Man Who Loved God Page 5
“She’s something!” Nancy said.
“She certainly is,” Father Tully agreed.
“Did you notice her slip something in Mr. Adams’s pocket?”
“That was it, eh? I thought she might have been arranging his handkerchief. All in all, whatever it is, I thought it was a gesture halfway between wifely and sisterly.”
“‘Sister’ is not a title that fits Babs the way her dress does none of the women here would consider her a sister in the feminist context. And the men—in one glance—would know better.”
“Why would she do something like that? Such an intimate gesture, I mean?”
“Follow the money trail, Father. Her husband and I are up for the same position: manager of the new branch. It wouldn’t be any more money than we’re making now. But success at that position in that locality could mean a lot more to whoever gets it—and makes a success of it. And I firmly believe either Al or I could do just that.”
“I’m completely in the dark here. What might this position mean for the winner?”
“I—or Al—might displace one of the executive vice presidents. And don’t you think for a moment they’re not considering that possibility.”
“And an executive vice presidency would mean, that much more … financially?”
Nancy raised her eyes. “Roughly three to four times what we’re making now.”
Father Tully whistled softly. He never ceased to be amazed at the attraction high money circles held for so many people. It was almost literally a different world from that inhabited by priests and religious who worked with Christ’s poor. “That much!”
Nancy nodded. “Of course, financially, I don’t need the job as much as Al does. Only because my husband is in construction. He makes about what these VPs make.”
“And Mrs. Ulrich?”
“She’s not employed. Of course, if she ever wanted to really cash in on what she’s good at—never mind; I don’t want to go into that with a priest.”
“Well … what separates you and Al?”
“He’s white and I’m black. And it’s a black neighborhood. It’s a tough ’hood too. Are you going to confront that toughness with a feminine or a masculine personality? There are lots of intangibles. ‘We each have our own style of business, of employer/employee and customer relationships. We’re both successful where we are.
“Which of us stands a better chance in this new location? It comes down to a decision based on all these things and anything else the arbiter considers. And it’s Mr. Adams’s call.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Father, I really should mingle.”
They parted with a handshake.
Father Tully looked about. He had greeted, at least cursorily, nearly everyone. Right now there was no one nearby to meet. Host and guests had visited or were visiting the hors d’oeuvre table.
The three VP wives had clustered, balancing small helpings of appetizers in one hand and a drink in the other. Tom Adams was working the room. In a nice ecumenical move, Nancy Groggins chatted with Al Ulrich. Barbara Ulrich was flitting from one flower to the next. At the moment Father Tully spotted Barbara, she was shaking hands with Lou Durocher. Durocher exhibited only momentary surprise to come away from that greeting with a note in his hand. Which he immediately slipped unread into his pants pocket.
Second message delivered.
Just beginning his trek down the appetizer board was Al Ulrich. Father Tully reflected that he had talked with Nancy, the other candidate. And that Mr. Adams had asked his opinion on the two hopefuls. He joined Ulrich in line.
Ulrich looked up, did a doubletake, and smiled. “I haven’t had a chance yet, Father, to thank you and your order for honoring our boss.”
“Not at all. If anyone deserved the award, it’s certainly Tom Adams.”
“You just met him for the first time tonight, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to be in town for a while?”
“About two weeks. I’m filling in for a local priest so he can go on vacation.”
“I hope that doesn’t tie you down too much. What I mean is, I hope you’ll get a chance to get to know Mr. Adams. He really is a terrific guy—above and beyond his financial contributions.”
As Ulrich selected another appetizer, Father Tully looked up to see Barbara Ulrich hand a paper napkin to Jack Fradet. Apparently the napkin contained a note of some sort. Fradet slipped it into his pocket.
Third message delivered.
Father Tully began to wonder about these missives. Did Mrs. Ulrich have one for everybody? Were they like party favors or fortune cookies? Strange.
Returning his attention to the table, there before the priest was a large platter containing an ample supply of deviled eggs, one of his favorite morsels. Would anyone notice if he went overboard? He slipped five onto his plate.
Ulrich chuckled. “Like ’em?”
“Well, yes, now that you mention it.”
They moved down the table.
“Speaking of liking,” said Father Tully, “it seems pretty clear that you like Tom Adams.”
“I’ve never met anyone like him,” Ulrich responded. “I mean, I’m not a particularly religious person. And I tend to be skeptical of people who wear their religion oh their sleeve.
“But it’s not like that with Mr. Adams. He puts himself and his pocketbook where his mouth is. I think if he could, he’d be the manager of the new branch himself. Of course, that’s not possible.”
“Speaking of that”—Father Tully, finished at the hors d’oeuvre table, stepped aside with Ulrich—”isn’t this some kind of cruel and unusual treatment to keep you and Nancy Groggins on tenterhooks over that job?”
Ulrich reacted as if he himself had been challenged. “Certainly not! This is a difficult decision. There’s a lot riding on this new branch. We aren’t one of the conglomerate banks. We’re taking a big risk opening in that part of town. If we succeed, we’re going to be a lot stronger. The city of Detroit needs a lot of this type of financial commitment. It needs a presence like ours.”
“And if this move fails?”
Ulrich shook his head. “The biggies will laugh us out of town. They’ll pretend that it would take the clout only they could deliver to make this work. It would weaken our position in communities where we’re already established. It would be a disaster for us. We really can’t afford to fail.”
“And it makes that much difference … who the manager is?”
“The manager sets the tone—or should. The policy of the banking unit. The measure of contact with our customers. That’s basically the role of the manager.”
“You sure you’d be the better choice?”
Ulrich’s smile was slightly twisted. “Nancy is qualified. So am I. I would never claim that Nancy couldn’t do the job. I think I could do it better. But Mr. Adams will be the final judge of that.”
“You really have confidence in him, don’t you?”
“Completely! Whatever he decides, I’ll accept.”
The priest took a glass of wine from a tray being carried by an ever-present waiter. As he turned, he noticed Barbara dabbing her lips with a lacy handkerchief. As she did, she slipped another of her notes to Martin Whitston.
Fourth message delivered.
What an interesting sideshow, thought Father Tully.
He had no idea how many at this party had been favored with one of Barbara Ulrich’s notes. He had seen at least four recipients: Adams, Durocher, Fradet, and Whitston. The president and his three executive vice presidents.
Somehow, Father Tully had a sneaking feeling that he would not be receiving one of Barbara Ulrich’s missives. Nor would he even learn what they contained.
The lights dimmed, then brightened.
Dinner was served.
Seven
Guided by the place cards, Father Tully found himself between Barbara Ulrich and Joel Groggins, the only guest the priest had not yet met.
Each gues
t, upon finding his or her place, remained standing. They knew that Adams dinners always opened with a prayer.
It was expected that Father Tully would lead them. After Adams issued the invitation, the priest complied with the traditional, “Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord.”
And everyone—at least so it seemed—responded with a hearty “Amen.” There were no atheists at an Adams banquet.
After seating himself, Father Tully turned to Mrs. Ulrich. But she had already turned away to launch into conversation with Patricia Durocher. That conversation was aided and abetted by Lou Durocher, seated across from Mrs. Ulrich.
Evidently, the priest had been weighed and found wanting as far as Barbara Ulrich’s interests were concerned. So, with little regret, Tully turned to his left, where sat a smiling Joel Groggins.
Groggins was African-American—though not nearly as light-skinned as the priest. He was a six-footer, and hefty; his clothes could have been a size larger. “Just in case no one’s said it,” Groggins said, “welcome to Detroit.”
“In point of fact,” the priest responded, “no one has. At least a couple of people have made me feel welcome, but no one has said it in so many words. Thanks.”
A trolley stopped behind them, offering still more hors d’oeuvres, including something the waiter identified as fresh Petrossian Ossetra Malossol caviar.
“Do you happen to know,” the priest asked Groggins, “how much that caviar costs?”
“Forty dollars for a thirty-gram serving.”
The priest passed on the caviar, selected a sampling of several other offerings, and the waiter moved on.
“I should mention;’ Groggins said, “that the price I quoted you was a bit high. I quoted you the price fixed at the Lark, one of our very best dining spots. We’ll be going right down a Lark menu, unless I’m very mistaken. Tom Adams could do far, far worse than copy a Lark meal.”
“I was talking to your wife earlier. She said you were in construction?”
“That’s right. Mostly in Detroit. It’s really sad, the kind of image this city’s got. It went down on a roller coaster for about thirty years under the previous two or three mayors. But Aker, the present guy, is inspirational. He’s got things moving. Of course, we’ve still got a long way to go. But I’m doin’ okay. And lovin’ it.” His laugh was full-bodied.
“Congratulations. But that brings up the question that’s been nagging at me after speaking with your wife, Mr. Groggins—”
“Joe.”
“Okay. Joe. Why is she fighting for this position? She is, after all, a bank manager. She didn’t mention her salary ….”
“Forty-five thousand in round figures.”
“And she did say you were pulling down about what the bank’s executive vice presidents were making. So why should she compete for the new job and all its headaches?”
Groggins found Father Tully’s naïveté surprising in this day and age. “A generation or so ago—and practically forever before that—it would have been cause for scandal. Women were homemakers. Women—and I know that you know this was the measure of their success, Father—anyway, women stayed home, nurtured their husbands and their kids, went to church and church meetings. Husbands did important work and brought home the paycheck.
“But that’s history. Women still enter the workforce with a strike or two against them. But they definitely compete.
“And that’s what Nancy’s doing: She’s competing—in this case, against Al Ulrich. It doesn’t make any difference how much I’m making; she has to score on her own.
“I’m sure you know there’s a side issue here, Father. Whoever gets the new job will be Tom Adams’s fair-haired child. I mean, Nancy and Al are already favored employees of Adams Bank. But whoever is chosen here will … have a chance to go on to greater things.”
The seemingly never stationary waiters bestowed pasta as the next course.
“So,” Tully said, “there’s a lot hinging on Tom Adams’s choice.”
Groggins nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll say! You’re about the only one at this entire party who will be unaffected by that choice.”
Father Tully thought for a moment. “Me? Myself, alone? What about you? You don’t seem to have much riding on this event. How would your lifestyle be involved?”
Groggins shrugged. “If Nancy isn’t the choice, we’re going to have some instant replays, a lot of recrimination, and not a small amount of resentment and even anger.”
“And if she wins this appointment?”
“There’ll be some arguments about our enhanced capability. Should we wait for what seems certain to be an executive vice presidency? Should we be upwardly mobile right away? Should we move up even after the appointment? Things like that.
“But let me tell you, Reverend, whatever Nancy and I go through one way or another will be nothing—nothing—compared with what the other folks will have to manage.”
“All of them?”
Groggins spread his large hands on the table and nodded gravely.
The pasta was followed by a scoop of Italian ices as a palate cleanser. Then came the salad.
Groggins leaned toward the priest confidingly. “Romaine with cashews and hearts of palm and mustard vinaigrette. And, Reverend, it might be a good idea for you to forget how much all this costs. Otherwise you might be sorely tempted to turn down everything like you did the caviar.”
Father Tully forked through the salad. It was delicious, as had been everything so far.
As they ate, both the priest and Groggins briefly studied the other diners. There might have been five or six separate conversations going on. No one was paying any attention to the Tully-Groggins tête-à-tête.
Apparently, they were free to talk of anything or anyone they pleased with no repercussion from the other diners, who seemed to have forgotten them.
“God forgive me,” the priest said, “but I find this captivating. I mean, I don’t have any stake in any of this. I’ll probably never see any of you again. So why am I so interested in what’s going on?”
Groggins grinned. “Ever watch a soap opera, Reverend?”
“Can’t say that I have.” A smile spread slowly across the priest’s face. “A living, breathing soap opera, is it? Well, God help me, I’m hooked. I never thought such a thing could be. But I am.”
The pièce de résistance arrived.
“Steak!” Tully exclaimed.
Groggins was amused. “Black Angus sirloin strip with onions and pinot noir sauce,” he clarified. “And vegetable garnish.” Noting the priest’s somewhat quizzical expression, Groggins grinned again. “Nancy was in on the planning. She told me—in great detail—what we’d be eating tonight.”
As they fell to, the priest and Groggins again studied the other diners, who, unimpeded by the food, continued their separate conversations, still uninterested in the only two who were least affected by the intra-company dynamics.
“For one who is only marginally involved in these office politics,” Father Tully said, “you seem pretty knowledgeable.”
“Nancy and I talk … or, rather, Nancy talks. I listen.”
“All I know at this point in the soap is that, apparently, either Nancy or Al Ulrich will be the new manager. No chance of. a dark horse coming out of nowhere?”
“None that anybody can imagine. If there were any doubt, this party with this cast of characters would not be taking place.”
“Okay.” The priest sliced a thin portion of steak and swirled it in the sauce. “Forgetting for the moment who gets the appointment, then what?”
“No one knows for certain. But the smart money would be on an inevitable shakeup near the top.”
“That I gather. But why?”
“Top priority as this new branch becomes a reality is getting a good start. Becoming a part of that community. Treating customers with respect and understanding. And everything that this entails.
“Everyone expects a major promotion to follow success at the new branch. And where is a manager going to go when he or she steps up?”
“An executive vice presidency?” The priest was the first to finish his steak. The others were as occupied with their conversations as they were with this superb meal. And Groggins had been explaining the terrain.
“Right on.”
“A fourth vice presidency?”
Groggins shook his head. “From what Nancy tells me, three is the magic number for executive vice presidents.” Noting the priest’s puzzled expression, Groggins made haste to explain, “I didn’t mean to confuse you, Reverend. Don’t get me wrong: There are plenty of vice presidents in the bank. So moving from branch manager to a vice presidency is not all that significant. That’s why the promotion we’re talking about would have to be to an executive vice presidency. And, as I said, the bank has only three of those positions.”
“Then …?”
“One of the three might very well get bounced. Or there is the possibility that a new position might be created between executive vice president and the CEO. But that’s as likely as the Lions, Tigers, Pistons, and Red Wings all winning a championship the same season.
“No, the smart money says one of the current VPs will eventually, and in the not-too-distant future, get bounced.”
“Then the magic question is … who gets the ax?.”
“That’s the question, okay. But the answer is buried deep in Tom Adams’s mind.”
“You think he’s already decided who it’ll be?”
“The way I read it, Adams does not believe in chance or uncertainty. He knows what he’s doing—and what he’s going to do—long before he has to make a decision.”
“So,” the priest asked with finality, “who do you think? Or, rather, I guess, what does Nancy think?”