The Off Season

by The Off Season (epub)

  “Evil exists on a lot of levels,” Bev told him. “You prophets try to make things too simple.” Bev dressed worse than a tourist. She wore nice wool trousers, wool shirt, a down parka. She carried a rolled jacket beneath one arm. Her long hair was tucked beneath a colorful sock hat. She stood warm and cozy and did not look Victorian at all.

  “You’ll freeze your brisket.” She passed him the jacket. “You get so distracted, you forget prophets can freeze the same as folks.”

  Joel-Andrew pointed toward the missile frigates and the helicopter. “Are those evil?”

  “Nope,” Bev said, “they are machines.” She shook her head, smiled her wide and warm smile. She looked schoolteachery. “I’m going to tell you all about Evil. Then we go to The Fisherman’s Café for a decent meal. Then you go to The Parsonage and get some rest. Tomorrow there’s going to be a confrontation. You’ll need your strength.” Bev’s motherly concern sounded positive as a dictator. It made Joel-Andrew feel loved.

  “What confrontation?”

  “It’s a surprise,” Bev giggled. “Just say I’ve received another message from Samuel. He figures you’ll play at least a small part.” Bev looked toward the helicopter. “I wonder if those people read lips.” Then she returned to her subject. “There is no such thing as original sin, but there is an original state. We are all born unto ignorance.”

  “I wish I had Samuel’s wrath,” Joel-Andrew admitted.

  “You’re a sweetie pie,” Bev said, and sighed as she goaded Joel-Andrew. “As a martyr, you’d be great.”

  Along Main Street, Disney characters gave out hugs and black balloons. The Marine Band played a strident march. Singers wearing cowboy outfits and carrying guitars mingled with noted revivalists, comedians, politicians.

  “Evil is a force rising in history,” Bev explained. “It comes from weakness, from intellectual decay. It rises when things get too sloppy.”

  “There is ancient evil,” Joel-Andrew murmured. “August Starling is old as time.”

  “August Starling is a twerp,” Bev explained. “I don’t care if he’s ancient, he’s still a twerp.”

  “He’s a twerp with the souls of Point Vestal in his pocket,” Joel-Andrew admitted sadly. “As a prophet, I’m supposed to save folks from August Starling.” From the Strait a porpoise stood straight up in the water, the porpoise’s smile sarcastic.

  “That may be the sin of Pride, because they have to save themselves. I’ll give you a tad bit of advice.” Bev’s voice was kind. “Save the ones who want to be saved. If you try saving them all, you won’t net any.”

  “What does Samuel want me to do?”

  “We’re not finished with Evil yet.” Bev remained teacherly. “Evil is a force generated by ignorance. It is a totally powerful force that through history has used some ugly tricks. Evil is not weak.”

  “Yet you say August Starling is a twerp.” Joel-Andrew felt himself warming up in the soft clasp of the jacket. He looked forward to a nice discussion.

  “The twerps start it,” Bev sighed, “but the twerps are only twerps. It is the force of Evil that builds and becomes something.” She touched Joel-Andrew on the shoulder, turned him toward the Strait, where missile frigates blinked code to a shorebound intelligence unit. The frigates received a message and began cruising in reckless little circles. “As it builds,” Bev said, “people take it serious. Then the twerps feel like great big boys, but they’re still twerps.” She was sad, and turned toward Main Street. “The mind of the Middle Ages is not dead.” She turned back to Joel-Andrew. “Don’t you ever get angry?”

  “Only at myself,” Joel-Andrew said miserably. “What does Samuel want me to do?”

  “There will be a parade,” Bev told him. “Samuel wants you at the parade.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t know,” Bev told him. “Just be there. The parade starts by the cliffs where the pharmaceutical company sits. It winds three miles down past the saltwater swamp and the boat basin.”

  In the far distance, like the rattle of small-arms fire, pops and cracks and explosions sounded from the boat basin. Explosions puffed hard against the black and silver sky.

  “Chinese New Year,” Bev explained. “Lots of firecrackers. The Chinese start early this year. They don’t usually come ashore until late afternoon of Chinese New Year’s Eve.”

  Joel-Andrew looked worried. “The Parsonage sits very near the boat basin,” he said. “I hope the Chinese are judicious.”

  “If the situation gets irksome or dangerous, The Parsonage will simply move.” Bev had seen The Parsonage take care of itself for more years than she cared to remember. She looked to the horizon, at the stunt-flying ducks. “I wish Maggie were here,” she murmured. “It is a shame for Maggie to miss a show like that.” On the Strait a pod of orca whales looped across the surface. They chuckled as they passed the missile frigates. “Come with me,” Bev told Joel-Andrew. “Samuel is paying for your breakfast, even if he doesn’t know it.”

  “I’m not rich,” Joel-Andrew protested, “but I’m not broke.”

  “This one is on the Methodists.” Bev firmly guided Joel-Andrew by the elbow.

  Tourists plugged every cranny of The Fisherman’s Café. Tourists stood in long lines excitedly discussing virtues of hookers named Bambi and Lance and Fawn and Dirk and Lollipop. Tourists waved gilt-edged certificates of indulgence, and they burbled happily of orgasm, immortality, resurrection. The poster on the front of The Fisherman’s Café still proclaimed “Point Vestal Wants You,” but now the poster carried an artist’s rendition of the real estate lady’s legs. Graffiti surrounded the drawing.

  “No one has yet stepped forward to claim that free funeral,” Joel-Andrew muttered to Bev. “Perhaps August Starling’s parade will fail because he lacks a corpse.”

  “You know better than that,” Bev said, and she was grim. “If Starling is short a corpse, he’ll make one.” She looked at Joel-Andrew. “It won’t be you, although in many ways you have a lot of appeal.”

  “We must stop him from committing another murder.”

  “Forget that and do your job,” Bev told him. “Gerald, and the Irish cop, and the morose cop, and The Sailor are working on the murder angle.” She led Joel-Andrew to the back door of The Fisherman’s Café. They ate breakfast in the warm kitchen. Bev finished first. “Get some rest,” she said, and departed to open her bookstore.

  When he finished eating, Joel-Andrew walked toward The Parsonage. He felt despair because he could not see any difference between Main Street and San Francisco. He paused and watched the boat basin. It was interesting to see Chinese come ashore.

  Chinese emerged dripping, seaweed flowing as long as their plaited hair. They bowed to those of their tribe who were ancient. Seaweed fell away, and as clothing dried, Chinese faces became inscrutable. Younger members blasted away with firecrackers. Elderly Chinese sat in meditation or conversed quietly. A white tail flicked among the Chinese. Obed was too busy to wave toward Joel-Andrew, and that made Joel-Andrew feel lonely. Obed sat respectfully in a circle of old men.

  Joel-Andrew looked toward the saltwater swamp, then looked again at the Chinese. They were naked to the waist, wore baggy trousers, were slight but muscular. He estimated there were as many present as one would find at a well-advertised rock concert. The Chinese flowed, flickered; and a framework rising in the center of their group was not, after all, the keel of a new boat. It looked like the skeletons of dinosaurs seen in museums. Joel-Andrew recognized that the Chinese were constructing: a dragon.

  Joel-Andrew turned toward The Parsonage. A bell in the octagonal tower clinked a tiny welcome. The Parsonage stood deserted, the Victorians in town working, or possibly laying plots. He realized Bev was correct, because he was as tired as he had ever been. The all-seeing tower watched him head for the basement, then turned its attention elsewhere.

  The all-seeing tower briefly noted a lavish tour ship at some distance up the Strait. It moved slowly, looking for solid ground
to ride at anchor until the following day. A dance orchestra aboard ship performed for tourists, and for a man in a glowing black robe. The man carried a battery pack beneath the robe. Above his head, light from the pack formed a hologram, a purple halo. The all-seeing tower puzzled to itself, then watched Collette’s antique store as Collette opened one more box of roses. There were twelve black roses and one white one. The all-seeing tower watched Collette flee, followed by six Sicilian gunmen. The all-seeing tower trembled. The Parsonage flexed its timbers.

  In surrounding forests, thousands of shadows moved beneath the black and silver sky; shadows like men, and shadows like animals. At the boat basin fireworks still popped, while along the main street of Point Vestal cash registers chugged, tinkled, spat receipts. In upstairs rooms, Dawns and Dirks and Bambis were hard at work. In Janie’s Tavern Frank tapped another keg, and Maggie muttered maledictions and predicted storms. Jerome took meticulous notes from his observation post beside City Hall, while Bev steered customers to the section of books on theology. Kune leaned against the counter of the drugstore as he put together a small medical kit. The sweet smell of opium drifted toward the boat basin. The all-seeing tower searched everywhere for Samuel and his horse, finally spotting them in the forest. The Parsonage continued to flex its timbers; and, while all of this was going on, Joel-Andrew snored the sleep of an exhausted man.

  The all-seeing tower was fascinated, but turned away to watch the loading dock at the pharmaceutical company. A gorgeous ebony coffin, big as a bedroom, sat on the freight elevator.

  Chapter 29

  Dreams came and went, and sweat burst across Joel-­Andrew like erupting pustules. Sometimes he thought he was awake, and sometimes he dreamed he was dreaming. He jerked into wakefulness, then—as if dragged by a claw or hook—sank back into the chasm of sleep. He mumbled and heard ancient prophecies. Pictures of seven golden chalices, of seven fatted cattle, of seven bronze trumpets flared. He saw pictures of nomadic armies; men wearing crude leather helmets, carrying spears and slings and flags—the men followed by tribe after tribe of women, children, and the old. He saw rivers flowing, saw opposing armies of peoples camped in colorful tents on opposite banks of steaming rivers. He saw processions of camels, giraffes, ostriches, gorgeously ornamented and draped with painted robes, stepping along sandy beaches. He heard the voices of black Kings, of white Kings. He heard ancient prophets, and the murmurs of a thousand Gods. He heard the horns of Joshua, the horns of Gideon, the young and petulant voice of Jonah.

  Sodom. Gomorrah. San Francisco. Nineveh.

  He heard the voices of Gerald, of the Irish cop, of The Sailor. The morose cop spoke while Kune diagnosed a situation. Joel-Andrew clawed toward wakefulness, dreamed of his great responsibility, and the bronze trumpets became rams’ horns, bugles, the sound of storming winds.

  “Let the poor bloke sleep,” The Sailor said as he entered the basement. “He’s of no help in this bloody business anyway.” The Sailor’s voice just missed being hoarse with emotion.

  Kune lighted a lamp. Above them, whispery footsteps sounded as Victorians returned from downtown. The Victorians did not chat, exclaim, recite poetry. The footsteps sounded weary.

  In the near distance, fireworks exploded around the boat basin, and from Main Street came the snort of a calliope. The Irish cop entered the basement, restrained by Gerald.

  “You have one of two options.” Gerald threatened the Irish cop. “Either get yourself in control, or I call a priest.” Gerald’s was a cop’s voice. “You were outnumbered. You couldn’t have done much against six Sicilians with machine guns.”

  The Irish cop struggled to pull free. His face twisted with anger and pain. Gerald’s hawkish face, his jaw lanternlike, his scarred hands, exerted steadying force over the Irish cop. The morose cop stood silent and attentive. Ripples of Chinese expostulations came from the boat basin.

  “I’ll take them out with a shillelagh,” the Irish cop said, his voice frantic. “’Tis me own fault Collette is stole, but August Starling distracted everyone’s attention. He announced I was the man resurrected after sixty years. A mob surrounded me. They wanted autographs.” The Irish cop buried his face in his hands. “They spirited her away before me very eyes. She’s dead by now. By all that’s holy, and all that isn’t, I’ll get revenge.” The Irish cop sobbed.

  “She isn’t dead,” Kune said quietly.

  “And a goose don’t whistle,” the morose cop paraphrased Collette, “’cause a goose got a hisser-kisser.”

  “Place your lips together tightly,” Kune told the morose cop. “Keep them rigidly in place. Doctor’s orders.” Kune turned to Gerald. “Give me two minutes of silence while I diagnose this mess.”

  Gerald nodded. At Gerald’s back, asleep on an old mattress, Joel-Andrew’s body shook. Perspiration stood on his forehead. The Sailor watched him. “Been a bit overlong on watch,” The Sailor murmured. “I recall such nights.”

  “Button it,” Gerald whispered.

  Silence was punctuated by firecrackers, by whispers from upstairs rooms where Victorians complained or plotted. Silence was soothed by the sigh of a silver wind around the all-seeing tower.

  “Collette is not dead,” Kune said finally. “It works out this way . . . she is drugged. The drug is carefully timed. Collette will be in the coffin and the coffin will be in the parade. August Starling figures to open that coffin just before Collette comes out of a drugged sleep . . . and at the same time the new messiah arrives. It is set up to look like a resurrection.”

  “Mother of God,” the Irish cop said. “Be praised there’s still hope.” The Irish cop popped his knuckles, looked for something that could be used as a club.

  “This bloke’s a flaming genius,” The Sailor said to Gerald, and he talked about Kune. The Sailor’s voice no longer sounded hoarse. Of Kune he asked, “Where is the lass kept?”

  “That’s the easy part,” Kune told them, his yellow hair white in the lamplight. His face, which had once been so filled with old grief, was now lined with concentration. He looked like a man about to jump into a fight he knows he can win. “Collette is stashed in a coffin on the loading dock of the pharmaceutical company. Six Sicilians with machine guns guard the place.”

  The Sailor walked toward the door, pleased with the chance to rescue Collette. His shoulders squared. His shaggy black hair and shaggy black beard looked nearly alive. Gerald restrained him. “We need a plan,” Gerald said.

  “I have died more than five thousand times,” The Sailor told him, and The Sailor’s voice held dignity. “One more time? What odds?” If The Sailor was mortally angered, no one could tell.

  “It’s a hostage situation,” Gerald explained. He turned to the morose cop. “Is that fancy police van working? We need a diversion.”

  The morose cop straightened his skinny frame. He spit accurately into a cuspidor no more than fifteen feet away. “I know the workings of every button on that honker,” he told Gerald in CB language. “Plus, the rig itself ain’t hardly even got any dents.”

  “I see it this way,” Kune diagnosed. “The morose cop parks the van a hundred yards from the pharmaceutical company, on the side away from the loading dock. He sets off lights and rockets. He lays down fire with his flamethrower. When the building is burning nicely, he lets off his heat seeking missiles.” Kune’s voice saddened. “I hate this next part. We’re going to kill some Sicilians.”

  “We’ll take ’em alive,” Gerald said. “Set off the lights and rockets. Don’t fire the missiles. I’ll set off firecrackers to the left. The Irish cop lights off firecrackers to the right. They will be mistaken for small-arms fire. The Sailor circles the building and comes in sneaky from their blind side. The Sailor steals Collette.”

  “You got it wrong,” the Irish cop said. “The Irishman comes in like Brian Boru. The Irishman takes back his own. He sneaks not, nor does he steal.”

  “If that’s the way it must be.” Gerald looked at the Irish cop who was his friend. “Take care,”
Gerald said. “You’ve been pickled, but you’ve never died. It isn’t the least bit fun.”

  “Irishman or not, the lad deserves his chance. The lass is his granddaughter.” The Sailor pointed upward, where Victorians whispered or plotted. He chuckled. “Another interested party resides upstairs.”

  “Yes,” Kune diagnosed. “I believe we might ask Agatha if she would take Collette’s place in that coffin. After a century, Agatha deserves a shot at August Starling. It will make a nice surprise when that little priss opens the box expecting to see Collette, and finds the woman he danced with nearly a hundred years ago.”

  “This situation jolly well gets nastier and nastier.” The Sailor chuckled.

  “I’ll ride with the morose cop,” Kune said.

  “You’ll keep your medical self right here,” Gerald told him. “We’re bringing a woman back who’ll need a doctor.” Kune was about to protest. “That’s final,” Gerald said. “You stay here with the preacher.”

  “Leg over leg . . .” The Sailor said, “the old dog got to Dover.” He led the other men through the doorway and into the silver night.

  Kune silenced. Joel-Andrew dreaming.

  The dreams refashioned themselves, played over and over; changed from graphic to impressionist; changed from prediction to prophesy; changed finally to memory—and a memory, suppressed through too many years on the streets—returned and captured him. He allowed himself to know that the year had been 1966. He heard the clear voice of the Lord saying, “Go to San Francisco.”

  So he left Rhode Island, riding a bus across the Lord’s Creation. He went to San Francisco, and saw things strange and beautiful, and, most of all, ugly. He saw a drugged girl standing nearly naked in an alley. She fled screaming.

  Joel-Andrew pushed the dream away. He allowed himself to dream of a slightly later time. He had been in the Haight nearly a year before he was excommunicated for performing unauthorized miracles, and for molesting a violin. The excommunication was not flamboyant. It was, in fact, a bit dull.