The Good Atheist (27 page)

I feigned surprise. “And I went to all this trouble to deck myself out in the latest street-bum attire. I thought I blended pretty well.”

Clarence adjusted the glasses on the end of his nose. “Clients, please. We don’t use ‘bum’ or ‘hobo’ here. We refer to them as clients.”

“All right, then. I went to a lot of trouble to dress in the latest street-client attire.”

“You stand out like a sore thumb. Guys who’ve been living on the streets have dirt and grime worked into the fabric of their clothes. It won’t come off with a good brushing the way yours would. Your suit is a bit rumpled, but you haven’t been living in it. And most of our clients haven’t had a bath in years. The grime gets worked into the pores of their skin, so that it becomes a second skin. You’ve had a shower recently, within this past week, and your beard is only a few days old. When I saw you come in, I figured you were either new to the streets – newly unemployed or something – or you were faking it. So what are you really doing here?”

“Just what I’ve said. Looking for that man.” I said, pointing at the holograph of my father between us.

“People don’t usually come here looking for missing persons. In fact, most of our patrons prefer not to be found. What do you want him for?”

“He’s my father. He’s wanted by the Tolerance Police and has been underground for a few years.”

“How do I know you’re not an Inquisitor?”

“Do you see any cerebral augments wired into my skull?

“You could be a heretic hunter,” he said.

“If I was, we wouldn’t be sitting here having a polite conversation. You’d already be on the floor with cuffs, and I’d be rounding up the staff.”

He leaned back and tried to look disinterested. “Well, I don’t know this man, anyway.”

“Clarence, don’t ever bet the rent money in a poker game.”

The door opened and a middle-aged woman walked in. I’d seen her at the serving counter earlier, dishing out the vegetables. She stood next to us at the table. “Hey, Clarence, we’re out of coffee. I need the keys to the storage cabinet.” While Clarence reached into a pocket, the woman looked at the holograph of my father, and her eyes brightened. “Hey, that’s a nice shot of Morpheus. Where’d you get it? He looks a few years younger in it.”

I grinned at her. Clarence handed over the keys, giving her a dirty look. “Great, Bernice. Just great.” Bernice looked at me and then back at Clarence. “What? What’d I say?”

“Thanks, Bernice. You just made my day,” I said.

Bernice took the keys and stood at the door for a moment, shaking her head at us. “What’s up with you two?” Then she left.

I looked at Clarence, grinning. Clarence looked back at me, appearing suitably embarrassed, not saying anything.

“Morpheus, huh?” I said.

He shrugged. “Obviously it’s not his real name. I don’t know what it is.”

“Let me guess. That was really Trinity that just walked in here, and you’re Tank.”

“Clarence isn’t my real name. None of us use our real names. Safer that way.”

“Of all the pseudonyms you could have picked, the best you could come up with is Clarence?”

“It’s the name of an angel in an old movie I like.”

“Can you get a message to Morpheus for me, Clarence?”

He rubbed the whiskers on his chin. “I suppose at this point I may as well.”

I had the paper and pen in my pocket. I took out the paper and unfolded it on the desk, then used the pen to write out the internet link to the website with the pictures from my childhood. I included a short note with my name and address of the hotel where I was staying.

I folded the paper up and handed it to Clarence. “How soon can you get this to him?”

He put it in a pocket. “I can get it to him tonight.”

I stood to go and put the phone back in my pocket. It was time to get back to my hotel ‘suite’. “Thanks, Clarence, or whatever your real name is,” I said.

He grinned. “Is he really your father?”

“Yes, just like I said. I’m about as good at lying as you are.”

“Well, being a Christian, I suppose the art of deceit isn’t something we are very good at around here. We don’t tend to practice it. I’ll get this to him. I suppose you could still be lying to me, and I’d have no way to know. But Morpheus will know, of course. You won’t be able to fool him about your identity.”

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 wearing 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.