It was this latter inclination that had been the beginning of the end in the seminary. Ordinarily, with his easily distracted sex drive, there was no problem in a milieu that discouraged any sexual expression whatever. But when the mood was on him, he did whatever he felt like doing to whomever he felt like doing it. And this with little or no regard for the likelihood of being caught. With his moth-to-flame gravitation to failure, he was an odds-on favorite to be apprehended in flagrante delicto.
It was during the probing of his peculiar sexual appetites and attitudes that the rest of his fragmented personality emerged. He was a latent bomb waiting to explode. The doctor tried every trick of his stratagem-laden profession to keep John Reid in therapy. But Reid was having none of it. It is, indeed, difficult to involve someone in therapy who is quite satisfied with himself.
It was with all this baggage that John Reid came to the doorstep of the toddling Congregation of St. Stephen. Of course, none of the charter members knew anything of Reid’s peculiar past or bizarre disorder. They knew that he had been in and out of a seminary. But then so had Brother Bernard. The Congregation did not feel that it enjoyed the luxury of carefully screening candidates. Nor did it have the capability, personnel, or expertise to do so. It was a causa celebrandi whenever anyone even inquired about membership in the Congregation.
So they welcomed John Reid with open arms and joyous hearts. They were even somewhat embarrassed that so many names of the really big guns of monasticism—Dominic, Francis, and Bernard—had already been taken. And they were gratified when Reid seemed uninterested in the naming process and was content with becoming Brother Paul.
It did not take the charter members long to realize they had opened the door to a massive dose of trouble. By which time it was too late. For all practical purposes, Brother Paul quickly took charge, setting goals and restrictions, meting out occasional rewards but chiefly punishments, often quite severe. He lied to them so regularly and so matter-of-factly that they came to know they never could trust him.
Above all, they could not escape him. So dominating was his character and so comparatively submissive were their personalities that an unwonted style of life emerged from their interaction. They lived subject to the capricious whims and psychotic swings of Brother Paul. None of them knew how to deal with him nor what to expect of him. This uncertainty—that they never knew what to expect—kept them in line most effectively.
Brother Francis circled the table, pouring in each glass just enough wine so that by the time he had served everyone the bottle was empty.
“Someone made a ‘significant contribution,’“ said Brother Bernard, repeating Father Robert’s phrase. “I’d like to know how significant.”
Father Robert glanced at Brother Paul, who lowered his head and shook it slowly.
Robert did not look at anyone as he said, “It is enough for us to know that it was a generous gift.”
“What are we going to do with it?” asked Dominic.
“Bank it,” said Paul.
Francis choked on a sip of wine and had his back pounded by the considerable hand of Dominic. When he had regained composure, Francis said, “Bank it! But that’s all we ever do. And the collections have been increasing all the time.”
There was an audible collective gasp. Francis seemed to be challenging Paul.
“Calm yourself,” Robert cautioned. “Brother Paul knows what he’s doing.”
“It’s okay,” Paul said composedly. He always seemed to extend his patience further with Francis, as if indulging Francis’s unfailing simplicity. “Francis,” Paul proceeded, “you want that nice big monastery we’ve been talking about all this time, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Yes, but, nothing. It’s going to cost a bundle. Lots more than we’ve got in the exchequer even now. But it’s growing. We’re going to get there soon, don’t worry.”
“And the wine tonight?” Dominic returned to his original theme. “If we need all this money in the bank, why was so much spent on wine?”
Father Robert glanced nervously around the table. So far, Brother Paul had been in an unusually good humor. Robert was anxious that this benign mood not evaporate—as everyone knew it quickly could.
But Paul maintained an unruffled course. “It never pays to pinch too many pennies, Dominic. The monastery we’re going to put up isn’t going to be the kind that’s built with pennies, or even with the dollar bills of sweet little old ladies. We haven’t got a few centuries to build another Monte Cassino. We want to see this monument to the Congregation of St. Stephen and to the memory of the Church’s Golden Age in our own time, don’t we? Then the only way we’re going to get there is with these . . . generous gifts.
“As for the wine . . . just a few pennies. Today is, as Brother Bernard put it, a causa celebrandi. Haec dies quam fecit Dominus. Exultemus et laetemur in ea. This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it. Trust me. I’ll get us through to the promised land.” Paul looked intently at Dominic. “You do . . . trust me, don’t you?”
Dominic did not respond immediately. But then, in not much more than a whisper, he replied, “Yes.”
An unspoken and unexpressed challenge had existed from the very beginning between Dominic and Paul. While Paul was a large and, physically as well as psychologically, intimidating man, Dominic undoubtedly was the more powerful. A manual laborer all his life, Dominic, in his voluminous habit, might be considered overweight. But there were few ounces of fat on his muscular body. The conflict between the two had never reached the physical level. From time to time, Paul considered his options. It was just barely possible that, given his agility and greater intelligence, he could have taken Dominic in what—Paul would make certain—would not be a fair fight. But why risk it? As long as he could dominate Dominic with subtle menace and threat, Paul could achieve his goals. And that was all that mattered.
The clash between Paul and Dominic was momentary but intense nonetheless, and tension increased.
More to relieve the pressure than in genuine interest, Bernard asked, “So, Robert, what was it like? I don’t think any of us have gotten around to asking you how it felt to work a miracle. I, for one, have never met a miracle worker in person.” Bernard’s smile fixed a light touch to the question.
“Oh . . .” Robert was taken aback. “There’s nothing much to explain. It was an impulse. Something happened. I trust it was the Holy Ghost working in our midst.”
“Come now,” Bernard urged, “you can be more specific than that.”
“Well, I just don’t know what to say . . . how to explain it.” Father Robert reflected a moment. “It was as if some kind of force field built up between the woman and me. Something I could feel anyway. But there was nothing visible, nothing I could see. Maybe it was her faith working.
“Whatever was there, I couldn’t overcome it. My hands went to her eyes sort of automatically. It was an urge I just couldn’t resist.”
Brother Paul made a clucking sound. “Shame on you, Robert. I thought one of the things our spiritual life expected from us was the control of impulses.”
“Oh, for—this was not a sinful impulse!” Dominic said. “One that—”
“That will be enough!” Paul did not raise his voice. But his tone silenced the room. Only the sound of the clock could be heard above the background street noise from Michigan Avenue.
The color rose in Dominic’s cheeks. He clenched and unclenched his huge fists. But he said no more.
After what he considered an appropriate period of silence, Brother Paul spoke again. He addressed Father Robert. “Why do you think I stay so close to you when you’re functioning in the chapel, old man? We’ve been over this a dozen times. It’s to stop you from acting on any impulse. I have to know what you’re going to do at every moment. You’ve got to know what I want you to do at every moment.”
“But this . . .” Robert began.
“Listen! Don’t talk!” Brother Paul
again let the silence settle in for a few moments. Then he continued. “Every step we take, everything we do, I have carefully planned. So far, it’s working just as I want it to. We were lucky toda—-damn lucky. Do you realize what could have happened if you had made your grandstand play and the old bat had stayed blind? You’d have been a laughing stock! We’ve spent months building this operation as a prayer mill. We’re never going to run out of people with troubles. They come here and tell us their woes and their afflictions. I hand you the proper relic along with enough information to show the connection between the goddam saint and the person’s complaint. Most people walk out of here just as sick as when they came in. Oh, maybe they feel a ‘spiritual lift’”—his tone evidenced his sarcasm—“but they leave with the same headache they had before.
“Once in a while, we get a cure. Or, more likely, someone who thinks he got cured. And the reputation begins to spread. More people come. The collections grow. Pretty soon, we’ll have enough to . . . do the things we’ve planned.
“You risked the whole enchilada this afternoon, old man. You could have blown us out of the water.
“As it is,” Brother Paul’s mood seemed to lighten somewhat, although not enough to reduce the room’s oppressive atmosphere, “we lucked out. But, I emphasize, it was luck. Blind luck.” He smiled, but it was out of place. “That was a pun. Not intended, but a pun, I guess.
“Because it worked, we have taken an unexpected shortcut. I don’t know why it worked. I don’t give a damn why it worked. It just worked. The old broad is getting us just the attention we need. The kind of publicity we only might just possibly have gotten on a cumulative basis months—maybe a year or more—from now.
“So, causa celebrandi, but also causa cavendi. From now on, we’ve got to play it close to the vest. Retreat, as it were. It worked this time. But, by God, we can’t count on that luck to repeat itself. No more chances. Got that? No more indulging a passing urge.”
Dominic didn’t trust himself to speak. He was too angry. Bernard pondered the possible consequences of an intervention. Robert had been programmed into virtual servitude to Paul. It was Francis who spoke. “But Brother Paul: It was a miracle! We all saw it. We’re all witnesses to what happened this afternoon. Who are we to oppose a miracle? Couldn’t this be a sign of what our true work should be? We all thought—at least all of us who formed this Congregation from the beginning—we all thought that we should be of service to others. We planned on using our prayer life as our opening ministry to the community. Maybe this is God’s way of telling us this is what we should be doing-not staying inside all the time just praying, meditating, working, repairing, cleaning.”
Once again, for reasons known only to himself, Paul indulged the simple, and, by Paul’s lights, naive Francis.
“Look, in a little while, you’ll—we’ll—be in a position to do the kinds of things you’re talking about, Francis. But, not yet. Trust me.
Dominic almost snorted.
“Low profile,” Paul continued. “That’s what we’re going to cultivate now. A return to the low profile. With this ‘miracle’ this afternoon, we built ourselves a better mousetrap. So it’s reasonable to expect the world to beat a path to our doorstep.
“Low profile. Remember that. We’ve got to be very careful to maintain the right image. That’s why I had you three stay back here out of sight this afternoon when the media people showed up. Robert did okay with me feeding him lines, but that sort of thing can’t continue. You three are going to have to be out front. Now I can’t be everywhere at once. Keep the cowls pulled over, the heads bowed in humility. Yeah, that’s it: humble.
“This thing humbles us. That we should be selected by God to be the pipeline for His grace humbles us. We haven’t got any statement for the press. We don’t give explanations to the curious. We just go about our duties and pray for those who come to us for help. Nothing is changed. We are the same humble, serving people of God we were yesterday. We’ll have Mass at the same time. Nothing will have changed. After Mass, Robert and I will go through the relic routine just as usual. And you three circulate, get the lines organized, be of help and keep emptying those donation boxes. We’re not doing all this just so some smartass kid can rip us off.
“Got it?” Brother Paul looked intently at each of them in turn.
Somewhat more forcefully, he repeated, “Got it?”
Each nodded and mumbled something assentive.
“Okay,” Brother Paul said. Then he turned to Father Robert. “Now, you and I are going to go over the Bible quotes. They’re more important now than ever. You’re going to be asked lots of questions. Whenever possible, words from the Bible are going to be the way to handle whatever they throw at us. Besides, it makes more sense for a guy who relies on prayer like you do to have an impressive command of Scripture. Yeah, right in character.”
Brother Paul paused for a moment, then continued addressing Father Robert. “Then after our Scripture rehearsal you’d better use the discipline. In fact, I will assist you.”
Father Robert looked stunned and fearful. “I can do it myself.”
“I’ll help,” Paul said firmly.
“B . . .but why?”
“To strengthen your will power to resist these sudden urges.”
“But you said . . . you said it worked. You said we gained time. You said it was a reason for celebrating.” Father Robert’s pleading was not unlike a child’s begging when being threatened with punishment such as bed without dinner. The others were embarrassed that an adult was being shamed by a childlike groveling.
“Now, Robert,” Brother Paul said, “remember what happened before? It could happen again.” He spoke slowly, deliberately, separating each word from the next. He spoke quietly but with maximum emphasis.
Father Robert bowed his head in abject submission. He would need no special lessons in appearing to be humble.
CHAPTER
10
This is the life a cop leads. At least that’s what the general public thinks. Killing someone in the line of duty one night, followed by breaking up an armed robbery in progress the next week.
Alonzo Tully, like most police officers, was stuck with the image. The shoot-em-up cop. In actuality, this violent image was the almost exclusive creation of Hollywood. But it had a touch of the romantic, so the public preferred the image to the reality, no matter how often real cops said it wasn’t so.
Of all the TV and movie cops, “Barney Miller,” in Tully’s opinion, probably came closest to reality, in that Miller’s 12th Precinct detective squad hardly ever drew their guns and almost never fired them. Police work consisted mostly of helping people, acting as human traffic lights during power failures, issuing tickets, controlling crowds, and enduring infinite frustration. If anything, the Miller series featured more consistently bizarre characters in one day than a real cop encounters in an average week.
Tully’s job, as a homicide detective, was to untangle puzzles, to solve whodunits—with one hell of a lot of paperwork thrown in. But over the past approximately twenty-four hours, Tully’s tightly organized world had turned topsy-turvy. His equilibrium was jolted and he was on a palpable high.
Consequently, after completing his report on the attempted robbery, he found himself not ready to go home. He particularly was not eager to return to Alice, who undoubtedly would be in her depressed state. He was not proud of his attitude, but neither could he deny its truth.
And that was why, he told himself, he was in this singles bar.
Located in the Renaissance Center, or as the towering complex was better known, the Ren Cen, Murray’s Pub had become a favorite after-business watering hole for downtown office workers. Most of the tables were alongside the outer wall, which provided an arresting view of the Detroit River, the working ships and pleasure craft, and Windsor, on the opposite, Canadian shore.
But the real attraction, particularly at this time of day, was the oval bar. There the singles gathered.
; Chris Murray, the proprietor, was wont to shake his head over Murray’s being designated a singles bar. He had come to know most of the regulars. He knew that they were singles only because their mates were home waiting for them. But, Murray moralized, what the hell; if they wanted to think of themselves as singles, who cared? Not he. The money they spent on drinks was legal tender and as long as they didn’t drink too much at his pub, their lives were theirs to live, not his.
Tully occasionally ate lunch at Murray’s. He seldom if ever frequented the place at this hour. So why was he there now? He didn’t delve for an answer. He wanted to unwind, have a couple of relaxing drinks before going home. There were dozens of taverns from neighborhood bars to nightclubs between downtown and his home. So why a singles bar? What was he looking for? Someone? He rejected the question and its implications.
“There you go now, Lieutenant,” Chris Murray said as he served Tully a tall gin-and-tonic. Murray, with his shock of graying red hair, his bog features, and a brogue as thick as fog from the Irish Sea, was an innkeep nearly impossible not to like.
Tully nodded and took a sip.
Murray sensed his customer’s mood. “I’ll just leave ya with yer drink and come back a bit later, then.”
Squinting against the late summer sun, Tully peered over his glass, taking in the detail he was trained to observe.
The piano player was a large black man whose hair was generously sprinkled with gray. His right foot pumped the sustaining pedal, his left was buried beneath the bench. He perceived no need for a muted sound. His eyes roamed the room as his fingers, from habit, found the right keys. He nodded and smiled at the regulars and added warmth whenever a bill was tucked in the snifter on the Baldwin grand.
The room held a good racial mix, reflecting the cosmopolitan make-up of the city’s business, professional, and government workers, at least at that otherwise isolated riverfront area.
Eminence Page 13