“Not at all, Sister.” Krieg spoke without looking at her. He was keenly and confidently studying the others at table. “We’ll just make ourselves to home.”
With that, Krieg nodded to a companion Koesler had not hitherto noticed. The man, evidently an assistant, responded immediately to his employer’s casual gesture. He went directly to one of the waitresses and quietly conferred with her. The young women seemed cowed as the man shook his head vigorously. The two then left the dining area, presumably headed for the kitchen.
For no reason Koesler could imagine, Sister Janet seemed embarrassed. “I’m sure you know the other participants in the workshop, Reverend,” she said, after a slight hesitation.
“I have met Father Benbow. . and Father Augustine”-he inclined his head in each cleric’s respective direction-“but, my loss I’m sure”- with a smiling hint of a bow-“I’ve never met the other authors in person. However, I’m well aware of who they all are and what they’ve done.” He emphasized the final few words, seeming to invest them with a meaning that eluded Koesler.
The empty chair obviously was his, so Krieg made his way to it. As he did so, he greeted each of the others without introduction, correctly as it turned out.
Martha greeted him politely. The others’ response was stony silence. At most there was an almost imperceptible nod. Father Koesler was puzzled by the measure of animosity that seemed to be projected toward Krieg. It struck Koesler as inordinate, even from people with a basic difference of opinion over religion. True, their differences were radical. Still, he was surprised at the intensity of their reaction.
Krieg then caught Koesler off guard by recognizing him. “And last, but by no means least,” Krieg said, “we have the formidable Father Koesler.”
It was one of those rare occasions when Koesler was at a loss for words. He did not share in whatever it was that the others felt with regard to Krieg. Until this moment, Koesler had been enjoying his spectator role.
“Well, really, I. .” Koesler faltered.
“No false modesty now, Father,” said Krieg. “You may think that only Detroiters are aware of your amazingly successful periodic forays into murder cases. But your reputation extends far outside this city, I assure you.”
“Thank you.” It was not a particularly apt sequitur, but it was all Koesler could come up with in response.
As Krieg seated himself, Sister Janet spoke. “Reverend Krieg, before you came, we were in the midst of having each of our writers share with us a favorite anecdote. I think it was proving an excellent means of getting acquainted. I was just about to ask Father Benbow to tell us a story. Father, why don’t you tell us the one about the bishop and confirmation?”
Benbow hesitated, then said, “I think it’s gone. I’m afraid I’m going to have to beg off. The atmosphere just isn’t right for any more funny little stories.”
From their silence, the others seemed to concur. But not Krieg. “Well,” he said, “I’m sure we regret your decision, Father Benbow. I’ve read all your books-in point of fact, I’ve read all of all your books,” he said, regarding each of the others, “but”-returning to Benbow-“I agree with Sister: The story of the bishop at confirmation is a masterpiece, a little gem. Sorry you don’t feel up to it. I’ll just recommend it to everyone here just in case any of you don’t know the story. And”-Krieg began to chuckle-“I’m not going to tell which of Father Benbow’s books has that particular story. You’ll have to read them all and find it for yourselves. But I will say this: You’ll have a fine time hunting it down.”
Koesler could not get over Krieg’s ebullience. It was as if there were an underlying joke at the funeral and Krieg was the only one who was getting the point.
Followed by Krieg’s assistant, the young waitress reentered the dining room bearing a tray containing Krieg’s delayed dinner. Nervously, she set the dishes before him. He glanced at each, smiled, and nodded to his aide, who then positioned himself alongside a cabinet near the door. His stance was one the military would term “at ease.”
As Krieg began toying with his food-it was steaming hot-Sister Janet said as genially as possible, “We’ll forgive you, Father Benbow, just this once. But how about you, Reverend Krieg: Would you honor us with an anecdote?”
Krieg waved a forkful of food. It seemed a means of cooling the food, as much as a gesture of response. “Now, Sister, I’m not as talented as these good writers. I’m just a minor publisher who preaches some.”
Everything about the man belied that statement, from the cut and quality of his attire, to the manservant who anticipated every need, to the immediate preparation of an alternate dinner. Koesler took note of what had been served Krieg. The salad and vegetable seemed identical to that which had been served the others. The major substitution was the piece de resistance, which appeared to be a cheese omelet and milk, along with coffee and cream. Koesler wondered if the substitution and the fuss and bother it caused was not just another statement Krieg used to reinforce his own importance.
Sister Janet was nearly pleading as she implored Krieg for a story from his vast reservoir of experience as publisher and preacher.
Krieg granted her plea, while continuing to pick at his food. “Far as I know,” he began, “this is a true story. Billy Graham tells it. Seems Billy was preaching in one of those humongous cathedrals in England. He was up in a high, ornate pulpit, goin’ after sin and the sinner, Praise God!
“Well, Billy was gettin’ pretty worked up, in that way of his. He started hammerin’ on the pulpit and swayin’ to and fro and shoutin’ and yellin’ and wavin’ his fists in the air. About the time he had the crowd as scared as they was ever gonna be, he stopped dead-just froze. You could have heard a pin drop. He had that bunch of sinners in the palm of his hand.
“Just at that moment, a small child in the front row said, just loud enough to be heard in that vast, silent church, he said, ‘Mama, what are we gonna do if he gets out of that cage?’”
Krieg threw his head back and roared. “Praise God!” he shouted through the laughter that he shared with Sister Janet, Martha Benbow, the man at the cupboard, and Father Koesler, who cut short his mirth when he saw the four writers accord the story no more than a brief smile.
However, their near deadpan response to a genuinely funny anecdote did nothing to faze Krieg’s appreciation of his own joke. He was still wiping tears from his eyes after all other laughter ceased. At the end of it all, once again, he proclaimed, “Praise God!”
Koesler concluded that the phrase could become a bit wearisome.
Krieg touched napkin to lips. He’d finished his meal without a touch of dessert. He’d eaten very little. Koesler wondered how, if this were a representative meal, Krieg maintained his roly-poly shape. No exercise, probably-and undoubtedly this was not a typical intake.
At a nod from Krieg, his assistant unlocked and opened the cabinet, whence he extracted a variety of bottles, which he placed on the serving ledge.
Koesler took note. These were not the inexpensive liquors served before the meal. Even a casual glance at the labels revealed these to be among the highest quality and cost.
“I’d like to invite you all to join me in an after-dinner drink, if you would. It would be a nice ending to a delicious meal, and a pleasant warming for the evening ahead.”
It was one of life’s embarrassing moments. No one did or said anything.
Whatever chemistry was going on here, a goodly portion of it was escaping Koesler. Yet he thought it uncivil, if not ungodly or un-Christian, to give no response whatsoever to an invitation that, to all appearances, seemed sincerely offered.
So Koesler responded. And in doing so, he thawed the antipathy of the others. He was followed to the array of liquors and liqueurs by Janet and Martha, then by Benbow, Winer, Augustine, and Marie. Last came Krieg, looking pleased that the logjam of opposition was at least showing some movement.
Koesler, first to arrive at the cupboard, inspected the display. None of the bottles was small. In some cases the booze was in full gallon containers. There were no price tags, but a gallon of Chivas Regal, twelve years old, did not come cheap. The same could be said for Cutty Sark, Dewar’s White Label, Glenmorangie ten years old, Canadian Club, Jack Daniel’s Old Number 7 Tennessee, Bushmills, and Bombay Dry Gin. Then there were the liqueurs: Solignac Cognac, Frangelico, Grand Marnier, Galliano, Benedictine, B and B, Amaretto di Saronno, Chartreuse, and E amp; J Brandy.
The quantity and variety were overwhelming.
In honor of that half of his heritage which was Irish, Koesler poured a shot of Bushmills into a snifter. He
