Father Mulrooney Takes a Ride - A Craven Danger Mystery

“Where to, Father?” 

“Just drive around, Sidney. I need to clear my head. I have nowhere to go, and I don’t want to go alone.”

Sidney Green pulled his cab away from the old church and made his way down east ninetieth street.

“A ride to nowhere coming up.” 

“Sounds grand.”

Father Mulrooney rolled down the window and made himself comfortable in the front seat.

“I hope you don’t mind me sitting up front with you, Sidney. Whenever I’m in the back seat I feel like I’m at work in the confessional.”

“I don’t mind the company at all, Father. I have all the comforts of home up here. Back there I got nothing but loose change, crumbs, and a ghost named Myrtle. Besides, FDR loves stretching out on the backseat, and he loves crumbs.”

At the sound of his name the old German Shepard raised his head, then rolled over until his paws were reaching for the sky.

“Up front I have a regular delicatessen. I can offer you coffee, lemonade, liverwurst on rye with onions and mustard, jelly donuts, and chewing gum. I even have beef jerky, but that’s for FDR.”

“Coffee sounds nice.”

“Thermos and cups in the glove compartment, Father.”

“Thanks. You say you have a ghost?”

“That would be Myrtle. Nice old lady. A couple of years back we were on our way to see her doctor when she keeled over in the backseat. I tried reviving her, but her body kept saying, ‘I had enough, Sidney. Time to go.’ And off she went. Only I never thought she’d be coming back so soon. But it’s okay with me. She was my favorite passenger, and she keeps things interesting when the cab’s empty. Most mornings I get to tell her what’s on my mind, and it puts my head in the right place for the rest of the day. Myrtle don’t say much, but I know she hears me. She was always a good listener.”

“How do you know when she’s listening?”

“Mothballs and cat food. Whenever I get a whiff of that in my cab I know Myrtle’s about to make an appearance. It’s the darnedest thing.” 

“I’ll take your word for it. I wish I could be more like her.”

“How so?”

“I’m not a good listener, Sidney. Folks come into my confessional seeking solace. By the time I’m handing out the absolution, they’re cursing under their breath and dropping their rosaries in the holy water on the way out.”

“Some people don’t want to hear what needs to be heard.”

“It’s starting to wear me out, Sidney. Maybe I need a little salvation of my own.”

“Like I said, Father, Myrtle’s a good listener. You can let it all out here if you like.”

“I’ll give that some thought.”

“In the meantime, why don’t we head down to the seaport to get a breath of fresh air. I can hop on the East Side Drive and go smooth saying all the way.”

“Fine idea, Sydney. Is the Fulton Fish Market still as smelly as ever?”

“It’s the smelliest.”

“Good. That fish air always made me feel alive. When I was a boy, my dad would take me to the fish market in the wee hours of the morning. He ran a little fried fish joint in the Village. Nothing fancy. Simple fare for simple folk. Six communal tables and six stools at the counter. Day old newspapers covered the tables. Vinegar and salt shakers to weigh the paper down. After school he’d have me come in to bus tables and deliver dinner plates to whichever hand-to-mouth tenants he had taken a liking to in the flats above the shop. One poor soul that comes to mind was Charles Finch. He was a boozy pensioner who always made sure to wear his medal for bravery when he’d hear me coming up the stairs with his food. He was so damned proud of that medal. 

“One night in 1918 I entered his room as usual, carrying a plate of fried cod. Mr. Finch was standing in front of his dressing mirror polishing his uniform buttons. ’What do you think?’ he said. ‘You think them krauts is ready for the likes of me? I can still fit into my old uniform. See?’ 

“And, boy, did he look grand. Two rows of shiny brass buttons gleaming in the lamplight, and that shiny silver medal on his chest. Shoes buffed to a mirror shine. All finished off with a smart looking cap. But, as a fourteen year-old kid, I didn’t have the spine to tell him they’d probably have no use for a seventy year-old streetcar conductor in the trenches. Mr. Finch had worked the Broadway line for more than thirty years, and now he had it in his boozy mind to sign up and serve in the war to end all wars. ‘I waited a whole year for them draft board people to come get me. I wait no more! First thing in the morning I’m going down to that induction center on Whitehall Street to offer my services to God and country.’

“I had to say something, so I said, ‘Mr. Finch, as far as the draft board is concerned, you already served God and country when you fished that old guy out of the Hudson River all those years ago. Guys like you are needed on this end to keep an eye on things. With the war on, you got more people jumping in that river than ever before. I think you should patrol the riverfront, and blow your old conductor’s whistle at the first sign of trouble. Now, why don’t you sit and eat your supper. It’s getting cold.’  And that seemed to satisfy him for the moment, Sidney. Then two weeks later I find out he had to be fished out the Hudson himself after a few too many had taken its toll. I should have learned than when shut my mouth. But here I am. Still telling folks how to conduct their lives. And tomorrow I got Craven back in the confessional. Maybe you should just drop me off at the river and I’ll take it from there.”

“Not a chance, Father. We’re about to pass the Fulton market. Take a big whiff.”

“Oh, boy, does that take me back to the days of fried cod wrapped in paper and a big paper cone full of steak fries. I can even smell the salt and vinegar.”

“Now you’re making me hungry.”

“Tell you what, Sydney. You make a stop at Sloppy Louie’s on South Street and I’ll buy.”

“You’re on, father. The cab ride’s on me.”

 

 

 

 

 

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