The Sacrifice (25 page)

The bar, Jim's Place, is depressing. The odors of alcohol, cigars, and cigarettes permeate the room. The cleaning lady will be here in a few hours. She'll sweep, dust, mop a little. The odors and much of the grime will remain.

What this place needs, thinks Jim Davis, owner and mostly sole barman, is a crowd.

That's what used to happen here on a regular basis back in the seventies and before. When downtown Detroit was alive and kicking.

At five, six o'clock, people from the office buildings had joined people from the majestic Hudson's flagship store and those who staffed Washington Boulevard's Airline Row for Happy Hour before heading home in a relaxed alcoholic glow.

Downtown was where all the first-run movies were shown. Downtown had good—even great—restaurants. Downtown was where friends met friends under the Kern's clock, the oversized timepiece hanging from the third major store after Hudson's and Crowley's.

Whether those halcyon days would ever return and rejuvenate the city on the Detroit River was anyone's guess. Jim Davis was just marking time until he could retire with Social Security and Medicare. But his memories were vivid. Jim's Place had been an intimate bar on swanky Washington Boulevard, Detroit's antecedent version of Los Angeles's Rodeo Drive.

Now Washington Boulevard resembled a scene from the apocalyptic movie
On The Beach:
drab and deserted. Where classy shops had once displayed highly desirable attire for both men and women, now there were only boarded-up windows and third-rate merchandise. And whoever had erected those revolting monkey bars should have been forced to climb them endlessly.

On those occasions when the slogan
City of Champions
was valid because the Lions, the Tigers, the Pistons, and/or the Red Wings took a divisional title or a championship, there was a run on downtown.

But such occasions were sadly rare.

Davis would point out that Sunday nights were not typical because, of course, you couldn't measure downtown business by Sundays. Workdays and Saturdays were definitely better than Sundays. Not that much better. But better.

The man at the bar was unknown to Davis. That meant that this was probably his first visit. Davis recognized each and every one of his clientele. A memory for names and faces was a profitable talent in any business, and perhaps more so for bartenders.

The TV news update that the stranger wanted to see ended. It was commercial time.

“This your place?”

“Yeah, that's right.”

“That your name: Jim?”

“Uh-huh. Yours, stranger?”

“Uh … Rybicki. Stan Rybicki. How come you said ‘stranger'?”

“You ever been in here before?”

“Uh … no. But there must've been … I don't know—what? This place must be about forty years old.”

“Yeah, about forty years.”

“Forty years! There must have been hundreds … thousands of customers in here. You expect me to believe you remember everybody?”

“I got you right, didn't I, Stan?”

“Well, yeah, I guess you did.”

Silence. Davis polished a glass that didn't need polishing. It was something for his hands to do. Smokers, particularly those who've broken the habit, need something to do with hands that no longer finger a cigarette. It didn't much matter to Davis that he no longer smoked. If what they said about the dangers of secondhand smoke inhalation was true, his customers would give him cancer almost as surely as he could do it himself.

There would be many periods of silence that both Davis and Rybicki would find comfortable. This was one such silence.

“Maybe I missed it,” Rybicki said. “Did that TV guy say there would be more updates later on?”

“If he did, I didn't hear him. You interested in something special?”

“Yeah.”

“The early news comes on at ten.”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“You don't get downtown often?”

Rybicki snorted. “Why?”

“Oh, nuthin' special. Just that you knew I was here for forty years. But I don't remember ever seein' you before. Is all.”

“I used to work down here.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“The chancery building.”

“The chancery building?” Davis grew animated. “That's practically across the street. Headquarters for the Catholics in Detroit. Well, more'n the city—the whole archdiocese. Takes up about six counties.”

“That's it.”

“Were you a priest?”

Rybicki almost choked. “You think everybody who works there is a priest?”

“You kind of look the type.”

“What does the type look like?”

“I don't know exactly. The combination: white hair; portly; red face; easy way with liquor.”

“I think it was just 'cause I mentioned the chancery. Good ol' 1234 Washington Boulevard. One of downtown's most famous addresses. It's true: Most of the jobs there belonged to priests, or monsignors, or bishops. But there's always a few jobs held down by ordinary guys like me.”

Silence.

“How long you work there?”

“About twenty years.”

“I must be losing my touch. You worked across the street for half the time this bar's been here and I don't know you!”

“Not to wonder. I just didn't come in here. Or any other bar.”

“You work and go home?”

“You got it.”

Silence.

“You work this place by yourself?” Rybicki asked.

“I got a guy for lunch and dinner Monday through Saturday. Sundays you could fire a cannon in here”—he spread his hands and inclined his head toward the almost empty room—”and not hit anybody.”

“Dinner. You got dinner?”

“Burgers and trimmings. That's it.”

“Could you whip me up one?”

“Sure.”

“Medium and everything on it.”

“You got it.”

Davis disappeared into a room behind the bar. Soon the evocative aroma of frying meat and sizzling onions wafted out. Davis did not reemerge. Evidently he preferred tending the burger through to the bitter end.

Rybicki glanced at the couple at the far end of the room. His impression was that the woman was about ready to leave. She was sipping the last of her wine.

The man was crying. Noiselessly, but crying nonetheless.

Rybicki frowned. Men shouldn't cry … at least not in public. It was creepy. He had the urge to march over to their table and give the guy a shot upside the head. That'd give him something to cry about.

But he didn't make a move. Granted, the guy had maybe thirty years on Rybicki. But Rybicki had maybe thirty pounds on the guy. So he wasn't afraid. Not for a moment. He just didn't want to get involved. He would just munch his burger and nurse the Miller Lite.

Davis returned, set the burger plate before Rybicki, and shoved the condiments on the counter toward him. Rybicki squeezed on a touch of mustard. That was all. He bit into the burger. Heavenly. The meat was thick and pink and juicy. The onions were just singed—al dente. And only three bucks. Three bucks for a perfect burger. He vowed that given the chance he'd be back with some regularity. But he wouldn't be recommending this find to anyone; he'd keep it as his own private oasis.

Davis glanced at the couple. He saw what Rybicki had seen. Davis felt no urge to intervene in any way. His only concern was that there be no bloodletting in his bar.

“So what'd you do in the chancery? You not being a priest or anything?”

“I ran the elevator.”

“That's it?”

“It was busy. Lots of people came to the chancery. Mostly guys who worked there. Priests who ran the various departments in the archdiocese: the Tribunal, the Propagation of the Faith, Catholic schools, Catholic cemeteries … like that. I started there a little bit before Cardinal Mooney died.

“You couldn't tell he was so near death. He went off to Rome to help elect a new Pope. But he died just before the Cardinals were locked up in the Sistine Chapel for the duration.

“He was a class act, he was.” He nodded in recollection. “A real class act.”

“You got to know him?”

“Saw him just about every day. Going and coming. It didn't take him long before he knew my name … and used it. ‘How are you, Mr. Rybicki?' he would say. Yup …” He nodded again. “… a real class act.”

Silence.

The couple at the far table were quiet—both of them.

Good. Davis was all for quiet. Especially from people like that couple.

They had entered the bar about two hours ago. She'd ordered a white wine, which she was just now finishing. He was nursing only his third beer.

Davis didn't care. They could sit there till closing time as far as he was concerned. As long as there was no trouble, Davis was the soul of indifference.

“A real class act,” Rybicki repeated.

“What was that?” Davis's concentration wobbled. He had forgotten what Rybicki was talking about.

“The guys who used to work in the chancery. Starting with the bishop … and on right through the ranks.”

“You think it's gone downhill now?”

“Oh, yeah. You know, when I was running that elevator you had to have an appointment to see the boss.”

“That so?”

“Every morning they gave me a list of names that I stuck up on the wall of the elevator. These were the guys who had an appointment and who could get out on the second floor. That was the boss's floor.

“Some of the movers and shakers—not just in the Church, but also the business community—would get off on two. I got to know them pretty good, too.

“Then in the late sixties, early seventies, the crybabies started comin' in. Usually I would recognize them from seeing their pictures in the papers and on TV. Peaceniks, flower children—those guys. Hair all over and dressed to slop pigs.” He made a face. “Disgusting!”

“That why you got outta there?”

“Partly. Anyway, because I got to know a lot of the brass—mostly Ford and GM guys—I got a job as a security officer at GM headquarters on Grand Boulevard.”

“And you lived happily ever after?”

Rybicki did a double take. Was Davis making fun of him? After a moment he decided not. Rybicki was a mesomorph. Had he been playing pro football in the present, he would have been an interior defensive lineman. Even at his present age, people shied away from the casual insult. “Yeah,” Rybicki said at length. “I've been doin' okay. All things considered.”

“So what brings you downtown on a late Sunday? Reliving old times?”

“Nah …” Rybicki was glum. “I wanted to see that sonuvabitch they were gonna ordain today.”

“Huh?”

“You know … you musta read about him in the papers.”

No reaction from Davis.

“On radio or TV?” Rybicki couldn't believe that anyone in the metropolitan area wasn't aware of the unique Catholic religious event that had been scheduled for earlier this day.

Apparently there was at least one oblivious person. And Rybicki was talking to him.

The barkeep picked up another clean glass and began polishing it. “'Fraid not.”

“You don't read the papers?”

“Sports … some comics.”

“No TV news?”

“Sports. Maybe the weather. That's about all my customers talk about. I reckon I don't have to be up on anything else.”

“I guess it figures,” Rybicki said, almost sadly.

“So what was going on that got you down here?”

“It's kind of complicated.”

“Try me. I'm a quick study.”

So Rybicki related the tale of the noted Episcopal priest—noted, apparently by everyone but Davis—who'd left the Episcopal priesthood and was supposed to have been ordained in the Catholic Church today.

“Today?
Supposed
to be? What happened?”

Rybicki told him about the bomb.

“That was on TV?”

“Yeah. That was the news update you were gonna turn off a little while ago, but I ast you to leave it on … remember?”

“Yeah … I remember you asked me to leave it on.” Davis whistled softly. “Man, this is gettin' bad if I'm not payin' any attention to a bomb going off in a church in Detroit!”

“Well, that's what happened.”

“Why would anyone want to knock off a priest? Especially with a bomb?”

“For starters he—this new guy—likes the idea of women priests.” He looked at Davis sharply. “How would you like to go into a Roman Catholic church and see a woman up there in vestments, saying Mass?”

Davis smiled. “I was raised a Catholic … even went to a parochial school for a while. Tell you the truth, thinking back, I'd rather see and hear a woman doin' it than some of the men I remember.”

Rybicki waved away the remark. In doing so, he almost knocked over his glass of beer. “Get serious,” he said. “Besides women at the altar, this guy—this Wheatley—is gonna bring his wife in. They'll be living together.” He shook a warning finger at Davis. “Now don't come back with a smart-alec remark like, ‘Husbands and wives generally live together.'”

“I know you'll believe me when I tell you, you took the words right out of my mouth.”

“I thought so. There's no use talking to you.” Rybicki rose as if to leave.

“Don't go,” Davis said. It wasn't the first time he'd had to placate a disgruntled customer.
Why didn't I keep my mouth shut?
“I promise: no more smart-ass remarks. I really oughta be up on something like this. I got a hunch you can give me straighter stuff than the media will.”

“Well, okay.” Rybicki sat back down on the bar stool. “The thing that pisses me off is that all these hippies and yippies who used to crowd into the chancery are gonna think they won. They wanted women priests. They wanted married priests. Now they found their hero in this Wheatley guy. Hell, his daughter's even gonna be a priest. And he's
married.”
He made it sound like some loathesome disease.