The Off Season by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Underland Press
Published: 2015-06-18T04:00:00+00:00

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.

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