Dead Wrong (10 page)

We?
Who was “we”? Did the Nash-Deutsch connection have spies? And he knew about the Latin Mass. He
had
done his homework.

“Well,” Koesler said, “the Latin Mass sort of grew like Topsy. I lucked into a great organist and choir director. It was actually his idea to try the Latin. He and I agreed that one unfortunate consequence of the council was the loss of all that great music—plain chant, Palestrina, Perosi. I don’t think the council intended that to happen. But it did: A whole bunch of not very talented musicians wrote a lot of rotten music for the new vernacular liturgy. And all that inspired music that took centuries to build just got lost.”

Deutsch nodded. “There are those among us who think the entire Council was ‘unfortunate’… more coffee?”

“Thanks, no. This is plenty. Look, I don’t want to take too much of your time—”

“Don’t think of it, Father. This time has been set aside for you.” Deutsch pushed the intercom button. His secretary entered and wordlessly removed the coffee service. “Back to St. Joseph’s. Got many weddings?”

“Not many. Most of the parishioners live in the high rises and condos. Most of them are pretty well set before they move in.”

Deutsch pursed his lips. “Such problems now! Couples these days have no sense of sacrifice, no sense of commitment. Divorce! Why, it’s as common now among Catholics as it is among everybody else. And birth control! They think nothing of it at all. I can remember a day when if Catholics got divorced and remarried they had the good grace to stop coming to Mass. And when Catholics would confess birth control and at least tried to avoid it.”

“So can I,” Koesler said flatly.

More and more, he wondered what this was all about. The state of St. Joseph’s parish, the subjects of divorce and birth control … what did those have to do with his desire to see Ted Nash about a personal matter?

A less patient person might have walked out, or at least demanded that they get on with the matter Koesler had in mind. But Koesler, when subjected to gamesmanship, usually wanted to find out the name of the game before clearing the board.

“The Holy Father, you know,” Deutsch said, “has made it crystal-clear that any use of artificial birth control remains gravely sinful.” He paused, but there was no response from Koesler.

“And yet,” Deutsch continued, “Catholics—some so-called Catholics, I should say—oppose this teaching openly.” Another pause. Again no response.

“What do you think of this, Father?”

Koesler shook his head. “I think the Pope, most of the bishops, some priests, and a few Catholics have problems with methods of family planning. Most priests and all but a few laypeople have solved the problem—and not with the solution the Pope recommends. That this interpretation is not made clear to all the laity, especially in Third World countries like those of Latin America, I think is a tragedy.” The statement was made calmly but firmly.

Deutsch was livid. “But … but … that’s heresy!”

“No it’s not.”

“You’re denying the explicit teaching of not one but two Popes!”

“When Paul VI discarded the conclusions of his own blue-ribbon committee and wrote the encyclical ‘Humanae Vitae,’ he went out of his way to make clear that he wasn’t teaching infallibly. And John Paul just restated the earlier encyclical. So any denial doesn’t come under the heading of heresy.”

Flustered, Deutsch stammered slightly. “M-maybe not. Maybe not technically. But it
is
disobedience to the ordinary magisterium—the ordinary teaching authority of the Church.”

“You don’t have to translate for me; I know what the ordinary magisterium is. There’s more than one way to respond to it.”

“I suppose you feel the same way about abortion!”

Koesler sighed deeply. “Look, Father Deutsch, we didn’t have to meet each other to know that we differ in certain theological matters. Our archbishop, Cardinal Boyle, has claimed more than once that no one is
entirely
anything; conservative or liberal. But, let’s face it, you are generally of a conservative bent, and I am usually in the liberal camp. As far as I can see, our differences are irrelevant to the reason why I want to see Mr. Nash.”

“No, they’re not!” Deutsch shed his defensive demeanor instantly. “Part of my responsibility here at Nash Enterprises is to interview all clergy and religious of whatever denomination prior to the granting of any donation or funding. And I must say, with your attitude, you don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of getting a penny.” He concluded with a triumphant gesture.

Koesler sat with his mouth hanging open in utter disbelief for several moments. Then he began to chuckle. Gradually he began to break up, and burst out laughing. Finally, he said, “Is that what you think? Is that what you’ve thought all along? That I want some of your money?”

Deutsch, unnerved by Koesler’s reaction, became unsure of himself. “St. Joseph’s is … is an old … is an old parish. Why, good God, it’s registered as a historical landmark! It’s of an age where everything falls apart: furnace, floor, ceiling, roof, tiles, organ, pulpit, you name it. What else would you want but money? And to get that, you go through me. The only way to get it is to go through me. And I can save you time and suspense by telling you there’s no possibility whatsoever of your ever getting anything—
anything
—from us! Now I think this interview is terminated! Good day, Father.” He did not offer his hand.

Koesler stood. He was grinning from ear to ear. “Yes, we can terminate this meeting. But it was very informative. I’ll keep it in mind particularly when I finally have my meeting with Ted Nash. And next time, when I set up that meeting, I’ll be a lot more specific about the reason for it.”

As he left the plush office, Koesler reviewed his meeting with Father Deutsch. It had not been a waste of time. Koesler had gained some valuable insights into one facet of Nash Enterprises.

What had most intrigued him about Ted Nash was how the man could square his religiosity with some pretty questionable business practices.

Now Koesler began to understand. A meeting with Ted Nash in the flesh might just fill in the gaps.

Koesler’s interest in Nash and his empire was expanding far beyond his attempt to help Brenda.

C H A P T E R

8

T
HE GREATER DOWNTOWN AREA
of Detroit had become a series of pockets. There were pockets of life and pockets of decay. The hub of the city was now what it had been at its founding. The nucleus was Woodward at the river. Thence it spread north, east, and west like a spiderweb. Tucked into that web were those pockets.

Areas that might be termed “thriving” were the financial district, the riverfront area featuring the Renaissance Center, Hart Plaza, Cobo Arena, Joe Louis Arena, the City-County Building, and scattered hotels and businesses; Greektown and Bricktown; a renovated Fox Theater anchored a budding entertainment center. Most of the rest of downtown once was vibrant, now it rotted.

Running through the outskirts of this area in an endless circle was the People Mover, a series of automated cars that, filled or empty, rattled regularly on their elevated tracks.

Ordinarily, Brenda Monahan brown-bagged it for lunch at the chancery. At one time, downtown workers had had an abundance of fine restaurants available for lunch or dinner. Famed and prized eateries such as the Money Tree, the Pontchartrain Wine Cellars, and the renowned London Chop House now were but a memory.

Today, however, Brenda was going to lunch with her “sister,” Mary Lou.

The last time they’d been in each other’s presence was at Oona’s dreadful, aborted birthday party, a party shattered by Mary Lou’s pointed denunciation of Brenda’s affair with Ted Nash. A casual observer might reasonably have assumed that the two young women would never converse again.

But this was not their first—nor would it be their last—falling-out. Over the years, the relationship had gone repeatedly from wrangling to reconciliation, marked by a long trail of apologies on the part of Mary Lou—followed by a reciprocal trail of forgivenesses on Brenda’s part.

For now, a state of peace and sisterly concern existed between the two.

The occasion for this luncheon was a celebration of Mary Lou’s new job. She was about to become secretary and general business manager at St. Raphael parish in Garden City. It was a desirable position with a good salary, and she would be working for a good priest who was the closest thing Detroit had to Mother Teresa.

Rather than meeting in Brenda’s office, the two women met in the lobby of the chancery. It was easier than subjecting Mary Lou to the building’s obstructive security system.

As soon as Brenda exited the elevator, the two began chatting. They kept up their animated conversation throughout the trip to Greektown on the People Mover. They were a bit early for the noon crowd. And even at lunch hour, few restaurants had much if any overflow patronage; they were seated immediately.

Each ordered coffee and Greek salad, appropriate, they thought for a Greek restaurant. They were correct on both counts.

“Well,” Brenda said, “are you happy with your new job, Lou?”

“I’m pretty sure I will be. That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.” Brenda was the only person who called her “Lou.” Mary Lou enjoyed the informality. If the name had displeased her, all could be sure she would let that be known.

“You wanted to talk to me about St. Raphael’s?”

“I want to know what I’m getting into.”

Considering Mary Lou’s track record, Brenda considered it a smart move for Lou to get a second—or even third, or fourth—opinion. With her patchwork employment history, it behooved both Mary Lou and any prospective employer to check things pretty thoroughly.

“I don’t know all that much about Raphael’s,” Brenda said. “Mainly the finances, I suppose.”

“I’m supposed to be business manager of the place. It wouldn’t hurt if I knew how sound it is.”

Brenda nodded. “Okay. When you got the job, I looked into St. Raphael’s. I guess I was as concerned as you are. It’s not swimming in dough, but it’s solvent. Didn’t you get any of this information from Father Pool?”

Mary Lou sighed. “I couldn’t find out too much about the place. He was too busy finding out about me.”

“Huh?”

“He wanted to know if I was satisfied with everything. My office, the furniture, the machines. Was there anything I needed or wanted?”

Brenda giggled.

“Honestly,” Mary Lou said, “it was like I was interviewing him rather than vice versa. He couldn’t have been more solicitous. But, the bottom line is, I didn’t find out much about the parish.”

“Well,” Brenda said, “right there you’ve got the good news and the bad. He couldn’t be a better guy to work for. But he’s the opposite of an efficient money man.”

Mary Lou seemed suddenly worried. “Have I done it again? Am I in over my head? Is this another six-month job?”

Brenda waited while the waitress served their salads. Then she spoke. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. Father Pool may be a living saint. He just doesn’t pay much attention to a Dun & Bradstreet rating. This is his third parish as pastor. While he didn’t leave the others bankrupt, they did end up hanging on the fiscal ropes. He just doesn’t pay that much attention to finances. For instance, he doesn’t accept stipends for just about anything—baptisms, weddings, funerals, luncheons after funerals. About the only thing he accepts is a fee for rental of the parish hall for wedding receptions … and then only because he wants to discourage couples from using the hall for that.

“See, he thinks receptions like that ought to be held in commercial halls. But rather than forbid the use of the parish—because he doesn’t want to hurt the couple’s feelings—he charges for the hall’s use. And, of course, the people couldn’t care less about the money; they expect to pay for a hall, whichever one they use.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake—”

“That’s not all,” Brenda continued. “He never, ever, talks about money from the pulpit. He just obviously is more concerned about people than finances. And that seems to be the way his flock prefers it.”

“Oh, my God!” Mary Lou, feeling she might have lost her appetite, laid her fork down. “I’m business manager for a place that has no business.”

“It’s not as bad as all that.” Brenda smiled. “Actually, you’re in better shape than it seems.”

“Oh?”

“As much as Father Pool doesn’t want to hurt his parishioners’ feelings, much more he doesn’t want to offend you. When it comes to parish finances, you can write the ticket. I’ve got it pretty well figured out based on his personality and history. You’re never going to get him to talk about or ask for money. But that’s okay. You’ll be the one who schedules weddings, funerals, baptisms. Get the money up front. There’s nothing wrong with that. The stipends for these services are set by the archdiocese. Just don’t require any more than the law does.”

“What if people complain to him?”

Brenda shook her head. “No problem. He knows the people should make their offerings. He just can’t bring himself to ask for them—or even accept them.
You
get them. He won’t object. In fact, he’ll be grateful you’re taking care of what he knows he should be doing.