"Nu?" the priest said with a Jackie Mason shrug.
Zev had to laugh. "Joe, I still say that somewhere in your family tree is Jewish blood."
For a moment he felt light, almost happy. When was the last time he had laughed? Probably at their table near the back of Horovitz's deli, shortly before the St. Anthony's nastiness began, well before the undead came.
Zev thought of the day they'd met. He'd been standing at the counter at Horovitz's waiting for Yussel to wrap up the stuffed derma he'd ordered when this young giant walked in. He towered over the rabbis and yeshiva students in the place, looking as Irish as Paddy's pig, and wearing a Roman collar. He said he'd heard this was the only place on the whole Jersey Shore where you could get a decent corned beef sandwich. He ordered one and cheerfully warned that it better be good. Yussel asked him what could he know about good corned beef and the priest replied that he'd grown up in Bensonhurst. Well, about half the people in Horovitz's on that day—and on any other day, for that matter—had grown up in Bensonhurst, and before you knew it they were all asking him if he knew such-and-such a store and so-and-so's deli.
Zev then informed the priest—with all due respect to Yussel Horovitz behind the counter—that the best corned beef sandwich in the world was to be had at Shmuel Rosenberg's Jerusalem Deli in Bensonhurst. Father Cahill said he'd been there and agreed one hundred percent.
Yussel served him his sandwich then. As the priest took a huge bite out of the corned beef on rye, the normal tumel of a deli at lunchtime died away until Horovitz's was as quiet as a shul on Sunday morning. Everyone watched him chew, watched him swallow. Then they waited. Suddenly his face broke into this big Irish grin.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to change my vote," he said. "Horovitz's of Lakewood makes the best corned beef sandwich in the world."
Amid cheers and warm laughter, Zev led Father Cahill to the rear table that would become theirs, and sat with this canny and charming gentile who had so easily won over a roomful of strangers and provided such a mechaieh for Yussel. He learned that the young priest was the new assistant to Father Palmeri, the pastor at St. Anthony's Catholic Church at the northern end of Lakewood. Father Palmeri had been there for years but Zev had never so much as seen his face. He asked Father Cahill—who wanted to be called Joe—about life in Brooklyn these days and they talked for an hour.
During the following months they would run into each other so often at Horovitz's that they decided to meet regularly for lunch, on Mondays and Thursdays. They did so for years, discussing religion—oy, the religious discussions!—politics, economics, philosophy, life in general. During those lunchtimes they solved most of the world's problems. Zev was sure they'd have solved them all if the scandal at St. Anthony's hadn't resulted in Father Joe's removal from the parish.
But that was in another time, another world. The world before the undead took over.
Zev shook his head as he considered the current state of Father Joe in the dusty basement of Morton's Liquors.
"It's about the vampires, Joe," he said, taking another sip of the Stoli. "They've taken over St. Anthony's."
Father Joe snorted and shrugged.
"They're in the majority now, Zev, remember? They've taken over the whole East Coast. Why should St. Anthony's be different from any other parish?"
"I didn't mean the parish. I meant the church."
The priest's eyes widened slightly. "The church? They've taken over the building itself?"
"Every night," Zev said. "Every night they are there."
"That's a holy place. How do they manage that?"
"They've desecrated the altar, destroyed all the crosses. St. Anthony's is no longer a holy place."
"Too bad," Father Joe said, looking down and shaking his head sadly. "It was a fine old church." He looked up again. "How do you know about what's going on at St. Anthony's? It's not exactly in your neighborhood."
"A neighborhood I don't exactly have any more."
Father Joe reached over and gripped his shoulder with a huge hand.
"I'm sorry, Zev. I heard your people got hit pretty hard over there. Sitting ducks, huh? I'm really sorry."
Sitting ducks. An appropriate description.
"Not as sorry as I, Joe," Zev said. "But since my neighborhood is gone, and since I have hardly any friends left, I use the daylight hours to wander. So call me the Wandering Jew. And in my wanderings I meet some of your old parishioners."
The priest's face hardened. His voice became acid.
"Do you, now. And how fare the remnants of my devoted flock?"
"They've lost all hope, Joe. They wish you were back."
He barked a bitter laugh. "Sure they do! Just like they rallied behind me when my name and honor were being dragged through the muck. Yeah, they want me back. I'll bet!"
"Such anger, Joe. It doesn't become you."
"Bullshit. That was the old Joe Cahill, the naive turkey who believed all his faithful parishioners would back him up. But no. A child points a finger and the bishop removes me. And how do the people I dedicated my life to respond? They all stand by in silence as I'm railroaded out of my parish."
"It's hard for the commonfolk to buck a bishop."
"Maybe. But I can't forget how they stood quietly by while I was stripped of my position, my dignity, my integrity, of everything I wanted to be . . ."
Zev thought Joe's voice was going to break. He was about to reach out to him when the priest coughed and squared his shoulders.
"Meanwhile, I'm a pariah over here in the retreat house, a goddamn leper. Some of them actually believe—" He broke off in a growl. "Ah, what's the use? It's over and done. Most of the parish is dead anyway, I suppose. And if I'd stayed there I'd probably be dead too. So maybe it worked out for the best. And who gives a shit anyway?"
"Last night I met someone who does. She saved me from one of the winged ones."
"You were out at night?"
"Yes. A long story. She was dressed rather provocatively and knew me because she'd seen me with you."
Joe looked interested now. "What was her name?"
"She wouldn't say. But she begged me to find you and bring you back."
"Really." His interest seemed to be fading.
"Yes. She said when you heard what they've done to your church you'd come back and teach them a lesson they'll never forget."
"Sounds like you ran into an escaped mental patient," Joe said as he reached for the bottle of Glenlivet next to him.
"No-no!" Zev said. "You promised!"
Father Joe drew his hand back and crossed his arms across his chest.
"Talk on. I'm listening."
Joe had certainly changed for the worse. Morose, bitter, apathetic, self-pitying.
"They've taken over your church, just as they've taken over my temple. But the temple they use only for a dormitory. Your church, they've desecrated it. Each night they further defile it with butchery and blasphemy. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"It's Palmeri's parish. I've been benched. Let him take care of it."
"Father Palmeri is their leader."
"He should be. He's their pastor."
"No. He leads the undead in the obscenities they perform in the church."
Joe stiffened and the glassiness cleared from his eyes.
"Palmeri? He's one of them?"
Zev nodded. "More than that. He's one of the local leaders. He orchestrates their rituals."
Zev saw rage flare in the priest's eyes, saw his hands ball into fists, and for a moment he thought the old Father Joe was going to burst through.
Come on, Joe. Show me that Cahill fire.
But then he slumped back.
"Is that all you came to tell me?"
Zev hid his disappointment and nodded. "Yes."
"Good." He grabbed the Scotch bottle. "Because I need a drink."
Zev wanted to leave, yet he had to stay, had to probe deeper and see how much of his old friend was left, and how much had been replaced by this new, bitter, alien Joe Cahill. Maybe there was still hope. So they talked on.