The Good Atheist

by Michael Manto

  I went back to the Lada and got inside. On the passenger seat next to me I found Jorge’s present. It was a small book next to a pad of paper and a pen. I picked the book up and turned it over. It was a leather-bound New Testament.

  I quickly looked up and down the sidewalk to see if anyone had noticed. Then I went to the trunk, hid the book inside my travel bag, and got back into the front seat behind the wheel.

  My plan was simple. Follow the money. I figured Zuebo would not wait long to get the cash to my father, so I’d follow Zuebo while he made his rounds.

  So I sat in the cramped Lada across the street and watched Zuebo’s market. I had a good view from where I was parked. There was no rear exit out of the loading dock, so when Zuebo left he had to come out front, onto the street where I sat waiting.

  An hour later my stomach was complaining loudly that it had missed dinner. I badly wanted a burger and a coffee, but I dared not leave in case I missed Zuebo. And I didn’t know where to go in this neighborhood with cash. So I hunkered down in the car and stoically ignored my stomach’s loud complaints.

  It was almost ten before Zuebo appeared in the lane. The side of his van was emblazoned with ‘Zuebo’s Fresh & All Natural Organic Vegetables’. I could see him clearly behind the wheel. He stopped at the sidewalk and looked both ways before making a left onto the street, heading south. I waited for a break in traffic, then pulled a U-turn and started to follow.

  I kept a discreet distance, hoping that Zuebo was not surveillance-conscious. I followed him through the East Village. He made a few turns and we ended up heading south on Allen. A few minutes later we took a left, and soon we were heading across the Williamsburg Bridge into Queens. We followed the Long Island Expressway for several miles. Traffic was light, and I could hang back and keep him in sight. Zuebo exited the Expressway into a worn-out, tired-looking district of old brick townhouses. The neighborhood got progressively more rundown. Boarded-up windows with steel bars. Empty lots of cracked asphalt. Burned-out hulks of long-abandoned buildings.

  I slowed down when Zuebo’s brake lights flashed, and he pulled into an empty lot next to a large grey building on 80th Street. I took the first right, drove half a block until I was out of sight, and stopped in front of a small all-night convenience store. Then I walked quickly back to the corner.

  I could see the van sitting next to the building with the back doors open. Men came out of a door and helped unload crates and carry them inside. It looked like an old storefront, and it was the only building on the block with lights. Neat rows of tables and chairs were clearly visible through the window. I made a mental note of the location.

  Zuebo disappeared inside. Ten minutes later he came outside, got into the van, and drove off.

  I ran back to my car and drove around the block, turning right onto 80th just as Zuebo passed. I followed him for several blocks, and he turned left onto Penelope. Several blocks later and a few more turns, Zuebo slowed down in front of a warehouse on 64th and turned into the parking lot next to it.

  I drove by and took the next right, pulled up half a block so I was out of sight, and walked back to the corner.

  The van was parked at the back corner of the warehouse with the engine and lights turned off. It looked like Zuebo intended on staying longer this time. It was a long warehouse. The parking lot was all broken cement with grass growing between the cracks. None of the streetlights worked. The only light reaching the parking lot came from inside the building, shining through a row of barred windows.

  I felt exposed on the corner. There was a small convenience store on the other corner, and I crossed the street to it. The bored clerk behind the corner glanced up at me, then returned to his datapad without acknowledging my presence. I could hear the sound track of a movie playing from his device.

  The warehouse across the street was visible through the store window. I browsed the snack rack, pretending to be interested in a bag of cheese puffs while keeping the warehouse in sight. After a few minutes I moved on to the next aisle. There was some canned food, pop, bags of chips and pretzels. The sight of food reminded me again that it was long past dinner, and I hadn’t eaten.

  I looked the clerk over. He had a scruffy beard, and his large belly stretched the limits of his sweat-stained shirt, threatening to pop the buttons. He was almost as sketchy-looking as me. The faded yellow paint on the walls hadn’t been washed in years, and dirt filled the crevices of the scratched tile flooring. Dead bugs were silhouetted inside the light fixtures. This looked like the kind of place that might entertain an exchange of cash for some snacks. I was hungry enough to risk it. I grabbed a couple bags of chips and went to the counter.

  “You finally decided to buy something,” the guy behind the counter said without looking away from his movie, a study in intentional disinterest.

  I put the chips down on the counter. There was a half-full coffee pot behind him.

  “Is that coffee fresh?”

  “Yeah, sure. Made it this morning,” he said. Close enough for me at that moment.

  “I’ll take a cup.”

  The clerk slowly pushed himself up from the counter, as if I’d made an unreasonable request that overly taxed his patience. When his back was turned getting the coffee, I reached into my pocket and took a ten out of my roll of Euros.

  He poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup and set it in front of me. “There’s dairy product and sweetener over there.” He pointed to a self-serve counter next to the window.

  “Do you take cash?” I asked.

  His eyes narrowed and hardened. “Are you a cop?”

  “Please. If I was a cop, do you really think I’d waste my time trying to entrap the clerk of a rundown dime-store over a bag of chips?”

  There was no one else in the store, but he still glanced to each side, an involuntary flicker.

  “Why cash?”

  “Let’s just say I’d rather not use my chip.”

  “No pesos or dollars. Only Canadian or Euros,” he said.

  “Euros.”

  He glanced down at the chips and coffee. “Five.”

  I put the ten on the counter. “What can you tell me about that warehouse across the street?”

  “You know I can’t change that.”

  “Keep it. Just tell me what you know about the warehouse. Do you see many people going in there?”

  The cash on the counter warmed him up noticeably. The Euro disappeared into his pocket. “Yeah, they run some kind of soup kitchen during the day. But people come and go all night.”

  “What kind of deliveries get made there?”

  He shrugged. “It’s hard to tell from here, but sometimes I see them carry in what looks like equipment. They’ve got some kind of setup in there, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Do you know who runs it?”

  “Sorry. I’ve got no idea.” The tone in his voice hinted heavily that I had used up the good will my cash had purchased.

  “Thanks,” I said and collected my chips and coffee.

  “Where you from, mister?” he asked with a grin.

  “What makes you think I’m not from around here?”

  “Well, most people in this neighborhood don’t have that kind of cash for a bag of chips and a few questions.”

  “Maybe I’m just a curious tourist.”

  “Right.”

  “Can I ask you one more question?”

  “Sure.”

  I scratched at the stubble on my chin. “Do you know of any hotel close by that would take cash and not ask any questions?”

  He pointed with his head. “Woodhaven and Fleet. About six blocks that way. Place called Empire.”

  “Thanks,” I said and went back to my rental car. I turned the car around and parked close enough to the corner so I could keep the warehouse in view while munching on the chips. I tried some of the coffee. It tasted like an oil slick, but I drank it for medicinal purposes. I needed the caffeine to stay awake. Ten minutes and a bag of chips later Zuebo got back in
to the van. It hovered to life a foot off the ground and spun around. I started up the Lada and followed.

  Zuebo headed east and at Woodhaven turned north. At the Long Island Expressway he took the westbound ramp. I continued to follow him west through Queens towards Manhattan. It looked like Zuebo was heading back to his shop on Manhattan, but I wanted to be sure. When he took the Queens Midtown Tunnel, I was fairly certain that he’d finished his rounds for the night. I broke off from following him,got myself turned around, and headed back to Woodhaven.

  It was a good bet that I would find my father at one of the two places where we’d stopped. I took the expressway back to Woodhaven and found the Empire Hotel at the corner of Fleet Court, just as the clerk had said. It looked like it might have been classy a century ago. I pulled into the carport and got out. The lobby lights were on, and there was a uniformed guard at the door. I didn’t think he was there to provide valet services. I went inside.

  The clerk didn’t take his eyes off me as I walked up to the glass booth.

  “Do you have any rooms?” I asked.

  “How many hours?”

  “The whole night. Maybe two.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “A whole night?”

  “Yes.”

  He grinned wickedly. “Some kind of party you must be planning.”

  “Not really. I just want to sleep.”

  He laughed. “That’s a good one.”

  “Just sleep. Really.”

  He shrugged. “To each his own. For a whole night that’ll be a thousand credits.” He slid a data pad towards me under the grate. I held up a small roll of Euros. “I’d rather not use my chip. I’ll give you a hundred Euros for two nights.”

  He eyed the cash. It was enough to buy the place for the week. “Listen, buddy, I don’t want any trouble.”

  “No trouble. I just need a place to sleep.”

  The elevator door creaked open, and a tired-looking brunette entered the lobby, followed by a well-groomed middle-aged man in an Italian suit. She was in tight-fitting black leather pants. Her large breasts threatened to burst out of her red blouse. The clerk’s eyes ran up and down her body as she passed. “Hey, Macy,” he said.

  Macy smiled back. “Hey, Sean.”

  Her customer left first. Macy loitered for a minute and lit a cigarette. When she was finally out the front door, I brought the clerk back to the task at hand. I put a hundred Euros on the datapad with my left hand, being careful not to get my right index finger near it. I slid it back to him under the grate. “Two nights.”

  “For two nights, that’ll be two hundred Euros.”

  “Are you crazy? This place isn’t even worth two hundred American. That’s enough for a week and you know it.”

  “You want to pay cash and stay off the grid, then you pay my price. Take it or leave it.”

  “All right, but that covers parking as well. I have a car.” I slid another hundred Euros under the grate. He slid a card back to me. “Room 219. Second floor, to the right when you get off the elevator. There’s parking around back.”

  He grinned as I took the card. “I don’t know how much sleep you’re going to get. The girls around here can be pretty boisterous, if you know what I mean.”

  I ignored him and went back to the car, got inside, and wrote a couple of short letters with the pen and paper Jorge had left me. I included my hotel and room number. If I guessed right, my father would contact me here. If I guessed wrong, the Tolerance Police would be knocking on my door instead.

  I went back to the first shelter and parked out front. The street lights were all broken, but there were lights on inside the building. I went to the front door and buzzed. Zuebo had just buzzed on the same door less than an hour previously. Hopefully there was still someone awake inside.

  It took a few persistent buzzes before a voice squawked at me through the small grill next to the door. “I’m sorry, but we’re full for the night.”

  “I’m not looking for a bed. I’ve got a delivery.”

  There was a pause. The webcam over the door swung around towards me, then moved from side to side surveying the area around the door. “Bit late for deliveries. What is it?”

  “Just a letter.”

  “Who for?”

  Good question. It stopped me cold. I suddenly realized I had no idea who to ask for. What name was he going by? Even if I did have the right place, it was a good bet he no longer went by Marcus Callaghan. The people around him wouldn’t necessarily know my father’s real name.

  But the only thing to do was to use the only name I knew and hoped it reached the right people.

  “Marcus Callaghan.”

  “No one here by that name.”

  “He may be using an alias. I’m not sure. Can you give it to whoever runs this place?”

  “Hold on.”

  A minute later the door opened and a tired-looking woman looked out at me. She held her hand out. “I’ll take it.”

  I gave it to her and she looked it over. “Is this all?”

  “Just a letter, like I said.”

  “Who is Marcus Callaghan? Is he a client?”

  “No. Probably more like a sponsor or one of the people running the place.”

  She shook her head. “Well, I’m one of those, and I don’t know any Marcus Callaghan.”

  “He may be using another name now. Can you ask around?”

  “What makes you think he’s here?”

  “Because a mutual friend was just here, Zuebo.”

  She stared at me for a moment. “I see.” Then a shrug. “All right. I’ll ask, but I can’t promise anything.”

  “Thanks. Contact information is in there.”

  She nodded and shut the door without further comment. I heard bolts sliding and locks clicking, and the interview was over.

  The warehouse on 64th was more difficult. Lights were on at the front of the building, and I took that as a good sign that there was still some staff up and around. But Zuebo had driven around to the back corner to make his drop. I retraced Zuebo’s path down the side of the building and stopped at the back corner where I’d watched Zuebo get out. There was a man-door next to a large loading dock. It was dark, and I wished that I’d thought to bring a flashlight.

  I found a button next to the door and pressed it, hoping there was someone awake inside to answer. After buzzing for ten minutes a light came on in the window to my right.

  “Who is it?” A voice asked from a speaker next to the door.

  “I’ve got a delivery for Marcus Callaghan.”

  “Come back again tomorrow. We’re closed.”

  “Sorry, I can’t. It’s urgent.”

  “What was that name again?”

  “Marcus Callaghan.”

  “There’s no one here by that name.”

  “I think the managers of this place will know him. Can you just give it to them?”

  A long pause. Then a click and the door swung open. A man stepped out. He was middle-aged, with a day’s worth of facial hair. He appeared guarded but not hostile as he looked me over.

  “And you are?”

  I handed him the letter. “His son. If you could give this letter to the manager here, I think they will know what to do with it.”

  He pocketed the letter and stepped inside the door. “Sure thing.” Then the door closed, and I was suddenly standing alone in the darkness.

  It was well after midnight when I got back to my hotel room. It was a small single room, with a bed and a sitting area with a table and chair. A large holovision sat on top of a dresser across from the bed. A door to my left opened into a small bathroom with a tiled floor and shower.

  I placed my bag on the chair and peeled off my clothes. A hot shower helped ease the aches lingering in my muscles from the previous night.

  As tired as I was, I felt too wound up to go right to sleep. I put on a clean tee shirt and pair of sweatpants and climbed into bed holding the New Testament Jorge had given me.

  I felt lik
e I was holding dynamite. I would go to jail if caught with this little book, but somehow that didn’t seem to bother me any more. I turned the book over in my hands, thinking about what Paige had said.

  I opened the book and started at the beginning. Halfway through Matthew I began to wonder why this man Jesus was hated so much. I’d been expecting a mad prophet spewing hate-filled, sectarian rhetoric. Instead, I found a man who taught love for your enemies, who taught forgiveness and care for the poor and downtrodden.

  By the time I fell asleep, I was beginning to discover a Jesus very different from the man I had expected.

  22

  The hotel served a continental breakfast in the lobby. I decided to avail myself of that rather than go out into the street and try to find someplace willing to take cash. Flashing hard foreign currency around town was risky if you didn’t know the right places.

  My plan for the day was simple. Lay low in the hotel room and wait for someone to knock on the door. I didn’t want to stray too far from my room in case I missed the knock, and I had no idea when they would come, if they came at all.

  I got dressed and went down for coffee and a plate of pastries. I doubted the hotel would be serving lunch, so I took a couple of plates piled high with pastries, donuts, and muffins – enough to tide me over lunch and dinner – and headed back up to my room.

  I passed the morning reading through the New Testament, drinking coffee and eating pastries. By noon I’d finished Matthew and Mark and was half way through Luke. I did some pushups and sit-ups and had a couple of stale pastries for lunch. Then I returned to reading the Gospels.

  I found myself fascinated by this man Jesus who claimed to be God and Savior. The victim of violence, he taught peace. The object of hatred, he taught forgiveness. When he was abused and mistreated, he responded with love and forgiveness. Yet he was no wimp. He was not afraid to confront the most powerful religious and political authorities of his day. He was an incongruity, but I could no longer maintain the feelings of disdain that orthodox atheism insisted on.

  He was hated, not for anything wrong he had done, but for who he claimed to be. And I began to wonder for the first time if his claims might be true.