The Prophet of Queens

by Glenn Kleier

  Pop.

  He barked, “Now what the hell’s he done to ya?” And snatching her wrist, he led her away.

  Chapter 26

  Monday, October 20, 8:39 am, City of God

  Reverend Penbrook Thornton sat in the backseat as his car made the winding assent up Chapel Mount. Below, the gleaming-white City played peek-a-boo through the autumn blush.

  His driver smiled in the mirror. “Things have certainly changed since the night you first drove this hill, sir.”

  Thornton smiled back. “Indeed so, Mark, praise the Lord.”

  Everyone in the City knew the story, how Thornton stumbled onto this valley thirty-odd years ago. Hardly more than wilderness then. End of the road for a lost man without destination, money, plan, or hope. A young man fleeing a past of aimless circles—only to confront himself.

  The car emerged from forest into an open summit, a cul-de-sac overlooking the City. Breathtaking, no matter how many times he beheld it. Source of immense pride. And humility.

  The driver pulled beside a bronze plaque where a gravel path wandered down through trees.

  “An hour should do,” Thornton told him, stepping out into sunshine, and the car departed.

  Few people visited the chapel these days, the City’s famous Tabernacle, the big draw. But the little church was always Thornton’s first choice for prayer and contemplation. And today, he was seeking to bolster his spiritual spine in advance of his Council meeting next week in New York.

  Following Reverend Durban’s recent visit, Thornton had gotten calls from six of the eleven other Council heads, each insisting that Thornton bring his Shackleton videotape to the meeting. A transparently coordinated effort. All the same, Thornton was considering their demand. While he’d no intention of surrendering the tape, bringing it would at least show respect and goodwill, and hopefully put him on better footing to argue his position.

  On the other hand, given the Council’s current anxieties, Thornton feared placing the tape within their grasp might prove too tempting. A three-quarters-majority decided matters like this, and Thornton couldn’t be sure he had four other votes to prevail. He needed the Lord’s guidance.

  He traveled down the path to enter dappled shade and the musky-sweet scent of the season. Ahead stood a small, white clapboard chapel, steeple piercing the canopy of orange, red and yellow, and his heart grew heavy. Slowing, he stepped off the path into a hillside cemetery and dropped to a knee beside three stone markers, brushing away leaves to reveal their inscriptions.

  Doris Sarah Thornton, 38 years. Paul Penbrook Thornton, 7 years. Sarah Rebecca Thornton, 5 years.

  Thornton bowed his head and once again begged absolution from the guilt he carried. Then blotting his eyes with a handkerchief, he rose, returned to the path, and slipped inside the chapel.

  It appeared empty as his eyes adjusted to the dark. In shadow, the chapel looked just as it had when first he’d laid eyes on it. A tiny nave, scarcely room for fifty worshipers. Six sets of pews flanking a main aisle. Elevated chancel up front, altar in the center, pulpit to the left, and a few cheap, stained-glass windows. When he’d had it refurbished years ago, he’d left the windows as they were, everything else restored true to the original.

  He took a rear pew and sat forward, folding his hands on the backrest before him, resting his forehead on his knuckles. And once again in the sanctity of this place, he thought back to the extraordinary night God led him here out of the storm…

  That sacred evening began no differently for him than any other in those days. Twenty-five at the time, Thornton was in his fourth year working the graveyard shift at Whiteville Correctional, a medium-security prison lost midway between Memphis and this chapel. A job Pa had gotten him after Thornton flunked out of State University and slunk home to Union Springs. Pa had been a guard at the prison all his adult life, retiring to pass along his position.

  Before Whiteville, Thornton had simply drifted. He’d never really applied himself, school a breeze. Until drugs and booze. While he despised his job as a guard, it was steady income for someone with no prospects. He was barely there a year when Pa passed, leaving behind only medical bills and a broken-down car. Too late, Thornton grasped the totality of his loss. He was alone in the world, no girlfriend, his mother and older sister estranged in Georgia with a stepfather he loathed. And he’d slipped into depression.

  His deliverance started with a radio show. The Gospel Hour. He’d come across it on his drives to work, a preacher promising peace of mind through God. Having neither a religion nor a plan, Thornton took a chance and ordered the bible on tape. Thereafter, as he walked the prison’s perimeter alone each night, he marched to the Word. Quickly he mastered the scripture and ordered more tapes, steadily expanding his theological repertoire, and soon he began spreading the Word to inmates. It was then that God tested his faith.

  Late one Saturday night as he was making his rounds between thunderstorms, he came face-to-face with two mud-slathered escapees. All three froze. Thornton stood in the shadow of a large oak, the men in the light of a distant pole lamp. Thornton raised his quaking gun and ordered the men to surrender, but they started for him. Regulations required him to shoot if met with resistance. Nevertheless, the Fifth Commandment flashed into Thornton’s mind, and he lowered his weapon. The men brandished shivs, and Thornton was certain he was done for.

  But then he touched the cross pin on his lapel, and God stepped in. There came a horrendous boom, Thornton was knocked to his knees, and when finally he braved a glance, the men lay smoldering on the ground, very dead.

  He staggered to the warden’s office in the throes of an epiphany. No doubt God had spared him for a reason. A holy purpose, yet to be revealed. And whatever it was, Thornton was now blind servant to it. Dumping his gun and badge on the warden’s desk, he got in Pa’s old car and drove off in a fugue, on and on in driving rain.

  How long he wandered the countryside in the dark, he’d no idea. Until at last, lost, exhausted, engine overheating, he arrived at the top of a hill and a dead end. His only shelter was a rundown little chapel, and finding it open and deserted, he curled up in a pew. The next morning, he woke to sun streaming through stained glass, and kindly eyes shining down on him—

  A coarse rumble distracted Thornton from his thoughts. The sound came from inside the chapel. It stopped. Resumed. Stopped. Resumed.

  Snoring.

  He wasn’t alone after all. Softly he stole down the aisle to come upon a man sprawled in a pew, asleep. The very pew Thornton had taken that night so long ago. A black man, grizzled and tattered, using a hymn book and sock hat for a pillow.

  “Hello,” Thornton said gently.

  One bloodshot eye flickered open and found Thornton. Then the other. The man lurched upright, stammering, “I-I dint break in. Door was open, I swear.”

  “Of course,” Thornton said. “Our doors are always open.”

  The man frowned. Thornton sat beside him and extended a hand.

  “Reverend Penbrook Thornton. Welcome.”

  The man took the hand tentatively, fingers moist. “Leroy,” he said. “Leroy Johnston. You the man on the plaque out front?”

  Thornton nodded, detecting the sweet wisp of whiskey, an empty bottle on the floor. “Where you from, friend?”

  “Atlanta. Me an’ my sons. We hear you got jobs ta offer—a work-trainin’ program. We come in last night an’ wind up here. Boys gone to town to check things out.”

  Leaving Dad to sober up.

  “What kind of work are you looking for?”

  “Anything needs doin’, we do it. We do it good.”

  Thornton rubbed his chin. “You and your boys open to more travel?”

  The man blinked. “If it takes us to a payin’ job.”

  “And you’re willing to lay off the hooch?”

  The man faltered and lowered his eyes. “Yeah…”

  There was a place for him and his sons in Thornton’s army of swing-state campaigners. Thornton w
as chronically short on minorities, much needed for ethnic communities. And far be it from him, once a substance abuser himself, to sit in judgment of intemperance. The man would have time enough to dry out while training in the City. No ready access to alcohol.

  The sound of a car drifted down from the road. Mark.

  Thornton stood. “Tell you what, Mr. Johnston. Let’s find your sons, get you all fed, fresh clothes, and a place to stay. Tomorrow, you and your boys can attend services at the Tabernacle, and we’ll see about the jobs program.”

  Brightening, the man grabbed his hat and joined Thornton, gushing thanks. As they headed for the door, the man added, “Mind me askin’, Rev’rend—what we be trainin’ to do?”

  “Ever done door-to-door selling? Much the same. You’ll be traveling to another state to help get out the vote for Roger Filby.”

  The man slowed. “Filby? But Johnstons are Democrats. We Shackleton men.”

  Thornton turned to him. “Good wages, room and board for the next three weeks.”

  The man cocked his head. Then grinning, he replied, “Must say, Rev’rend, you got a pow’ful gift a persuasion.”

  Thornton grinned back, feeling the spiritual muster he’d come looking for.

  Chapter 27

  Monday, October 20, 9:38 am, Manhattan

  Handing Scotty back his wallet, keys, and phone, a detective escorted him to the rear of the police station.

  Scotty felt miserable. He’d been held overnight in a tank of drunks and rowdies, little sleep, clothes rumpled and reeking. The authorities hadn’t bought his story of prophetic visions. But unable to come up with charges to press, they at last set him free.

  The detective let him out a back door, advising, “I’m doing you a favor dodging the crowd out front. Now do yourself a favor. Stop taking orders from a damned parakeet!”

  And he released him into an alley.

  Scotty checked his phone, the battery near dead. A dozen messages from Ivy, now at school. Pop had fetched her when she was released yesterday, grounding her, further penalties pending. She’d called the police station earlier to learn Scotty was being released, fearing it wouldn’t be in time for him to buy a Lotto ticket.

  No worries, two hours till the noon drawing. Scotty texted her his assurances before his phone gave out, hopped a bus, and worked his weary way toward New Jersey. Several transfers later, he was at a Stop-n-Save across state lines, and despite all he’d been through, he remembered the precious numbers. Just enough money for a Pick5, a rotisserie dog, and bus fare home. Hopefully, in time for the live drawing, ticket burning in his pocket.

  Scotty reached his final stop with fifteen minutes to spare. Hurrying up the sidewalk, he spied a throng of people in front of his building. Upwards of a hundred, or so. The media must have gotten news of his arrest for the attack on the mayor. This was blowback.

  Backpedaling before he was spotted, he headed into the alley behind the building. He saw only indigents back here. One recognized him and waved, but he hadn’t a penny left to give. He fled to the rear entrance, fished out his keys, and ducked inside. Glancing at Kassandra’s door as he passed, he ran into his apartment, slammed the door and threw the bolt, panting.

  His apartment was a mess. The cops had searched it, no doubt. But thankfully his computer was still here.

  Homer cried out from under the bed. The poor thing had to be traumatized and starving. Scotty opened the door and called in, “Sorry boy—bear with me, our luck’s about to change.”

  He ran to the window and parted the curtains. From up here, the crowd looked to be in the hundreds. And damn—TV crews, too.

  Twelve o’clock. Scotty grabbed the remote, switched on the TV, and perched himself on the arm of the couch. Tuning to the lottery, he leaned into the screen and clutched his ticket in both hands, pressing it to his lips like a sacred talisman, feeling the pulse in his fingertips.

  Pick5. The moment of truth…

  He whispered, “2–7–4–9–6.”

  The frenzied balls took forever to find slots, each number burning into Scotty’s eyes.

  2–7–4–9–6

  It took a moment to register on him. Then Scotty sprang to his feet dancing in circles, crying, “Holy shit—holy shit—holy shit!”

  Homer came out of the bedroom. How much?

  Scotty didn’t know. The TV said to consult the lottery website for details. Fatigue forgotten, Scotty hustled to his computer—only to confront a black screen and another flashing epistle, time-stamped 10:01 AM.

  Herald would have to wait. Opening a browser, Scotty rushed to the lottery site, hardly able to control his fingers. His breath came in gulps as he scrolled:

  Pick5 winning number for today: 2–7–4–9–6

  Jackpot: $351,648

  Not millions, but a sizable fortune, all the same. Elated, Scotty scrolled on to read:

  Today’s Pick5 total winning tickets: 3

  He blinked. Of all the luck. Two other players had picked the same numbers. He’d have to split the pot. Oh well, not like a hundred grand was chump change. Insufficient to see Ivy through a top-tier university, perhaps, but goodbye Bronx Business College!

  Homer leaped onto the desk for a look. You’re forgetting taxes.

  Crap. Scotty’s accounting background kicked in. The winnings were a gross figure. Federal tax bite was 39.6%, New Jersey state tax, 10.8%. He ran the numbers in his head. Bottom line: fifty thousand…Not nearly the thousandfold compensation Herald had promised. All the same, Scotty was grateful, bailed out of disaster.

  Homer pawed the monitor screen, and Scotty noticed another complication.

  Under a section titled, “How to redeem your winnings,” it said the New Jersey Lottery didn’t have authority to issue immediate checks to New York residents. Scotty would have to allow three weeks for processing and payment. Three weeks? He couldn’t afford a day’s delay.

  Maybe you can get a loan. You know, use the ticket for collateral.

  Was that even possible? But yes, a Google search uncovered a consumer-lending source nearby that offered short-term loans against winning tickets. No doubt at predatory rates, but what choice did he have? Regardless, thanks to the Lord, Ivy’s future was looking much brighter.

  He turned next to Herald’s new epistle. With his winnings, Scotty imagined the Lord would expect more of him. But Scotty had neither the heart nor energy to take on a new assignment. Expecting another problematic prophecy, he was surprised to see:

  that you may believe and obey the lord

  this afternoon shall I reveal myself to you

  for no mans eyes save yours

  Scotty rocked back in his chair. Herald had granted his request to show himself!

  As the realization settled over him, the quiet in his apartment loomed large, eerier for the murmur of the crowd outside. If Herald were true to form, in less than two hours Scotty would be face-to-face with the supernatural.

  There came a soft tapping at his door, and Scotty froze. Herald hadn’t specified exactly when or how he’d make his appearance. Scotty had simply presumed online at 2:00.

  The tapping came again. Tensing, Scotty tiptoed to the peephole, squinting out into distended eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Scotty, are you there?” Mrs. Steiner called. “I thought I heard you come in.”

  Scotty let out his breath and ushered her inside, scolding, “You shouldn’t be climbing the stairs with your knees.”

  “We’ve all been so worried,” she said, eyes fretting. She carried a newspaper and a plate of cookies. “I called the police station to learn they released you and Ivy. How is she?”

  “We’re both fine,” he said. “Case of mistaken identity. It’s straightened out now.”

  “I’m so relieved.” She handed him the cookies, keeping the paper. Her eyes narrowed to take him in. “You poor thing, you look terrible.”

  He set the plate on his desk and led her to the couch. She seldom ventured upstairs, not having seen his
apartment since it was trashed, and her frown deepened as she glanced around.

  “Good Lord,” she said, taking a seat, “the police did this? I’m so sorry for all your troubles.”

  “A string of bad luck,” he said, then added with a genuine smile, “But trust me, things are looking up.” He wasn’t ready to mention the lottery yet.

  “Well, you’ve surely been good luck for the people you’ve helped,” she told him, handing him the newspaper. “I never took you for the religious type.”

  Scotty saw an article on the bottom half of the day’s front page. It featured a blurry close-up of his face culled from that ubiquitous ballpark video. He opened to the headline above the fold:

  Yankee Stadium ‘Guardian Angel’ Saves Mayor

  Queens Man Claims to Commune with God

  Feeling the blood drain from his face, he read on, distraught to see his full name revealed. NYPD must have released it. The article glossed over his arrest, depicting him as some sort of spiritual seer.

  Mrs. Steiner nodded toward the window. “They began gathering early this morning. We told them you weren’t here, but they won’t go. They think you’re a holy man.”

  Scotty sank to the couch. “And the rest of the city thinks I’m a madman.”

  She patted his hand. “You’re a hero to me. I’m so proud. They say God speaks to you. Is that how you know these amazing things?”

  He didn’t want her thinking him nuts, too. Nor did he intend to draw anyone else into his mess the way he had Ivy. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I can’t talk about it.”

  Her eyes turned watery, and Scotty feared he’d upset her. She conjured a handkerchief from a sleeve, sneezed, and blew her nose, and Scotty realized. Cat dander.

  She said, “I never had much use for religion, but if you’ve found a way to make good of it, more power to you. I just want you to know, if you need someone to talk to besides God, I’m always here for you. And now,” she paused to wipe her eyes, “I’m afraid I have to go.”