Joel-Andrew riffled through his obligations. He had an appointment with Obed at 9:30, an appointment with Bev at noon. He figured Bev felt lonesome because Samuel still did missionary work with Indians. Joel-Andrew thought of Bev and Samuel’s long friendship, and it also made him lonely. He remembered his small congregation in Providence. Joel-Andrew was getting old enough to fear he might never have a family of his own.
At 2:00 Joel-Andrew would see Maggie and Kune. Between 4:00 and 6:00 he would play Gershwin at Janie’s Tavern. Joel-Andrew thought momentarily about Kune. Kune’s trips in and out of the Starling House asked a heavy price. Kune lost weight.
“This is a blessed and wonderful business we’re in,” Joel-Andrew muttered companionably to The Parsonage, “but it sure asks for sinew in our spirits. Otherwise, it’s wipe-out city.”
The Parsonage stood mute, but for a few moments the drawing room lighted with a spirit of calm affirmation. Portraits of Presbyterians stared disapprovingly. The Parsonage rattled its walls ever so slightly—the portraits swaying and shaking their heads—then The Parsonage bounced so the portraits rattled and nodded yes. The Parsonage had been gaining confidence ever since giving Samuel the old heave-ho.
“We have the Lord,” Joel-Andrew said, “and we are the Lord’s children. I expect some of us carry our home and family with us. Still, it’s lonely.” He placed a candle stub in his pocket. “I expect to be home this evening,” Joel-Andrew told The Parsonage. “If it is convenient?”
The Parsonage sat solid, stolid, as though promising to remain in place. Then it shivered, as if giddy.
“Until then,” Joel-Andrew muttered, and stepped into the black morning light. The all-seeing tower saw Joel-Andrew’s departing back, the hump-lump of the violin across his shoulders; the flappity-floppity sandals.
Small-arms fire rose on the wind, crescendoed, then faded as cries rose from the boat basin. The all-seeing tower turned attention to Gerald’s firefight with the Cubans; and the all-seeing tower felt gratified because Gerald carried the day.
Gerald—as Jerome later reported in the paper—pulled a coup. It was a mixed victory, but looked good at the time. In all fairness, Gerald did analyze his tactical situation. He even consulted with Obed. Gerald’s reasoning went like this:
There were eight or ten Cuban smugglers in the boat basin. The smuggling angle was no problem, but Point Vestal had never had a Cuban and did not need any more. Add to this the fact that ghosts of Point Vestal were in sullen rebellion.
Thus, Gerald reasoned, there were two alternatives: knock some ghostly heads together, and kick everyone back in line—or, Gerald reasoned, make use of the discontent while helping the ghosts take an active part in community affairs. Thus, Gerald reasoned, it only made sense to use ghosts in an assault on the Cubans.
That happened as the all-seeing tower heard cries of the mob, diminishing gunfire of the Cubans, the hard-churning engines as the yacht backed from the boat basin. The attack force of ghosts hit the Cubans with a full arsenal. Cubans were strafed with birthday-party cupcakes, hit with lace hankies. The Cubans got their slats rattled as ghostly blood flowed in the firmament, as ghostly cries sounded above the hard snap of buggy whips. The Cubans recoiled before shouts of “Remember the Maine,” and were knocked slaunchwise as a flying squad of flickering irregulars from the Martha Washington Brigade zapped them with corset stays. The whole affair so rattled the Cubans that they returned to Seattle where, it is said, they joined the House of David.
If matters had ended there, all would have been well. However, matters did not. Ghosts looked for other little tasks requiring attention. They muttered about “cleaning up Point Vestal.” Those mutters began as the all-seeing tower watched Joel-Andrew, a small man humpbacked with a violin, a man headed for his appointment with a cat.
On Joel-Andrew’s right, raw cuts in stone marked August Starling’s pharmaceutical company. The new building, already three stories tall and rising upward, seemed a vaguely modernized design of downtown Victorian buildings. Curlicues went on first, the rest to be added later. A secret passage and secret elevator shaft tunneled down to sea level. Machine-gun ports mounted in the front and sides of the pharmaceutical company were framed ornately in gold leaf.
Joel-Andrew passed the saltwater swamp. No ghostly rowboat cruised; no ghostly Christian Scientist called the names of missing children. On Joel-Andrew’s left, clusters of ghosts drifted through the dark morning. Ghosts chortled, slapped each other on the back, giggled: even staid and proper ghosts had attended the battle. Janie’s red hair made a little smudge in the mist as she chatted with her bouncer. The morose cop, who had once been the Irish cop’s partner, stood on a pier. He spat reflectively at an itinerant dogfish.
“There’s nothing to compare with it,” a ghostly voice said rising from weeds and sludge beside the roadway. “I’ve not ’ad so much bleeding fun since me mum give satisfaction to the vicar.” The Sailor emerged from the weeds. The Sailor stood broad shouldered, narrow waisted; had huge hands, smallish feet. He looked designed to scramble across rigging. He brushed weed seeds from luxuriant black whiskers. The Sailor smiled, although he carried the slightly haunted look of a man who has been chain-whipped to death more than five thousand times. The Sailor looked at Joel-Andrew’s clerical collar. He tsked, shook his burly head, tsked, tsked.
“Are you walking in my direction?” Joel-Andrew asked, his voice interested and kind. “I take it you’ve just engaged in a rout.” Joel-Andrew heard the foolishness coming from his mouth. “They were drug smugglers,” he murmured. “They had a bust coming.”
“They were probably good enough lads,” The Sailor said. “For papists.” He motioned to August Starling’s burger franchise. The walls were up, the design vaguely imitating the shape of modern banks. Stained plastic windows portrayed hamburgers and franchise cartoons. “Progress,” The Sailor said. “I haven’t had a proper tuck-in for a century.”
Joel-Andrew, employed before and during happy hour, enjoyed the unfamiliar feel of coins in his pockets. “Walk with me to The Fisherman’s Café. I’ll spring for doughnuts. The doughnuts have little colored sprinkles,” he told The Sailor. “The sprinkles are different every day.”
“Can’t be done, mate.” The Sailor sighed. “I’m technically a bloody fugitive. It’s said I busted gaol.” The Sailor looked at giggling ghosts, celebratory ghosts. “This affair brings change. If I know this crowd they wait for Frank to open Janie’s Tavern.”
Joel-Andrew felt pleased. Maggie was morose of late. A visit from this huge crowd would surely cheer her.
“The last time there was a meeting at Janie’s Tavern, August Starling received a vote of confidence. Did news of that reach you?” Joel-Andrew found himself attracted to The Sailor, who seemed straightforward.
“Bugger these townies. For that matter, bugger August Starling.” The Sailor looked at the celebrating ghosts. “They’ll give him a vote of confidence, lad. After a century, they might have learned something, but they haven’t. Can they be blamed? Before Starling hove in ’ere a second time, this was a dreary port.” He sighed, but did not hide his anger. “All their antics for a century used to entertain tourists?” The Sailor regarded Joel-Andrew with trust. “Being dead is not so bad,” he said. “But dying is ruddy bad. I’ve done it times immemorial. A bit of an expert, I suppose.”
“August Starling acts so young and innocent,” Joel-Andrew said. “Your usual ragtag run of hypocrites act old and wise.”
In the dark and misty day The Sailor’s eyes reflected memories of a hundred ports of call, memories of keelhauling, tots of rum, ocean calms, fistfights, scurvy, the beckoning arms of bar women. The Sailor remembered drug running, gunrunning. He recalled doses of clap, vibrating and windblown halyards. “The slave ships became illegal in 1806,” he said, “but the trade continued for many a year. I was but a lad . . .” The Sailor’s eyes were haunted not with ghostliness, but with memories.
Joel-Andrew did not understand. “August S
tarling dealt in bond slaves, not in Africans. All of the bond slaves were men.”
“A bit of an expert,” The Sailor muttered. “And bond slave or Afric, there was no difference, except men were raped instead of women. I’m no fool when it comes to evil. I mention slavers only to say that I understand the subject. You clergical fellows only talk about evil, just natter, natter, natter.”
Joel-Andrew told himself that it was not likely The Sailor knew more about evil than he. At least Joel-Andrew prayerfully hoped not. At the same time, he might learn something if he kept his mouth shut.
“Doubtless hell has a dark side and a darker side,” The Sailor said. “August Starling comes from the darker side.” He slowed his pace, stopped, looked at Joel-Andrew. “You clergical chaps speak of the creations of heaven. Do you think, then, there are no creations from hell?”
“It’s a new idea,” Joel-Andrew admitted. “At least it’s new to me. I’m not a theologian.” Joel-Andrew did not try to hide his puzzlement. If August Starling were evil incarnate—and that was what The Sailor seemed say—then why did the Lord bring August Starling back to Point Vestal?
“Many a tale is told before the mast,” The Sailor said, his eyes as faded as the mist. “Decent folk think of seamen as innocent packs of rats, but there’s some wisdom in the fo’c’sle. There are evil men, and there is evil which masquerades as men.” The Sailor shrugged, looked toward the Strait, the masts of fishing boats in the basin, the masts of a few yachts. “There is also purgatory, and there are purgatories. This bloody town is not heaven nor hell, but purgatory. For which,” he added, “there flaming well seems no end.”
“Purgatory? That’s a new idea.”
“It is purgatory,” the Sailor said. “You clerics use a name, then can’t connect the name with what you see.”
“I do not understand ghosts,” Joel-Andrew said.
“Do ye believe a seaman wants to go into the slave trade? Ye believe a seaman is naturally interested in evil?” The Sailor’s voice grew husky. “When a chap is starving and the prisons filled with yellow fever . . . and when the press gangs lay him aboard a vessel of the triangular trade . . .” The Sailor asked no sympathy, but asked Joel-Andrew’s attention. “Point Vestal is a port for those unworthy of consignment to hell, and don’t pull my beard about heaven. Whores, seamen, phony gentlefolk.”
Black December light seemed a velvet cloth behind The Sailor. It made The Sailor appear showcased, solid flesh instead of ghostly. “I hope I understand,” Joel-Andrew murmured.
“You don’t,” The Sailor said, “but you may come to it. The hell-born are not the whores and sailors. The hell-born are the manipulators. This purgatory of Point Vestal belongs to poor blokes who had things happen, or let things happen.” The Sailor’s eyes were momentarily hollow with death. He looked toward the boat basin, where the morose cop still stood. “I’ll be leaving you here because the many years of my life and of my death weigh like old legs on a steep hill. I journey to the basement of the bookstore. A bit of rest . . .”
“Will I see you later?” Joel-Andrew did not understand all the sorrow he felt, but knew he must not insult The Sailor by acting helpful.
“My mates and I will be at Janie’s further in the day.”
“A glass of white wine,” Joel-Andrew murmured.
“Drunk and puling and puking,” The Sailor said. “Falling-on-your-face-in-it drunk. That’s the only ticket, parson.”
The Sailor turned away, and Joel-Andrew ruminated as he passed through the black morning and walked toward town. All about him stood signs and symbols of Point Vestal’s renaissance. Discount-gasoline pumps stood like sentinels before the windows of converted service stations; the windows filled with skin magazines, hash pipes, leather, all displayed tastefully on backgrounds of black crape. August Starling’s master plan was under way, although Jerome reported none of it in the newspaper. Funeral wreaths enclosed striking new innovations imported from Seattle: dildos, mass-circulation newspapers, love oils, pastel breakfast cereal. These combined with posters displaying breasts, autographed photos of presidents, revivalists, advice columnists, and with filmed documentaries of sex practices starring nine-year-olds.
Joel-Andrew shuddered and made his way to The Fisherman’s Café. Even this early in December, a little Christmas tree decorated the café. The tree shone in black spray paint decorated with tiny ebony wreaths. The doughnuts were chocolate with licorice sprinkles.
Joel-Andrew sipped herb tea, listened to townsfolk enthusiastically discuss plans for the tourist industry. Fat men clucked and bald men chortled. Thoughtful men commented on the great changes brought through the efforts of August Starling. Two narcs spied on each other while a couple of fishermen informed the crowd around the coffeepot that August Starling was on another trip to Seattle. When the wall clock read 9:20, Joel-Andrew left for his appointment with Obed.
Chapter 22
They met, those two old friends, in the downtown basement that was once an opium den. They met in secret because Gerald did not want Obed to blow his cover. They believed they met in private, but were in for a mild surprise.
Joel-Andrew’s sandals tap-flapped on the concrete stair. He pushed the creaking door. Black December light gave way to basement darkness. Joel-Andrew struck a match, lit a fat nubbin of candle. Empty cartons, overturned tables, and high Victorian beds cast streaks of shadow. The beds belonged to ghosts who were supposed to haunt the basement, but who now celebrated victory over the Cubans. The basement seemed deserted. Every downtown rat, mouse, cricket, shrew, and garden snake had moved to uptown churches. A sweet smell of opium permeated the walls. It mixed with remembered scents of uncontrolled bladders, suppurating wounds, soy sauce.
Obed’s shadow arrived before him. Obed attempted to look jaunty, but he now carried two white whiskers and his fur was ruffled. He brushed rain from behind his ears. Obed scaled a pound or two on the light side. His white tail slouched like an endangered species.
“Your lady friend,” Joel-Andrew inquired.
He received no direct answer. Obed’s affair was not going well. The undercover work kept him from home and hearth. He ate pickup meals and caught an occasional catnap. His throat felt scratchy, his singing rusted.
It was, Joel-Andrew realized, a lonesome situation. He sat cross legged on the floor, for all the world like a yogi with sprains. A man does not become deeply involved with a cat then dismiss the involvement lightly. Obed licked rain from his paws, purred in competent Chinese. Obed made a couple of moves to restrain himself—decided restraint could go to perdition—and hopped onto Joel-Andrew’s right knee.
“It must be difficult for you,” Joel-Andrew murmured. “I confess it is difficult for me.”
Obed assured him that this, too, would pass. Warm evenings in The Parsonage’s basement must still be in the future. Then Obed shivered, looked frightened momentarily, but resumed his oration. A job must be done. Obed’s purr faltered. When he switched to Latin his syntax shattered like crumbled flakes of dried catnip.
They sat in silence, like old Shakers regarding God or furniture design. A distant honk sounded, either a Canada goose or a Pierce-Arrow; while faint and faraway, from a store upstairs, Jerome’s voice solicited an ad for next week’s paper.
Neither Joel-Andrew or Obed could say who first heard desperate and suppressed sobs coming from the back of the room. Someone hid in terror.
“I doubt it is a ghost,” Joel-Andrew told Obed. “The ghosts are at the boat basin. They wait for Frank to open Janie’s Tavern.” Obed hopped from Joel-Andrew’s knee and faced the door, prepared for sudden attack or defense.
“We are only a defrocked priest and a cat,” Joel-Andrew murmured to the sobbing silence. “We will not harm you.”
The sobs burbled.
“We want to help,” Joel-Andrew whispered.
“Even”—a voice choked—“even if I’m Irish?”
“Look at it this way,” Joel-Andrew said. “Things are not so bad. You co
uld be Dutch.”
“My hair is a mess.” Collette crept from behind the bed. “Don’t look at me. I’ve been hiding for two hours.” Her dark hair looked limp in flickering candlelight.
Obed pointed out that his own fur was a mess, and that Joel-Andrew last had a haircut in 1966. Obed pointed out that Collette’s problem—whatever it was—had little to do with good grooming. Obed took a seat, and the three sat around the flickering candle like Campfire Girls telling ghost stories.
“It would help,” Collette sniffed apologetically, “if I were not so awfully interested in history.” She wadded a well-used hankie. Her blue eyes blinked pale, her dark hair tangled around a face Joel-Andrew thought as pretty as any he had ever seen. Collette’s mouth was small though generous, but her cute little Irish chin trembled. The hankie looked exhausted.
“We’ll start with the nose,” Joel-Andrew told her. “Once the nose is fixed, the rest will get fixed.” Joel-Andrew had not owned a handkerchief since he left Rhode Island, but his violin lay protected by remnants of an old bed sheet. He opened the case and passed the cloth to Collette. Obed lowered his gaze discreetly as Collette snerked and snorted. Joel-Andrew twanged a violin string, ran his finger along a string, and the violin sounded a little sneeze.
Collette snerked and giggled, then gave a sob. “It’s time jumps,” she said. “Worse than that, it’s August Starling.” The candle cast a golden glow like the gleam of Obed’s eyes. “It isn’t that I would not like a lover,” she admitted, “but who needs it if you’ve got to be dead to get it?”
From outside the opium den came the chatter of ghosts headed for Janie’s Tavern.
“. . . so what will Gerald do?” a querulous and ghostly voice asked. “If we kick up a bit, what is he going to do? He can’t put us all in the pokey?”
“Yep,” answered the disconsolate voice of the morose cop. “He can.”
The Off Season Page 15
