Bishop as Pawn

Did he want to get involved in this?

“Would you like some coffee?” His visitors accepted. He could have had his secretary bring it, but he went for it himself. He needed time to consider their overture.

A movie! It was attractive. That was indisputable. It might be fun. And everyone knew Hollywood is where the bucks are.

Of course money was a consideration, but in his priority system not the primary one. If money were high on his list, he’d be in private practice.

No; he had established his agenda and it was working very well. He had made a name and reputation for himself far faster and far more dependably than he might have as a moderately big fish in a gigantic pond.

Then too, movies were chancy. No matter what kind of offer these two slimeballs would make, once they got going, he would have little input, and no control whatever of the finished product. Their stupidity easily could rub off on him.

No; all things considered, getting in on their deal made no sense for him.

But he’d have to let them down easy. If they got their cockamamy idea off the ground, and if he left them with a bad taste, they could easily screw up his character in the movie.

So, how to let them down gently?

Quirt. Of course! Quirt would be thrilled to be part of moviemaking. To top that, he owed Quirt some sort of immediate favor. This was tailor-made.

Quirt would assume that Kleimer, having been offered this opportunity, desperately wanted it-who wouldn’t? — but had given up his opportunity for Quirt’s sake. That would have to be the way this scenario worked out.

Whether he took it on or not, Quirt would have to believe that Kleimer had sacrificed his own chances to pass on this golden opportunity.

The welcome reality would be that it cost Kleimer nothing. He was dumping what to him was garbage. And Quirt would see it as a gourmet offering.

Kleimer returned to his office with the coffee for his guests. He leaned back and sat on the edge of his desk. As he looked down at them, he smiled. “Gentlemen, I don’t think I can help you. I’d like to, but I don’t think I can.”

Walberg and Turner exchanged a smug smile.

“Don’t be so modest, Mr. Kleimer,” Walberg said. “You have an inside track on a terrific story. We want to tell this story through the eyes of the one who sees that justice is done.”

“You’re right on the money. But it’s not my eyes you want to look through.”

Walberg smiled. “Think Perry Mason.”

“Mason’s a defense attorney,” Turner interjected.

“It doesn’t matter.” Walberg had lost some of his ebullience. “There’s that series … ‘Law and Order.’ Yeah, that’s the one-the one where the prosecuting attorney wins.”

“He doesn’t always win,” Turner reminded.

“It doesn’t matter,” Walberg snapped. “That was just an illustration. Moviegoers are in the mood to see that justice is done. And, Mr. Kleimer, your job is to see that justice is done.”

“Let me return for just a moment to that program you were just talking about,” Kleimer said. “The one called ‘Law and Order.’ The first part of that show is how the police prepare the case for trial. Then the prosecutors take over.”

“Yes, but …”

“Hear me out, please. All I’m suggesting is that you consider filming your movie through the eyes of the police rather than the prosecutor.”

“But …”

“I can tell from the kinds of questions you were asking a few minutes ago that you want to talk to the police. This business about sex, for instance. From the police investigation of this case, I think you’re on the right track. But I’m not at all sure it’ll come up during the trial.”

Turner exuded triumph. “See? I told you, Teddy: It’s a police story. If I said it once, I said it a million times: It’s a police story.”

Good, Kleimer thought. One of the idiots is happy. Now to make sure the other one doesn’t go away angry. “Actually, this approach may make your job easier. I suppose one of your problems is that the real life story isn’t over yet.”

Kleimer had not recovered from his initial amazement that they would attempt to portray an event whose conclusion was still unknown. He suspended disbelief for the moment. “You know your business far better than I, but it seems to me you’d be doing yourselves a favor by starting your film with the police work on this case. Then time would be on your side. You could work right into the trial. Like I said, you know your business better than I, but this procedure does seem logical.”

“You’re absolutely right.” Turner was enthusiastic. “It’s a police story.”

Kleimer was drawing the obvious conclusion that Walberg was a court nut while Turner loved police work.

“Well …” Walberg had lost an edge on his self-assurance. “… you are going to convict, aren’t you … the priest, I mean?”

“Put your bottom dollar on it.” Kleimer smirked.

Good-byes were said with promises to get back together as this venture proceeded. The odd couple left.

No sooner were they gone than Kleimer was on the phone.

“I know this isn’t the kind of return favor we talked about, Quirt, and we’re still in the ballpark of working on a promotion for you. But I’ve got something that will tide you over for a little. Are you alone?

“Well, then, find a place where you can be alone. You’re about to get some visitors who just might change your life. I’ll tell you all about it…”

With Kleimer’s forewarning, Quirt was preparing himself.

First he secured an interrogation room, guaranteeing privacy for himself and his prospective visitors.

Then he used his electric razor, patted down his thinning hair, and tightened his belt several notches until he had a real problem breathing comfortably. Finally, he made sure someone would greet the visitors and have them cool their heels for a while. He didn’t want to seem too eager.

All was ready. Quirt was prepared. At the last moment, he decided to let them wait just a little longer.

Armand Turner looked about with ill-concealed disgust. “This reminds me of the sign you’ve got on your desk.”

“Which-oh, you mean ‘This Mess Is a Place.’”

“Exactly.”

“You’re right, of course. But isn’t it perfect?”

“It doesn’t look like any police headquarters ever seen on TV. Most of them look as if someone has at least mopped within the previous five years.”

“Forget TV for a moment, Mondo. This quite obviously is reality.”

“Screw reality! Audiences will never accept such a tawdry scene. Our headquarters will have to measure up to what the audience expects.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Remember our budget. What if we can get them to let us film here? We’ve got to keep thinking economy. Already I’m thinking about that church … what was it?”

“Ste. Anne’s.”

“Ste. Anne’s, right. I’m sure they’ll let us use the interiors. Save us a wad not having to build those sets. Add a measure of reality, too. We can use this kind of stuff in the teasers: ‘The actual room where the bishop was clubbed to death,’ ‘Where he prayed before being martyred’ … that sort of stuff.”

“You’ve got a point, Teddy. I must admit I wouldn’t be unhappy losing these vomit-green walls.” His face brightened. “But hey, now that we’re talking budget, just what do we have? I mean, just to recapitulate. The event?”

“The cold-blooded murder of a Roman Catholic bishop by a Roman Catholic priest.”