, I gotta level with you: It used to be beneath your best efforts at investigative reporting. Now, we don’t know. You’ve been out of this for a while. Your best effort on a magazine ran along the line of the Ten Best Places to Eat an Ice Cream Cone.

  “Now, this is a damn fine assignment, Joe. Don’t blow it. I expect a workman like job on this. Then maybe we’ll talk about the investigative pieces.”

  “Anyway”—Cox nodded toward the morning edition—“what’s wrong with that? It’s damn readable, no?”

  “Oh, it’s readable, okay. It’s also contrived.”

  “And it’s a scoop!”

  “Let’s hope it stops with that.”

  “Say what?”

  “Let’s hope the News and/or one of the TV or radio stations doesn’t pin you up on their bulletin board for everyone to see: ‘How Not to Cover News: Manufacture It.’”

  “It’s arguable that I caused it. It’s more like it happened because the only security there was some Cobo personnel. No cops.”

  “The cops weren’t there because the arena told them they wouldn’t be needed until the pope makes his appearance.”

  “No bull! Even after what happened to Nancy Kerrigan, they didn’t learn!?”

  “That’s one positive thing you’re responsible for, Cox: Now they’re going to put some uniforms on duty even before the pope arrives. Not many, but some. Most of the force is already allocated.”

  Kane leaned forward and fixed Cox with what, over the years, city roomers had come to call The Look. “As for you, Cox”—Kane enunciated deliberately—“I want you to take a goddam interest in what the pope’s going to say and just why he’s saying it here and now.”

  He sat back “That’s the story, and I want you to get it without causing any more saloon fights.”

  Cox nodded. “I’m on it. Late this afternoon a Cardinal …” He flipped through his notebook “… yeah, here it is … Schinder—Cardinal Dietrich Schinder—is coming into Metro on Northwest.”

  “Schinder? Like the guy who saved the Jews?”

  “That’s Schindler. This is Schinder, no relation. This guy is numero secundo in the Vatican. German, from Cologne. They tell me he’s been the pope’s right-hand man—also hatchet man—for a bunch of years. I’ll nail him the second he gets off the plane. And this is exclusive, Nellie.”

  “What’s your source?” The question was mostly just curiosity.

  Cox smiled. “A chancery secretary.”

  It never fails, thought Kane. Cox still had sources no one else could match. A good eight-tenths of them were female. Victims of Cox’s charm that mostly attracted, occasionally repelled. Instinctively, Cox always knew who was which; he hardly ever wasted a bead of charm on anyone who would not succumb.

  “What time’s the plane due?”

  “Schinder? Not till 5:00.”

  Kane nodded brusquely. “You’d better get your ass in gear.”

  Cox nodded and wordlessly returned to his desk, keyed his story to co
pyediting, picked up his coat and scarf, and headed out.

  He left Nelson Kane wondering and just a whit worried.

  During his absence from the Detroit and Chicago newspaper scenes, some traumatic things had happened to Joe Cox. Was he still the same gifted reporter he had been? Was his self-confidence as firm and true as Kane had known it once to be?

  Already, Cox was getting into roiling waters. Worse, he was the one roiling those waters. Was he covering this story, or was he creating—steering—the story?

  From all appearances, the latter seemed more likely.

  Cox had taken a fairly meaningless event—a rehearsal for a symposium—and escalated some differences of opinion into a free-for-all.

  He’d been the only reporter on the scene. His story was exclusive mostly because he had created the story. Was it possible that he was less interested in the story than he was in regaining the measure of fame he had once had?

  So far, he had sparked a fight that was at the very least violent, and easily could have led to bloodshed or serious injury.

  Kane found it disturbing that not only had Cox done this, but that it had seemingly been deliberate. Was he setting a pattern?

  The bottom line was: How far would Cox go?

  Kane had to admit, he wasn’t sure.

  21

  She was busy. But no matter how occupied or preoccupied, she did not want to neglect Joe.

  In fact, Pat Lennon was worried about him. So she returned his call.

  He asked how her story on the nursing home scam was coming. She and Bob Ankenazy were just about ready to go with it, she told him. They couldn’t hope to name every home that was ripping off its patients, but they had gathered enough to stir up the animals and get the reform machinery moving.

  Cox did nothing to conceal his basic uninterest in the story. At the root of it, he lived for the present and, at most, the immediate future. He never adverted to that inevitable time when, if he lived long enough, he would grow old. That necessarily meant that he would no longer be young. And this, while not being beyond his imagination, was an eventuality he just never considered.

  If he had given aging serious consideration, he would have had to acknowledge that, with his track record, he probably would end his life alone. No wife, no family, no one to care for him. Very likely he would be headed for a nursing home.

  This certainly was not the case with Pat.

  Like most women, Lennon was aware of and sensitive to changes that marked phases of life. Puberty rings no bells for boys. For them it is a state something akin to the demarcation of seasons. Gradually, one sees a change in sun patterns as the energy star seems to dip away from its position directly overhead. A subtle chill sets in and leaves turn color. Some time later, it is time for snow. But all these changes occur almost imperceptibly.

  So it is with male puberty. The bodily and psychic development is a quiet evolution. Step by inexorable step changes take place and nature whispers its new powers and demands.

  Menarche strikes young girls with the abruptness of a suddenly open wound. They may or may not have been prepared for menstruation. That doesn’t matter: One day the periodic flow begins. And nature tells them that now, this moment, they may nurture life. And so series of phases begin and pass until menopause announces the end of that life-giving potential. Woman’s life then may continue for many years. But the warning of a new transition has been delivered. No matter how many earthly years remain, the promulgation has been made: This life will end.

  Men, however, at least theoretically, can—no matter what age they happen to be—sire children at any time.

  It was easy for Pat Lennon, though still a young woman, to empathize with the broken bodies and spirits of the elderly. She, and her sisters, knew that old age was yet another phase to be faced and dealt with. She felt for the helpless elderly whose stories she recounted. At least some of those who unconscionably took advantage of the least of God’s children would be exposed through the stories reported by Lennon and Bob Ankenazy.

  Aware of Cox’s disinterest, Lennon abbreviated the nursing home report. She was well aware that the reason he’d phoned originally was to bring her up to speed on his story.

  He went over the morning program, including the part of the symposium directed to family planning. He knew she had read his published piece, but now left out no detail, including his role leading up to what he still would not admit any responsibility for, the fisticuffs.

  She chose not to comment. She was certain that he was steering the story, manipulating it for its shock value. But he had not asked for her opinion. Time enough for her advice or suggestion when he was in a more receptive mood. Which clearly was not now.

  Next he recounted his just-completed interview of Cardinal Dietrich Schinder. Unstated in his account of that meeting was an admission that the interview was not a categorical success.

  “Did you have any problem recognizing him in that crowd?” Lennon asked.

  Cox snorted. “Are you kidding?”

  Lennon bridled. “Listen, I know what Metro is, especially around the holidays. It’s wall-to-wall people. All I’m asking is how you were able to spot him in that crowd.”

  Cox realized his remark had been patronizing and he backed off a bit. “It wasn’t so difficult picking him out. He’s a tall guy; every inch aristocratic; with a full head of white-on-white hair; dressed all in black of course—no hat.”

  “Impressive,” Lennon said. “No red? No red at all?”

  Cox recollected. “Yeah, now that you mention it. There was a little splash of red in front, just under the roman collar. I don’t think I would’ve noticed it—it was such a small bit—but it was an eye-popping red.”

  “That’s the Cardinal color. It’s the most brilliant red imaginable.”

  “While we’re at minutiae, there was a chain of some kind—I could just see it across his chest under his coat.”

  “It holds a crucifix. Called a pectoral cross. Another sign that he’s at least a bishop.”

  “Always good to talk to a Catholic.”

  “Glad to be of service. What did you get from him?”

  “Not a lot. I was pretty much walking backward. He wouldn’t stop. He kept right on walking. So the only way I could get to talk to him was to walk backward.”

  Lennon chuckled quietly. “I didn’t know you could do that, Joe.”

  “Necessity is the mother of it all. Anyway, I was just trying to get him to commit on whether the pope was going to outlaw birth control infallibly. Hell, I couldn’t even get him to admit the damn pope was even coming to Detroit!”

  “The language of diplomacy, Joe.”

  “About all I could get out of him was history. He was willing to say that as far as he knew, that encyclical …”

  “Humanae Vitae?”

  “I guess. That is, according to Schinder, still in effect. That the only one on earth who could alter, suppress, or strengthen it is the pope. And that was it. He said whatever course the pope would take was entirely up to the pope—subject of course to the Almighty’s passing the word along to His Holiness. And he hadn’t the slightest idea which way the pope might move—if he would move at all. He used lots and lots of words, but basically that was about the extent of it. I think the guy could think of a million ways of saying ‘No comment.’”

  “So it was a washout?”

  “Not totally. I did get a few usable quotes. Not much, but something. Actually, there’s only one thing that keeps it from being a total washout.”

  “And that’s …?”

  “Mine was an exclusive interview.”

  Lennon laughed. “What good’s that if he didn’t say anything worthwhile?”

  “Some of the things he said to me alone would work in nicely in a story on him.”

  “Hmm?”

  “You know … say, if something were to happen to Schinder. I might be the only reporter to have talked to him since he landed here. You know, something like the value of
a painting multiplying after the painter dies.”

  “After the painter dies! What the hell are you talking about, Joe? Nothing’s going to happen to Schinder … or do you have some info you’re holding back?”

  “Holding back? Nothing important. They’re going to house him at the seminary … the, uh …” He didn’t want to dig his notebook out just for a name.

  “Sacred Heart Seminary,” Lennon supplied.

  “That’s it.”

  “Kind of odd,” Lennon observed.

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, I’m not sure what kind of facilities they may have gotten since I last visited there, but most of the rooms are kind of primitive … at least by the standards I would suppose a Cardinal would be used to. Especially the number two man in the Vatican.”

  “Sacred Heart is what he said.”

  Pause.

  “Joe … are you leveling with me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This talk about death … implying that the Cardinal might die and your interview might be worth more because you got an exclusive … What’s that supposed to mean? Why should anything happen to the Cardinal?”

  “Nothing should happen to the Cardinal. But you know as well as I do, anything can happen. I mean, he’s going to stay in the heart of the city. And the heart of this city can be a pretty dangerous place. What the hell! You didn’t think I was going to do something to Schinder?! Good God, Pat, I’m a reporter, not a hit man!”

  Cox’s laugh rang hollow to Lennon. “Joe, it’s still early. You want to meet for dinner?”

  Pause for several long moments. “I … I don’t think so. Geez! No … no, I can’t. Not tonight. There’s some stuff I gotta get done. Maybe tomorrow. Can I have a rain check?”

  “Sure, Joe. A rain check. See ya.”

  She hung up and wondered and worried.

  Somehow, Joe Cox did not seem to be the same person she had once known—known very well.

  Something had changed. Joe had never treated a story so cavalierly. Now he gave every indication that he was steering, manipulating.

  How far would he go? What might he do?

  She wondered and she worried.