Josh's long white gown looks a little less heaven-sent, a little more toga party. His hair hangs in dreadlocks. He's painted his fingernails in alternating silver and gold to match his sandals. He hides perfect wings as an Amtrak employee passes by.
I used to be able to do that--show my wings one minute, make them disappear the next. I used to be able to fly.
I'm dying to know what's up. But Josh can never keep his mouth shut for long. I decide to wait him out.
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I do know, though, that his being here means his latest assignment died recently. I don't ask about that. The topic is off-limits. GAs aren't supposed to compare notes on our human charges. We're not supposed to tag-team Fate. I'm tempted to ask anyway, but I don't want to get him in trouble. I never planned to be heaven's bad boy.
But I can tell his loss wasn't that tragic, relatively speaking. Josh still has that peppy attitude of new GAs whose charges have all died of natural causes and in a state of grace. In the early days, before our first assignments, we were so alike.
"You haven't fallen," Josh finally says. "But you have, uh, slipped."
I struggle to register that. "Slipped?"
He takes a breath. "Your powers have been yanked. No flying. No radiance. And you can't carry a tune, not that that's anything new."
Not all angels can sing like, uh, angels. "I know that, so---"
"But," he goes on, "you're still one of us. You can't die. Your veins are full of light, you know, metaphorically speaking. This"--he gestures as if to the whole enchilada of Creation--"is what the archangels are calling 'a time-out.'"
The train car chugs to a stop. Our arrival in Little Rock is announced over the loudspeaker. The hallway fills with underwashed and bleary-eyed travelers.
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My stomach turns again. I shouldn't have messed with tequila. Is Josh saying what I think he's saying? "I've been--"
"It doesn't matter where you've been," he tells me, hands pressed piously together beneath his chin. "It's all about where you're going."
"Oh, please. Enough with the cryptic crap."
A big man with a big leather bag, a big belly, a big belt buckle, and big boots looks at us a little too long. Then a girl in a Razorbacks T-shirt says something to her friend about my butt and Josh's shoulders. They dissolve into giggles.
I follow Josh back into my cramped private cabin. I take a seat on the bench. Sniff at the T. Pull it over my head. "Don't get me wrong. I appreciate whatever you're trying to do, but--"
"What is that?" Josh asks, pointing at my chest.
I look. "It's a tattoo," I say, just as surprised. "Of a cherub."
A new one. About an inch around, over my heart. It itches.
I resurrect a dim memory of a tattoo parlor. I remember someone making reassuring noises about clean needles and wisecracking about the Roman avatar of love.
"That is not one of the cherubim!" Josh exclaims. "That is a fat, naked white baby with wings! How could you do that? Body. Temple. Didn't you read The Written?"
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"I've done worse," I say.
We both know it's true. Miranda's name hangs unspoken between us.
Somewhere on the train, a child begins to cry.
"Why are you here, Josh?"
"Michael sent me with a request. He called it 'an assassination of sorts.' If you succeed: do the deed, keep the faith, and, oh yeah, remain virtuous." He smirks. "More virtuous than you've been lately. You may get your powers back. You might get new assignments. You might even get a chance to prove yourself worthy of hauling ass back upstairs."
May, might, might. If I know anything from being a GA, it's that redemption never comes easily or without a price. "Michael wants me to kill--"
"Wipe out."
"Someone?" Last time I checked, angels weren't in the assassination business.
"Something," Josh clarifies. "Something"--he makes air quotes with his fingers--"of tremendous significance."
The earth is plagued by demons. Lucky me. This one's special. Destroy it and my prayers will be answered. Screw up and I'll be punted permanently. And the Word is clear on that: fallen angels roam the world until Judgment Day. Then they're sent to hell.
I put my head in my hands and rub my temples. I'm a guardian angel, the lowest ranked. Not an avenging angel.
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Not an archangel. (Not that it's always easy to tell the difference.) Besides, I no longer have powers. How am I supposed to fight? And what?
"What do you say?" Josh asks.
He's asking. Not ordering. My free will is still in play.
"Is that all you're going to tell me?" I ask, glancing up.
I shouldn't be surprised that he's gone.
"Yeah, yeah, okay!" I answer in the empty tin box. "Nice seeing you."
Still, I can't help breaking into a smile for the first time since I lost my girl. After all that's happened, it's kind of nice to know that Josh is still Josh.
I open the bag. Rummage through. A few changes of clothes (office and casual), a toothbrush and paste, floss, mint mouthwash, stick deodorant, a razor, a travel-size bottle of shampoo-conditioner, a black plastic comb, a ten-dollar bill, and two cold bottles of water.
A matchbook from Tia Leticia's Salsa Bar sticks out of the breast pocket of one of the lightly starched blue shirts. Inside it is printed an address in Whitby Estates, Illinois. I've heard of the place. It's a lakefront suburb just north of Chicago.
This isn't my first trip to the Windy City. I used to work there.
I remember overhearing a mob boss talk about Whitby Estates, back in the day. He called it "the scariest damn place on earth."
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Zachary
IT'S BEEN ALMOST TWO DECADES since I last spent quality time in Chi-Town. Back then I was the guardian angel to my first assignment.
Daniel "Dan the Man" Bianchi was a twice-indicted politician who supplemented his income with "donations for favors" in brown envelopes slipped under doors. He died from a drug-alcohol cocktail mixed by a high-end call girl in a junior executive suite at the Edison Hotel. It was such a shame. He'd been boisterous as a boy, athletic, and close to his family. He'd gone into politics with the best of intentions, but then....Put mildly, I didn't exactly
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manage to steer him toward good works, good thoughts, a good end.
With Danny, it wasn't his being agnostic that was the problem. Forget what you might have heard. There are no separate corps of angels for agnostics, atheists, Catholics, Protestants, Jews, Muslims, Mormons, Buddhists, Unitarians, Hindus, Druids, Shintoists, Wiccans, and so on. To put a spin on the old saying, it's okay if you don't believe in angels.
We believe in you.
At the moment, I'm on the South Side, holding onto a metal stability bar on a crowded El train barreling farther south, toward the Cermak-Chinatown station. I should be heading north. I got turned around at the station. Worse, I can't even find Whitby Estates on my map.
I'm also tired, achy, and (Amtrak pulled in twelve hours late) sick of trains.
The sun will set soon. Not that long ago, there were a lot of neighborhoods in Chicago that went dicey after dark. Josh said I can't die. That doesn't mean someone can't rob me or torture me or break my kneecaps or toss me into Lake Michigan wearing cement shoes. Now that would be a pleasant way to wait for Judgment Day.
On the other hand, the view outside the sleet-dusted window isn't anything like the Near South I remember. It's condo city out there.
Looking for help, I rule out the sleeping man who
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reeks of rum and the young guys kicking a Coke can on the floor and the businesswoman reading a self-help book on self-esteem and the middle-aged executive in the heavy overcoat barking into his cell phone and the elderly lady knitting with a Madame-Defarge intensity.
Somebody in hoop earrings, who might be male or female--it's hard to tell--gives me an inviting smile. I consider saying hi.
Then I notice th
e Gen-X priest fiddling with his iPod on the plastic bench beneath the IN CASE OF EMERGENCY sign. I'm not sure if the sign is a sign or a coincidence. I know enough about the universe to go with it. "Excuse me, Father?"
I tap his shoulder, and he takes out the earbuds. "Yes?"
"I'm lost. I was supposed to get on a northbound train and --"
"Happens all the time," the priest assures me. "Where are you trying to go?"
"Whitby Estates. Didn't it used to be on this line?"
His hand moves to his cross. "The trains don't stop there. Not anymore." Lowering his voice, he adds, "One of our more subtle victories."
I shift the shoulder strap of my bag. What is that supposed to mean?
The priest studies me a moment. Then he brightens,
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and I realize that, despite my missing wings and slipped status, he can somehow sense what I am. He's the first adult human to do so. It's a rare ability, even among the pure of heart. Little kids are the most likely to spot us. "Father...?"
"Ramos." The priest blinks twice and runs a hand through his hair. Regaining his composure, Father Ramos reaches into his jacket pocket, slips a hundred-dollar bill into my hand, and grasps it with both of his. "Take a cab. Tell the driver to drop you off a block away. If he balks, offer a fifty-percent tip up front." He pauses. "You're going dressed like that?"
Before leaving the Amtrak car, I showered and changed into jeans and a long-sleeved, hooded Bulls sweatshirt. "I guess."
Father Ramos removes the cross from around his neck. He drapes its long chain around mine. "Take this."
Only one kind of monster is well known for fearing religious symbols. The kind I want to think about least, the kind I hate most.
The priest also hands me a business card. Holy Cross Catholic Church. Winnetka, Illinois. "In case you need any assistance," he says. "Or a place to stay or...or a nice fruit platter?"
I can't help grinning slightly. A fruit platter doesn't sound bad.
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Father Ramos is flustered. He didn't board the El train this evening with the idea that he'd have a chat with a guardian angel.
I consider inviting him along on my mission, but I wouldn't want anything to happen to him. I don't trust myself to keep him safe. But the priest will pray for me. I can tell from his voice. The way he suddenly looks ten years younger than when I first saw him. It's good to know I have at least one friend in this town.
The train stops. Its doors slide open, and the priest is lost among the changeover of passengers. Exiting myself, I don't spot him on the snowy platform.
But there is a girl about Miranda's height, build, and age, with almost-black hair, carrying a flute case. Her gaze lingers on my face as she walks by. I almost say something--which would be nuts, considering--but it's not her. When she stifles a yawn, her breath puffs warm. Alive. But they could be half sisters or first cousins.
Miranda. It's not the first time I've noticed a similar-looking girl. There was that one at the runaway shelter, a closer match. Another at a Sixth Street bar in Austin. My "date" for the night bitched me out for staring.
It's below freezing and sleeting. Taking the stairs from the train station to Cermak, I wish Josh had spotted me a
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pair of boots. My Nikes are already soaked through. That morning, he left me only ten bucks in the Amtrak sleeper cabin.
But now I have the money from the priest, too. No way does a cab across town cost that much. Even with a massive tip. And I'm hungry again. I ate lunch on the train, a hot dog and fries. But they didn't offer seconds, and that was hours ago. One thing about having a corporeal body: you have to feed it on a pretty regular basis.
I halfheartedly jog the short distance down the sidewalk into Chinatown, passing the neighborhood parking lot and new gold-and-green Nine Dragon Wall.
From what I can see, the place hasn't changed much in the last twenty years or so. Only a handful of the low-lying brick buildings feature an architectural nod to the ethnic flavor of the neighborhood. That mostly comes through in the Asian-style lettering on the signs and the ornate red gate.
I duck into a nearby restaurant. It's the kind of place that has black lacquer furniture; plastic-covered red seats; drinks with names like Scorpion, Fog Cutter, and Zombie; and the Great Wall depicted in a cross-stitched mural.
The grandmother behind the desk rises from sliding a phone book onto a low shelf. "May I help you?" she asks with a slight accent. "Party of one?"
I order four egg rolls to go. "Where's the men's room?"
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Looking up from the notepad, the lady smiles, smoothes her gray-streaked hair, and shows me to the top of a steep, narrow staircase.
In the dingy, single-stall men's room, I change into a blue dress shirt and black pants, both wrinkled from the bag, and black wing tips.
I trust Father Ramos. If he thinks it's important to dress to impress, I will. Besides, my best bud gave me the duds for a reason. I tuck the cross under my shirt.
Darkness falls, further lowering the temperature. Outside the restaurant, the arriving cab is a welcome sight. I open the door. Navigate the filthy snow-and-ice-packed curb. Slide myself and my bag onto the cracked vinyl backseat.
"Where to?" The cabbie grins, showing a gold tooth in the rearview mirror.
"Urn." I draw the matchbook from my shirt pocket. Read off the address.
"Get out," he replies.
"What?"
"Out, out! Get the hell out of my cab!"
"I--"
"What are you, deaf? Go! Move! Now!"
I've barely cleared the car when he peels out, skidding on ice.
As I catch my balance on the curb, I realize I forgot to mention the fifty-percent tip.
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Feeling less optimistic, I try to flag another ride. I'm tempted to go back inside the restaurant and grab a table. But generally speaking, we aren't supposed to put off missions from upstairs for a little hot mustard sauce.
Ten minutes pass. I inhale egg roll after egg roll from the brown paper bag. They're fantastic. Pork, carrots, shredded cabbage, the right amount of grease.
The breeze picks up, blowing sleet into my eyes and cheeks. It's like every cab in the city is occupied or, I think as I wave my arm, driven by a blind man. The cold...
Enough about the weather. It's Chicago, the Windy City, in mid-April. Anything's possible. It could be eighty degrees tomorrow. Besides, I'm still an angel. Angels are not whiners. Even grounded, laid-off, practically pointless angels.
Almost half an hour later, egg rolls long gone, I slide into another taxi. Raise my voice over a Spanish music station to tell the driver where I'm going.
"Again?" he asks, squinting.
I repeat myself, this time remembering to offer the extra cash.
The cabbie makes the sign of the cross, opens his door, leaves his key in the ignition, and flees down the street like the puppies of hell are snapping at his heels.
"Uh, Josh?" I call from the backseat. "Joshua!"
Nothing. Oh, well. It's not like he's my genie. "Although a hint or two would be nice!" I release a long
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breath. Josh will show when he wants to, or to be fair, when Michael gives him clearance.
It's not my place to question. The last time I did that, Miranda was ruined.
I should be grateful to the Big Boss for giving me this one last chance.
I should be, and I am.
Glancing at the steering wheel, I would love to write off the whole abandoned-running-car thing to some machination of Joshua's. It would make my life easier if I could "borrow" the cab.
Leaning forward, I kill the ignition. Get out, locking the keys inside.
No need to panic. I trudge back toward the train station. I'll take the El as far as I can and hoof it from there.
It dawns on me then that I need a weapon. I probably would've thought of it earlier, except that guardians are hardwired to protect, not destroy
Hmm. I should have asked Father Ramos for help arming myself when I had a chance. I'll give him a call if I can't figure out something along the way.
I'm cautiously optimistic, though. It feels good to have a purpose again. And after all, this whole mission is a journey of faith.
Besides, I'm not exactly fresh off the cloud. I've been an angel since the Truman administration, back when Edward J. Kelly was mayor of Chicago.
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I've spent as much time peeping at the world as the next angel. I've seen a lot of scary things. Prison riots, pageant moms, Devil's Night, '70s hair, the World Wrestling Federation, the crash of Japan Airlines Flight 123, that bloodsucker Kurt, who nearly killed Lucy back in Dallas...
No. No need to go there, not again. If I begin obsessing over that night--over the sweet, fearful sound of Miranda's voice calling out to her friend--I'll be no good to the Big Boss. The mission is what matters now. It has to be.
A third cab pulls up with the driver's window down. It's an old sedan, but freshly painted under the spray of road salt and slush. The cabbie is a young man, and he's giving me the once-over.
Holding my ground, I rattle off the address again. I mention the tip and add that I'll need to make a quick stop along the way.
"Get in," is the answer. "No extra charge."
I hesitate. "You're sure?"
His warm brown eyes gaze into mine. "It is okay. I am good with God."
I'm not about to argue with that.
Once I'm settled in the backseat and we make the illegal U-turn to head north, I begin: "Uh, about that stop, do you know where I could buy a --"
"Weapon?" he asks. "For where you are going?" The
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driver pops open the front seat armrest and hands me a sharp wooden stake. "Here."
I slide it up my sleeve. "Thanks."
If I ever make it back upstairs, I owe this guy's GA a beer.
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Miranda
OUR HUMAN HIRES, much like the White House staff and funeral directors, tend to have been born into the tradition. Part of it's a matter of discretion. Part of it's the sensibility of those being considered. They've grown up in the business.
Turnover is steady. Humans tend to be fragile creatures, the longest living of them rarely surpassing their eighties, and, for the most part, their physical decline makes them ugly and useless to us long before that. Still, it's safer than one might imagine, working for the eternal royalty and aristocracy. House servants, especially personal assistants, are most useful. Those exceptionally well
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