would soon know.
C H A P T E R
9
A S HIS ENCOUNTER with Father Deutsch had demonstrated, it was not easy for Father Koesler to get an appointment with Ted Nash.
Nash’s secretary had been very firm about the channels that must be taken before a meeting could be arranged with Mr. Nash. Mr. Nash was, after all, a most busy executive. At this point she began to list the many and varied ventures that fell under the umbrella of Nash Enterprises.
Koesler had not realized that the Nashes, father and son, had so many irons getting hot in far-flung fires.
However, for the sake of Brenda—and to beat Deutsch at his own game—the normally mild-mannered Koesler was unaccustomedly determined. He made it clear to the secretary that he, a holy, Roman Catholic priest, would take no for an answer only from the Catholic lips of Mr. Nash himself. Most reluctantly—and only because she had doubts that Deutsch had handled this matter correctly—did she permit Koesler to talk to Nash.
Nash quickly concluded it would be easier to grant Koesler a few minutes than to be bugged by so dogged a priest.
And so, Koesler now sat in the waiting area of Nash’s private office complex in downtown Detroit’s Penobscot Building, where Nash Enterprises occupied three full floors. He had arrived ten minutes early for his 11:30 A . M . appointment. It was now 11:35 and he was getting edgy. Since the appointment had been scheduled for a mere half hour before noon, it seemed obvious that Nash had allotted just thirty minutes, which Koesler did not think was at all adequate. Now, if he was correct about the luncheon break, he had only twenty-five minutes—and counting.
After her initial glare, Nash’s secretary had paid Koesler no attention whatsoever—her way of evening the score for his insistence on this interview. Koesler was beginning to feel the martyr. If the silent secretary had been a feral carnivore, it was likely his life would have been demanded.
Just as he was imagining his bones being pounded into slivers for placement in a reliquary for some seldom-used altar stone, the buzzer on the secretary’s desk sounded.
She nodded at Koesler and said, in an icy tone, “You may go in now.”
Ted Nash obviously subscribed to the dictum: No one’s office shall be more plush than the boss’s.
The operative word was “too.” Everything was too large, too showy, too tasteless, and too pretentious. Koesler couldn’t swear to it, but the flowers and plants that decorated the office space appeared artificial. The office definitely made a statement. That Ted Nash was somewhat insecure? If so, the insecurity was probably buried deep.
Nash rose from his extra large executive chair and circled the king-size desk with hand outstretched to greet the priest. If one were given to hyperbole, it seemed almost possible to play hockey on the desk’s surface.
“So good to finally meet you, Father Koesler,” Nash said with some enthusiasm. “Up until now, I’ve just read about you from time to time. The police and those investigations. The homicides and such.”
It was a more effusive greeting than Koesler had expected. He was, after all, not the most welcome guest Nash would receive. Particularly since Deutsch, the in-house priest, should have handled and disposed of whatever was on Koesler’s mind.
Koesler shook the outstretched hand. “Good of you to see me, Mr. Nash. But please, forget about those investigations. They were mostly the media’s invention. At most, I was just on the periphery. It’s just that the media like the idea of a simple parish priest and murder. It’s like those pictures of nuns playing baseball or on a roller coaster in the good old days: They were almost as compelling as a boy and his dog.”
Nash chuckled. “Now, now, Father; remember: He who doth not toot his own horn, the same shall not get tooted.”
“Sounds like a good slogan for Nash Enterprises, but not for a parish priest.”
“And a pastor. We must
C H A P T E R
9
A S HIS ENCOUNTER with Father Deutsch had demonstrated, it was not easy for Father Koesler to get an appointment with Ted Nash.
Nash’s secretary had been very firm about the channels that must be taken before a meeting could be arranged with Mr. Nash. Mr. Nash was, after all, a most busy executive. At this point she began to list the many and varied ventures that fell under the umbrella of Nash Enterprises.
Koesler had not realized that the Nashes, father and son, had so many irons getting hot in far-flung fires.
However, for the sake of Brenda—and to beat Deutsch at his own game—the normally mild-mannered Koesler was unaccustomedly determined. He made it clear to the secretary that he, a holy, Roman Catholic priest, would take no for an answer only from the Catholic lips of Mr. Nash himself. Most reluctantly—and only because she had doubts that Deutsch had handled this matter correctly—did she permit Koesler to talk to Nash.
Nash quickly concluded it would be easier to grant Koesler a few minutes than to be bugged by so dogged a priest.
And so, Koesler now sat in the waiting area of Nash’s private office complex in downtown Detroit’s Penobscot Building, where Nash Enterprises occupied three full floors. He had arrived ten minutes early for his 11:30 A . M . appointment. It was now 11:35 and he was getting edgy. Since the appointment had been scheduled for a mere half hour before noon, it seemed obvious that Nash had allotted just thirty minutes, which Koesler did not think was at all adequate. Now, if he was correct about the luncheon break, he had only twenty-five minutes—and counting.
After her initial glare, Nash’s secretary had paid Koesler no attention whatsoever—her way of evening the score for his insistence on this interview. Koesler was beginning to feel the martyr. If the silent secretary had been a feral carnivore, it was likely his life would have been demanded.
Just as he was imagining his bones being pounded into slivers for placement in a reliquary for some seldom-used altar stone, the buzzer on the secretary’s desk sounded.
She nodded at Koesler and said, in an icy tone, “You may go in now.”
Ted Nash obviously subscribed to the dictum: No one’s office shall be more plush than the boss’s.
The operative word was “too.” Everything was too large, too showy, too tasteless, and too pretentious. Koesler couldn’t swear to it, but the flowers and plants that decorated the office space appeared artificial. The office definitely made a statement. That Ted Nash was somewhat insecure? If so, the insecurity was probably buried deep.
Nash rose from his extra large executive chair and circled the king-size desk with hand outstretched to greet the priest. If one were given to hyperbole, it seemed almost possible to play hockey on the desk’s surface.
“So good to finally meet you, Father Koesler,” Nash said with some enthusiasm. “Up until now, I’ve just read about you from time to time. The police and those investigations. The homicides and such.”
It was a more effusive greeting than Koesler had expected. He was, after all, not the most welcome guest Nash would receive. Particularly since Deutsch, the in-house priest, should have handled and disposed of whatever was on Koesler’s mind.
Koesler shook the outstretched hand. “Good of you to see me, Mr. Nash. But please, forget about those investigations. They were mostly the media’s invention. At most, I was just on the periphery. It’s just that the media like the idea of a simple parish priest and murder. It’s like those pictures of nuns playing baseball or on a roller coaster in the good old days: They were almost as compelling as a boy and his dog.”
Nash chuckled. “Now, now, Father; remember: He who doth not toot his own horn, the same shall not get tooted.”
“Sounds like a good slogan for Nash Enterprises, but not for a parish priest.”
“And a pastor. We must
Similar Books
