Kill and Tell

by William Kienzle

  But all had not gone as expected. Charlie could not put his finger on it, but it was more than the poor state of the economy. He had just not been able to get control of the reins. The reason remained a puzzle to him. It was as if there were some shadowy force that foiled him at every important juncture.

  There was no doubting it, this was a serious threat to the financial future of the Chases. At least on the level to which they had become accustomed. He had risked everything on the leap from his own business to his new uncertain future in The Company. Now, he was able to think of little else.

  “If whoever I call doesn’t respond in time,” Louise continued as she buttered her toast, “I shall, of course, be dead. But that should be no barrier to a Christian burial. I understand the Church now considers suicides to be at least temporarily unbalanced and will therefore grant Christian burial. And of course I shall leave no suicide note that would compromise the situation.”

  This was the first time Louise had tested her theory that her husband seldom paid attention to what she was saying. Right now, Charles was, depending on one’s view, either passing or failing the test with flying colors.

  “When one considers burial,” Louise continued, “as of course one must, I should prefer being cremated. That also, I understand, is permitted by the Church now.

  “Then, what to do with the ashes? Perhaps you could sprinkle them here and there throughout Mira Linder’s Spa. Goodness knows, I’ve been under so many mud packs at Mira’s, it seems only fitting that I should become part of the mud.” Louise shivered slightly. “Oh, how ghastly, even for make-believe . . . strike that last sentence.” Then, raising her voice a decible, “How do those plans strike you, dear?”

  “What? Oh, first-rate, dear.”

  The test had gone on long enough. Too long. She smiled sardonically and tried to remember when genuine communication had last passed between them. It had been, she was forced to admit, a long time ago.

  But then, things had been difficult from the very beginning. They had married—despite solid opposition from both sets of parents—when Charles was in his early twenties, Louise in her late teens. She had done secretarial work, using her salary to support them and putting him through L.I.T.

  Shortly thereafter, he had become successful—very successful. At several points during their marriage they could have stopped to smell the flowers. At no time did they. For Charles, there had always been an established set of priorities: his work, his family, his Catholic faith. Even though their two children were now grown and moved away, the priorities remained fixed.

  Now, Charles was worried. He had been worried since shortly after joining The Company. Louise could not understand the reason for his worry. Nor had she been able to relieve his anxiety.

  There was, as far as she could see, no reason for his fears.

  Now at the nineteenth pay grade, he made in excess of $300,000. He would receive at least half that much each year in retirement, along with an annual new car and special health care insurance. Their future was secure. If only he would learn to relax.

  But he could not. And she knew it even as she knew she could not do anything about it. Something was wrong, something he had not been able to resolve at work. And work remained the first of his priorities.

  “Do we have anything on for this weekend?” He folded the Journal and drained his now nearly cold cup of coffee.

  “Saturday night.”

  “What?”

  “A dinner party.”

  “Where?”

  “The Mercurys’.”

  “Oh, no; not again!”

  “Sorry. But Em wants us to come. And since Frank is your right-hand man, I thought . . .”

  “Must be something haywire in Frank’s family. Imagine: his sister marrying an actor. And an Italian to boot!”

  “Now, now; don’t get upset. Em promised that Angie wouldn’t invite any of his show business friends. There’ll be just a few people, most of whom you get along with very well.”

  “Oh, all right . . . but just the same, we ought to be more in control of our own time. Weekends especially.” His normally dour expression appeared drawn. He ran the fingers of one hand along a temple, slightly disturbing the trim but abundant straight white hair.

  “It won’t be so bad; you’ll see,” she said, encouragingly.

  She followed him as he went to the hall closet, put on his topcoat and hat, scooped up his briefcase, and headed for the garage. At the breezeway, he paused and turned to her, with a suddenly concerned look. “What was it you said you had planned for this afternoon?”

  She smiled. “It’s my volunteer day at Veterans’ Memorial Hospital.”

  “Oh . . . oh, yes. Well, do be careful.”

  3.

  The ball would have to played off the back wall. Angie Mercury raced to the rear of the court. But he badly misjudged the ricochet. Instead of a lively rebound, the ball all but dropped limply off the wall. Fooled by the feeble bounce, Mercury stumbled, falling heavily against the wall.

  “Careful,” Frank Hoffman cautioned, “mustn’t damage the merchandise. In your case, that’s all you’ve got.”

  Mercury kneaded his right shoulder. “Never mind. Just serve.”

  Hoffman retrieved the small black hard rubber ball and took his place at the line. “Twenty serving fifteen.” He raised his racket.

  The ball caromed off three walls before Mercury played it.

  From then on, the two men positioned themselves in the rear of the court, content to return each other’s volleys, each awaiting an advantage.

  Finally, Mercury played a shot off the back wall that carried high against the front wall. The ball should have rebounded high off the floor. But the bounce was surprisingly low. As if anticipating this phenomenon, Hoffman charged, easing the ball against the front wall, where it hit low and dribbled weakly along the floor.

  “Game!” Hoffman announced unnecessarily, triumph unmistakable in his voice. “Want to go another one?”

  “OK: one more.”

  “I’ll just get a drink of water,” Hoffman said, as he headed off the court. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll pass. It’s too late for water and too early for a martini.”

  Alone in the court. Mercury focused on the ball, now lying dormant. Something was wrong—but what?

  He picked up the ball and squeezed it. It seemed firm enough. He bounced it a few times, paying careful attention to the height of the rebound. Aha! He held the ball up even with the top of his head, which was about five feet ten inches from the floor, then dropped it. It bounced little higher than his waist.

  He’d never before come across a racquetball so lifeless. Yet it wasn’t an old ball. Indeed, from its surface condition, he judged it to be new.

  Frank must have fixed it, or had it fixed . . .

  But why? Why would anyone tinker with a racquetball?

  It took only a few more seconds to arrive at a tenable conclusion. Hoffman was spotting him seven, almost eight years. And while his brother-in-law took great pains to stay in good shape, when it came to that many years’ difference between the late forties and the mid-fifties, the gap was considerable.

  Hoffman had closed that gap to some extent with a deadened ball. One that would not rebound in a lively fashion. One that would not have to be chased all over the court. And—added advantage—Hoffman would be the only one who knew about the altered condition of the ball.

  Hoffman had to win. He could not abide losing.

  Mercury smiled scornfully.

  Hoffman needn’t have gone to such an extreme. Mercury had had no intention of winning, even if he could have. There was no advantage in embarrassing one’s meal ticket.

  All things being equal, Mercury and Hoffman would have been fairly evenly matched at racquetball. And Mercury intended no more than that: to keep the game close.

  In a few moments, Hoffman would reenter the field of combat, announcing the amount Mercury now owed him in bettin
g debts, including the just-concluded match.

  Whatever the sum, it was academic. He didn’t have it, and the way his career was running, he would not have it in the near future . . . if ever.

  However, next month, as was his monthly habit, Frank Hoffman would slip a substantial check to his sister Cindy, who happened to be Mercury’s wife. And the Mercurys would once again be solvent.

  Mercury felt like something between a kept woman and a subsidized medieval artist. The situation was so distasteful that he tried not to think about it. But it was impossible to avoid this predicament when confronted by Frank Hoffman with the bill owed Frank Hoffman. And, thought Mercury, here it comes.

  “That brings it to $175.” Hoffman briskly re-entered the court, slipping his hand through the leather strap of his racquet. “Want to go double or nothing?”

  Mercury shook his head. “No. No; the regular wager will be fine.” He’d have to absorb the coming game loss, but he didn’t have to be a masochist.

  “Suit yourself.”

  The game moved along predictably, with Hoffman pulling out to an early lead and Mercury not far behind. What made this distinct from the previous game was that Mercury now knew the secret of the dead ball and was thus able to play it more knowledgeably. Thus providing him with enough secret laughs to equal a moral victory. Moral, of course, would be his only victory.

  “Twenty serving nineteen,” Hoffman announced, breathing more heavily than usual.

  Hoffman served. With absolutely nothing to lose, Mercury aimed his return at the small of Hoffman’s back. The ball caught him squarely on the right buttock.

  “Hinder,” Mercury called.

  “OK.” Hoffman glanced at Mercury, whose aim ordinarily was so accurate that Hoffman strongly doubted that he had been hit accidentally.

  Hoffman served again. The volley continued for almost thirty seconds. Then Mercury tried for a kill shot that fell short and skipped against the wall.

  “That’s two hundred bucks even, Angie.” The superiority in his tone was almost palpable.

  “You want it in cash, or will a check do?”

  “You’d better wait till next month.” Hoffman dribbled the ball several times. “I get as much bounce out of this ball as I would from one of your checks.”

  “But barely.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Nevermind.”

  The locker room of the Collegiate Club, one of many private clubs to which Frank Hoffman belonged, supplied virtually everything: soap, shampoo, towels, shaving equipment, and attendants who could fetch, among other things, drinks. Hoffman and Mercury each ordered a Bloody Mary.

  Sitting before their adjacent lockers—Hoffman’s permanently assigned, Mercury’s rented for the morning—the two stripped off their sweat-saturated clothing.

  “So, Angie, are you gainfully occupied currently, or are you— uh—‘between shows’?”

  “I’m doing Two for the Seesaw at the Book Cadillac.”

  “That old cripple still around? I must have seen it ten, fifteen years ago.”

  “More like twenty if you caught it early. Bill Gibson wrote it in ’59. But with a cast of two, it works well in a dinner theater.”

  The Bloody Marys were served. Hoffman signed for them.

  “That’s it?”

  “What?”

  “That’s it? No ads? No commercials? No films?”

  Mercury wondered where this line of questioning was leading. “They’re supposed to start shooting The Rosary Murders soon. The whole thing’s being filmed locally. My agent says I’m a cinch for the lead.”

  “Angie, Angie . . .”Hoffman smiled and shook his head. “Your career in the entertainment industry—to overstate the importance of that field—is what we in the automotive world would describe as low pot.”

  “Low pot?”

  “Low potential. You’re always on the verge of something without ever getting there. All those years of—for want of a better word—vaudeville. And dragging my poor sister into your act. Then a Grade B movie career, a few TV shots, a couple of national ads. And now local dinner theater—with nothing on the side. I don’t have to tell you you’re not making it. Ever think of getting a job? I mean one with a paycheck fifty-two weeks every year? We in Detroit make cars, you know. You could join the crowd.”

  “Tell you a story, Frank.” Mercury drained his glass, realizing too late it should have been water. He was too thirsty to properly nurse alcohol now.

  “There’s a big circular table at the Press Club,” Mercury proceeded. “It’s never reserved; anybody can sit at it. Well, this one day, all the seats are occupied. This one guy smells a terrible odor. It turns out to be the guy next to him. ‘Is that you that smells so bad, buddy?’ The other guy acknowledges that he is the source of the odor.

  “‘Don’t you ever bathe?’

  “‘Sure.’

  “‘Then how come you smell so bad?’

  “‘Well, I work in the circus . . . washin’ elephants. Every once in a while, when I’m behind the elephant, washin’ away, an accident happens—and that’s where this smell comes from.’

  “‘That’s terrible! Why don’t you quit?’

  “‘What! And leave show business?’”

  Both chuckled.

  Each clad only in a towel, Angie’s around his waist, Hoffman’s around his neck, they made their way to the showers.

  As they showered, Mercury studied Hoffman, who lathered like a model in a TV commercial, vigorously and without benefit of washcloth. Hoffman was probably the only person—at least the only one Mercury knew—who lived in about the same style as TV models, with a measure of soap opera thrown in.

  Although Hoffman unarguably took excellent care of himself, there were a few extra ounces of flesh here and there around the waist and in the buttocks. And his pectoral muscles were starting to sag. Perhaps his six-foot-three frame was beginning to settle.

  But he was handsome. The white at his temples set off a full head of otherwise jet-black hair. He reminded Mercury of a middle-aged Stewart Granger. But then, Mercury had a habit of comparing everyone he knew to show business personalities.

  For instance, Mercury knew that he himself resembled Dane Clark—with perhaps a bit more of a receding hair line.

  “What’s on your agenda for today?” Hoffman asked as they dressed.

  “I’ve got an interview with Dave Newman on WXYZ radio at eleven this morning.”

  “Sorry I won’t be able to catch it.”

  “Then my agent has set up a few interviews with some ad agencies and a reading with Jimmy Launce. He’s gonna open a new show at Botsford Inn.”

  “Another dinner theater!” Hoffman finished buttoning his vest.

  Mercury shrugged. “Any port in a storm.”

  They exited into the parking lot. The Collegiate Club squatted between East Jefferson and Woodbridge in the distant shadow of the Renaissance Center. Both Hoffman and Mercury would take the Lodge Freeway out of downtown Detroit while the heavy traffic was stop-and-going its way into town.

  “Well, Angie,” Hoffman called out as he eased himself into his car, “win a few today!”

  Mercury smiled. Yeah, he thought, I might just win a few today—and if I do, it won’t be with a ball that’s been fixed.

  4.

  Ratigan steered his car into the parking lot of Bennett’s Courtyard Restaurant adjacent to Mount Clemens’ McKinley Airport. “How about it, gentlemen—hungry?” He switched off the ignition.

  “Famished,” Conroy replied. Koesler’s hearty nod seconded the motion.

  The three clergymen, in mufti, waited in the foyer for the hostess to direct them to their table.

  Bishop Michael Ratigan, in his late fifties, was a relatively lean six-footer, with ample straight salt-and-pepper hair, a florid complexion, and a rather aggressive bulldog expression.

  Father Robert Koesler, five years younger, was some three inches taller; at 220, he was perhaps ten pounds over his desired weig
ht. He wore bifocals and his once-blond hair was now gray.

  Father Charles Conroy, three years younger than Koesler, had long ago surrendered to good food. Pear-shaped and slightly uncoordinated, at five-six, his weight was more befitting a six-footer. A fringe of gray ringed his balding pate.

  An educated guess from any onlooker would be first that the three men had played golf—the tip of Conroy’s golf glove stuck out of his rear pocket—and second that if they could get away for golf on a Wednesday, they had to be either clergymen or physicians.

  In due time they were seated. Koesler ordered Chablis; Conroy, scotch neat, and Ratigan the first of many martinis, all of which he would hold well.

  They had, indeed, been golfing, at a small, nine-hole course some three miles north of Port Sanilac, at about the thumb’s knuckle joint, Father Koesler had explained countless times. (Michiganians, whose state resembled the outline of a hand, invariably pinpointed their various locales through the use of the hand’s anatomy.)

  The choice of the course had not been Ratigan’s. He would have preferred—and could easily have arranged for—something more gracious. But both Koesler and Conroy had insisted for the sake of nostalgia: As seminarians, they had spent many summers as counselors at Ozanam, a nearby Catholic boys’ camp, and had, thus, played the course many times.

  Ratigan had reluctantly gone along with the choice. A rarity for the bishop; concessions were not his way of life.

  “Well,” he said, as the waitress departed with their drink orders, “was it worth playing that cow pasture just for old times’ sake?”

  “God, the memories!” Koesler shook his head.

  Conroy sighed. “Yes, it’s hard to forget.”

  “What is?” asked Ratigan.

  “The summers we put in as counselors,” Conroy replied.

  “That’s right,” said Ratigan. “I keep forgetting you two were ‘campers.’”

  “Four years for me,” said Conroy. “But I couldn’t hold a candle to you, Bob. How many years was it?”

  “Nine summers.”