Vigilante Angels Trilogy

by Billy DeCarlo

  He thought about how he’d almost convinced her to try again—before she found out about the lump. I ain’t leaving you to raise no child on your own, not without me, Moses Taylor. He imagined the child, fully grown in his image. Someone to carry on in my place.

  He thought about all the pain he and those he loved had suffered due to the hatred and prejudice they’d experienced all their lives, and wondered how he could stand seeing his child endure that. He wondered what he would’ve done if his precious child had been molested by Father Tarat. I know what I would do.

  He rounded the final corner to the cemetery and began his descent down the hill leading to it. Below him, a scene unfolded—a man taking cover behind a large tomb, crouched in a firing stance. On the other side of the cemetery fence, a group of young men seemed to be taunting him menacingly. Son of a bitch.

  He turned swiftly and began to retrace his steps as quickly as he could. Pain wracked his body as his abused joints and cancer-wracked torso endured a pace he hadn’t attempted in a very long time, alternately limping and hopping with each step.

  As he approached the block and saw the Eagles ahead, he attempted to shout to them, but the wheezing words could not reach their destination. Lukas saw him coming and jumped to his feet, prompting the rest of the Eagles to do the same. “What the fuck, Uncle Mos?”

  Moses finally reached them. “Saddle the fuck up, we got trouble down the hill. That goddamn white guy has got himself into the shit with a bunch of punks.”

  “Uncle Mos, you know every time we get involved with the whites, it’s gonna be us going to jail or some shit. I don’t know...” Lukas replied.

  “Saddle the fuck up, motherfuckers! That’s an order, not a request. Let’s go.”

  The men mounted their bikes and cranked the engines, blipping the throttles to warm the cold engines beyond the stall point. Moses hobbled to Lukas’ bike and grabbed his pants leg to pull his leg over the seat. Lukas handed him a half-shell helmet, and he placed it haphazardly on his head, buckling the strap.

  Lukas gave the signal, and the group peeled away from the curb one by one, moving down the road in single file.

  TOMMY HEARD AN ANGRY buzzing sound in the distance, growing louder. A half-dozen sport motorcycles flew up behind the youths and screeched to a halt. The leather-clad riders put their booted feet down to steady their bikes in unison.

  Moses climbed from the back of the lead bike, pulled off his helmet, and addressed the teens. “You kids get the fuck out of here. Now.”

  The kids continued to eye him insolently, until Lukas climbed from his bike, presenting a much more menacing figure.

  Tommy holstered his gun. The boys waved at him and moved grudgingly along. When they were a safe distance away, Moses went around the corner and entered the cemetery.

  “Can’t you ever stay the fuck out of trouble?” he asked Tommy as he approached.

  “I didn’t start it! What’s with the escort?”

  “I saw this coming when I was walking down the street. Ran back home and had Lukas round up his crew. As you can see, they’re well-known around here. Saved your ass, Tommy.”

  “Fuck that. I had the situation under control.”

  “Bullshit, you were like General Custer at Little Big Horn. Outnumbered and out-gunned.” They both laughed at the analogy. “You still want to talk?”

  “Tell you what; I might’ve shit myself a little. I’m going to head home, and I’ll come over to your place later if that’s okay. I’m having second thoughts about us meeting in public. I thought if there was a safe place, it would be the cemetery. So much for that idea. Should have stuck with Wyla’s.”

  “See ya later,” Moses said. He signaled to the bikers to wait and headed back in their direction.

  Tommy looked at the etched portrait of Jesus on the headstone, with its halo, loving expression, and outstretched hands. “And what do you think, Son of God? What should I do with your priest, your man of God? Why haven’t you dealt with him? Why has he been allowed to harm those kids?”

  There was silence. No responses came into his head, as they had in the conversation with his dead partner. “You know what I think? Maybe, just maybe, that’s what my purpose is. Maybe it’s you who’s compelling me to take this action. Maybe I am your vigilante angel in this cesspool of humanity.”

  Tommy pulled out his folding knife and dug the rock from the earth. It was much larger than the protruding tip had led him to believe. He refilled and smoothed the earth over the spot, bringing it back into harmony with its surroundings.

  Then he stood, placed the rock on the headstone, and made his way to the car.

  I have my answer.

  15 High on Drugs

  Tommy drove slowly through the blighted neighborhood he once patrolled. The streets never change. Tough kids hanging out on the crumbling stoops eyed him boldly. He realized he was in his old-white-guy Buick, not his black-and-white police cruiser.

  He wondered how many generations of cops had patrolled here, and how many generations manned those same stoops in defiance. Like a wheel that keeps turning, we live and die, come and go in shifts. It never ends.

  He was starting to understand now, finally, why they were all so angry. He scanned the building numbers, counting to himself to compensate for the gaps since most of them were no longer marked. When he knew he was close, he pulled against the curb and got out of the car, locking it up. It was late afternoon, and he wanted to be out of the neighborhood by dark. That’s when the monsters come out.

  A row of sport bikes in various states of decay were backed up to the curb. He walked to the bottom of the steps and looked up at the young men standing and sitting around the vestibule entrance above him. They wore jeans, work boots, and black leather vests emblazoned with ‘Black Eagles’ chest patches. He recognized them as his saviors from earlier in the day. You remember the drill: act like you belong. Don’t show weakness or fear.

  “Thanks for the assist this afternoon, fellas.” They looked at him silently. “Nice bikes. I used to ride; had a sweet Harley. No Harleys, fellas?”

  “That’s some broke-down racist bikes. Not for the brothers. Too damn slow,” one of them replied.

  “Moses lives here?” Tommy asked.

  The oldest-looking and largest of the three pushed his cigarette out on the crumbling brick wall and came forward. “We don’t talk to the law around here. Gets us locked up, even if we done nothing wrong.”

  Tommy leaned forward and put his foot on the first step. “Used to be the law, remember? Could still be though, if it comes down to it. I hear they’re hiring, you guys should apply. Everyone should spend a year in the military or as a cop. Teaches discipline.”

  The leader scoffed. “Everyone should spend a year being black. Teaches reality.” His friends laughed.

  “Yeah. Anyway, I’m a friend, he’s expecting me.”

  The big youth stood his ground, flanked by two others, and they blocked the entrance. “You don’t look like no friend of Uncle Mos. You look like a man come to serve a warrant or some shit. Friends don’t look like you around here. Uncle Mos said nothin’ about visitors, especially old cracker visitors.”

  Tommy became frustrated. “Jesus, fellas. We met already, at Wyla’s, remember? I was with him...”

  There was a scraping sound; they all looked up at the slowly rising window sash above them. Two large black hands planted themselves on the gray concrete sill. The rest of Moses Taylor’s head emerged, topped by the gray remains of a once-proud afro, now devastated by chemotherapy. He looked around like an ancient turtle patiently investigating its surroundings. They all waited until he spoke.

  “Lukas, dammit, are you boys fucking with my guest?”

  “No, Uncle Mos. Just making sure everything is alright,” the leader called up to him.

  Moses looked down at the group. “Don’t play with that white man. Something wrong with that motherfucker. Ain’t right in the head. Let him pass.” He retracted his head and pu
lled the sash back down.

  Tommy continued up the steps. As the young men parted, the leader spoke to him again. “Your car’s awful close to that hydrant, mister. How ‘bout you leave me your keys? We do valet service ‘round here.”

  Tommy laughed. “Not a chance. Tell you what though, you fellas make sure nothing happens to my ride, and I’ll take care of you on the way out.” He pulled his keys from his jacket pocket, dangled them for a moment, and then replaced them and continued into the building. Street logic. Still got it, old boy.

  At the top of the rickety stairs, a door creaked open, and Tommy moved toward it. Moses stood—or rather stooped—in the doorway. The men met in a light embrace. He’s getting frailer by the day. Tommy felt Moses’ ribs through his thin shirt as they briefly hugged each other.

  Moses shuffled over to a well-worn easy chair and sagged into it. He motioned for Tommy to sit on the couch.

  Tommy closed the door and took in the room. The place was a collage of the memories and possessions of a man who used to be but was no more. Faded posters of music idols—Marley, Gil-Scott Heron, and Hendrix—curled away from the walls just like the paint. The television was from another era but tuned to today’s news, the volume low. The room, like its occupant, had a sadness to it; as if it had lived and already died.

  “Don’t mind those young guns out there,” Moses said. “They’re good. My nephew Lukas and a few of the others work over at the VA hospital.” A small white dog bounded into the room and jumped onto his lap.

  “Nice dog,” Tommy said.

  “Yeah, Whitey is a comfort dog, I guess. A man can’t get a more loving friend. No matter what you are, any kind of piece of shit, broke, sick, whatever, a dog’s gonna love you. I wish people could be like that.” He pointed to a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag on the coffee table. “Have a hit?”

  Tommy reached over and slid it out of its sheath far enough to read the label, then pulled it all the way out and sat it on the table. The purple liquid inside and cluster of grapes on the label were familiar to him from his days on the street.

  “Mad Dog 20/20 in a skirt. What the hell are you drinking that rot-gut for, Moses? That shit is bum wine.”

  Moses laughed and examined it lovingly. “It’s cheap, gets my drunk on light and easy, and it ain’t like I have to worry about my health no more.” He picked it up, unscrewed the cap, and pulled long and hard. He replaced the cap and cradled it.

  “I like the grape, Tommy. Taste of this reminds me of the sacramental wine at the church. I used to hit on that when nobody was looking when I was helping my dad clean up after services. I’d put a little water back in so nobody knew but me and the good Lord.”

  Tommy gestured toward a book on the table—The Odyssey. “Wow, that’s some deep shit. You actually reading it or is it just to impress lady visitors?”

  “Already done read it all. Twice. I love that stuff. When you get into it, you get a sense history keeps repeating itself. And we don’t learn a damn thing.”

  Tommy changed the subject. “How you doing, Mos? You up to this? I’m thinking maybe we should let it go. Maybe we’re too old for this vigilante shit.”

  Moses looked at him with jaundiced eyes. “I’m sick, and I’m tired, Chief, but I got enough left in me for this. Motherfucker needs to pay. I want to leave this world knowing I did something right. He won’t hurt nobody after we’re done, and I’ll see that son of a bitch in hell. Shouldn’t nobody be hurting kids like that.”

  He slid open a drawer in the coffee table, extracted a tin box, and pulled the lid off with a metallic pop. Tommy eyed the contents. Cellophane bags were neatly rolled and stacked in the bed of the box like the cannelloni his grandmother used to make. He suddenly realized he was starving.

  Moses selected a bag and pulled an album sleeve from a rack next to his chair. “Santana, Abraxas. Man, I love me some Santana.” He placed it on his lap and dumped the weed from the bag onto it, sifting the seeds out with a playing card. Tommy looked on, fascinated by the man’s deft movements as he pulled rolling papers from the tin and fashioned a perfect joint.

  Moses looked up. “You gonna bust me, copper?”

  “Nah, shit. Maybe back in the day. That stuff’s almost legal now anyway.”

  “Good, because this here is medicinal grade. Works wonders for the nausea. Course, I been smoking it since long before I got sick,” Moses said with a laugh. He pulled a small vial that looked like nail polish from the tin, removed the top and painted a long black stripe down the length of the joint. “Hash oil; a little something extra for the head.”

  He placed the joint in the lid to dry, pulled the black vinyl album from the sleeve and started it up on his ancient stereo. Returning to his chair, he lit the joint, took a drag and looked to the ceiling before letting the smoke out in a long, thick trail. “Some for you, Chief?”

  “I never...”

  “You’re not on the job anymore. No reason not to. If the Big C comes back and you feel as sick as I do, you’ll want it. It does wonders for that constant I-gotta-puke feeling. C’mon, it’s medicine.” Moses pushed the joint toward Tommy.

  Tommy took it, and said, “What the hell, I always wondered...” He took a former smoker’s drag and held it in for a moment before coughing it out. “Jesus. That shit burns, you need a filter on the damn thing.”

  Moses laughed again. “Filter would take out all the good stuff, my man.” They sat without talking, passing it back and forth.

  Tommy became incredibly relaxed. The last of the setting sun streamed in through the window and seemed to give the drab room new life, bathing it in a reverent orange glow. The men on the posters seemed to come to life and join him in the room.

  “Damn, this sure is a nice buzz. Nice and mellow. Tell me again, Mos, why is a violence-inducing drug like alcohol legal and this shit isn’t?”

  “You asking me, copper?”

  “Damn,” Tommy said. “I can’t think right.”

  “Then there ain’t no change so far?”

  Tommy laughed. His mind opened in a way he’d never experienced before—to the beauty of the world, and the mystery of their existence on it. He picked up the colorful album cover and studied it. “What’s this all about? What’s with the naked black chick and naked red angel chick with the conga drum between her legs?”

  “It’s a painting, inspired by the biblical story of the Annunciation. That’s when the angel Gabriel appeared to the Virgin Mary and told her that in nine months she would have a baby, the Son of God.”

  “So...the black woman is the Virgin Mary? I’m not saying nothin’, I learned my lesson with you that first day in the hospital.” They both laughed at the memory, and Tommy replaced the album cover.

  “Mos—you ever think about aliens?”

  “Huh? You mean like illegal aliens or little green men aliens?”

  “Little green men. Do you think they’re out there? I mean—why not, right?”

  “Damn sure if they are, they’re probably looking down at us in amazement. A whole planet of motherfuckers slaughtering each other for thousands of years over whose crazy-ass ancient stories are real when in reality none of them are.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if maybe we aren’t the defects from some alien race, exiled to this planet a long time ago. We’re so different from any other form of life here.”

  The descending darkness outside was interrupted when a light switched on in the apartment opposite, its window facing Tommy and just a few yards away. Tommy watched as a slim, attractive woman began to undress.

  “Damn, Mos. You didn’t tell me there was a show.”

  “She’s always doing that. Just lonely, I guess, or wanting attention. I see her walking with her man, and that’s one dude I wouldn’t want to catch me peeping on his wife, even if she’s begging. I don’t pay her much mind. She’s not my Angie.”

  “That’s how I want to be,” Tommy replied. “I want to be virtuous like you, Mos.”

  Tommy pried his
eyes away from the scene and sat back, melting into the old, comfortable couch with his eyes closed. The words and music from the stereo seemed to become part of his consciousness. The songs were familiar, but he heard instruments and background vocals he never knew were there before. He’d heard the song “What’s Goin’ On” by Marvin Gaye before but never stopped to listen to what it was about. It saddened him to think about the brutality it spoke of, and that he’d been guilty of it back then. Different times.

  He awoke sometime later, looked over to find Moses sleeping, and got up and let himself out quietly.

  Lukas and the other youths were leaning against his car. He pulled the keys from his pocket and clicked the fob button to unlock the doors. He approached Lukas.

  The youth stood back and made a grandiose gesture toward the car. “Good as gold, Pops.”

  Tommy remembered his promise and pulled a twenty from his wallet. He handed it to the man. “Don’t spend it on any bullshit that’s going to fuck your life up. Your uncle’s a good man; do him proud.”

  The young man stepped away from the car, and Tommy put his hand out. The youth made a fist instead and extended it until Tommy caught on and bumped his own fist against it. “Germs, bro,” Lukas said as he walked away, stuffing the twenty in his pocket.

  On the ride home, Tommy turned on the Buick’s radio for the first time in forever. He found stations he didn’t know existed and turned the volume up. He found the bass control, increased it, and enjoyed the thumping vibration. The traffic lights seemed brighter than he ever remembered, and he was very hungry.

  WHEN HE PULLED INTO the driveway, he cut the engine but stayed in the car long enough for “Stairway to Heaven” to come to its end, singing the final verse with flagrant hand gestures. He looked up and saw Bobby in the window, watching him and shaking his head.

  He entered the house and climbed the stairs to Bobby’s room. His son seemed startled when he entered; Tommy rarely visited him in his own space.