It took a few moments for Ryan to place him. It wouldn’t have taken that long had the caller not identified himself as Augustine. Realizing the problem, he immediately gave the befuddled Ryan the name Harold May, and the connection was made.
Ryan was unaware that Harold had had a book published. Then, as the conversation proceeded, Ryan recalled having heard about A Rose by Any Other Name. But he hadn’t linked Harold to the Father Augustine who had authored it. “Well, congratulations, Harold. Son of a gun, I didn’t know that was you. Yeah, sincere congratulations.”
“Thanks. Yes, it was I.” After the two exchanged small talk bringing each other up-to-date on their separate and very different lives, Augustine recounted his past publishing experience, the bombardment by the P.G. empire, and his grossly negative reaction to the one and only P.G. book he had read or was likely to read.
Ryan whistled softly. “So Krieg wants you, eh? Well—how is it you monks put it?—resist him, strong in the faith.”
“Tu autem, Domine, miserere nobis. I’m surprised you know that antiphon, Dick. You must be a better Catholic now than when I knew you.”
“That’s true. But then, you’re a better Catholic now, yourself.”
Augustine chuckled. “It’s good to know we’re both working at it.
“But Dick, I didn’t really call to ask your opinion about my linking up with Krieg. My question is: What is he up to? Why in God’s green world would he want me? What possible interest could he have in me?”
“Authenticity.”
“Authenticity?”
“You’re a real, live monk, my friend,” Ryan replied. “I must admit I’ve never had the misfortune of reading anything put out by P.G. Press. But I know their reputation. Everybody in the business knows what Krieg is doing.”
“Well, I’m no longer ‘in the business,’ Dick. Could you fill me in?”
There was a pause marked by the sound of deep inhaling. Ryan had just lit a cigarette. Instantaneously, Augustine recalled the pressure-packed days in the advertising world. He himself had smoked like a chimney; with few exceptions, they all had. It got so one could not imagine having a phone at one’s ear without the attendant cigarette between one’s lips.
“Okay,” Ryan said. “I won’t get into the TV scam for the moment. That’s a long story all by itself. But Krieg didn’t ask you to fake a miracle for his TV viewers. He wants your pen, not your crutches.”
Augustine snorted.
“Part of it works this way,” Ryan said. “Krieg maintains offices in Los Angeles for budding writers. Haven’t you ever seen the ads in magazines, trade papers?”
“’Fraid not.”
“Damn, that’s right; you don’t read the trades anymore.”
Augustine shook his head, a motion that could not be heard over the phone. Reading the trades was just one of many, many things he no longer did.
Ryan continued. “Say you’re an amateur writer, know in your heart you’re good, and that sooner or later you’ll get published. All you need is a chance, a break.”
Millions of them, thought Augustine.
“Well,” Ryan said, “you look at the ad from P.G. Press—”
“Excuse, Dick: Whatinhell does P.G. stand for?”
“‘Praise God,’ P.G.—get it?” It was Ryan’s turn to snort. “Krieg is doing God no favor.
“Anyway, you see this ad. It says, ‘You haven’t been published? Not to worry. Send us your manuscript. Either we’ll publish you or we’ll tell you what little more you need to get published. Of course this uses up a lot of our time, and time is money. So if you want us to read you, help you, publish you, counsel you, it only stands to reason that you should reimburse us for our time. Depending on the length and complexity of the script, $100 and $500 for a reading. A guaranteed response. This is your big chance. Don’t let it slip by.’”
Augustine interrupted. “Don’t tell me: The writers don’t have a chance. It’s stacked against them.”
“You got it. Krieg maintains a large office full of people who read these manuscripts. They’ve got one job and one job alone: to reject and return every manuscript they get. No exceptions.”
“Then why do they have to read the scripts? They’re just going to turn them down anyway.”
“They’ve got a boilerplate introduction and conclusion for their rejects. The opening theme is: ‘You’ve come so close. You’re not far from best-seller fame.’ Stuff like that goes on for maybe three, four pages. The conclusion goes: “We are genuinely interested in your talent. We want to see your work again. So make sure you keep in touch and should you turn out another manuscript . . .’ But the middle of the rejection has to evidence that they actually read your script. The reader has to get specific about some of the things in the script. That’s the only reason anyone there reads the submission.”
It was Augustine’s turn to whistle softly. “Is that legal?”
“Legal? Yeah, I think so. And definitely not unique. They said they’d read your submission and they did. They didn’t promise they’d do any more than read and critique. They didn’t say they had no plan other than to reject your work. Moral? Hardly. Legal? I think so. One thing you learn quickly when you study Krieg: Morality has nothing to do with his entire operation.”
“Amazing! Frightening, really. But what’s it got to do with me? Why is he so interested in me? I’m published. Just once, so far, but published anyway.”
“Like I said in the beginning, old buddy: authenticity. Anybody can write that crap that Krieg publishes. Anybody. It’s formula. They give the writer a plot—some of those writers can think up their own, some can’t—anyway, P.G. sets the pace: After the plot, the publisher sets a frequency of moral turpitude. Every three pages, straight sex; every ten pages, kinky sex; every seven pages, group sex. If the background is a convent, you get lesbians. If it’s a parish or a diocese—or, in your case, a monastery—you get every kind of sex imaginable. If your imagination needs help, they’ll help you.”
“Am I getting thick in my moderate age?” Augustine asked. “I still don’t get it. Why me?”
“I was getting to that. As I said, anybody can write this stuff. And it sells pretty good. Actually, it sells damn good. The thing is, it would sell one helluva lot better even than it does now if the author were on the inside. Nothing titillates the reader like having the genuine article tell the story: ‘How can an innocent, celibate monk like Father Augustine know so much about forbidden sex?’”
“I’m beginning to get it.”
“Uh-huh. I’m not surprised that Krieg’s laying on you to climb aboard. I’d be surprised if he weren’t leaning on every man or woman of the cloth who writes to join his stable.”
“Still,” Augustine objected, “it doesn’t make sense. I wouldn’t write that stuff.”
“He’s willing to take the gamble. But not till he narrows the odds.”
“Pardon?”
“I haven’t seen his pitch personally. But I’ll bet the first wave of persuasion is lots and lots of assurance that he’ll keep all the annoyances out of your quiet life. P.G. Press will shield you from all the mess attendant on publication of a book. Leaving you to quiet contemplation within the secure walls of your monastery.”
“He’s already mentioned that.”
“I was right then. The next step I’m pretty sure about. He’ll offer you a contract with a very handsome advance. That’s what all those readers of his are working for: The money those poor suckers shell out to have their scripts read goes in part to pay the meager salary of the readers, but mostly it goes to offer people like you a sizable advance . . . sound good so far?”
Augustine thought for a few moments. “Well, yes . . . I suppose. But what good does all that do him? I’m still not going to write the kind of junk he wants.”
“Wait. You get a lot of money on signing, but if P.G. doesn’t find your manuscript acceptable—which they inevitably won’t—you’ll have to pay it back. And they tie you
up in an option on your next book. Most authors—who’ve already spent the money just to live on—eventually capitulate—either to writing the kind of trash they want, or letting them do it.”
“But . . .” Augustine was puzzled. “Is one lousy book by me worth all the trouble they’re going to?”
“Oh, yeah, Harold; if they could get a real live monk, religious habit and all, belonging to the Trappists—one of the biggies; if they could get you to write one of the T&A books—don’t ask what that stands for . . .”
Augustine hadn’t been out of the world that long. He remembered tits and ass.
“ . . . if they could get you, they’d make a quantum leap out of and above their regular sales level. Might even garner a little bit of respectability. And as far as getting one book and one book alone from you, they’d figure you; you and your abbot; you, your abbot and your order would be so overwhelmed with the royalties that you’d write some more garbage for them.”
“Fat chance!”
“Harold, it’s a gamble. The whole thing is a gamble. The table stakes are just the dollars they offer you as an advance for signing the contract. If you didn’t produce, or if you produced what in their lexicon was an unacceptable manuscript, they’d demand the advance back. It’s well worth their time and money.”
Augustine grimaced. “I think I’ve got the whole picture, Dick. I thank you mightily. Now that you’ve shown me the pitfalls so clearly, I’ll be careful where I step.”
“Okay, buddy. Just watch very carefully where you step. Krieg does not give up easily. He’ll use everything he’s got, everything he can get. So, cover your a—uh, watch out behind you.”
Augustine smiled now, recalling his conversation with Dick Ryan. Funny how when one becomes a monk, erstwhile acquaintances feel they must clean up a language that once you shared.
But his smile quickly faded. Dick Ryan had been more prophetic than he possibly could have suspected. In a little while Augustine would meet Krieg again face to face. They would sup together. Then, in the words of John F. Kennedy, they would see who ate what.
Koesler was running late. Not like him. But his tardiness truly was due to unforeseeable circumstances.
He’d taken care of the Saturday evening and Sunday morning liturgies. After which he had been bone-tired—his usual state of a Sunday afternoon. It wasn’t offering Mass that was so draining. It was preaching. The three Masses he said over the weekend were no particular problem. But trying to deliver a meaty, thoughtful, and thought-provoking homily was quite another thing.
There had been a Detroit Tigers game on TV that afternoon. Surrounding himself with the Sunday newspapers, he’d settled into an easy chair. In no time he’d drifted off to sleep. Nothing wrong with the Tigers; baseball was such a slow game of odds and percentages that, in his exhausted state, it pitched him into dreamland.
He’d awakened with a start. It was 3:30 and he was supposed to be at Marygrove at 5:00. The Jesuit who was to cover for him during the coming week had not arrived. A call to the University of Detroit revealed that the Jesuits had forgotten, but would send a man right over.
Koesler gave brief consideration to calling Mary O’Connor, the parish secretary and general factotum, to greet and brief the pinch-hitting priest. God knew Mary easily could take good care of the parish by herself. But Rome was not into ordaining women just yet. And in addition to the transfer of keys, the substitute would have to be apprised of the minimum obligations that would require his attention during the week.
In the end, he decided to wait for the visiting priest. If nothing else, protocol dictated that the keys of the kingdom be passed from one sacerdotal hand to another.
By the time the Jesuit had arrived, keys were entrusted, and necessary instructions given, it was 4:30. Koesler drove posthaste to Marygrove, and was shown to his room. It was too late to bother unpacking. The few things he’d brought could wait for a more leisurely time to be put away.
It was almost 5:15 as Father Koesler took the stairs toward the main floor.
When would he ever learn, he wondered, as he hurried down the stairs; when would he ever learn to say no to invitations he did not really wish to accept. To begin, he should have refused—politely, of course— the overture to participate in this writers’ workshop. Although he enjoyed reading mystery novels, particularly those with a religious milieu, he was sure he was not qualified to contribute to this conference.
Secondly, having failed to turn down the initial invitation, he surely should have declined the added proposal that he stay at the college during the conference. He easily could have commuted the few miles between his parish and Marygrove. But Sister Janet had been so unrelentingly and respectfully insistent that he had accepted.
At that point the commitment had been made and there was no getting around it. When would he ever learn? Reluctantly, he had to admit that at his age and with his track record, probably never.
There were several dining rooms on the main floor. The end of the corridor resembled a Saint Andrews Cross. At the end of the building was the large kitchen. The wing to the right of the kitchen was a large cafeteria, the wing to the left was the main dining room. As he walked down the hall, his eye caught a note taped to the door of a smaller dining room on the left.
The note read, “Conference Faculty Dining Room.”
This, thought Koesler, had to be it. As he put his hand on the doorknob, the thought crossed his mind that no matter how distasteful this week might prove, at least he would not be dragged into an investigation of a real murder.
He turned the knob and entered the room.
6
Well, now, this was awkward.
Koesler stuck his head through the partially opened doorway. This, indeed, seemed to be the place where he was supposed to be. But if there had been conversation going on, it very definitely had halted with his appearance.
The small group in the dining room stood looking at him. Expectantly? It appeared they hoped he would do something, anything, to get this show on the road. If that was what they were expecting, they were about to be sadly disappointed.
More rapidly than it takes to tell, he took stock of each person in the group. There was no real need for ‘Hello, I’m . . .’ badges. A simple process of elimination disclosed who was who.
He knew the nun in the modified habit. Sister Janet Schultes. The one who’d gotten him into this mess. Standing next to her, also in a modified habit, also wearing the telltale IHM blue . . . that must be Sister Marie Monahan. He could see her Irish ancestry in her fair complexion, ruddy cheeks, luxuriant eyebrows, and dancing eyes. She and Janet could be sisters. Not only were they dressed alike, they evidently were of the same vintage—although Marie had obviously had a few extra desserts, something that in the traditional habit wouldn’t have made much difference. Actually, it didn’t make that much difference now, it merely contributed to her matronly appearance. In any case, she exuded friendliness and warmth.
The next one was the easiest. In the traditional full habit of the Order of the Cistercians of the Strict Observance, he had to be Father Augustine May. Of medium height and build, he had inquisitive eyes behind thick glasses, a rather prominent nose—and no need for the carefully cut monastic tonsure: He was almost completely bald. The remaining hair, around his ears and circling at the back of his head, was trimmed close.
Another easy one was the gentleman in the stark clerical collar. Roman Catholic priests occasionally wore such an unadorned collar. But usually their clerical collars were all but completely hidden by a rabbat, an extension of the black vest. This specific collar, plus the fact that one of the participants was an Episcopal priest, made it more than likely that this was the Reverend David Benbow. Koesler reminded himself that Episcopal and Anglican priests were also addressed as “Father.” He didn’t want to offend, particularly over something as inconsequential as a title.
Father Benbow somewhat resembled the actor Michael Caine. The thinning, wavy blond hair
, the slightly amused, almost supercilious smile. He was fairly tall, slender, and of a rather ordinary rectangular build. And there was something else: He was holding a half-full martini glass complete with an olive on a toothpick. That was noteworthy only in that the woman standing beside him was holding an identical half-filled-with-olive martini glass. It put Koesler in mind of . . . oh, who? Bill Powell and Myrna Loy, Nick and Nora Charles. Except that as far as Koesler could recall, Nick Charles had never posed as a priest—Episcopal or Roman Catholic.
No matter.
As to the woman standing next to Reverend . . . uh, Father Benbow, that was open to debate. She was not one of the authors. There was only one woman author, Sister Marie, and he had already identified her. This woman was somebody’s wife. Rabbi Winer, Father Benbow, or Klaus Krieg? Time for a guess. Standing next to Benbow, holding the identical drink—voila! Mrs. Benbow.
The only contrary argument might be that she seemed a bit older than Benbow, but that happens. She, like Sister Marie, had put on a few extra pounds that undoubtedly were unwelcome. Something else: She seemed almost to err on the side of modesty. What did they used to call that in the good old days? A Mary-like dress. Long sleeves, high neckline, below-the-knees length and some winsome lace at collar and cuffs. Koesler doubted that she dressed like this ordinarily, but, all in all, he liked it. The modesty was a refreshing change from what one too often encountered at affairs such as this.
The final person to be identified—there were a few obvious students waiting tables—was more of a challenge. He was standing apart from the others, although he, like the others, was holding a partially filled glass.
The problem was that he could be one of two people. If Koesler was correct in guessing the identity of the others, this final character in the drama was either Rabbi Irving Winer or Klaus Krieg.
He couldn’t have been more than five-foot-six or-seven inches tall. At 150 to 170 pounds, he was a bit rotund. Wisps of hair reached across the top of his balding head. Koesler had never met the rabbi and, at best, had only seen photos of Krieg in ads for his TV show. Koesler had never seen the show. In the ads Krieg might have borne some faint resemblance to this man.
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