The Prophet of Queens Read online

  The Prophet of Queens

  Glenn Kleier

  The Prophet of Queens is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and incidents portrayed herein are either products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  The Prophet of Queens

  Copyright © 2021 by Glenn Kleier

  www.kleier.com

  All rights reserved.

  Released through:

  Liberum Press/BANTAM.CT

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-7364174-3-0

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7364174-2-3

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-7364174-6-1

  First Edition: June 12, 2021

  Printed in the United States of America

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  Cover design by Antonio M Del Esporti M da Rocha

  Interior design by TeaBerry Creative,

  and Stewart A. Williams

  Media Inquiries:

  PO Box 703 Bantam.CT 067509998

  Dedication

  To the thousands of frontline workers and healthcare providers who gave their lives combating the scourge of Covid-19.

  “All that’s necessary for evil to prevail

  is for people of conscience to do nothing.”

  —UNKNOWN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As I write this, America is suffering one of its darkest times in living memory—a medical, political, and social clash more divisive than any crisis since the Civil War. I cling to the belief that new vaccines, and a new national awakening will see us through…

  The Prophet of Queens was a challenging project. And while the distractions of current affairs made finishing it more difficult, the pandemic gave me the incentive to do so. All the same, I couldn’t have reached this point without the help of many smart, generous people to whom I’m deeply grateful:

  —First and foremost, my family, who traveled this long road with me from start to finish. My beloved wife—first and last reader, my go-to for wisdom and critiques. My two sons, who kept me sensitive to the changing times and offered insights and contributions far beyond their years.

  —My editor, Sulay Hernandez, who I had the good fortune to meet during her stint at Simon & Schuster, now performing her editorial magic at Unveiled Ink. A truly brilliant, gifted lady. In the course of our work, she’s become a dear friend.

  —My agent, Al Zuckerman of Writers House, who provided valuable input early on.

  —The wise lady who masterminded the labyrinth of the book’s internal layout, Tara Mayberry, of TeaBerry Creative. Tara, you are a consummate professional, I can’t thank you enough for your expertise and unfailing good humor.

  —The great cadre of beta readers who perused the final draft and offered helpful thoughts: Debbie Heald, Bella Ellwood- Clayton, Catherine Garrett, Jose Diaz, Gina Karasek, Maryam Gehad Ali, and a special thanks to Debbie Coverdale, who made a number of smart, spot-on contributions

  —And my friends and acquaintances who patiently supported me through this glacial process. Not forgetting Dr. Arielle Lester, a heroic healthcare provider in this pandemic, who graciously gave technical advice for a medical issue in the story.

  To all of you, my love and appreciation, always.

  Glenn

  January, 2021

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Saturday, October 4, 10:00 am, Queens, New York

  The course of history took a detour today. Not that anyone realized at the time.

  Scotty was in bed when it began, deep in a dream smiting evil after a late night of online videogaming. Until his mind cleared, and he realized the wail he heard wasn’t in his head, but Homer yowling in the front room. Homer wasn’t neutered, Scotty couldn’t afford to have it done, and thinking some alley cat must be in heat somewhere, he tried to block the noise with a pillow.

  But the wails continued. He’d never heard Homer so upset. Sliding from bed in his boxers, he raked his dark hair from his eyes and stumbled out of the bedroom to see his big orange tabby facing the shadows of the living room, hackles up.

  “What is it, boy?”

  The cat growled low, riveted.

  Scotty stole toward him past a small closet, bath, and kitchenette on the right. The living room was spacious, especially for a second-floor walkup in this old part of Queens. Hazy shafts of light filtered through the blinds of a large window in front—only window in the apartment. In the left corner stood Pop’s old tube TV and VHS player. In the right, Mom’s big umbrella plant. In between, set back from the window and facing it, the couch Scotty had bought on craigslist. And abutting the couch from behind, one end of a long table he’d salvaged from the streets for a computer desk.

  He went to the door and switched on the overhead. All looked just as he’d left it last night.

  But Homer insisted otherwise.

  A rat? Scotty scratched his scraggy beard. A damn big one to frighten a tomcat. No point calling Samood, his worthless super never picked up and took days to respond. If Scotty hoped to sleep tonight, he’d have to deal with this himself. He turned to the coat rack and grabbed the umbrella with the pointy tip, only to be frozen by a sound unlike any he’d ever heard. Loud, deep-pitched, ominous. He saw no apparent source, as if the air itself bellowed. He staggered backward, and the noise ceased. Inched forward, it returned. Like throwing a switch.

  “Jesus.” No rat, more a monster growl from some horror flick. He felt the hairs on his neck prickle. Again he advanced, again the same. Damnedest thing he’d ever seen. Except, he couldn’t see it. An invisible boundary of some kind.

  He raised the umbrella and made for the front of the room, when suddenly the growl warbled into screech. He froze again, and Homer tore for the bedroom, claws raking hardwood. Still, nothing looked out of order. Radiator, smoke alarm, TV, computer. Scotty snatched his phone from the desk to call 9-1-1, but had no bars.

  Finally, the shriek dropped to rumble, the rumble faded, and his phone was working again.

  He edged to the window and parted the blinds, peering down on a street pot-holed and strewn with litter. Quiet. He went to his door and squinted out the peephole at the hall. Also quiet. He turned the knob and stuck his head out, met by a musty, cold draft. The halls here were unheated, lit by sallow milk-glass globes layered with bug carcasses, walls sloughing pea-green paint, linoleum floors worn through in high-traffic areas. And no clue to the source of the noises.

  He returned to the bedroom, jumped into jeans and a T, and called to Homer under the bed, “Gonna check on the neighbors.”

  The cat peeped out. Hey, don’t leave me here alone.

  Scotty nodded, Homer jumped into his arms, and trading the umbrella for a leash at the coat rack, Scotty rushed downstairs to stop in front of the first door he came to. Apartment 1-B, Mrs. Steiner. Like a grandmother to him these past months. A note on her door read in tidy script: At the Center today. The neighborhood Family Services Center where she volunteered. Mrs. Steiner lived alone, and when out, left word so neighbors wouldn’t worry.

  Scotty was thankful she’d missed the disturbance. Not forgetting, she was allergic to cats.

  He crossed the hall and rapped on 1-A, Mr. Zola. No answer, but the man was near deaf. Detecting a rattle of dishes inside, Scotty moved on to the Valenzuela family, 1C. They had nothing unusual to report. Likewise, Mrs. Ngato, 1D. And lugging Homer back upstairs, Scotty was baffled to learn from the two families on his floor, they’d heard no strange noises, either. 2D was vacant. He slung the cat over a shoulder and climbed the ladder to the hatch, scoping the roof for anything out of the ordinary. Nada.

  Homer suggested, Maybe they’re doing road work outside.
<
br />   They headed downstairs again, pushing out the building’s front door, hinges screeching, down the steps to the sidewalk into a bright, crisp day. Scotty shielded his eyes to scout the area for construction. None to be seen in this woefully neglected neighborhood. To the left of his brownstone sat another just like it, empty and for sale as it had been since the economy tanked. One of a dozen such rundown rubberstamps lining the street. Scotty fastened the leash to Homer’s collar, set him on the sidewalk, and they struck off to check the rest of the block.

  As he passed people, Scotty asked if they’d heard anything unusual. Most ignored him, or simply squinted at Homer on the leash. Those who bothered to respond shook their heads.

  At the corner, Scotty came across a boarded-up storefront plastered with old flyers. One stood out fresh, and he slowed, smiling to recognize a black-and-white photo from the vintage film, Metropolis. The iconic face of the sexy female robot, encircled by an orange ring with a diagonal bar struck through it. Emblazoned beneath the ring in orange letters was the acronym, R.U.S.T. And under that, the phrase: Rescue Us from Science and Technology.

  Scotty lost his smile. The worse the economy, the more he saw of this. So many people were out of work and desperate, crushed by forces beyond their comprehension, seeking refuge in things irrational. He felt bad for them. And fortunate to have a job, lousy as it was.

  Snatching down the flyer, he tossed it in a trash can and pressed on. Around the corner were more abandoned stores, and he took a right into the alley, feeling Homer strain against the leash.

  You sure this is a good idea?

  Scotty had forgotten how desolate it was back here, the reason he seldom used his building’s rear entrance. He continued, and soon came across vagrants rooting in dumpsters. A man with tattered clothes shuffled into his path and extended a grimy palm creased like a road map. Scotty asked him, “Happen to hear any weird noises this morning?”

  The man shook his head, wiggling his fingers. Scotty could ill afford it, but fished out his wallet to give him a single. More hands materialized, Scotty’s wallet quickly emptied, and he backed away apologizing to those who went without, figuring he’d gotten off easy.

  The alley ended at a pawn shop, the last store still open on the block, and Scotty headed home none the wiser. No work crews, machinery, or anything else to account for the noises.

  Homer squinted up at him. So what the hell did we hear this morning?

  “Damned if I know. Maybe the sounds were all in my head. Like your voice.”

  The cat shrugged, and they returned to the apartment.

  Scotty fixed them breakfast and took his to the couch, determined to get his weekend back on track. He’d hardly settled in to watch reruns of Rick and Morty when he heard a new sound. Metal rolling on metal from the street below. He peeked through the blinds to see a moving truck double-parked, tailgate up. Behind it stood a young woman in jeans and a ribbed pullover, hands on hips, hair short and flipped. Scotty’s age, about. A ballerina or model, judging by her figure. Though not established in her career, else she wouldn’t be locating here. A new tenant on his floor, he hoped.

  Sighing, he could feel her left-swipe him already. The only hits he ever got on his dating app were porn come-ons.

  Scotty detected the pungent scent of liver, and turned to see Homer puzzling up at him.

  What now?

  “An addition to the neighborhood, I think.”

  The cat vaulted onto the windowsill to nose aside the blinds. Hot damn, dude, a babe. Quick, go lend a hand.

  Scotty rolled his tongue along a cheek, and Homer snapped, Un-uh, no waffling, you made a deal. Remember what the guru says?

  Last summer, Scotty had signed up for an online course at selfhelpguru.com. 100 Steps to Success. He’d paid his fee and taken the pledge, and Homer wasn’t letting him out of it.

  Step #19: Extend yourself, and the unattainable shall come within reach.

  Before Scotty had a chance to extend himself, however, out the back of the truck leaped a tall, wide-shouldered guy. Métal Urbain T-shirt, jeans, man-bun. He gave the girl a squeeze with a tattooed arm, and they began moving things into the vacancy down the hall across from Scotty. Scotty toggled from window to peephole, noting only women’s clothing and paraphernalia. Through his door, he heard the girl call the guy “René.” Finally, they emptied the truck, Rene´ drove off, and the girl retired to her apartment.

  Scotty felt a paw tap his leg. Now’s your chance, get your ass over there.

  But the girl had to be exhausted, and faced a ton of stuff to sort out. Scotty went to his computer instead and opened his daily log, recording the events of the morning while still fresh in his head—as the guru also advised.

  Homer leaped into Scotty’s lap, read his entry, and cried, What? You’re passing off this morning as ‘one of those things?’ It sounded like the Second damned Coming to me!

  “Whatever it was,” Scotty said, “we’re none the worse for it. Come on, let’s play The Game.”

  The videogame he and Homer were playing last night. And almost every night. The Game was the only aspect of his life Scotty felt he had control over.

  Homer snorted, hopped down and trotted off, and Scotty’s stomach knotted. Cats possessed perceptions beyond those of humans. And never before had Homer turned down The Game.

  Chapter 2

  Monday, October 6, 6:37 am, Queens, NY

  Scotty threw on wrinkled khakis and a button-down shirt as Homer sat watching on the bed.

  So, the cat growled, you just gonna abandon me?

  “You know I can’t take off work,” Scotty said. Employed for less than six months, he’d yet to accrue any vacation or sick days, and couldn’t afford unpaid leave. “No worries, I got a plan.”

  Homer did not look assured. Yesterday, Sunday, at precisely 10:00 AM, the terrifying noises had returned. Scotty had awakened into a repeat of Saturday. Homer howling in the front room, Scotty entering to freakish thunder and whine, another frantic search, no apparent source, over in minutes. Exactly like before.

  What’s the plan?

  Scotty headed to the kitchen, stuck a donut in his mouth, and ferried cat food, water, and litter box into the bedroom. Closing Homer inside, he wedged a towel under the door (broken latch). If the noises came back, hopefully the cat would remain in the room, the disturbance out.

  But Homer wasn’t used to being confined.

  You can’t do this, dammit, he whined from behind the door, it’s against fire code!

  “What choice do I have?” Even if Pop weren’t pissed at him, the old man wouldn’t let Scotty’s sister, Ivy, keep a cat. To Pop, pets were parasites. Mrs. Steiner had allergies, and Scotty didn’t know his other neighbors well enough. He’d toyed with asking the new girl as an excuse to meet her, but didn’t want to start off by imposing. “Just chill, you sleep all day anyway. Tonight I’ll open that can of Fancy Feast I saved for you.”

  Telling himself all would be well, he slipped off to the bus stop.

  The subway was a quicker commute, but Scotty hated it. Like catacombs down there. Three transfers and fifty minutes later, he arrived at Webster and 180th in the Bronx Northside—removed enough from his old Bronx Southside neighborhood to avoid running into Pop. Midway up the block stood Schlompsky’s Grocery. Two stories of yellow brick and glass, store on the 1st floor, offices on the 2nd. Unchanged since Leonard Schlompsky Sr. built it in 1956.

  Scotty kept the books for the six-store chain. Assistant bookkeeper before his superior died of an embolism three months ago at the desk Scotty now occupied. The promotion came with no raise, and while Margo promised to hire help, so much for that. The job was high stress, low pay. Scotty had always dreamed of doing something creative with his life, but accounting was a practical profession and a lifesaver for a Bronx Business College dropout in a recession.

  He pushed past glass doors papered with the day’s specials, inhaling the scent of citrus, returning the “hellos” of the checkout ladie
s, trudging upstairs.

  The 2nd floor was an open mezzanine at the front of the building, packed with metal desks under fluorescent lights. It ran the width of the store and overhung the main floor to look down on registers and aisles through a glass divider. Against the divider in the far corner sat Leonard III’s office. His walls were also glass, but shuttered, blinds always drawn. Scotty had never seen inside the office, but heard it contained TV monitors connected to cameras throughout all the old coot’s stores. A command center from which he could surveil operations, addressing concerns by phone, or directly to a store over loudspeaker. Bent stick of a man, first to arrive, last to leave, often heard, seldom seen unless really pissed.

  Scotty answered to general manager, Margo Boggs. Plus-sized, mid-forties, she ran operations from a glass cubicle on a platform dead center of the floor. Her “watchtower,” she called it. A strict Jehovah’s Witness, she wore her religion on her sleeve and everywhere else. Gold-cross earrings, necklace, bracelet, lapel pin, Jesus stickers on her car. As a practitioner of faith-based management, she kept a bible on the corner of her desk like a loaded pistol. Once, Scotty foolishly let slip he’d quit his religion, and she’d been gunning for his soul ever since. To Margo, followers of any faith but hers were doomed to hell. And especially so the unchurched.

  Scotty’s desk adjoined Reggie and Zing’s, who faced each other. Scotty’s office friends. Apart from Mrs. Steiner and Homer, Scotty didn’t have close friends.

  He draped his jacket on his chair and slid in, returning the men’s greetings.

  Reggie Watson, the company’s meat & deli manager. Forties, big black guy with one of those faces frozen in frown. He could’ve played pro ball but for a bad knee.

  Zing Li Po, produce manager. Thirties, Asian-American, small-statured. A community college graduate, and he liked to flaunt it.

  The men were busy at their keyboards, bickering as usual, this time about last night’s presidential debate. Margo forbid politics in the office, so the two spoke in low voices, stifling their lips and facial expressions, quite good at it. How ventriloquists might argue.