Turning Idolater by Edward C. Patterson Read Free Book Online Page A

the joint that was old enough to remember how
to write in complete sentences.
    “I told you so,” Sprakie said. “Loser or serial
killer.”
    Philip poked him in the ribs. “I’m chancing it.”
    “Oh, I forgot. You go to the geezers instead of the
Public Library. I hope your Library card doesn’t expire before you
do.”
    Philip glared at Sprakie. His heart sank to the
bottom of some imagined ocean. “That can’t be him.”
    The old croaker was shabby as if he had darted in
for a coffee break between panhandles. Philip was surprised the
establishment even served him, but The Imperial Coffee Mug was, at one time, The Potherer , a famous beatnik coffee
house, which often looked like skid row on a Saturday night.
Perhaps this elderly gent had been coming here for years, and if
so, he could very well be the illusive Thomas Dye, writer and
possible ex-beatnik.
    “What the fuck,” Philip declared.
    “You’re not really going through with this?” Sprakie
cackled. “I mean, distance is his friend. Why dispense with your
only ally?”
    Philip’s eye roved to another older gent; one who
looked about forty, although Thomas said he was forty-eight.
However, in chat you could be any age you wanted as long as the
blinders were in place. As Philip gripped on the door handle,
Sprakie returned the rib poke.
    “Remember, Miss Romantic Notion, he knows what you
look like. Once in, the Dye is cast, excuse the pun, and then if
you need to blow him off, you’ll waste energy better spent dancing
at Splash .”
    Philip hesitated, and then pulled the door open. “I
can’t afford the cover at Splash. ”
    The place reeked of cigarettes, even though the law
said otherwise. Years of heavy smoking housed a permanent tobacco
aroma within the wallpaper. This was mixed with a blend of various
coffees from across the seven seas. A delicious and enticing blend
drew Philip past the coffee bar to the window seats. As he
approached, the old shabby troll raised his eyes. He had been
reading a tattered newspaper. He tucked it under his arm and
stood.
    “Shit,” Philip mumbled.
    “Too late,” Sprakie giggled.
    The man shuffled from his table and walked toward
Philip.
    “Philip,” came a voice and it wasn’t from croaker,
who had passed him by. “Philip. Over here.”
    Philip turned. To his delight, the man who harkened
was neither shabby nor withered. He had a short-cropped goatee and
a hairline sufficiently receded as to qualify for bald, but he was
a looker. His eyes sparked blue. His lips bowed a smile over sail
white teeth that had a slight space that beckoned Philip even at
this distance. The Flaxen One delivered himself tableside, a mate
eager to be whistled aboard.
    “Thomas?” Philip queried, and hoped, but knew,
because he knew the voice.
    “Ishmael?” Thomas countered. He arose and gave
Philip a friendly hug.
    First contact and Philip felt a surge. He had never
felt such a homecoming as this, and he had been beyond a hug in
every port.
    “Ishmael?” Sprakie said. “Wrong guy, Philip. Nice
meeting you sir.”
    “Shut-up Sprakie,” Philip said. “You wouldn’t
understand. It’s from my book.”
    “Oh, the Book. Well, pardon me for
breathing.”
    Philip pulled Sprakie aside — just a brief aside and
well within Thomas’ earshot. “Don’t fuck this up for me,” he
whispered. He then turned back to Thomas. “Thomas, this is my
sister, Sprakie.”
    “Sprakie? I’ve seen you. Robert? From manluv?”
    “Just call me the chaperone,” Sprakie said.
    Philip jostled Sprakie before he could get on a
roll. “I wasn’t sure what you looked like,” Philip jabbered. “I
mean, you’ve seen me . . .”
    “From top to bottom,” Sprakie snapped. .
    “I’m just glad it’s you,” Philip stammered. “I mean
. . .”
    He glanced at the departing croaker.
    Thomas roared. “You thought that that older gent was
. . . Then, I take it you are surprised that I am not on my last
legs.”
    “Told you he’d have a wooden