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 guest, 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
“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 guest, 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
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