Pushing him to the floor she fell atop him, giggling as she went. “By the way, do you know what happened to my Nook?”
THE END
Angel, Down
By Cat Kelly
Chapter One
Doors never opened fast enough for Henry Sheffield. Elevator doors and those he was obliged to wait for someone else to open were the worst sinners of all. Almost intolerable. As he stood in the hotel corridor and watched the fumbling young porter fight with the door of his suite, he felt the familiar heat rising under his collar and a quickening pulse rate that stimulated his blood into an unhealthy rush.
Once again, the boy porter tried the door with a bony hand that must have been moist with his own perspiration. The door remained stubbornly shut and the porter laughed uneasily.
"I'll get it sir. Don't you worry." He set down the suitcase he'd had under one arm, straightened the sleeves of his uniform and made another try.
Although he stood still and silent, Henry obviously made the porter nervous. He had a habit of that. At six foot four, well-built and with an expression of which—as his mother once said—any funeral director would be proud, he was a formidable presence. The barely concealed temper bubbling away under his expensive suit only served to increase the prickle of palpable tension.
"I can't understand it, sir." Forlorn, the porter looked at the key in his hand and, like a schoolboy evading the stare of his math teacher, searched for answers without hope.
Henry's lips finally parted in a thin sliver of a sigh. "Perhaps you have the wrong room. Or the wrong key." He shook out his fingers, which had been closed into their usual fists at his side. "Give me the key. I'll try."
But something seemed to have clicked in the boy's brain. "Oh, wait, sir." He spun around to the door on the opposite side of the hall. "You were right, sir." He laughed again in that stupid way. "Wrong room number."
Henry winced as that painfully nervous laugh raked through his skull, shredding his patience further still. "Didn't you look at the numbers?"
"I forgot which floor I was on, sir."
"That makes a difference?"
Apparently, yes. This time the door opened. With a relieved swagger, the porter carried the suitcase and garment bag inside the suite. Henry would have preferred carrying his own luggage, but hotel porters lurked in every corner, eager to dash about, grabbing cases out of people's hands, generally being obscenely helpful. Some people enjoyed being waited on and fussed over. Not Henry.
Stepping over the threshold he assessed the room, ready to disapprove of something. Anything. But the suite was luxurious without being overdone or cluttered. Nothing immediately leapt out at him as being worthy of his disdain, although the chartreuse walls left something to be desired. Henry preferred white—clean. Or "clinical" as his ex would sneer.
Reluctantly he tipped the porter and muttered a sound that might have been a "Thank you". Or possibly a "Get out."
Behind him the door gently closed and he was alone at last.
Henry strode to the window and looked out on Gramercy Park. He supposed he must concede that it was a pleasant enough view. If one liked parks, trees, grass, squirrels. Dirt and unavoidable contact with strangers.
He caught his reflection in the window, saw the sardonic twist of his lips, the glimmer of contempt in his dark eyes. He never could understand the attraction with parks. People, so he'd been told, liked to "stroll" together in parks, sit on filthy, communal benches and eat sandwiches out of doors. Where flies, ants and wasps could assault them, birds could harass them for crusts and children ran about with a license to make noise and generally do as they pleased, including injure themselves. He arched an eyebrow at his reflection. Other people apparently had time to waste in their day and a need to expose themselves to germs, wild creatures and potential hazards beyond their control.
Very occasionally he wondered what it would be like to enjoy life in a careless fog. He almost wished, from time to time, that he might experience the same lightness of brain, if only for a few hours. It must be a great weight off the shoulders to be oblivious. And people like that were never alone. Not that he minded his solitary state at all. He was used to it and he'd been told that a man his age would have difficulty sharing his life now, adapting to another human being's companionship. All very logical.
Just occasionally, however, he might have liked a hand in his. A hand that stayed. A hand that didn't just take and leave.
Below, the trees shimmered in a cool autumn breeze, their golds, coppers and bronzes duller now the last gleam of sunlight faded away. A boy—no more than three or four—wobbled along the street, his mother dashing after, pushing another child in a buggy, shouting for him to wait for her at the corner. Not the best place to let a child run free, Henry thought, shaking his head slightly. The boy tripped along, bouncing over puddles, laughing. Any moment now he would fall, graze a knee, hit his head. Possibly fracture an arm. Or run out into traffic. Too much to worry about. Now Henry's blood pressure was up again, the pulse pounding in his temple.
Ah, good, the mother caught up and grabbed his wrist.
Henry exhaled a small sigh of relief and refocused on his reflection, checking the knot in his tie, then the lapels of his suit. Through his image in the glass clouds lowered, casting their long shadows into the room. Night would soon begin its descent. It was that time of year when the days shortened and caught him by surprise, but he was certainly ready for this one to be over. After the flight he'd just endured, crammed in beside an odorous, incessantly chattering harpy, followed by a lengthy quarrel with an obdurate taxi driver, Henry needed some peace and a firm bed. He glanced at his wrist watch. It was only just four o'clock, but it felt later.
There was a tap in the door. "Excuse me, sir."
The damned porter back again.
Henry returned to the door and swung it open so abruptly that he found the boy with his hand raised mid-knock. "What?" he snapped.
"Sir, I believe you dropped this, sir." The boy tried to pass him a Nook.
"No, I didn't."
"I think you did, sir."
"And I think I know whether I possess one of those dreadful objects or not."
Still the boy remained with the Nook held out, his mouth open, eyes blank.
"It is not mine," Henry repeated firmly.
"But it was outside your room, sir."
"What?"
"Must have dropped it, sir."
He was not going away and Henry was in no mood to waste time arguing with the idiot boy. "Fine!" He'd just leave it in the room when he checked out in the morning, but right now he needed a few hours of peace and quiet to prepare for his interview tomorrow. Then he planned a brisk shower, a light dinner, and an early night. The sooner he got rid of all outside distractions, the better.
The porter grinned. "Alright, sir."
"I trust you're not waiting for another tip?"
The grin faded.
"If you want another one, you can go down and order me brown rice, steamed green beans and sea bass. I'd like it at least moderately warm by the time it reaches me and make sure the cutlery is clean. No flower or otherwise gilded frippery on the tray. Understood?"
The boy's lips flapped. He swayed on his heels and stammered, "You have to call room service for that, sir."
"I'm telling you." Henry froze the boy with his hard stare. "You are a sentient being are you not?"
"I'm a what, sir?"
"You are an employee of this establishment. You have some education, presumably. You have eyes, ears and a mouth piece. And two working legs to carry you. So I fail to see the problem with giving you my order."
"Oh...right, sir." The boy blinked.
"Are you otherwise incapable? Something about you not immediately apparent to the naked eye?"
"No, sir," he mumbled uncertainly.
"Can you memorize a list?"
"I...."
"Apple, orange, pear. Repeat." He felt inside his jacket.
&n
bsp; "Apple...orange...pear..."
"Good." He withdrew one of his business cards and handed it to the boy—Henry P. Sheffield, M.D. marked in clear black letters on a pristine white card. Just to ensure his food did not end up in the wrong room with the wrong guest. Fortunately there was not much chance of another Doctor Henry P. Sheffield staying at the same hotel. He'd actually been informed, by a few people he'd known, that there could never be another one like him anywhere in the world. They did not say this in a polite fashion and when it came to women, they usually said it just before they hurled a shoe or an egg whisk, or some other implement, in the direction of his head. "So you can take my order to the kitchens and then you'll get another tip. Perhaps. Depending on efficiency and the accuracy with which you remember my order." Henry slammed the door shut and tossed the Nook onto the nearest chair. Now he had to wash his hands. Those things—like cell phones—were breeding grounds for bacteria.
He set his briefcase on the coffee table and opened it for his travel-size disinfectant spray and rubber gloves. If he didn't do his best to sanitize the room, he'd never be able to relax tonight and clear his head. Never could trust hotel cleaning staff, even in a place like the Gramercy Hotel. This was New York City for heaven's sake. All manner of life form moved in and out, up and down. One could never be too careful.
Snapping on the rubber gloves he straightened up and looked around. Must check for bed bugs first.
* * * *
Tabitha shook out her wings, sneezed and a pure white feather drifted slowly through the air to land at her bare feet. Oh no. Not a good sign. Other angels—those with a high success rate when it came to collections— had enviable masses of wing feather. Almost more than they needed. Some even went so far as to complain about the extra flutters per minute required to keep them airborne. Tabitha did not have this problem. She hadn't had any kisses to strengthen and replenish her naturally wavy feathers for quite some time now and this lack began to take its toll.
Slyly she covered the fallen feather with her toes and scooped it back out of sight.
"Are you paying attention? You there! Number sixty-nine?"
Guilty, she looked up. "Me?"
"Yes, you." The Angel Gabriel's private secretary was staring hard at her, having come to a sharp halt in front of her toes. "You are sixty-nine aren't you?"
"Well...yes."
The other angels waiting in the sorting office fell quiet.
She cleared her throat and added softly, "But would you mind calling me Tabitha?"
Someone giggled and another snorted.
"Call you Tabitha?" He'd almost dropped his Blackberry.
"I'd prefer a proper name, if you don't mind. So much nicer than numbers. And Tabitha was my name when I—"
"All angels are numbered here. No exceptions and no ties to the past. Rules are made for a reason, you know."
"Yes, but—" She sneezed.
"You look like you could do with a tonic." Rick, studied his Blackberry. "You are the only angel I've ever known to get a cold. Sometimes I wonder what you do on your days off. Not spending idle time down there, I hope, consorting with the living." His eyelashes flicked upward, his gaze ripping into hers with sharp thorns of suspicion. "You going to sneeze again?"
"No." She shook her head so violently that another feather came loose. Rick, his face a picture of disgust and irritation, watched it float and spin while Tabitha did her best to ignore the fact that it came from her.
"Are you malting?" he demanded. "In my office?"
"Actually, it's the Angel Gabriel's office."
His brows lowered in a scowl that might have made her tremble. If she didn't need work so badly. And wasn't taller than him by three inches, even without the halo.
"Look I'll take on any job." She clasped her hands before her, pleading. "Give me all the collections no one else wants, if you like. I'll make up for my mistakes. I promise. Just give me a another chance."
Rick sighed heftily and examined his blackberry again. He was poised to dismiss her, evidently.
"The victims weren't ready to leave," she exclaimed. "I couldn't do it."
"So you let them return to life."
"And to their families who needed them."
"I believe there are others..." Rick rolled his eyes upward while his voice lowered to a respectful whisper, "in the boardroom, better qualified to decide what people need. It's not your place, sixty-nine. You overstepped the boundaries again. When will you learn?"
"Next time. Next time I'll get it right, follow orders. Dot every 'i' and cross every 't'. No mistakes." She managed a bright smile, until another sneeze shook her feathers.
The secretary stepped back, slowly brushing his sleeve where her spray might have landed. "And what if you fail again? Get taken with another of your impulsive ideas to let people go on down there beyond their collection date? Who will have to explain that one to The Boss?"
"I won't fail." Tabitha stood tall and lifted her chin. "I'll get this one right, I promise. You won't be sorry. Cross my heart and hope for promotion to Saints and Little Children."
His eyes glazed over at the mention of that most exalted department within the Agency of Collections. Saints and Little Children. Who didn't want to work there? Away from the...they both glanced over at the angels playing harps and sighed heavily. Two hundred years of that solemn racket was enough to make anyone long for a change. Rick caught her eye again. "I suppose you do look a little shabby. Could use the work, eh?"
She nodded, feeling desperate but not wanting to let it show.
"I'll see what I can do," he muttered as if it was all a great inconvenience. "There will be forms to fill out about your failure to collect."
Yes, there were always forms to fill out.
He tapped away at his Blackberry. "Forms 1B2, E65 and E65c. For pity's sake don't," he rolled his eyes, "don't forget the E65c."
"Of course."
"Then there's the expenses form. You're entitled to reimbursement for wear and tear even when you fail to collect. Nothing can be processed without E.X.A.G. Non-compliance with proper expense reimbursement procedure will hold everything up and I'm tired of chasing you angels down about your expenses. Like I have nothing else to do."
Tabitha waited impatiently, biting her tongue. Did he really think she'd forget all the forms that marked her as an utter loser? She'd filled out enough of them in her day.
But she kept silent, because she needed the work. A few successful jobs would put a little extra zip in her flutter, make her feel as if she was actually useful here. Every kiss from a collected soul brought up to heaven would cause another feather to sprout strong and healthy, stop her from looking quite so moth-eaten. But Tabitha hadn't taken a kiss like that for at least six months. She'd been feeling too sorry for the humans she was supposed to collect and wanted them to have more time on earth—time she herself had known so briefly since she was brought up by an angel when she was only nineteen. And yes, the AG's personal assistant was right—Tabitha had been spending her spare hours watching over people below, always interested in their lives when she wasn't supposed to be. She was not a Guardian Angel, hadn't passed the exam yet. One day, perhaps. In the meantime she slipped down and wandered around, knowing she shouldn't. Knowing she'd be punished if anyone caught her stepping beyond her boundaries and "consorting".
But she would blame it on Entenmann's cakes. They didn't have anything quite that good in heaven and she was addicted. Some angel she made.
Tabitha knew she must strengthen her resolve, be more determined. The next one couldn't get away or she might be relegated to laundry duty in Cherubim and Seraphim. And that was possibly the worst thing she could imagine. There were, so she'd heard, some dirty little beasts in that department.
Chapter Two
Henry was in the bathroom, rubbing his wet hair with a towel when dinner arrived. Slipping on his monogrammed bathrobe he crossed the suite and opened the door for a waiter with a trolley.
"Good e
vening, sir."
As the waiter swept in, one of the doors across the hall opened. A tall, lanky man in bone-tight leather pants—and nothing else—stumbled into the hall with a giggling woman under each arm, holding him up. A swell of hot, thick air followed them out into the corridor.
"Hey, mate!" Leather pants shouted drowsily. "We need some more food and drink up 'ere. Send that waiter over, will ya?"
Henry scowled at the heavily tattooed torso swaying before him. "There is a phone in your room. Use it to call room service."
One of the women almost fell over her own high heels, which was apparently the funniest thing her companion had ever observed. Leather pants moved in a crooked turn and herded the woman back toward the room. He looked over his shoulder to shout something else and Henry quickly closed his door.
The waiter had set a small table by the window and now he bowed from the waist. "Good evening, sir," he repeated.
"Hmmm." Was it a good evening? He couldn't tell, but he doubted it would be with that racket going on across the hall.
Lifting each plate cover, he made certain the food was exactly as he ordered. Everything seemed to be correct, much to his surprise. "I promised that boy—the porter with the sappy face—that I'd give him a tip."
"Oh. That would be Bill, sir."
Dryly amused by the instant recognition, Henry hid the first tremors of a smile and felt for his wallet in the suit jacket hanging over his chair.
"He's off duty now," the waiter added. "Won't be back until the morning shift, sir."
Ah. He'd have to find him in the morning. Henry always honored his promises. People might not like him much in general, but that was one thing they could always say about him.
"Shall I pour the wine, sir?"
"I didn't order any wine. Have you any idea how detrimental the effects of alcohol on the human body and mind can be?" He waved a hand at the tall blue bottle of mineral water. "That will be fine."
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