They were dining at Joe Muer’s, an extremely popular seafood restaurant within strolling distance of their Lafayette Towers apartment. The walk had been complicated this evening due to near-blizzard conditions. But they made the trek anyway.
They were celebrating Cox’s reporting of the recent riot at Cobo Arena following a rock concert there. By now, of course, the rest of the media— the News, television, and radio—had the story. But Cox had gotten it first and had as yet exclusive access to the same essential source as the police had. The Free Press had copyrighted Cox’s account. Thus the rest of the media were forced to play catch-up to the Free Press.
As Lennon popped open her napkin and spread it on her lap, the fragrance of her perfume wafted in Cox’s direction. His smile widened. This was so much better than going out for drinks with the guys. No—Cox amended that—this was better than anything he had had in his entire life.
“What’s next, Joe?”
“I don’t know. Sort of between stories. But I’d better come up with one pretty damn quick or Nelson Kane is gonna nail me with one of those what-are-kids-doing-with-guns-in-school assignments.”
“Oh, yes. Where the parents jump all over the school, while their kids bring the guns in from home.”
“Exactly.”
“That, by the way, is how I got on this hospital story.”
“How?”
“Made it up so I wouldn’t have to cover the Cobo Hall fracas.”
Cox thought that over as he sipped his Gibson. “So,” Cox said, “how’s the hospital piece coming?”
“So-so. I’m not too enthused about it.”
“Oh?”
“I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s not working out the way I planned. It was going to be a puff piece that highlighted this unsinkable nun. It’s still going in that direction. But I get the feeling that the story wants to take off on its own in another direction.”
“The contraceptive angle?” Cox caught the waiter’s eye and ordered another Gibson. Lennon passed.
“I’m not sure. But that has something to do with it. Right there—when I found out all that one Catholic hospital was doing what the Catholic Church forbids—the story wanted to go in that direction. But when I decided I wasn’t going to subvert all the good that the hospital was trying to do just for a story . . . well, at that moment I started steering the piece in a direction it didn’t want to go.”
“I know the feeling. I’ve done it.”
“But it’s still going on. As I stick to my original theme, it seems as if I’m forcing the story in a direction it doesn’t want to take.”
“How so?”
“Well, for instance, I’ve been interviewing staff personnel for possible side-bars. And instead of getting corroborating material I’m collecting bad vibes. Nothing explicit, mind you, but bad vibes anyway.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know if it’s unequivocal enough to put into words. Vibes aren’t admissible in court, you know; they’re just an impression. Now, as far as I can figure it, this Sister Eileen is the next best thing to Mother Teresa. But I don’t get that impression from all the people I’ve interviewed. Some, yes. Some, no. Why? I just don’t exactly know how to react to it.”
“You mean if she were a Mother Teresa, everybody’d love her?”
“Something like that. But there are at least three or four people at the hospital who definitely don’t love her. Again, I can’t get anything explicit from them. A couple are faced with compulsory retirement. A couple are on the verge of getting fired.”
“Hey, that’s the sort of thing that just doesn’t endear employers to employees.”
“Yeah, I know. But with these people there seems to be a feeling of personal bitterness. Like it’s her fault they’re old or not doing their jobs right. And then when she was attacked the other night—”
“What? Attacked! You didn’t tell me—”
“I didn’t learn about it until there wasn’t much news value in it any more. It was all internal, an accident of sorts. A mental patient got loose from the psycho ward. He grabbed her in a hallway but some guard broke it up before any major damage was done. By the time I got the story, it was all over. The patient was back in his ward under restraints and Sister Eileen was back at work. You know what they say: Nothing is as dull as yesterday’s news. Don’t worry, Joe; I’m not trying to hide a legitimate story from you.”
She knew him. That was precisely what he feared.
“Anyway,” she continued, “when I heard about the attack, it sort of intensified the vibes I’d been getting all along. Like maybe Sister actually is in some sort of danger.”
“I don’t know, Pat. That’s a big leap. People are retired and fired every day. I don’t suppose many of them, even the retirees, feel good about it. But that’s no reason to jump all over the boss. They may have a few harsh words. But in the end, they usually just fade away.”
Their dinner was served.
“I suppose you’re right.” Pat finished her sherry. “In fact, just articulating the possibility makes me feel a lot better about it. The talking cure.”
Cox squeezed lemon over his fish. “Have you noticed how warm it is in here? Maybe we can stay here all night. I’m not too eager to go back out in that blizzard. I never should have let you talk me into walking here.”
“The walk’ll do you good, lover. Besides, when we get home, I have a few ideas that may help us feel warm all over.”
From that point, Cox did not exactly wolf down his dinner. But then neither did he dawdle.
9
Most days, Father Koesler did not eat a large lunch. As a rule, he had cold cereal for breakfast, an extremely light midday meal, and a substantial dinner. He had read that this was not the healthiest of regimens. In fact, it was reportedly the reverse of the best. But he didn’t care. All his life he had enjoyed anticipating good things. Indeed, it was part of his creed that anticipation, particularly since it lasted longer, was better than the attainment of whatever was coming.
He also believed there were exceptions to rules.
So this day he juggled a tray holding a cheeseburger, fries, vegetables, salad, milk, coffee, and a sliver of carrot cake. While trying to spill nothing, he searched for a place to sit in the now crowded cafeteria.
“Why don’t you join us, Father? John Haroldson indicated an empty chair at the table where he was sitting with a young doctor.
Haroldson smiled broadly, emphasizing the creases and wrinkles of his lived-in face. Koesler, from experience, did not wholeheartedly trust hail fellows well met. But it would have been awkward to spurn the offer. Besides, there didn’t appear to be any other open space at this moment. So he carefully set down his tray and joined them.
“Actually, you couldn’t have timed this better, Father. Dr. Anderson here was telling me about a medical-moral decision he has to make. Why don’t you ask the good Father, Larry?”
“First, I guess we’d better meet.” Koesler introduced himself to the young doctor, who appeared none too eager to present his problem to the priest. Koesler wondered fleetingly why a doctor would bring a moral dilemma to the chief operating officer. An analogous mystery was why the doctor would hesitate in presenting the puzzle to a priest. But for the moment, Koesler decided to put these brainteasers on the back burner. He tried to look interested while holding together a cheeseburger that wanted to slide apart.
“Well, you see, Father,” Anderson began, “the problem involves a woman who’s had five C-section deliveries. Uh . . . that is, she’s had five previous births by Caesarean section,” he explained needlessly. “I delivered her latest child last year and advised her against getting pregnant again. You see, Father, her uterus is . . . uh . . . all worn out. It’s been traumatized from all those sections. But she checked in yesterday, pregnant. She’s got to have another section and it’s going to be touch-and-go. So I was asking Mr. Haroldson whether it would be morally acceptable to do a hysterectomy on her, after the section.”