If Angels Fall (17 page)

“You’ve got a customer,” Florence Schafer said meekly.

Shook quickly filled the bowl for an old sod before
him and was thanked with a “God bless you.” Shook ignored him.

He looked down at Florence, she was familiar. Running
his eyes over her miniature frame, he could smell her fear. He was curious. Why
had she acted so strangely when they sent her to help him on the serving line?
Not once had she turned to him. Pious little cunt. Maybe he would give her a
lesson in humility. It would be memorable. If only she knew of his power, knew
who he really was.

There was only one who knew.

From time to time a knowing moment would flicker
between Shook and the cold, hard eyes of those released from Q. it was the
look: con to con. But even their icy perception was never total. Only the
priest knew, and could not break the seal of the confessional. He absolved
Shook of his sins, but could tell no one of his crimes. He was bound by the
oath he swore to God.

Shook reveled in tormenting his confessor, reveled in
spitting in the face of his God.

Who possesses the real power? Who could take his pick
of San Francisco’s lambs, orchestrate the Sunday school teacher’s suicide,
baffle the blue meanies and manipulate everyone?

The priest knew exactly who Shook was and he trembled
in his knowledge.

“Hello, Florence. Lovely to see you today.”

Shook’s ears pricked up at the sound of Father
McCreeny’s voice. Ah, he had arrived as expected. Grazing with the flock.
Demonstrating his devotion. Standing head and shoulders above the others,
dispensing God bless you’s while piling his plate with food.

McCreeny stood before Shook. Emotion drained from his
face and his troubled eyes feigned kindness. At last he said: “God be with you,
my son. Bless you for helping us.”

Shook remained silent, taking his time to scoop
chicken soup into McCreeny’s bowl, placing it gently in the priest’s hands in a
manner suggesting the reverse of the sacrament of communion.

“And God be with you, Father.” Shook smiled widely,
showing McCreeny his hideous teeth.

Wintergreen Heights
was Cleve’s home since his old man had walked three years ago. He
lived here with Daphne, his alcoholic, welfare stepmother and half-brother,
Joey, a sniveling puke. He was free of Joey today. Daphne was sober and keeping
the sniveler inside because he had the flu.

Cleve kicked up his skateboard and glided to the rear
of the project. He loved how the rolling of his wheels resounded off of the
five towers around the courtyard. Time to sweep the neighborhood. The Heights
were his and he was going on patrol to see what he could see.

Wintergreen Heights was one of the city’s notorious
communities. Once an island of hope, it had deteriorated into a pit of despair.
Every home had been burglarized, every person victimized. Anyone calling 9-1-1
could count on waiting ten rings before counting on police. They rarely flew
the colors here, but when they came, they came by the hundreds.

Surfing down sidewalks, passing the crack house, Cleve
was on the lookout for a little of this, a little of that, and was deep into
the Heights when he saw that that guy with the boat again. His place looked
like a shithouse. Paint blistering. Weeds and shrubs were trying to swallow the
thing. His garage was open. The guy was in there, working on his boat up on the
trailer.

Cleve stopped.

His mind squirmed with questions: what was that guy
doing with a boat like that down here? It looked like a classic. Cleve rolled
up to the man.

“Nice boat.”

The man looked at him and Cleve saw two distorted
versions of himself in the man’s sunglasses.

The man just kept on working. Cleve eyeballed him. Lot
of lines on his face, looked wasted in his grease-stained T-shirt and jeans.
Needed to shave. A breeze was lifting hi salt-and-pepper hair like a nest of
snakes. He was inside the boat, working like a surgeon on the motors. Cleve
smelled gas and heard the
chink
of a wrench against metal. He stood on
tiptoe and peered into the hull at the boat’s massive engines, twin Mercs.

“Your craft must slash waves big time!”

The man didn’t answer.

Cleve stepped back. “What’s the bank on it?”

The man was silent.

“Is it like, an antique or what? It’s all wood. I
thought boats these days were fiberglass, like my Cruz Missile.”

The man’s ratchet clicked as he replaced a spark plug.
Cleve was in love with the boat. Its dark polished wood gleamed, the sun
sparkled on the windshield, the chrome trim fittings, and running lights. The
huge wheel was white, matching the leather seats, which had a black
diamond-patterned inlay. Tiny American flags drooped from tilted chrome flag
posts fixed aft.

“Seriously, man, what’s the top end?”

The ratchet clicked, another plug was replaced.

“Where do you launch it?”

The man said nothing.

Cleve went to the stern, shook his head at the speed
props, raised his eyebrows after reading what was written above them. In
elegant, gold-reflecting script was the word:
Archangel
.

“What’s the name mean? Religious or what?”

The ratchet clicked faster, then he tossed it into a toolbox
and jumped out of the boat, gathered the tarpaulin, pulling it over the boat.
Cleve hurried to the opposite side and helped. The man didn’t object.

“The reason I came over here is because I saw some
locals scoping your craft here a couple of nights ago,” he lied.

A rope whipped around the bow as the man tied it down
quickly.

“I told them the man who owns this craft is not a man
to be messed with. They said they’d be back and do a number.”

The man tied down ropes at two more points.

“The way I see it is me and my buddy, we could guard
it for you for a fee, which you wouldn’t have to pay if anything happened.”

The man stood on the trailer, stretched over the boat,
and snapped down the tarp’s fasteners near the windshield.

“What do you think?” Cleve said. What was that?
Thought he heard a child’s cry coming from the house. A little kid. Cleve knew
a bawling brat when he heard one. He listened for a second cry. Nothing. Weird.
Maybe a dog.

The man hopped down, walked around the boat, tying
down the canvas. It took a couple of minutes.

Cleve was offended. “Hey, mister!”

The man collected his tools, wiping each one.

“The boat’s going to get trashed!” Cleve knocked hard
on the bow with his skateboard. Loud enough for the man to stop what he was
doing. Cleve felt the air tighten, as if someone had just pulled back the
hammer of a gun.

The man’s face was serious as a headstone. Cleve
tightened his grip on his board, seeing himself in the man’s glasses.

He stood over Cleve and said, “A vigil is kept over
this vessel. Nobody
has
harmed her and nobody
will
harm her.
Understand?”

Cleve nodded coolly.

The man held a finger an inch from Cleve’s face. “It
is not a boat,” he whispered.
“It is a divine chariot!”

Cleve nodded.

“You think twice before you try to shake me down
again! Now, get your welfare-sucking ass off my property!”

Cleve stared hard at the man before leaving.

Edward Keller
weaved a thirty-pound, forged steel chair through the eyelets
rigged to the doors of the garage beside his house, bolted with three
“burglar-proof” locks then activated the silent alarm.

Archangel
was secure,
awaiting its mission.

The overgrown grass covering the scrap of yard behind
the house was bordered by a fence and neglected hedge, obliterating the
adjacent yards. An old alcoholic couple lived, if you could call it living, to
the left. The abandoned crack house to the right was condemned by city
inspectors. Police rarely showed up here where most people were too scared,
stupid, or stoned to be nosy.

It was ideal for his needs.

Using a false name, Keller had bought the property for
a pittance after discharging himself from the institute. Shrubs covered the
barred basement windows, junk mail carpeted the barely visible front yard.

Keller’s keys jingled as he unlocked the two dead
bolts of the metal door to the rear of the house. He shrugged off the little
neighbor kid. The nosy little criminal didn’t know what he’d heard. Keller
smiled. His mission was blessed. His house was his holy fortress predestined to
uphold the will of God. No one could get in. And no one can get out.

Inside, he found deliverance from the sun in the cool
darkness. He bolted the door, descended the creaking stairs to the basement,
the cocker spaniel scampering after him. He unlocked the room. Littered with
dirty plates, glasses, fast food bags and wrappers, it smelled of urine. Danny
Becker was asleep on the rotting mattress.

Protector of humankind.

Keller studied his face. The dog watched as he knelt
beside the boy, closed his eyes, lifted his head to heaven and gave thanks.

The angel Raphael.

He was cleansed in the light.

Sanctus. Sanctus. Sanctus.

Keller left, keeping the door open. The sleeping pills
he had ground into Danny’s pop would wear off soon. He had work to do. Climbing
the basement stairs, he heard a noise and froze. The dog growled. What was
that? A scratching coming from a darkened corner. Could it be that little punk.
No. Something lurking in the dark. Something with claws. He switched on a
light—suddenly the thing came out of the corner at him. A rat. A large rat,
it’s mangy fur scraping along the wall before it disappeared into a crack in
the wall.

It fascinated him. He squatted and whispered into the
crack.

“Vermin, if you contaminate my temple with your foul
presence again, I will taste your blood.”

Keller blocked the crack with a wooden milk crate.

Upstairs, he checked the front and rear doors. Each
required two keys from the inside to open. Satisfied they were sealed, he went
to the bathroom and showered. In his stark bedroom, he put on Levi’s and a
sweatshirt. From his night table he lovingly withdrew the silver crucifix
chain, staring at the suffering Christ.

His will be done.”

Keller kissed the crucifix and slipped the chain over
his neck. He went to the kitchen and made a tomato sandwich and black coffee.
He gave the dog a cookie. In the living room, a bookcase stood in one corner
jammed with the works of Conrad, Blake, Eliot, the Huxleys, texts on
philosophy, theology, death, resurrection, and angels.

When he first held Danny Becker in his arms, Keller
felt the flutter of angels’ wings.

He selected the obscure work by Oberam Augustine Reingaertler,
titled
Struggle for the Light: The Truth About Angels and Devils,
then
sat wearily in the rocking chair. He read a passage, said to be centuries old,
from a poem by a blind monk for a bereaved mother: