The Good Atheist Read online

  It turned out that Clarence was good for his word.

  23

  I didn’t go to bed when I returned to the hotel. I sat in the chair with my feet up on the bed, staring at the greasy walls. Clarence said he’d get the note to my father tonight, and I wanted to be ready. I figured that if Dad got the message tonight, then there was a good chance he’d try to answer tonight. At least, if it was my son that I hadn’t seen in years, I would.

  But there were a lot of problems with my plan, and worry helped keep me awake. From Dad’s point of view, anyone could have written that note. He had no way of knowing it wasn’t a trap. He was wanted by the Tolerance Bureau, and there were heretic hunters looking for him.

  Or he wouldn’t care. I hadn’t heard from him in years, after all. I might be wasting my time, sitting in this rotten hotel for who knows how long waiting for a call that never comes.

  And I couldn’t wait forever. I had a job, a wife, and a life to get back to. At least, I still hoped I had a wife. After what happened with Paige at the cottage, I wasn’t sure about that any more. I had two more days of vacation left. I could stretch things a bit beyond that, but not much if I still wanted to keep my job.

  I decided to give it three more days, tops. If Dad didn’t contact me at the hotel by tomorrow afternoon, I’d spend the last couple of days hanging around the soup kitchen, hoping to catch sight of ‘Morpheus’.

  I dozed off in my chair. Around midnight a polite rap on the door to my room woke me up. It took me a moment to remember where I was and shake the fuzz out of my head.

  The polite rap was followed by more insistent knocking. I reached the door and opened it a couple of inches, leaving the chain on, and looked out.

  A very attractive blonde stood in the hallway, looking back at me with smoky eyes. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to open the door for me?” she said.

  “Who are you?”

  “You left a note for Morpheus…”

  I closed the door, took the chain off, and swung the door wide for her. She walked straight in and I closed the door behind her.

  She stood in the middle of the room, looked around for a moment before turning her attention to me. She held me with an appraising look.

  She was tall, just an inch or so shorter than me, and seemed to be about my age. Her shoulder-length hair was perfectly coiffed underneath a wide-brimmed blue hat that perched at an angle. She wore a matching dark-blue jacket, padded and wide at the shoulders and narrowed towards the waist, nicely accentuating her figure. The jacket was short-sleeved, and she had long white gloves that reached her elbows. A narrow blue skirt reached the top of her knees.

  I hadn’t changed since getting back from the soup kitchen, and I suddenly felt very self-conscious about my appearance. She was clearly in a whole different league than me.

  She looked me up and down. “You must be Jack.”

  “Ah, yeah. Who are you? I was expecting my Father.”

  “Never mind who I am. Why are you looking for Morpheus?”

  “Why does everyone keep asking me that question? He’s my father.”

  “Well, so you say. We haven’t determined that yet, have we?”

  I straightened my back. “Listen, lady, I don’t appreciate being called a liar.”

  She grinned. “You look just like him when he’s angry. How cute.” She looked up and down my frame, and then held my eyes for a minute. “I suppose you could be his son. It’s been a while, and at any rate I doubt you’re with the Thought Police. You’ve been much too clumsy in your search to be a pro.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  She reached into her purse, pulled out a small slip of folded paper, and held it out for me. “Meet me at this place in an hour.”

  I took it from her. “Why?”

  “Do you want to meet your father or not?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then be at that address in an hour,” she said. Then she went to the door and pulled it open. Standing in the open door she turned around and looked at me. “And you may want to shave and change into something a little less…frumpy. Remember, one hour. When you arrive, tell them you’re with Octavia.”

  “Not Trinity?” I said.

  She laughed briefly, her eyes flashing back at me, then walked out. I shut the door behind her and unfolded the note. It was just a street address, somewhere here in Queens.

  24

  The address was an old red-brick building that might have once been a factory. The cab dropped me at the curb in front of what I hoped was the entrance. A late-night rain shower had left the pavement wet. While I paid the cabbie with some of my precious Euros, another cab stopped, and a sharply dressed young couple got out. They went to the door and knocked. A small window in the door slid open. They said something, and the door opened for them. I wasn’t close enough to hear what was said.

  I went to the door and knocked. The window slid open, and a man looked out at me. Loud dance music from the depths of the building behind him reached my ears. I could only see part of his face. He didn’t say anything, apparently waiting for me.

  “I’m with Octavia,” I said.

  The door swung open, the music suddenly got louder, and I stepped inside. The man shut the door behind me, and when I hesitated in the foyer, he pointed down the hallway, where the music seemed to emanate from.

  I followed the music down the arched hallway. The walls and ceiling were made of the same red brick and mortar as the exterior. Arches sprang from the floor every ten feet and came to a point in the middle of the ceiling. I walked down the hallway, passing a few couples talking or necking between the arches. The hallway came to an end at a set of wide stone steps. Laughter and talking mingled with jazz, and tobacco smoke drifted up towards me. Another brick archway at the bottom of the stairs opened into a large, dimly lit room filled with people and tables and blue haze from a hundred cigars and cigarettes.

  A long bar made of brass and mahogany ran along the back of the room, attended by a man and woman in leather. Semi-private booths lined the other walls, and the floor in the middle was filled with round tables, littered with glasses and ashtrays, and chairs filled with people talking and laughing and drinking.

  I stood at the bottom of the stairs looking around. The glow from the burning ends of cigarettes punctuated the gloom and smoke-filled air. The women wore their hair either cut severely short or elaborately coiffed. Most of them had hats and wide-shouldered jackets, making it more difficult to spot Octavia in the dim light. I kept looking around until I noticed a woman looking in my direction. She was sitting alone at a small table, and although the top of her face was darkened by the shadow of her hat, she seemed to be staring right at me. I made my way across the floor towards her, weaving a path through the packed tables. Octavia looked up at me when I reached the table.

  She’d changed her hat. This time it was a small pointy affair angled down towards her right eye. The other side of her face was half-covered by black mesh. She wore black opera gloves and was holding a cigarette in a long-stemmed holder. There was a small glass filled with dark liquid in front of her.

  She nodded towards the bar. “Get yourself something.”

  I looked around the room and then at her. “Why’d you pick this dark little hole to meet?”

  She took a drag from her cigarette and let some smoke trickle out of her mouth. “It’s discreet. They take cash and don’t ask questions, they don’t maintain surveillance devices, and don’t like the Thought Police any more that we do.”

  “When do I meet my father?”

  “In due time, but first, go get yourself something. And then a few questions.”

  I started to sit down. “I’m okay. I’m not much of a drinker or smoker.”

  “Get something anyway. You’ll look too out of place otherwise.” Her eyes flickered down over my body for a moment, then met my eyes again. “And you already look odd enough with that getup you have on.”

  I was we
aring blue jeans, a dark green cotton shirt, and black polyester spring jacket. And I had a New York Giants ball cap. I thought I looked pretty spiffy. I looked around at the other men in the room. Most of them had buzz cuts or completely clean-shaven heads, with little round caps with either no beaks or small ones. Neatly trimmed goatees. Narrow slacks, black and dark hues, long narrow black boots, tight leather tunics or vests. Many of the pants were multicolored, with one leg a dark color and the other yellow or bright green.

  There wasn’t a pair of blue jeans or thread of polyester to be seen. I also probably weighed more than any two of these guys put together.

  It seemed I had problems with blending no matter where I went.

  I went up to the bar. There was a wide selection of illegal tobacco products along with bottles of Scotch and rye. I really didn’t like to drink, and having one now at this time of night would only put me to sleep, but I’d always liked cigars. And there was a huge stainless-steel-and-brass espresso maker, so there was hope. Any place with an expensive espresso maker was likely to know what they were doing when it came to coffee.

  The guy behind the bar came towards me. I nodded at the row of cigars. I hadn’t had any since tobacco was banned a few years ago. “What kind of cigars do you have?”

  He leaned on the counter in front of me and looked at my baseball cap, then turned to look at the display behind the bar. “We’ve got some Honduran Cuban seed, some Connecticut broadleaf. There’s a nice mellow Dominican.” He looked at me and awaited my decision.

  “I’ll take the Honduran, and an espresso.” I put a couple Euros on the counter, and he swept them away just a quickly. I knew there would be no change forthcoming. He handed me the box, and I picked out a cigar. There was a cutter on the bar, and he pushed it towards me. I used it to cut one end off and cut just the tip of the other.

  “I’ll call you when the espresso is ready,” he said.

  I returned to the table and sat down across from Octavia. She handed me a lighter, a big silver thing that looked like it could jump start a small hovercraft. I flicked it open and lit my cigar, slowly turning it as I held it against the flame.

  She watched me closely while I was occupied with the cigar. I got it going and took a nice long draw. It was smooth and mellow. I’d forgotten how much I liked cigars. I rolled the smoke around in my mouth before breathing out.

  She looked at my hat. “Would you please take that silly thing off your head? You look ridiculous enough as it is. Wherever did you find it?”

  I took another puff. The hat stayed where it was. “Is my father here, or did you just bring me here to insult the way I dress?”

  She smiled and pulled out a smartphone from a pocket someplace. Her clothes were so tight-fitting I wondered where she could have been keeping it. “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  She touched a bright icon on the display of her phone. “On how you answer a few questions.”

  “What’s with that?”

  “To make sure you really are his son. You wouldn’t be the first heretic hunter who tried to infiltrate the church looking for Morpheus.”

  “His name isn’t Morpheus. And I bet you really aren’t Octavia.”

  She just stared at me without moving for a moment, and then took another drag from her cigarette. The guy at the bar nodded in my direction and placed a white cup on the counter. He made a point of looking at my hat when I went up to get my espresso. Seemed like everyone had an opinion about it.

  “So, who are you?” I asked when I got back to the table with my espresso. “And how do you know my father?”

  “I don’t want to say too much until I feel more sure about who you are, but let’s just say for the moment that we are close.”

  I got the distinct impression that she meant intimately close.

  Dad, you old dog.

  “It shouldn’t be too hard to prove that,” I said.

  She took a long draw on her cigarette. “When was the last time you saw your father?”

  “At breakfast, before he left for work the day he disappeared. I was eight.”

  “What was the last thing you remember doing with your father?”

  “Eating breakfast. Was that a trick question?”

  “No, I mean the last time you two did something fun together. An outing, fishing, or something like that.”

  “We went to the movies the weekend before. After that we went to the park, and played catch.”

  “What movie did you see?”

  “The second movie in the Zombie Overlord trilogy.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “Well, it’s been a while, but as I remember the Zombie lord captured the princess and threatened to eat her brains if the humans didn’t…”

  “No, I mean, with your father. What happened after that?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Ask my parents.”

  She asked several questions about my childhood and times I’d spent with Dad. After ten minutes it started to feel like a therapy session, where the shrink asks you a bunch of questions about your childhood to figure out why you are so screwed up.

  “This is getting a bit too Freudian for me,” I finally said. “Can we move on?”

  She ignored me and kept asking questions. The next one hit a raw nerve.

  “Why haven’t you tried contact him before now?”

  “You might try asking Dad the same question. How come I haven’t heard from him? How come I’ve had to come looking for him in the underbelly of Queens and sit here with a woman I’ve never met before asking a bunch of humiliating questions about my childhood?”

  To Octavia’s credit she had the good grace to look embarrassed. “I really am sorry about that, but we need to make sure you are who you say you are. So, why haven’t you tried to find him before now? Why now, after all this time?”

  “Because until last week I thought he was dead,” I said. “I think that’s a pretty good reason not to go looking for someone. What’s his excuse?”

  She paused and looked at me without moving. “How did you find out he was still alive?” she asked.

  “Uh-uh. That involves news about my grandfather that I need to tell Dad in person, and I think I’ve already said enough to prove who I am. I’ve told you things about my childhood and Dad that no one else could have known.”

  Octavia’s smartphone was still lying on the table between us. She glanced down at it, then twisted in her chair and looked back. I followed her gaze towards the back of the pub. A man sat alone in the shadows of a high-backed booth in the far corner. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, and the shadows covered his face. He took his hat off and set it on the table. Then he leaned forward until his face came into the light.

  He looked older than I remembered, but I would have recognized his face anywhere.

  25

  He got up out of his booth and walked across the floor towards us. I stood up, and watched him make his way around the other tables on the floor. When he reached me, he stopped, and we stood looking at each other for a few moments. His hair was cropped short, dark brown tinged with grey, and his face was leaner and more lined with care than I remembered, but his broad smile was the same. His eyes glistened, and I thought I detected a hint of a tear.

  I put out my hand to shake. “You’re shorter than I remember, Dad.”

  He ignored my hand and, grabbing my shoulders, pulled me forward and enveloped me in a bear hug. “It’s been a long time. Too long,” Dad said.

  I hugged him back, and we held a long embrace before he stepped back to look me over. His face was a picture of joy. “It’s so good to see you.” His eyes were moist, and for a horrible moment I thought he was going to cry.

  “Jack, I believe you still need to be properly introduced to the light of my life, Haddie, my wife.” He gestured towards ‘Octavia’.

  Haddie smiled up at me. “Apologies for the subterfuge, but it was necessary.”

  “We have so much to get caught up on,” Dad sai
d. “How long will you be in town?”

  My emotions were in turmoil, and I hardly knew what to think now that the moment had come. Joy at finally finding him, alive after all these years thinking he was dead, mourning for what we’d missed, tinged with a bit of anger, all swirled and broiled and I hoped my face did not betray everything going on inside me at that moment. I’d have to sort it all out later.

  “I can stay in town a couple of days. Dad – ”

  “Excellent! Stay with us. We’ll have lots of time to visit. I’ll take a few days off, cancel my appointments.”

  “Sure, Dad. I’d love to. But – ”

  “Wonderful,” he said. We sat down at the table. Dad pulled his chair next to Haddie. We just looked at each other for a few minutes. “Dad, I’ve got news. It’s Grandpa,” I said. I didn’t feel like I could get on with everything else that would need to be said between us until I told him about Grandpa.

  “I already know.”

  “How?”

  “Jorge got a message to me last week, before the funeral.”

  I wondered why Jorge hadn’t told me, but then it was only two days ago that he’d told me that he knew how to reach my father, and events had moved along pretty quickly. It didn’t matter now. “I didn’t think you knew, because you weren’t there.”

  “I knew,” he said softly.

  “Then why weren’t you there?”

  He shook his head. “I couldn’t. I wanted to, believe me. But it would have been far too risky. The police were almost certainly watching for me at the funeral. But if I’d known you would be there I would have risked it.”

  The bartender brought a drink over for Dad, and a refill for Haddie. He seemed to know what Dad and Haddie drank. He looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m good, thanks,” I said. The bartender left. Bartenders don’t normally make house calls, I reflected. Dad must be highly regarded at this watering-hole.

  Dad looked at me. “I’m so glad you found me. When did you find out I was alive?”

  I told him about the lawyer finding me in Chicago, going to the funeral, and how Grandpa left me the cottage. Then I told them about finding the letters and other evidence that convinced me he was still alive.