F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (10 page)

 
          
He
thought he remembered passing a place named Morton's on his way in. And then up
ahead he saw it, by the railroad track crossing, a white stucco one-story box
of a building with "Morton's Liquors" painted in big black letters
along the side.

 
          
Father
Adams' words echoed back to him ...on another bender ...

 
          
Zev
pushed his bicycle to the front door and tried the knob. Locked up tight. A
look inside showed a litter of trash, broken bottles, and empty shelves. The
windows were barred; the back door was steel and locked as securely as the
front. So where was Father Joe?

 
          
Then,
by the overflowing trash Dumpster, he spotted the basement window at ground
level. It wasn't latched. Zev went down on his knees and pushed it open.

 
          
Cool,
damp, musty air wafted against his face as he peered into the Stygian darkness.
It occurred to him that he might be asking for trouble by sticking his head
inside, but he had to give it a try. If Father Cahill wasn't here, Zev would
begin the return trek to
Lakewood
and write off this whole trip as wasted effort.

 
          
"Father
Joe?" he called. "Father Cahill?"

 
          
"That
you again, Chris?" said a slightly slurred voice. "Go home, will you?
I'm all right. I'll be back later."

 
          
"It's
me, Joe. Zev. From
Lakewood
."

 
          
He
heard shoes scraping on the floor and then a familiar face appeared in the
shaft of light from the window.

 
          
"Well
I'll be damned. It is you! Thought you were Brother Chris come to drag me back
to the retreat house. Gets scared I'm gonna get stuck out after dark. So how ya
doin', Reb? Glad to see you're still alive. Come on in!"

 
          
Zev
noted Father Cahill's glassy eyes and how he swayed ever so slightly, like a
skyscraper in the wind. His hair was uncombed, and his faded jeans and worn
Bruce Springsteen Tunnel of Love Tour sweatshirt made him look more like a
laborer than a priest.

 
          
Zev's
heart twisted at the sight of his friend in such condition. Such a mensch like
Father Joe shouldn't be acting like a shikker. Maybe it was a mistake coming
here.

 
          
"I
don't have that much time, Joe. I came to tell you—"

 
          
"Get
your bearded ass down here and have a drink or I'll come up and drag you
down."

 
          
"All
right," Zev said. "I'll come in but I won't have a drink."

 
          
He
hid his bike behind the Dumpster, then squeezed through the window. Joe helped
him to the floor. They embraced, slapping each other on the back. Father Joe
was a bigger man, a giant from Zev's perspective. At six-four he was ten inches
taller, at thirty-five he was a quarter-century younger; he had a muscular
frame, thick brown hair, and—on better days—clear blue eyes.

 
          
"You're
grayer, Zev, and you've lost weight."

 
          
"Kosher
food is not so easily come by these days."

 
          
"All
kinds of food are getting scarce." He touched the cross slung from Zev's
neck and smiled. "Nice touch. Goes well with your zizith."

 
          
Zev
fingered the fringe protruding from under his shirt. Old habits didn't die
easily.

 
          
"Actually,
I've grown rather fond of it."

 
          
"So
what can I pour you?" the priest said, waving an arm at the crates of
liquor stacked around him. "My own private reserve. Name your
poison."

 
          
"I
don't want a drink."

 
          
"Come
on, Reb. I've got some nice hundred-proof Stoli here. You've got to have at
least one drink—"

 
          
"Why?
Because you think maybe you shouldn't drink alone?"

 
          
Father
Joe winced. "Ouch!"

 
          
"All
right," Zev said. "Bisel. I'll have one drink on the condition that
you don't have one. Because I wish to talk to you."

 
          
The
priest considered that a moment, then reached for the vodka bottle.

 
          
"Deal."

 
          
He
poured a generous amount into a paper cup and handed it over. Zev took a sip.
He was not a drinker and when he did imbibe he preferred his vodka ice cold
from a freezer. But this was tasty. Father Cahill sat back on a case of Jack
Daniel's and folded his arms.

 
          
"Nu?"
the priest said with a Jackie Mason shrug.

 
          
Zev
had to laugh. "Joe, I still say that somewhere in your family tree is
Jewish blood."

 
          
For
a moment he felt light, almost happy. When was the last time he had laughed?
Probably at their table near the back of Horovitz's deli, shortly before the St.
Anthony's nastiness began, well before the undead came.

 
          
Zev
thought of the day they'd met. He'd been standing at the counter at Horovitz's
waiting for Yussel to wrap up the stuffed derma he'd ordered when this young
giant walked in. He towered over the rabbis and yeshiva students in the place,
looking as Irish as Paddy's pig, and wearing a Roman collar. He said he'd heard
this was the only place on the whole
Jersey
Shore
where you could get a decent corned beef
sandwich. He ordered one and cheerfully warned that it better be good. Yussel
asked him what could he know about good corned beef and the priest replied that
he'd grown up in Bensonhurst. Well, about half the people in Horovitz's on that
day—and on any other day, for that matter—had grown up in Bensonhurst, and
before you knew it they were all asking him if he knew such-and-such a store
and so-and-so's deli.

 
          
Zev
then informed the priest—with all due respect to Yussel Horovitz behind the
counter—that the best corned beef sandwich in the world was to be had at Shmuel
Rosenberg's Jerusalem Deli in Bensonhurst. Father Cahill said he'd been there
and agreed one hundred percent.

 
          
Yussel
served him his sandwich then. As the priest took a huge bite out of the corned
beef on rye, the normal tumel of a deli at lunchtime died away until Horovitz's
was as quiet as a shul on Sunday morning. Everyone watched him chew, watched
him swallow. Then they waited. Suddenly his face broke into this big Irish
grin.

 
          
"I'm
afraid I'm going to have to change my vote," he said. "Horovitz's of
Lakewood
makes the best corned beef sandwich in the
world."

 
          
Amid
cheers and warm laughter, Zev led Father Cahill to the rear table that would
become theirs, and sat with this canny and charming gentile who had so easily
won over a roomful of strangers and provided such a mechaieh for Yussel. He
learned that the young priest was the new assistant to Father Palmeri, the
pastor at St. Anthony's Catholic Church at the northern end of
Lakewood
. Father Palmeri had been there for years
but Zev had never so much as seen his face. He asked Father Cahill—who wanted
to be called Joe—about life in
Brooklyn
these days and they talked for an hour.

 
          
During
the following months they would run into each other so often at Horovitz's that
they decided to meet regularly for lunch, on Mondays and Thursdays. They did so
for years, discussing religion—oy, the religious discussions!—politics,
economics, philosophy, life in general. During those lunchtimes they solved
most of the world's problems. Zev was sure they'd have solved them all if the
scandal at St. Anthony's hadn't resulted in Father Joe's removal from the
parish.

 
          
But
that was in another time, another world. The world before the undead took over.

 
          
Zev
shook his head as he considered the current state of Father Joe in the dusty
basement of Morton's Liquors.

 
          
"It's
about the vampires, Joe," he said, taking another sip of the Stoli.
"They've taken over St. Anthony's."

 
          
Father
Joe snorted and shrugged.

 
          
"They're
in the majority now, Zev, remember? They've taken over the whole East Coast.
Why should St. Anthony's be different from any other parish?"

 
          
"I
didn't mean the parish. I meant the church."

 
          
The
priest's eyes widened slightly. "The church? They've taken over the
building itself?"

 
          
"Every
night," Zev said. "Every night they are there."

 
          
"That's
a holy place. How do they manage that?"

 
          
"They've
desecrated the altar, destroyed all the crosses. St. Anthony's is no longer a
holy place."

 
          
"Too
bad," Father Joe said, looking down and shaking his head sadly. "It
was a fine old church." He looked up again. "How do you know about
what's going on at St. Anthony's? It's not exactly in your neighborhood."

 
          
"A
neighborhood I don't exactly have any more."

 
          
Father
Joe reached over and gripped his shoulder with a huge hand.

 
          
"I'm
sorry, Zev. I heard your people got hit pretty hard over there. Sitting ducks,
huh? I'm really sorry."

 
          
Sitting
ducks. An appropriate description.

 
          
"Not
as sorry as I, Joe," Zev said. "But since my neighborhood is gone,
and since I have hardly any friends left, I use the daylight hours to wander.
So call me the Wandering Jew. And in my wanderings I meet some of your old
parishioners."

 
          
The
priest's face hardened. His voice became acid.

 
          
"Do
you, now. And how fare the remnants of my devoted flock?"

 
          
"They've
lost all hope, Joe. They wish you were back."

 
          
He
barked a bitter laugh. "Sure they do! Just like they rallied behind me
when my name and honor were being dragged through the muck. Yeah, they want me
back. I'll bet!"

 
          
"Such
anger, Joe. It doesn't become you."

 
          
"Bullshit.
That was the old Joe Cahill, the naive turkey who believed all his faithful
parishioners would back him up. But no. A child points a finger and the bishop
removes me. And how do the people I dedicated my life to respond? They all
stand by in silence as I'm railroaded out of my parish."

 
          
"It's
hard for the commonfolk to buck a bishop."

 
          
"Maybe.
But I can't forget how they stood quietly by while I was stripped of my
position, my dignity, my integrity, of everything I wanted to be . . ."

 
          
Zev
thought Joe's voice was going to break. He was about to reach out to him when
the priest coughed and squared his shoulders.

 
          
"Meanwhile,
I'm a pariah over here in the retreat house, a goddamn leper. Some of them
actually believe—" He broke off in a growl. "Ah, what's the use? It's
over and done. Most of the parish is dead anyway, I suppose. And if I'd stayed
there I'd probably be dead too. So maybe it worked out for the best. And who
gives a shit anyway?"