Jack O'Connell - Word Made Flesh

“Can’t you hear it?” he finally managed to ask as Huie reached under the register for the lead-filled baseball bat he kept handy for various security purposes.

But before bunting the priest into some degree of control, Huie allowed himself to ask, “Hear what?”

The question stopped Father C in midfit. He ceased flailing and stared at the diner owner, then cocked his head toward the radio and after a moment of intently, maybe desperately listening to what, to Huie Tang, sounded exactly like any other Loftus Funeral Home ad, the priest’s eyes closed up and he said, “It seems I’m to be the interpreter.” And then, “Come here, my son.”

It has been said around the rice carts of Little Asia that no one possesses quite the combination of cynicism and impatience of Huie Tang. But on that afternoon in his empty and failing diner, there was an authority in Father Clement’s voice that convinced the transgressor and exile to drop his cudgel and sit down in the priest’s booth. And for the next half hour, with no customers to interrupt them, Father Clement revealed to his first listener that Yahweh had spoken. That God had decided, for reasons that would soon be made clear, to use the radio advertisements as the vehicles for his messages. That the shouted promises and treacly jingles and earnest testimonials to products and services of every brand and stripe were nothing but the sacred dialect of the Almighty himself.

“With your radio,” Father Clement proclaimed to the bewildered counterman, “and my translation, we will show this city the way to salvation.”

And before Huie’s eyes, his only regular customer was transformed from a lost soul waiting out his last days into a crusader born again with the fervor of the raving mystic. In Huie Tang’s diner the priest had found a new Pentecost, a fresh take on Shavuot and Whitsunday.

By the end of the first week, Huie, at first curious and amused, was so exasperated by the nonstop, instantaneous interpretations that he was ready to evict his sole patron, to call the police and the mental health agencies. Until Father Clement started bringing in the pilgrims. They came, both male and female, in all ages and creeds and ethnic makeups. And they came with money in their pockets. They ordered breakfast, lunch and dinner and they never noticed when the prices on the blackboard menu skyrocketed 50 percent.

Father Clement installed himself permanently in the booth opposite the radio. He ate and slept in the diner around the clock and took to standing on his seat and preaching apocalyptic rants for all customers, believers and nonbelievers alike. Within a month, Huie had a line out the door. He brought in a painter, changed the name on the lunch car to the Visitation Diner, altered the culinary selections to include Our Father’s Recipe Hash and Revelation Stew. One night at two A.M., in the midst of hearing the options that came with the Last Blueplate Supper Special, Gilrein had to tell the restaurateur to calm down.

But the pilgrims’ gain is the independent cabdrivers’ loss. What was once a quiet hangout to juice up on cheap coffee and swap horror stories about who had the worst fare of the night has turned into a hysterical circus, with patrons speaking in tongues and hustlers in the parking lot selling Day-Glo crucifixes out the back of their vans.

The indie cabbies are nothing if not stubborn. They refuse to relinquish their reserved booth no matter how much they’re offered. And they won’t give up the business phone mounted at their table even though Huie, uproariously drunk on greed and good fortune, has jacked their rental fee twice already.

Gilrein parks the Checker next to the Buick of a guy who has set up shop renting a Polaroid camera to pilgrims who want to have their picture taken in front of the lunch car. It’s the same clown who, last week, was hawking a trunkful of polyester undershirts emblazoned with

MY GIRLFRIEND HEARD THE WORD OF GOD

AND ALL I GOT

WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT.

He pushes through the crowd and into the diner, tries to make for the cabbies’ booth, but Father Clement grabs an arm, pulls himself up until their faces are almost touching and says, “You too can be saved, my son.”

Gilrein shakes loose and says, “Where were you an hour ago, Father?”

He wonders if the priest remembers him from the days when they were both at St. Ignatius. He also wonders if it’s possible he’s the only one who smells the bourbon on the old man.

Huie Tang is perched on his stool in front of the register ringing up a souvenir Visitation baseball cap and ordering around his newly hired trio of waitresses.

Huie yells, “What happened to you?”

“Another bad fare,” Gilrein answers and shoves back to the corner booth where Jocasta Duval is counting their night’s receipts, and their shared dispatcher, the legless Mojo Bettman, is finishing up a plate of Redemption Rings, a deep-fried melange of compressed and coiled onion and fish by-products.

Jocasta puts down her roll of cash and says, “Not again?”

Gilrein slides in next to her and nods affirmation.

“How many were there?” in her sweet Senegalese accent.

“More than enough,” Gilrein answers and tries to flag down a waitress for a coffee.

Bettman puts a hand to his left temple and says, “There goes the streak. We were coming up on how many weeks?”

“Sorry to mess up our safety record.”

“You get yourself looked at?” Jocasta asks.

“Yeah,” Gilrein says, “just what I want to do, sit in the E.R. up at General until next Thursday.”

“We need to rethink our policy again. This is becoming more than ridiculous.”

“Bullshit,” Bettman snaps. “We bend on this, we might as well just hand our medallions to the fleets. Couple years, there’ll be one goddamn cab company left in America. That’s our choice, take it or leave it.”

Jocasta gives a glance that shuts up the dispatcher and turns to Gilrein. “You want me to take you up to General? I know an intern.”

Gilrein shakes her off and Mojo says, “How did it go down?”

“Same as it always goes down,” Gilrein lies. “I made a judgment call and it was the wrong one.”

“Man or a woman?” Bettman asks.

“One of each,” Gilrein lies. “I got two blocks down Voegelin and I felt the piece at my neck—”

“I’ve been telling you you’ve got to get the fencing fixed,” from Jocasta.

“You resisted?” from Bettman, eyes raised in rebuke.

“I handed over my roll. They pulled me out anyway and went to town.”

“Bastards,” Mojo says.

“I’ll be fine,” Gilrein says. “Few painkillers and some sleep.”

“Anything I can do?” Jocasta says, and Gilrein seizes on it.

“Matter of fact, Jo, there is one thing.”

She gestures toward him with her chin.

Gilrein tries for a smile and says, “If you could tell me where I could find Wylie.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, mister,” Mojo says. “Stop it right now.”

Gilrein ignores him and says, “C’mon, Jo. I just need to talk to her. Five minutes. Just a phone number.”

Bettman looks from Jocasta to Gilrein and says, “You know the woman doesn’t want to see you, my friend.”

Gilrein is about to get upset when Jocasta says, “I drove her last night.”

“She called for an indie?” Mojo says. “How’d she know she wouldn’t get …” and leaves the last word unspoken.

“Where was she?” Gilrein asks, trying and failing to sound relaxed.

“It was a flag-down. I was cruising the Zone. Guy she was with waved me over. They get in, I turn around, you know, Wylie, what a surprise.”

“The guy?” Gilrein asks.

Jocasta sighs. “You really want to do this to yourself? You’ve had a pretty awful night already.”