Now that Louise thought about it, there was something about all the walls in Madame Tirana’s Clinique. She had been aware of something odd from the moment she’d entered the place. Suddenly, she put her finger on it: There were no corners. Only curves. How appropriate—and evocative—in an establishment dedicated to the restoration of feminine shapeliness.
Emma, in a practiced maneuver, hoisted herself atop one of the tables and lay face down awaiting the ministrations of her masseuse. Louise, shorter by several inches than Emma and awkwardly trying to hold the large towel about her, required and received assistance in mounting the table. No sooner were the women situated on their respective tables than they lost their towels.
This shocked Louise. She was a regular patron of Mira Linder’s skin care salon, where some sort of covering, no matter how minuscule, was used whenever possible. Whereas Tirana’s philosophy admitted a good measure of nudity. All of which was not perhaps as compromising for someone like Emma, who, by constant vigilance, had preserved a body any fifty-year-old woman would be proud of.
Louise, nearly ten years older than Emma, and not nearly as diligent, suffered sags, rolls, and other ravages of slight indulgences as well as of gravity. Pound for pound, hers was not a body that justified feelings of outright shame. On the other hand, she did not fancy parading around in the nude to the degree common at Madame Tirana’s.
“Vee vill dig out tza vorries and tza tensions,” said Louise’s masseuse in an accent she took to be a combination of German and East European.
Moans of relaxation escaped both Emma and Louise as their masseuses kneaded, rubbed, and pounded.
“Unt now, you vill please to turn ofer,” Louise’s masseuse suggested after nearly half an hour.
Somehow, Louise thought, when Germanic people make suggestions, they come out sounding like commands.
Louise, now on her back, experienced a cool substance oozing over the entire front of her body from neck to toes. There seemed to be more than one attendant applying the ooze. But in the face of a light directly above, she could determine neither the number nor identity of the slatherers. Nor, for that matter, the nature of the substance.
“I beg your pardon,” said Louise, “but what is it that you’re rubbing on me?”
“Eet ees Madame Tirana’s spezial, oonique masque. Eet ees tze spezial breast facial.”
Louise decided to let that mixed metaphor pass. In good time, she was certain she would be given a face facial. “But what is it made of?” she persisted.
“Oh, eet ees blend of—how you say—potato peels, carrot greens, and crushed peach pits.” This in a triumphant tone.
Louise thought about that for a moment. “But . . . but . . . that’s garbage!”
“Don’t ask. You shouldn’t have asked,” Emma murmured from under her coating of Madame Tirana’s masque. “Just let them put it on. It’s good for you.”
Louise asked no more. She remained silent during the rest of the breast facial, the face facial, and the hosing off that followed.
Then she and Emma, still nude, were led to a whirlpool bath. Many nude women were already in the large, circular bath, most of them propped against the edge of the tub, most of them appraising each newcomer. Rarely had Louise felt more embarrassed. She quickly submerged next to Emma, grateful for the cover of the bubbling water. “How did you ever find this place?”
“Impulse. I was driving by and I noticed the sign. It looked interesting, so I came in. I tried it, I liked it, I joined it. Just impulse. Like I do almost everything.”
Impulse, thought Louise, How typical of one born to wealth. Probably never had an unfulfilled wish in her entire life. If you feel like it, do it; if you want it, get it. Even if she hadn’t married an auto executive. Em’s inheritance would have enabled her to live in wealth. The type who could afford the luxury of doing whatever she wanted on impulse.
Louise could remember the lean years. Growing up on Detroit’s near east side, the daughter of a Packard die cutter. Not in abject poverty, but certainly not in wealth. Lots of stew, leftovers, hand-me-downs. Marriage to an auto worker like her father. The formidable drop in income when Charlie started his own business. More years of financially straitened living. Finally, success. Now, and for many recent years, virtually no money worries. But the early days had left their mark. Almost everything she did was carefully planned. Almost nothing was done on impulse.
Her reverie was disturbed by a voice above and behind her. “So, it is a new chickie, yes?” Louise was at a loss to place the accent.
“Madame Tirana!” said Emma. “What a surprise! Yes, this is a new one: Mrs. Louise Chase.”
“Not the life’s companion of Charles Chase, the auto executive who is forever in the papers!”
“The very one,” Emma affirmed.
“Someone should have told me! Such things can be important!”
By squinting, Louise could just see the newcomer through the water vapors. She looked like an older—but well-preserved—sister to Marlene Dietrich.
“How has it gone for you this day, Chickie?”
“Oh, fine.” Louise—certain she would never return—tried to be as noncommittal as possible.
“Oh, good! Well, you just rest in the Albanian waters . . . did anybody tell you, Chickie, that the waters you rest in are imported from my homeland?” Madame Tirana did not pause for a response. “The Albanian waters will take out of you all the badness and all the bugs. You will feel better than well. I will be by and see you when you are in makeup. Just rest, Chickie!” And Madame departed, leaving Louise to wonder how Madame Tirana could possibly import anything from a country that had no diplomatic relations with the U.S. However, she contented herself with, “Manic, isn’t she?”
“But good at what she does,” said Emma.
There is no disputing tastes, thought Louise. “Speaking of getting bugs out,” she laughed, “I wish I could get the little beasts out of our greenhouse.”
“Black Leaf 40,” said Emma.
“What?”
“Black Leaf 40. Spray it on at night and by the next day . . .” Emma raised her arms out of the Albanian waters and spread them. “. . . all gone. Cindy Mercury told me about it.”
“Cindy? I didn’t think you and she were. . .”Louise hesitated, “. . . friends.”
“Oh, I have no problem with Cindy.” Emma submerged again neck-deep in the bubbling water. “After all, she is Frank’s sister. It’s that actor,” she verbally italicized the word, making an epithet of it. “If only he’d get a decent job . . . or at least live within his means. As it is, he’s nothing but a parasite. And Frank is the host.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do?”
Emma shrugged. “I’ve tried. God, how I’ve tried. But every time, Frank puts on his best bullheaded German attitude. He says he does it for his sister. And there undoubtedly is some truth to that. But I suspect he also gets a kick out of keeping Angie on a string. It’s like feeding gin to an alcoholic. Money goes through Angie like a laxative through a chicken. With Angie, and most of his fellow thespians who are ‘between shows’ more often than in them, it’s all a matter of image. Whether they’ve got money or not, they’ve got to live in the big house, drive the big car, and always pick up the tab. I’ve seen Angie pick up a check when I knew he had barely enough to bail his car out of the parking lot.” She paused. “It’s not that we don’t have the money . . . though even Frank, with his money alone, would have a difficult time supporting both our families in the style to which we all, particularly Angie, have become accustomed. But one day I’ll have my way in this. And I think Frank knows it.”
She lapsed into silence. All was still but for the sound of Albanian waters.
Louise had decided to follow Madame Tirana’s advice, Chickie, and just rest. But her attention was taken by a new entrant to the whirlpool. Till now, she had been oblivious to the other occupants. But this newcomer was so outrageously gorgeous, Louise could not help but notice her.
“Would you look at that one?” she said as the newcomer began descending the steps into the water.
“Who?” Emma opened her eyes and tried to focus through the mist.
“The blonde just getting into the water.”
Emma appraised her quickly and grudgingly but objectively. “The thing that young woman has got to remember,” she said as she again closed her eyes, “is that as we are now, she one day will be.”
Louise watched as the blonde took a place directly across from them, settled into the water, and steadfastly studied Emma.
For the remainder of the time they were at the spa, including their session in makeup, the blonde was never far away. And the whole time she rarely took her eyes off Emma.
Louise wondered about that.
6.
Thanks for taking the eight o’clock Mass for me.” Father Koesler snapped on the roman collar, and fastened the clerical vest at his waist.
“Not at all,” replied Bishop Ratigan, as he watered his plants. “My schedule is rather fluid today.” He snorted. “No pun intended. But I have to see old Bud Davis later this morning. Talk about a fluid schedule: I’ve got to talk old Bud into going out to Guest House.”
“Bud having trouble with the bottle again?”
“Yeah. Bad show this time. He was scheduled to take a funeral day before yesterday. But he had the granddaddy of all hangovers. And his assistant finally just refused to cover for him again.”
“Don’t tell me Bud took the funeral!”
Ratigan nodded sadly. “Made a mess of it. The bereaved were furious. Went to the parishioners. Special meeting of the parish council. Council president phoned me.
“Finally got hold of Bud yesterday. Had to threaten him with everything from hellfire to suspension . . .but he finally agreed to see me today.”
“A pity. He’s a very talented guy.”
“May be a blessing in disguise.”
“How’s that?” Koesler slipped into his suit coat.
“Finally get him out to Guest House. Place does a great job of rehabilitating alcoholic priests. Percentage of success stays phenomenally high, year in and year out.”
“That’s true . . . but have you given any thought to how you’re going to get him out there? All he’s agreed to so far is come down and see you.”
Ratigan smiled. “Bud’s not the only one going to be at the meeting: Ted Neighbors will be there too.”
“Bud’s best friend!”
“Yup. Ted’s going to take him out to Guest House after our meeting.”
“I see. He will be hung immediately after a fair trial.”
“Only way to get it done.”
Koesler slipped his topcoat on and nodded toward the greenery over which Ratigan was hovering. “How’s it doing?”
“As they say at the hospital, ‘as well as can be expected.’ By the way—and again—it was very nice of you to provide this greenhouse. Very generous.”
“Don’t thank me. The parish council approved the expenditure. Besides, this wing of the rectory was empty. It makes more sense to convert it to a greenhouse so things can live in it rather than just let it rust out.”
“Nonetheless, it was you who introduced the matter before the council and you who strongly supported it.”
“Not really.” Koesler sipped the last of his coffee. “Sometimes I think that my introducing a resolution is the kiss of death.”
They laughed.
“Actually, I think they’re so proud of having a real live bishop living in St. Anselm’s rectory that they’d give you just about anything you wanted. Catering to your green thumb is just not that burdensome.
“But, I suppose, once a landscaper always a landscaper.”
“Aren’t you grateful that doesn’t apply equally to camp counselors?”
“Absolutely. I paid my dues taking care of kids.”
“Say,” Ratigan began as Koesler turned to leave, “what are you doing up so early, anyway? I thought when you asked me to take morning Mass, you’d be sleeping in.”
“Hardly. I want to be at the auto repair shop when it opens at 7:30.”
“You taking your car in again? You might as well leave that Cheetah at the shop and rent one of theirs!”
“The warranty is about to run out. And the weather stripping has pulled loose from the door again. I want it fixed while it’s still under warranty—and before winter sets in.”
“Well, good luck. But I’ll bet this won’t be the last time they have to tuck that insulation in . . . just the last time under warranty.”
“I’m not going to cover that bet.”
“Besides,” Ratigan called out as Koesler exited, “with parishioners like Charlie Chase and Frank Hoffman, why do you have to keep dragging that car down to the repair shop? They build the damn Cheetah!”
Koesler drove down Outer Drive to Ford Road to Telegraph. The latter was one of Detroit’s responses to the Indy 500. Drivers on Telegraph gave consistent added proof—if any were needed—that it was a dog-eat-dog world.
As Koesler found the middle lane, following his philosophy—in all things moderation—he reflected on Ratigan’s parting shot.
Now that I think of it, I’ll bet Charlie and Frank don’t have to go through this.
7.
Frank Hoffman was in a decidedly foul mood. And his mood was exacerbated by the fact that the weather stripping had pulled loose from the door of his car and a late October chill was making him decidedly uncomfortable.
The day had begun badly. Em had picked this morning to complain about the amount of time he spent away from home. She had demanded to talk about it “right now!” Which had led to another argument as well as a mal-digested breakfast.
If that weren’t bad enough, he had just lost two out of three racquetball games to a young subordinate. Even the ploy of the deadened ball hadn’t worked. There was definitely something to be said for young legs. But there was also something to be said for the power of superior position—as this young man would soon learn when he was passed over for promotion and did not receive the merit increase he was anticipating. If the young man were as bright as The Company’s hierarchy had been led to believe—he had received a high pot rating from the recruiters—he would quickly learn when and to whom he should lose gracefully.
He had been so angry at losing at racquetball that he had not dried himself carefully after showering. And now, this chill wind blowing through the door was completing the job of drying his hair—he never wore a hat—and threatening incipient pneumonia.
Jefferson Avenue dipped beneath Cobo Hall and became the John Lodge Freeway.
Hoffman’s anger at the early events of this young day had led to a general impatient frame of mind. So, as he drove out of the chute onto the freeway, he accelerated much more than necessary and well above the speed limit. His right front and rear tires plunged sequentially into a yawning pothole. Even in this well-suspended vehicle, the impact rattled his teeth.
Damned potholes! And it’s not even winter yet. The constant fluctuation of temperature in the typical Detroit winter would soon create new and incredibly large potholes in the city’s streets and freeways. Sometimes it seemed futile to even try to build decent cars when the roadways on which they had to travel would rip them apart.
He barely had time to reflect on the monster pits that threatened to swallow his products when he swung up and off the freeway onto West Grand Boulevard. Only several blocks east was the Fisher Building with its famed golden tower that was attractively illuminated at night. Employees of The Company worldwide invariably referred to the Fisher as The Building.
Hoffman tapped the horn. A huge door opened upward.
“Harry,” Hoffman said to the attendant who hurried toward him, “the goddamn weather stripping is loose.”
“Yessir, Mr. Hoffman. We’ll get right on it.”
He left his car in Harry’s care. Before Hoffman would see it again, it would be cleaned outside and in, gassed and service
d—and the weather stripping would be tucked securely into its mount.
Hoffman strode quickly through the huge long vaulted main floor of The Building. But instead of turning toward the elevator that would have taken him to the thirteenth—the executive-floor, he continued out of The Building and across Grand Boulevard, past Topinka’s to a nondescript little eatery whose exterior was painted a cheery yellow. Inside, he easily spotted the man with whom he had the appointment for which he was right on time.
“How goes it, Al?” Hoffman slid into the booth.
“Just fine, Mr. Hoffman. How about yourself?”
“Don’t ask. This day had better improve quickly or I’m going to cancel it.”
Uncertain how much humor was intended, Al considered a chuckle, but settled on a concerned frown.
The waitress appeared with menus, which Hoffman waved aside. “Just two coffees.”
Al had assumed they would breakfast. He definitely desired more than coffee. But he said nothing. He would try to get something to eat later. If not, it didn’t matter. What mattered at the moment was to follow his superior’s lead.
“Nice day for late in October,” Hoffman commented.
“First-rate, sir.”
“Who do the Lions play this Sunday?”
“The Vikes, sir. The Minnesota Vikings.”
“Hmmm. Did I ever tell you what happened the day the Vikes were late for the game here? Not many know about it. I got it from one of our guys in St. Paul.”
Al shook his head and grinned in anticipation of this—or any—anecdote that Hoffman would deign to tell him.
“You remember the day, don’t you—when the Vikings showed up half an hour late for the game?”
Al nodded eagerly. “Who could forget it? National TV, and all the viewers got to see for the first half hour was the Vikings warming up. They got fined for that, didn’t they, sir?”
“Sure did. All a result of Bud Grant’s obsession with timing. The coach never wanted to get to a stadium on game day too early. Only he hadn’t figured on the horrendous traffic jam that always takes place at PonMet. So, by the time the Vikings’ bus got to the stadium approach, traffic was so backed up, there was no way the bus was going to get there on time.
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