"Sister Kelly Toy called from Los Angeles, she requests expansion."
The haloed man hunched over his oak desk, lit a cigarette and eased back into his blue velvet throne.
"Ah, and is it warranted?" He finally let out with the smoke following his words.
"Indeed. Fifty-four percent increase over last month's figures."
"Excellent, and does Sister Toy make any recommendations?"
“Yes, San Francisco. She'd like permission to fly there tomorrow evening after hours to scout possible locations."
"Permission granted. And tell her that she has been empowered to finalize the deal on any property she sees fit. Make it clear to her that she is to use her charm — to do what is necessary — to secure the best location. Sister Toy has a great deal of charm you know."
"Yes, I do recall her."
"Is there anything else?"
"Brother Timothy Craven requested I remind you that he's been waiting in the Red Room for over an hour."
"Umm, we should have put him in the Pink Room, he's an impatient one. Very well, I suppose an hour is long enough. Send him in."
"Breathe blue, Saint Michael," the cubist replied.
"Breathe blue."
*****
Craven dragged his feet across the carpet, his briefcase dangling loosely from his arm, as he stepped into the haloed man's office. Better to show his discontent through body language than to verbalize it. He had felt the wrath of the man's temper during bouts of disagreement and was in no mood for a screamfest. The mandatory bow was half-hearted and his enthusiasm waning.
"Breathe blue, Saint Michael. I am humble in your presence." The thought of last month's deposits slips oiled the words that otherwise would have choked him.
"Breathe blue, Brother Timothy, how goes the battle?"
"More papers to sign, I'm afraid. It seems that the SEC has tunnel vision when it comes to separating M.O.S. from the First Church of the Primary Colors but I think your last petition drive may have clinched it. Even the President wants your people out of his hair."
"Good, I like the sound of that. Has the Pope responded to my request yet?"
"He flat out refuses to sell the Sistine Chapel, but he would like to meet with you."
"Very well, set up an appointment, and have the plane scheduled to arrive forty-five minutes after the meeting is due to start. Is there anything else?"
"The papers." Craven balanced his attaché case on the arm of his chair.
"Leave them with Sister Jill. I'll have a courier bring them to your office in the morning. Right now, I feel the need to be tempted. Tell Sister Diane I wish to see her."
Craven tried to muffle the sigh of disgust; he snapped his briefcase up and darted from the room.
*****
"Breathe blue, Saint Michael. I am humble in your presence." Sister Diane tossed her coal black hair back over her shoulder and clasped it with her hand as she bowed.
"Tempt me, Sister Diane," the haloed man demanded.
She closed the door behind her and securing the hasp, she slowly ambled across the room, the hem of her powder blue silk gown brushing the rug. She had experienced this before, as had the others, but for her each time was like the first. She was honored and her gratitude was called upon more often than her "sisters’.”
She tugged the knot of her gown loose as she stepped onto the raised platform. Tensing her muscles and raising her arms ever so slightly, she allowed the gown to slide slowly over her form until it rested at her feet. The haloed man swung his pivot-throne away from the desk to face her.
"Breathe blue," she whispered, as she knelt on the pillow her gown had made.
"Breathe blue," he whispered, closing his eyes.
Chapter 12
EUROPEAN TEST MARKETS HIGHLY RECEPTIVE
REAL ESTATE PURCHASES FINALIZED 18JUNE.
DOCUMENTS SENT VIA COURIER TO ARRIVE IN
WASHINGTON 19JUNE. TECHNIQUE TRAINING TO
COMMENCE 21JUNE.
DISBURSEMENT TO MARKETS:
27JUNE LONDON
27JUNE PARIS
27JUNE MADRID
28JUNE BRUSSELS
28JUNE HAMBURG
BREATHE BLUE
SISTER ALISON
SISTER MAUREEN
SISTER BLAKE
SISTER EMMA
SISTER DELTA
Saint Michael folded the telefax sheet into a crude airplane, its aborted flight fell short of its target. Craven leaned forward and snatched the fragile craft, crumbling it into a ball without bothering to read it.
The minor powers being usurped by a fleet of pubescent nymphs bothered him less than he would have thought. What did bother him, to a great deal now, was this god-man before him. In the past, he had confided, in personal conversations with only a few of his closest friends, that he would gladly sell his soul if the price were right. It was said in jest, merely a figure of speech, and was followed by nods of agreement, much laughter, and the clicking of glasses in a toast that each present would be given the elusive opportunity. The opportunity did not elude Timothy Craven. It was given to him in the form of a hastily scratched signature by a frightened young man. It was given to him in the form of James Michael Flagg. In the form of a haloed man.
In the form of Saint Michael.
The few short months of their acquaintance had made Timothy Craven a wealthy man, a millionaire — many times over. He had acquired the trappings of wealth but neither had he the time nor the inclination to use them. He was a whore now, doing a whore's job, not unlike the robed women that bowed and scraped before the god-man. He too bowed and scraped.
In times of deepest despair, a pistol clenched in his sweating fist, hand trembling as he raised it to his temple, he felt the emptiness. In his hollowest moments, he cursed the true God for allowing the deceivers. He cursed his wealth; he no longer wanted it. It was too late for that now. The fine, thin barrier between desire and need had burst. The subtle seductiveness of greed had squeezed his spirit lifeless. He was a whore now, his actions guided by an outside force. In the form of the demon himself.
In the form of Saint Michael.
The crumbled paper again sailed across the room, this time hitting its target — a waste paper basket opposite him.
"You're getting better at that Brother Timothy. Practice does make perfect."
"Thank you, Saint Michael. Anything I should know about?"
"We are now officially international. Sister Alison and her team have secured the European parcels. The paperwork is on its way. I'd like you to cancel my appointment with the Pope and reschedule it for later this month; I'll be leaving for London this afternoon. Notify the media only after the Archangel has left the ground. I don't want a scene at National but I do expect a healthy turnout at Heathrow. Do I make myself clear?"
"Of course, Saint Michael, thy will be done."
"Call my home and have Sister Jennifer pack my things. Have the car brought around back. That'll be all, breathe blue."
"Breathe blue, Saint Michael."
Chapter 13
The Archangel pitched up as the pilot tapped the rudder pedal to compensate for the changing air current. Saint Michael rolled off of Jennifer and pushed the curtain aside, letting the simple, unadorned cabin light shine, impotently trying to light the darkened sky. He hunched his back up against the upholstered headboard, propping a pillow behind him and lit a cigarette.
"Better go get dressed," he spoke. "We'll be landing soon."
"Can I get you anything?" She asked as she kissed his belly and her tongue slid slowly down.
"No, go on now, get pretty. We have an image to keep."
Her tongue finished its rounds as Saint Michael leaned his head back, silencing his demands.
He had noticed the subtle change weeks earlier and wondered if the others had noticed it too. Even Raymond Packwell, with his almost childlike candor, hadn't mentioned it. Fear of certain reprisals could be the reason — or, perhaps it was his imagination? No
, that was unlikely. It was his habit now to check as often as possible throughout the day. In fact, he had recently taken to secreting a makeup compact on his person to be used when the desired mirror was inappropriate or unobtainable. He was sure of it now. The effect was lessening, diminishing. The luminescence was still obvious, but the blazing whitish-blue scintillate had peaked — at Michael's best guess — a month earlier, and the sparkling glow now merely shimmered like the dying embers of a once refulgent flame. His only alternative, vehemently opposed by Brother Timothy Craven, was to schedule all public gatherings in the dead of night. Craven had as allies in his opposition, all sane members of the press, politicos, law enforcement, security forces and the general night-sleeping larks of the ever-decreasing uninitiated of the world. They were outnumbered and the meetings went on. Saint Michael felt it was a matter of survival. Even a cloud-covered day left the effect almost mundane, but under the blanket of night his powers went unquestioned.
"Entering landing pattern, please extinguish all smoking materials and check to see that your seat belts are fastened." The captain's voice crackled over the intercom as she lowered the wing flaps, buffeting the previous smooth flow of air, guiding the craft into slow flight. "Breathe blue," she added as an afterthought.
The wheels sung to the tarmac, power cut and the pilot kicked the right rudder to bring the Angel to port.
Almost before the plane rolled to a stop, two chauffeured limousines glided alongside, awaiting Saint Michael and his entourage. In the distance, bathed in a curtain of blinding floodlights, a crowd of over 20,000 cheered as the passengers deplaned. Tacked to the jerrybuilt structure that supported the lights, banners waved in the crisp, damp air. Hue Light Up My Life! read the most prominent in six-foot high letters. I Love Blue Mondays; Blue, Blue, My World Is Blue; and Blue Got A Bad Rap unfurled as the Archangel's occupants leaped to the limo. "Drive to the crowd," Saint Michael said. "I'd like to give them my blessing."
Jennifer snuggled up to the haloed man. "The Beatles never had it so good," she cooed.
Chapter 14
Saint Michael and his entourage were received with typical British aplomb. The Royal Family's invitation to a fox hunt was declined as being untimely and inconvenient. (After dusk? Untraditional and ever so dangerous. My Gawd, a bloody fox hunt after dusk? These Americans are a queer lot). Declined also was their offer of accommodations at the Palace.
Large blocks of suites were reserved in St. Michael’s name at The Lanesborough, The Dorchester, The Langham and The Savoy but it was in a private residence in the heart of London that Saint Michael had sequestered himself for the past three weeks. Its owner, a recent convert, was away on business in the Middle East.
Saint Michael lay sprawled naked on the silk sheets and began to stir even before he heard the muffled ringing of the phone beneath the mound of pillows on the floor next to the huge canopy bed.
"Yes," he said.
Jennifer gently cradled her cell phone as if she had just given birth to it. "Sunset’s in fifteen minutes, Saint Michael," she said.
"I was up. Thank you."
"May I come over?"
"No. Are you still at The Dorchester?"
"The Infinity Suite, at The Langham."
"Stay there. I'll call you if I need you."
"The prime minister wants —"
"No! Just initiates."
He let the phone slide from his hand and back to the mound of pillows on the floor. He turned and stared at the wasp-waisted beauty, barely eighteen, lying beside him. His eyes danced across the callipygian nymph, a carnal waltz for a feckless dancer. Sensing his stare, she suddenly stretched her nearly six-foot frame, rolled onto her back and slipped a band around her fiery red hair, tying it into a ponytail.
"’Ave another go at it?" she asked. "Shouldn't let it bother you, ‘appens to me bloke too when ‘e's rat-arsed, you know, drunk too much ale."
He struggled to remember this one's name, anything about her. An actress? No. A model? That's it!
"No, don't you have a night shoot to get to?"
"I can miss it. You look positively gaunt, ‘ave you been eating? I can call for something, ‘ow bout some bangers and chips —"
"No, go on," he said.
He watched her as she slowly dressed in the dimly lit room and almost called her back a dozen times. But he needed to conserve his strength for the next one. It was nightfall and the initiations would start again for a chosen few.
She turned to him as she opened the bedroom door. "I am ‘umble in your presence, Saint Michael," she said.
"Breathe blue."
He sat on the edge of the bed and took a swig of whiskey from the half empty bottle on the nightstand and then fumbled through the pockets of his white silk robe removing a small mirror. He trained the mirror on his head watching the subtle play of light and then another swig of whiskey. Mirror and whiskey.
Mirror and whiskey.
*****
The doorman at The Langham gasped, momentarily unable to greet her, as Jennifer strutted through the doorway and down the steps leading to the waiting limousine on Regent Street. It was his first look at her, not hidden by her shapeless, sack-like robe. Now clad in haute couture from her afternoon plunder of Knightsbridge, she could turn more heads than a haloed man.
*****
An empty whiskey bottle sailed into the marble fireplace that loomed like a mausoleum in the back of the living room. St. Michael straddled the bench in front of the grand piano ignoring several much larger working surfaces. First the mirror came out of the pocket of his robe; he glanced briefly at it, then laid it down in front of him. From the other pocket he pulled a .38-caliber revolver, swinging it upward toward the twenty-foot high frescoed ceiling. He pushed the cylinder open letting the cartridges clatter to the wooden bench.
Suddenly, as if in response, a three-note chime echoed throughout the room, its first and third note sounding like Big Ben. A barely audible voice sounded from behind the thick, wooden door.
"Delivery from Beverage ‘ouse."
Saint Michael opened the door and allowed the middle-aged man to step in. His face was rather ordinary looking except for a pair of enormous ears and the little hair that remained on his head had turned gray.
"Two cases of Famous Grouse…." The man looked up. "Crikey mate, your bloody ‘ead’s aglow. If I didn't know better I'd swear I ‘ad some of your drink ‘ere. You must be that mate on the telly—"
"Put ‘em over there."
"Right, mate." The man placed the two cases down and tore the top one open, removing a bottle. "Just sign ‘ere, please." He shoved the clipboard with a pen attached by a string and Scotch tape at Saint Michael, who signed the receipt and handed it back.
"’Ere's one to start you off." He handed the bottle to Saint Michael. "All been taken care of, mate."
"I am Saint Michael," he said.
"I'd bet on it, mate."
No sooner than the man had left the room, Saint Michael began pacing. He twisted the cap off the bottle and tossed it to the floor.
"I am Saint Michael," he whispered. "I am Saint Michael." His chant became louder. He grabbed the revolver from the bench, reinserted a single bullet and spun the cylinder. As if powered by an inner force he began pacing the living room floor faster and faster, a litre of Scotch in one hand and the pistol in the other. Chairs and small end tables toppled in his wake. Faster and faster. Louder and louder.
His white gown streamed behind him, the sleeves flapping briskly like a pair of wings.
"I am blessed...I am holy...I cannot die...I am Saint Michael...I am blessed...I am holy...I cannot die." He spun the chamber of the pistol and jammed the barrel beneath his chin. "I am," CLICK, "Saint Michael." He collapsed to the floor laughing, curling himself into a ball, his legs kicking and flailing wildly in the air. And then he wept.
*****
Sister Jennifer pressed the doorbell and it chimed its Big Ben chord again as she let herself into St. Michael's flat.
Stray pieces of overturned furniture caught her eye and she sucked in a lungful of air as a jolt of fear gripped her chest.
"Saint Michael?"
She scanned the room.
Partially filled liquor bottles. More overturned furniture. Then she saw him in the far corner sitting on the floor, propped up against a toppled easy chair.
She called out again. "Saint Michael!"
His eyes flickered, then half opened. He struggled to focus through his drunken haze.
"Sister Jennifer," he said. "Is it time for the next initiate?"
"No. There are none for tonight."
"None? Of course there are. Where is the itinerary?"
Jennifer kicked off her high-heeled shoes; moving closer toward him she slowed her gait, exaggerating her movements — teasing, tempting.
"Look at me," she said.
He lifted his head and forced his eyes to focus.
"You're…. You’re out of uniform. But you do look —"
"Yes?" she pleaded.
"You look...good...very nice."
"I didn't think you'd notice me, what with all the time you've been spending with the others." She darted her tongue out and traced her top lip slowly and then the bottom.
"It's my duty, you know that."
"Make love to me." Her skin flushed and the press of her bosom showed against the stretched fabric as if a chill had run up her spine. "Hold me, and make love to me. Please."
"We have business to attend to. The itinerary, do you have the itinerary?"
"It's in my room at the hotel. Please, Saint Michael, come with me to the hotel. I haven't seen you since we arrived. You haven't left this house; it's not healthy. We can discuss business at the hotel."
He looked up again and as his eyes focused, he stirred, the dark fire rekindled.
He was too weak to argue. She pulled him by the arm and like a child tugging at a pull-toy, he offered no resistance as she led him out the front door.
A Reluctant Messiah Page 8
