Kill and Tell

by William Kienzle

  As he watched, the dinner-jacketed figure of Frank Hoffman approached the Martins. They greeted him warmly, and the three entered into animated conversation. Martin appeared first surprised, then pleasantly overwhelmed by whatever Hoffman had told him. Koesler could not know that Hoffman had just delivered the news that he had arranged, through Bishop Ratigan, a private audience with the Pope.

  After noticing Hoffman, Koesler began looking around for Charlie Chase. The Company had sprung a leak; news of at least part of what Hoffman had done to Chase had appeared on the business pages of both Detroit’s daily newspapers. With little knowledge of the business world and only the sketchy account in the papers, Koesler was unsure how he should react. He was vaguely unhappy it had happened, particularly since it involved two of his parishioners.

  Koesler located Chase off to one side. With him were his wife, as well as Emma Hoffman and Cindy Mercury. In light of what had happened between Chase and Hoffman, Koesler thought it peculiar that Louise and Emma should be together now. He could not know that when Hoffman had told his wife of his machinations leading to his tale of victory, she had been furious and a bitter verbal battle had ensued.

  As he watched, the three women went off down the hall and disappeared into the ladies’ room. Koesler tried to recall the name of the comedian, one of whose routines was to point out the custom, particularly in restaurants, of women regularly visiting the ladies’ room together, and asking his audience if anyone ever saw a woman going to the ladies’ room alone. Then he suggested that he knew what happens in homes all over the country. In the morning, he declared, the men go off to work and the women phone each other and announce it is time for all of them to go to the bathroom. A chauvinistic cliché at best, Koesler decided.

  He thought of going over to visit with Charlie Chase, but Chase looked relieved to be alone and quite content to be by himself for the time being. In any case, Koesler decided it was time to come down from his aerie and mingle. He moved to the table, registered, and got his “Hello, I’m Father Robert Koesler” badge.

  He looked around, this time not seeking anyone in particular, just sizing up the crowd. He was not surprised at the number of Detroit notables present. The mayor, Maynard Cobb, now talking and laughing with Frank Martin as photographers’ strobe lights flashed. Tom and Diane Schoenith, whose presence made it an official Detroit Party. Bill Bonds, George Sells, and Mort Crim, Detroit’s local network affiliated TV anchormen. Other TV personalities included Jac LeGoff and, among the most beautiful women anywhere, Doris Biscoe, Jennifer Moore, Carmen Harlan, and Diana Lewis.

  From the local legitimate theater, Phil Marcus Esser, Hal Youngblood, and, of course, Angie Mercury.

  With the exception of Mercury, Koesler had never met any of these celebrities. But he recognized them and others present from having seen them on TV or their photos in the papers.

  Since he knew almost no one and since he was very poor at gladhanding strangers, Koesler decided to mingle with the few people he knew.

  So it was that he made his way through the crowd to a group of three men, Bishop Ratigan, Frank Hoffman, and Angie Mercury. All three presently were quite buoyant.

  Hoffman had just delivered a most welcome present to his boss. After all, what sort of bon voyage present can one give one of Detroit’s richest men—a $50 gift certificate? But a private audience with the Pope for a nice Catholic tycoon—now that was something! A gift that Frank Martin would not soon forget. Nor would he forget the giver.

  Ratigan was happy because he felt he’d just won a game for fairly high stakes and had come in just under the wire to boot. This had been his first attempt in procuring a papal audience. Although, at first blush, he had anticipated difficulties, he had had no way of knowing how many strings needed pulling, how many markers would have to be called in.

  In the end, had it not been for the enormous influence of Detroit’s archbishop, Cardinal Mark Boyle, Ratigan might well have failed. As it was, confirmation of the audience had come through only earlier today. Ratigan, of course, had gained nothing directly for himself from all his time and effort spent on obtaining this audience. But Ratigan, as was the case with most priests, enjoyed making people happy whenever possible. And, in this instance, he had succeeded in making at least two people very happy. Ratigan would continue to be favored by Hoffman . . .that went without saying. But it did give the bishop a satisfied feeling to pay his dues, as it were, every now and again.

  As for Mercury, he was happy in just being here. This, tonight, was where the action was. There were uncounted people here who could do marvelous things for his career. For instance, his agent had been negotiating recently for an interview show for Mercury on ABC-TV’s Channel 7. And who should be here, not more than a few feet from him, but Jeanne Findlater, Channel 7’s vice president and general manager. For several minutes now, Mercury had been trying unsuccessfully to catch Jeanne’s eye. He would continue to try. He just knew something big was going to happen tonight.

  As Koesler neared them, the three men greeted him jovially and expanded their circle to include him.

  They had been discussing the papal audience. Hoffman explained to Koesler the history of the uncommon gift. The priest whistled softly as Hoffman laid the credit for the coup at the doorstep of Bishop Ratigan.

  “Congratulations, Mike,” said Koesler, “that’s really something. I wouldn’t even know where to start on a deal like that. I have trouble remembering what guy to write to for a papal blessing. I thought you had to be somebody like President of the United States for a private audience!”

  “That would help, as I discovered.” Ratigan’s eyes were wreathed in smile wrinkles. “But exceptions can be made-depending on who knows whom. Let’s just say I have had the pleasure recently of making the acquaintance of a whole host of the Roman hierarchy, some in charge of congregations.”

  “Don’t forget any of them, Mike,” said Koesler. “They’ll be handy when you come into your own kingdom.”

  At that, Mercury, who had not been paying much attention, looked at Koesler inquiringly.

  “When Bishop Ratigan becomes an ordinary.” Koesler clarified. “When he gets his own diocese to run.”

  “Serve,” Ratigan corrected good-naturedly. “When I get my own diocese to serve.”

  At this point, Emma and Cindy joined the group. Evidently, Louise had rejoined her husband. Koesler decided to excuse himself at his first opportunity and join the Chases on the mourners’ bench.

  “I was just telling Father Koesler,” said Hoffman, “how Mike got that private audience with the Pope for Mr. Martin. I still find it incredible that you carried it off, Mike.”

  “But it was your idea, Frank,” said Cindy. It was obvious, simply by the way she looked at him, how proud she was of her handsome, successful brother.

  “Oh, no, Cindy,” Hoffman remonstrated. “I did ask Mike if he could do something about getting Mr. Martin some type of special audience with the Holy Father. But a private audience? It never entered my head. No, that was Mike’s idea. And to him goes all the credit.” Hoffman glanced down at his glass. “Damn!” he said softly, “what the hell’s wrong with these waiters? You’d think they could see my glass is empty!”

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” said Emma. She had just finished her second martini and was holding the empty glass. She had, however, had several hors d’oeuvres. Emma had learned her lesson about the dangers of drinking too much on an empty stomach.

  “Stay there, Frank; I’ll get a waiter.” Cindy, ever attentive to her brother’s desires, left the group in search of a waiter.

  “Thanks for being so solicitous for my good health, Em, dear,” Hoffman said with barely disguised sarcasm, “but I’m no longer on medication. So I’ll be able to hold my own. How about yourself? ” He looked pointedly at her empty cocktail glass. “Have you had something to eat? You know how you tend to run off at the mouth when you don’t balance your booze with a little food.”

 
; She just looked at him. But, if looks could kill . . .

  “Yes, indeed,” Ratigan tried to field the conversational ball from its awkward bounce, “ne potus noceat—lest the drink harm. Maxim’s been attributed to the Jesuits, though I don’t know that they invented that, too.”

  Cindy returned, followed almost immediately by a waiter who silently removed Hoffman’s empty cocktail glass from his hand and replaced it with a fresh drink.

  Koesler wondered at this maneuver until he recalled that Hoffman was a member of this club and a frequent visitor. The bartenders would well know his drink was a perfect Rob Roy.

  “Could build quite a meal around it,” Ratigan was saying. “Worked out best on fast days. You remember fast days!” he quipped, and was surprised to find that no one was paying very much attention to him.

  Frank and Emma Hoffman were silently seething at each other. Cindy, concerned, gazed at her brother with a troubled expression. Angie was making surreptitious gestures at Jeanne Findlater, but had not succeeded in attracting her attention. And Koesler was trying to decide if this was the time to break away and join the Chases.

  Yet Ratigan, for whatever reason, plowed on. “We weren’t supposed to eat between meals. But nobody said anything about drinking. And that’s where the Jesuits come in. Oh, I don’t suppose collectively—but some unknown Jebbie is supposed to have figured out that if you can drink, then you can, of course, make that drink alcohol.”

  Still furious, but having been stared down, Emma’s gaze fell from her husband’s eyes. Her attention wandered about the periphery of their circle.

  Suddenly, she did a second take at someone who was standing just outside their group but who was looking very intently at Frank Hoffman. Hoffman had not yet noticed the newcomer. Emma thought she had seen this individual before. But where and when?

  A passing waiter relieved Emma of her empty glass and asked if she would care for a refill. She simply shook her head no.

  “However,” Ratigan concluded, “taking alcohol on an empty stomach can be dangerous . . .”He stopped, suddenly realizing that in the light of Emma’s, embarrassment at their recent party, he was on tender ground here. But immediately he also realized he had nothing to be concerned about: Neither Emma nor Frank was paying any attention to him. “So,” he went on regardless, “that was the start of the famous maxim, ‘ne potus noceat,’ literally, ‘Lest the drink harm.’ So that the alcoholic beverage, which was permitted, didn’t cause any problems, one was allowed to eat something, which, without the drink, was not permitted. Could build quite a meal around a drink or two in those days.”

  Ratigan’s protracted and undesired explanation died of its own dead weight.

  In the awkward silence that followed, Ratigan managed to save considerable face when his glance lit upon J.P. McCarthy, Detroit’s foremost radio personality and TV talk show host. Ratigan and McCarthy were occasional golfing buddies and, at this moment, McCarthy became Ratigan’s emotional life preserver. Ratigan waved; McCarthy returned the wave. Ratigan excused himself and left the awkward silence behind him.

  In an unguarded moment, Jeanne Findlater’s eyes met those of Angie Mercury. He smiled brightly. She smiled wanly. She knew why he wanted to talk to her. The same reason she did not want to talk to him. There had been some discussion with his agent about Mercury’s hosting a daytime interview show on WXYZ-TV. Mrs. Findlater thought the idea had merit. But she did not want to muck it up by, at this stage, discussing it with Mercury. Not while she was negotiating with his agent. Talking about it with Mercury now simply was premature. But, he had caught her eye . . . .

  “I noticed your glass is empty, Jeannie.” Mercury stepped from his circle to hers. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Oh, no. There’s no need to do that. A waiter . . .” She wished he wouldn’t be so familiar.

  “No trouble. What are you drinking?” He noticed an olive along with ice in the otherwise empty glass. “A martini?”

  “Well, no. Gin, actually. Just ask the bartender for Mrs. Findlater’s drink.”

  “Be right back.” Mercury took her empty glass and departed, leaving Jeanne Findlater wondering how to end the coming conversation before it began.

  “Don’t I know you? Have we ever met?” Emma Hoffman addressed the person who had continued to stand alone at the fringe of their group.

  “No, not really. We’ve never been introduced.”

  For the first time, Frank Hoffman noticed the newcomer, who had been standing to one side, out of his direct line of vision. His face seemed to drain. He grew so pale that his sister moved toward him, fearful he was about to be stricken as he had been at the party.

  “Well, someplace,” persisted Emma, “I know I’ve seen you someplace.” Emma leaned toward the attractive blonde to read her identification tag. “Jackie LeBlanc . . . no; I don’t recall that name. But someplace . . .” Emma was about to add that she couldn’t forget that face, when it occurred to her: It wasn’t the woman’s face she couldn’t forget; it was the body that went with it that had proven memorable.

  At this moment, Ratigan returned. Taking appreciative notice of the newcomer, he smiled at Jackie. He, like Koesler and so many others of their calling, considered that a celibate life could include room for at least studying and savoring the view of women, God’s greatest work of art. And he thought Jackie stunning in her off-the-shoulder gown and lacy shoulder covering that set off her blonde hair. She looked as pretty as a Christmas tree and was shaped much, much better.

  “It was the spa!” Emma pointed at her. “Madame Tirana’s spa!” She had the look of triumph that springs from a tortuous ratiocination leading to recognition. Then, puzzlement replaced the triumph. “But, who, why—?”

  Jackie looked significantly at Hoffman, who was licking his suddenly dry lips. “I thought it was time we met.”

  Emma looked from this stranger to Frank. Gradually but heavily the truth came. “You,” she pointed at Jackie, “you . . . you’re his mistress!”

  Ratigan instantly regretted having returned to this group. But there was no getting away from it now.

  For a few moments there was dead silence. Emma had made her charge so forcefully that people in nearby groups had stopped talking and started listening. Carol T, Free Press gossip writer, sensing an entire column from this apparent confrontation, stepped closer to Emma.

  Cindy was horror-stricken for her brother’s sake. Koesler tried to recall when he had been more embarrassed. Several occasions came to mind, but this, he decided, ranked. God, why hadn’t he broken away earlier! There was no civilized way he could make his excuses now. Nor did he feel he could just walk away from what promised to develop into a formidable scene. Bishop Ratigan unsuccessfully searched his memory for some anecdote that might relieve this confrontation.

  “God damn you, Jackie!” Hoffman’s words came through clenched teeth. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He spoke just loudly enough for the immediate circle to hear. But the immediate circle had grown. Carol T was in the van of several other representatives of the various news media.

  It was obvious from his speech that his fury had served to sober Hoffman completely. If ever he needed a drink, it was now.

  Cindy noticed her brother’s nearly empty glass. She caught the arm of a nearby waiter. “Would you get Mr. Hoffman another drink, please?”

  The waiter nodded and headed off toward the bar.

  “I thought,” Jackie replied calmly, “this might be a good time for us,” she nodded at Emma, “to meet.”

  If she had not been absorbed by her husband’s embarrassment and fury, Emma would have been enraged.

  “A good time to meet! What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Hoffman demanded.

  “It means, Frank,” Jackie was getting up a head of steam, “that it’s time for me to come out of the closet. It’s time for us to appear publicly together!”

  “You’re out of your mind! You’re out of your goddamn mind! How di
d you get in here?”

  Jackie gestured to what she may have intended as a comment on the lack of security. “There seems to be an open door policy.”

  “Do you realize what you’ve done? You bitch! This was a night of triumph for me! I was sitting on top of the world. Things couldn’t have been better for me at The Company. The only bad thing that could have happened was your showing up!”

  “Isn’t that the way with Murphy’s Law, Frank?” Jackie was again calm, deliberately contrasting her manner with his.

  “Well, I’m glad she came, and I’m glad she’s here.” Emma glared defiantly at her husband. “Because, as I told you before, Frank, all bets are off! I told you if ever I met your girlfriend, it was back to square one.”

  If any of the uninvited bystanders felt any shame about being present at this intimate marital explosion, it didn’t show. The only exceptions appeared to be Father Koesler, who looked as if he wished he could slip through a crack in the floor, and Cindy Mercury, who seemed intensely embarrassed. And of course Bishop Ratigan, who wondered where J.P. McCarthy was now that he was needed.

  “What do you mean by that?” Hoffman had abandoned any effort at keeping this an affair between the ménage à trois. He was almost shouting.

  “I mean it’s time little Em lived it up. Without an encumbrance called Frank Hoffman!” Her eyes were blazing.

  A waiter was standing at Hoffman’s side holding a cocktail. He seemed undecided about what to do with it in the face of the furor.

  “Here’s your drink, Frank,” Cindy said rather meekly.

  The waiter removed Hoffman’s nearly empty glass and replaced it with the fresh drink.

  “From now on,” Emma stormed, “what’s good for the gander is good for the goose! And that goes for your precious perfect Rob Roy!” She snatched the glass from Hoffman’s hand and, as he looked on, too startled to react in any way, she downed the contents of the glass in a single swig.

  “Em! What the hell—!”