The two priests sat uncharacteristically at the last table in the front window. Father Damian’s usual table was in the back room. It was a quiet corner where he sought refuge from the daily noise. In addition, it was where the street urchins and crustaceans who washed along the great way of Winchester Boulevard knew they could find an open ear and a kind word. Some nights he heard more confessions in his middle-of-the-night booth than he did all week in the confessional.
The new location was Father Damian’s choice for two reasons. The first was to create more seating, the restaurant had removed the four large booths and replaced them with five tables. This provided Damian easy wheelchair access by simply having a chair removed.
The second reason was he could see out the window and view most of the parking lot, an important aspect this night.
Father McBride, the old man at the watch, leaned back in his chair.
“Long day at the hospital, Father?” Damian knew the sun was barely up when Father McBride started his self-appointed rounds at the Valley Medical Center, the catch-all for the county derelicts and those who could pay very little or nothing at all.
“Aye, and not a good day, as it were.” The balding man slumped into his chair. “We lost another of our flock this morning. I think it was one of the lads who occasioned his way in here. It doesn’t feel cold, but sometimes when they lay on the concrete, it sucks the heat and life right out of them.” He closed his eyes as he shook his head in denial. The heart-wrenching decades had taken a toll on the man, but even well past retirement age, he refused to stop. The younger priest prayed that one day, he too would find such strength in his faith.
The low rumble of a deep, powerful engine caught the older man’s attention, and his eyes opened as he saw the large chrome front end of the DeSoto as it nosed into the driveway. He sat up for a better look. “Now, here is a real car.”
The scars on the younger priest’s face crinkled as he saw who was in the passenger seat. “It looks as if our young friend Hooker has secured the services of a chauffeur.”
The man whose business it was to know or find out who people were, drew his smile up tight on one side. “I believe, my friend, this is the young man’s adopted uncle. You two have a little history in common. You were Ranger, and he was Navy Seal. He also served in Korea, and then in the early years of Vietnam, he was captured and held captive for almost a year before escaping.
“I’m sure he talks just as freely about his service experience as you do. So I would say if you want him to talk at all, stick to what he really loves.”
“And that would be...?”
“Why, Hooker or cars. Unless you are inclined toward his life’s sexual nature or his predilection for…”
“Hooker, so good to see you.”
“Father Damian, Father McBride, this is my uncle, William Knight.”
Willie leaned forward with his right hand. “Please, call me Willie.” He shook with McBride and turned to the younger priest.
Father Damian stretched out his left hand and right hook from his body and wheelchair. “Excuse me if I don’t stand.”
Willie said nothing. His right hand remained extended over the chair. His eyes and smile never wavered. “Hooker tells me you were also Special Forces.”
The priest examined the large ‘J’ scar covering the man’s throat and up the side of his face. Slowly, Damian moved his right hook into the hold, and they shook. “Father McBride was just giving me the sit-rep briefing on you, too.” They both smiled. Everything was in the open now, and any pissing on the back of the barn was unnecessary.
Hooker passed around the back of the younger priest and pulled out the chair next to the window. Father McBride cleared his throat and looked behind Hooker. Willie had sat down but leaped to his feet.
Hooker froze and then rolled his eyes. “I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”
The soft voice behind him was pure warm biscuits and honey. “Only if you don’t turn around and give me a hug, you big goofball.”
He turned, and the scrawny, freckled waitress flowed into his arms. They stood silently. Neither knew what to say in front of the two priests or Uncle Willie. Finally, they separated enough for Hooker to give her a quick kiss before turning a tiny bit red. “I missed you.”
“Well, mister, I’ve been right here. First, you get my brother shot up, and then you two just lay around like two big fuzz balls of gauze for months. What is a girl to think?” She gently dug her finger into what she hoped were ribs more ticklish than painful. Hooker winced and squirmed anyway. “If it wasn’t for running into Willie and Hank occasionally, when I sat and watched you two drool into your bandages, I would have never been entertained.”
She released Hooker and stepped back around the table. “Hello, Willie.” She folded into his arms as well, and when she kissed him on the cheek, he didn’t blush. “How is Hank?”
“Hank is a little sassy, but I try to keep him in line. I’ll tell him you asked for him. He would have come, but Stella seduced the young boy away, and they’re cooking as we speak. It was something disgusting with sugar, cinnamon, dough, and several other things to ruin a girl’s figure.”
“I’m sure you will survive.”
Willie leaned back toward Hooker, and in a staged whisper shared, “Oh, and I forgot to tell you—don’t ever play gin with her for real money. She’s better than Hankie.”
As Willie took his seat, Candy drew a finger gun bead at Father McBride. “Coffee and cherry pie….” Placing her hand on Damian’s shoulder, “Coffee and Dutch apple. Moreover, Willie, what can I get for you? I already have Hooker’s water and stale bread.”
“I’m an apple man, Candy, and I guess I can indulge in one cup of black.”
“Great, I will leave you gentlemen to your man talk stuff. Just remember—keep it clean. Hooker is still a virgin.” She spun on one heel and with great drama, huffed off like a steam engine.
Willie laughed at her playful, dramatic movements. “Such a refreshing child!”
The other three chuckled. Sometimes it took a fresh set of eyes to remind you what it is you enjoy about something. Hooker smiled as he watched Candy’s ponytail flip as she walked. The warmth in his chest moved north.
As the coffee flowed and drained away, and the dishes of food became just dishes ready for a wash, the conversation was light.
“What time do you have, Hooker?” Father Damian leaned forward.
Hooker looked at his watch. “11:48.”
Damian’s eyes were focused just slightly over Father McBride’s shoulder. “Hmm, interesting. A little early, but drawn in.”
“What’s early?”
Damian studied the young man’s face. He hadn’t really gotten to know him before, but could now see under the young face, the eyes and soul belonged to someone twice or three times his age. Softly, he confided, “Why, the reason you are here tonight, your important message.” Looking out the window at Willie’s parked convertible, he lowered his voice as it drifted off. “But let’s give them a few minutes alone.”
Hooker followed the priest’s gaze. At first, he only saw the large blue car. As he looked closer, he noticed there was a large orange cat lying on the tan boot covering the folded down top. A second, careful look found the small whirlwind of dust and scraps of paper and street flotsam. This whirlwind wasn’t moving with the wind. This one moved by its own volition. This bit of the night air and grit was named Peter, a man whose previous assistance had helped to save Hooker’s life.
Peter was one of the lost people who floated in the world between reality and one they felt more comfortable in because they made it up. A former engineer of some sort, but now just a shattered soul. Most days, he found his way by touchstones, such as a midnight conversation with Hooker, and a bummed cigarette he had later passed to Father Damian.
Hooker watched the smudge in the air and his cat who could fillet a hand in one swipe. “What is Peter doing?”
Willie turned and watched the scene for a moment. “My dear boy, it would appear your feline juggernaut is becoming a true slut.”
“Maybe we should go talk to him before there is trouble.” Damian pushed back from the table and turned his chair. He pushed out toward the large glass doors.
Slowly opening the doors, Damian came out first. In a soft, reassuring voice, he attempted to calm the man from the streets. “Hello, Peter.”
The standing swirl of dust and detritus turned his head. His hand continued to rub the ear and neck of the large purring cat. “He... hello... fa... fa... fa... Damian.”
“Peter?”
“H... H... Ho... Hook... Hooker?”
“How are you, Peter?” The two carefully approached the midnight swirl of dust around the side of the car.
“G... Go... Good Ho... Hooker.” The man continued to pet Box, who continued to purr loudly.
“You seem to like my cat. And more importantly, Peter, he seems to like you.”
“Th... This... is a n... ni... nice cat.” The man spoke as he continued stroking the cat. “Thi... this is... yo... your cat... H... Hooker?”
“Yes, Peter. He is my partner. His name is Box.”
The man thought but didn’t laugh. “B... Box... Box is a... v... very nice n... name. He is a v... very n... nice cat.”
The three men watched the man’s hand pet and scratch, rub, and smooth the cat’s one ear and neck.
“H... Hoo... Hooker?”
“Peter?”
“Wha... wha... where... is y... your truck?”
“It’s broken right now. It’s getting fixed.”
“L... li... like... like your arm?”
Hooker raised and looked at the cast. “Yes, Peter, like my arm.”
“I... I... I’m so... I’m sorry you got shot.”
Hooker looked at Damian. Damian just shrugged.
Hooker just had to accept things and information were passed on the network of the streets.
“Peter?”
“H... Ho... Hook... Hooker?” “Did you have a message for me?”
“H... Ho... Yes.”
Hooker was used to the tiny steps as well as the missteps it took with Peter to get a discussion handled. The shattered mind flowed like the wind he seemed to exist in.
“Did you want to give it to me?”
The man stopped petting Box. He seemed to just freeze for a long moment. Hooker suspected it was for more than a few of the man’s heart beats.
With exact movements, the man stepped back a step and then sidestepped once, and then once more. Hooker could feel the counting.
Peter turned slightly and then began to hum, but with an open mouth. The hum rose and fell, and then he spoke. “The killer is known. The dog gets a bone, Secure the death, but only when the debt is paid. They meet they will, on Fox’s Eve, be by the old mill when the moon hits the trees.”
Hooker wasn’t sure he had actually heard the man rhyme and not stumble or stutter. It was the most amazing thing he had ever heard Peter say in the ten years they had known each other.
“Who gave you this message, Peter?”
“Th... the... Mo... The... Mow... The Mouse.”
Hooker thought. He knew his sister. Or at least what was left of her inside the tortured body of what she had become—the leader of a gang or tribe of mentally unstable and barely human entities. They lived in the dark shadows of the land or city. They floated up and down in the lower half of the San Francisco Bay Area. But they were trapped from roaming farther by their own fears of crossing over open water, even on a bridge. In the south, the strong permanent smell of garlic kept most of them at bayside or at least from traveling south.
“Peter, I know the Mouse. She won’t send me a message of a rhyme unless she also sent a side message that would guarantee the rhyme was true. Did she send a side message along with it, Peter?”
The man thought by looking at the stars. Hooker didn’t think that was where his memory box was, but he knew Peter was obsessive-compulsive, and he would only do things if there was a touchstone for his compulsions or at least made sense once he finished.
He pointed to the sky. “Th... the d... the dog.”
Hooker tried to help. “The Dog Star, Peter?”
The man nodded. “Trav.... traveler... traveler cross d... dog.” His left hand pointing to Sirius, the Dog Star, as his right pointed east and moved across the other finger to the west.
Hooker saw the ancient art of storytelling in the man’s hands. He knew there was more trapped inside of Peter than would ever get out again. “When the bright traveler crosses the dog, what will happen, Peter? What did she say?”
The man fell in on himself. “Yel... Hoo... Hooker? Yell... yellow ha... yellow hair.” The man was very agitated, but Hooker needed to know.
The calming voice of Father Damian interceded. “Peter? Peter?”
The dirt swirl rallied. “Fa... Fath... Damian?”
“Peter, you are among friends here. Even the cat likes you. You are safe.” He let those last two bits of information transfer. Box even stood and leaned toward the inhabitant of the night air.
Damian relaxed in his chair. “Peter, the cat’s fur feels good, soft, and safe. Box likes you. You have a new friend.” The slow, softer pacing had calmed the man, and he even reached out and ran his one hand along Box’s head and back.
Damian and Hooker waited out the man and the cat. Finally, Peter took the critical steps back to the side of the car, so there was more contact with the cat.
Damian’s voice was as soft as a summer breeze in the treetops. “Peter?”
“Da... Damian?”
“Peter... can you tell us what yellow hair is?”
The man continued to pet the cat, but his right hand rose near his ear and then fluttered as it moved downwards.
Hooker watched. He whispered, “Long hair... it’s a woman.” That was the complete confirmation Hooker needed the message was from his sister. The sign language was how they had spoken to each other as kids. Partly real deaf sign language they had learned from the other kids, mostly what they made up. The fluttering open hand was Hooker’s sign for his sister’s long hair that he loved.
At one foster home, the woman was jealous of her long hair, so she cut it and shaved her head. That night, as they sat on the opposite ends of the bunk beds, Hooker signed to his crying sister. He would always love her and in his eyes, she would always have her beautiful hair.
Hooker looked at the priest in the wheelchair. The man nodded. “Peter? What will happen to the woman?”
Peter petted the cat one more time, and then with his other hand, he reached out slightly to his side, and spreading his fingers, as if taking in the night air, he closed the hand violently into a white-knuckled fist.
Then there was nothing in the air. Not even a hint he had ever been there.
Damian and Hooker stared at the empty air. The two were still thinking as Box jumped down and headed across the parking lot toward the small bit of lawn surrounding the restaurant.
The glass door sucked open, and the two older men walked out. Father McBride stopped to put on his black fedora. Willie softly asked as he approached, “Well?”
Hooker thought as he turned. He looked up from the pavement into his uncle’s face. “I think I need some help from your old work.”
“What kind of help?”
Hooker pointed into the air. Willie looked up.
Looking back at Hooker, he chuckled. “The sky covers a lot.”
“I need to know what satellite we have visible to the naked eye which Peter could see, and when it will be crossing Sirius from our viewpoint.”
The older man washed his hand over his silver brush cut. He smiled. “The answer may be closer to home than you think. Hanky is more than just a starry-eyed young lad. He even has a large telescope in his garage. He eats this stuff up like you chew up large engines.” The man leaned his head and gave Hooker a serious stink-eye.
“Ohhh shhhhift into third gear.” Hooker saved himself from another quarter in the swear jar. He knew Willie was talking about the blown-up engine in the giant tow truck.
Turning around to shake hands with Father McBride, Willie stuck his hand out. “Father, it was grand to meet you and your associate finally. I will see what we were talking about and get back to you by the end of the week. Then we will have you two out for a Sunday dinner.” Turning, he took in Damian. Once again taking the man’s hook, he secured their bond. “We will have plenty of times to chat and get to know each other. But for right now, I need to get this boy home to his bed, and hopefully, rescue my boy from the grips of a woman who cooks.”
The DeSoto nosed out of the driveway and headed south as the two priests waved goodbye. Box settled down in the middle of the front seat between the two laps and closed his eyes as he began to purr. Willie reached over and turned on the radio. The tubes warmed up as the second refrain began about tumbleweeds tumbling in the blue shadows—the kind of music only Sweets played. With a glance at his watch, Hooker confirmed the disc jockey friend was indeed working his shift.
A powerful old car, great music, his cat next to him, and one of his favorite people at the wheel—Hooker’s left hand found the cat’s only ear and absently rubbed it gently between his knuckles. He put his chin up and into the wind as his right arm in the cast rested on the windowsill. The temperature was T-shirt under leather jacket weather—if he still had a leather jacket. For now, the faded yellow-tan work jacket would do. All was right with the world.
Except for the rhyme was now rolling over again and again in his head.