Man Who Loved God

“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 tete-a-tete.

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 piece de resistance 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.

“After that …” Groggins shrugged. “This doesn’t figure to be a permanent placement. After all, both Nancy and Al would be moving from Bloomfield Hills or Troy to core-city Detroit. It’s one thing to pour in everything you’ve got to insure a successful beginning. It’s another thing to subsequently be buried there.

“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?”

Groggins chuckled softly. “Nancy has her opinion, of course. But I’ve been thrown together with this group often enough to have my own theory. Suppose I give you a thumbnail rundown on the candidates. Then maybe you can write your own synopsis.”

“Fair enough.”

“Okay. First of all, there’s Martin Whitston. He’s in charge of commercial lending.”

“Doesn’t anyone call him Red?”

“Because he’s got red hair?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Not that I know of.”

“Why not?”

“I guess because he doesn’t want to be called Red.”

“Just like that?”

“That will tell you something about Martin Whitston. He cares what others call him, as well as what others think of him. He is a very strong character.

“He services existing business. Develops portfolios. He’s got to bring in new business and investments. This is a hands-on operation for a bank of this size. He’s got two or three people who report directly to him. There’s maybe twelve in that whole department.”

Groggins’s description of this VP position seemed to fit the image projected by Martin Whitston. Whitston wore his hair very tight to the scalp … almost the brush cut of old.

He looked to be powerfully built, but not really overweight. Broad in the shoulders; he probably worked out at some gym or health club. Father Tully doubted that he would want to work for Martin Whitston under the best of circumstances.