Song of Susannah - Stephen King [130]
The street preacher, a man with a beard and long white hair that descended to his shoulders, was now standing beside Jake, and when Jake started to raise the Ruger again, the preacher laid a gentle, unhurried hand on the boy’s wrist.
“Holster it, boy,” he said. “Stick it away, praise Jesus.”
Jake looked at him and saw what Susannah had seen not long before: a man who looked eerily like Henchick of the Manni. Jake put the gun back into the docker’s clutch, then bent and picked up Oy. The bumbler whined, stretched his face toward Jake’s on his long neck, and began to lick the boy’s cheek.
Callahan, meanwhile, had taken the driver’s arm and was leading him back toward his hack. He fished in his pocket and palmed a ten-dollar bill which was about half the money they’d managed to put together for this little safari.
“All over,” he said to the driver, speaking in what he hoped was a soothing voice. “No harm, no foul, you go your way, he goes his—” And then, past the hackie, yelling at the relentless horn-honker: “Horn works, you nimrod, so why not give it a rest and try your lights?”
“That little bastard was pointing the gun at me,” said the taxi driver. He felt on his head for his fez and didn’t find it.
“It’s only a model,” Callahan said soothingly. “The kind of thing you build from a kit, doesn’t even fire pellets. I assure y—”
“Hey, pal!” cried the street preacher, and when the taxi driver looked, the preacher underhanded him the faded red fez. With this back on his head, the driver seemed more willing to be reasonable. More willing yet when Callahan pressed the ten into his hand.
The guy behind the cab was driving an elderly whale of a Lincoln. Now he laid on his horn again.
“You may be biting my crank, Mr. Monkeymeat!” the taxi driver yelled at him, and Callahan almost burst out laughing. He started toward the guy in the Lincoln. When the taxi driver tried to join him, Callahan put his hands on the man’s shoulders and stopped him.
“Let me handle this. I’m a religious. Making the lion lie down with the lamb is my job.”
The street preacher joined them in time to hear this. Jake had retired to the background. He was standing beside the street preacher’s van and checking Oy’s legs to make sure he was uninjured.
“Brother!” the street preacher addressed Callahan. “May I ask your denomination? Your, I say hallelujah, your view of the Almighty?”
“I’m a Catholic,” Callahan said. “Therefore, I view the Almighty’s a guy.”
The street preacher held out a large, gnarled hand. It produced exactly the sort of fervent, just-short-of-crushing grip Callahan had expected. The man’s cadences, combined with his faint Southern accent, made Callahan think of Foghorn Leghorn in the Warner Bros. cartoons.
“I’m Earl Harrigan,” the preacher said, continuing to wring Callahan’s fingers. “Church of the Holy God-Bomb, Brooklyn and America. A pleasure to meet you, Father.”
“I’m sort of semi-retired,” Callahan said. “If you have to call me something, make it Pere. Or just Don. Don Callahan.”
“Praise Jesus, Father Don!”
Callahan sighed and supposed Father Don would have to do. He went to the Lincoln. The cab driver, meanwhile, scooted away with his OFF DUTY light on.
Before Callahan could speak to the Lincoln’s driver, that worthy got out on his own. It was Callahan’s night for tall men. This one went about six-three and was carrying a large belly.
“It’s all over,” Callahan told him. “I suggest you get back in your car and drive out of here.”
“It ain’t over until I say it’s over,” Mr. Lincoln demurred. “I got Abdul’s medallion number; what