Though the Brightest Fell (The Brooklyn Angels Series Book 1)

by Nola Cancel

  Though The Brightest Fell

  The Brooklyn Angels Series Book One

  Nola Cancel

  Copyright © 2017 by Chunkie Productions All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First Edition, 2017 E-Book

  Though The Brightest Fell

  The Brooklyn Angels Series Book One

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks is never enough—

  First and foremost, to my family who created this strange creature who prefers to live in her head and write about the people she finds there.

  To my nieces and nephews, you have given my life meaning and more love than I will ever deserve. To those with us, those no longer, and those yet to come, I am proud of you all and love you more than words can say.

  To Susan, for many reasons, but mostly for always being there.

  To my father for the tools and my mother for the strength.

  To my online family and friends, especially Granny Goodwich, and the brilliant author Greg Wilkey, thank you for the friendly ears, kind words, and the

  unwavering support.

  To my editor, Todd Barselow, who helped a 54-yearold computer illiterate achieve her dreams—no matter how big a pain I am.

  To AR, what can I say that I haven't said before? Your support, your willingness to answer my questions—no matter how inane or how often—and your constant and gracious encouragement in my darkest hours have given me a strength I never knew I had. There is no novella without you.

  To my husband, Michael, the man who has stood by my side for the past 30 years. The guy who came home one day with a weird story of a nondescript storefront with two words in the window—Stress Relief—and the immediate discussion that led to this novella. For the authenticity, for the humor, for the journey through your childhood memories, this book is as much yours as it is mine. Love forever and always or until we kill each other (whatever comes first), your Nola.

  PROLOGUE

  And God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light.

  But this light kept getting brighter and brighter as it raced toward Joe DeFalco. Walking out of the bar, after three beers and four shots of Johnnie Walker Red, along with the four or five Percocet he’d taken before leaving his house, Joe was feeling no pain. He also never noticed the delivery van as it ran the red light on the corner and came barreling straight at him.

  Perhaps, if he had noticed it, he might have been able to get out of its path. Now, it was too late. Joe was a dead man.

  The last thing he remembered before everything went black was the smell of fresh cut grass on a beautiful spring day and a feeling of euphoria that Joe assumed everyone felt at the end of their lives.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he said as the light enveloped him…and the light was good.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Azriel woke up to complete darkness. Something was obscuring his vision. If he were any other creature, he might have thought this was an after-life. But, as an angel, he had firsthand knowledge of what humans could expect after they died, and this was not it.

  His enhanced hearing caught tidbits of a

  conversation that could have easily come from two rooms away or two miles away. Not yet used to so many voices all at once, the accident had left him even more disoriented than when he’d first arrived on Earth.

  Right before the accident, his senses had been bombarded by all the noise and filth of this world. The barrage was almost more than he could bear and might have explained why he was so ill prepared for the force and ferocity of the truck that hit him. Perhaps, he should have studied more about earth and ’its inhabitants.

  He tried to move, but could not. He was being restrained. His limbs felt heavy and he could no longer release his wings. Whatever held him, he knew two things for sure—it had been used on his kind before, and he was in trouble.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Joe slurred, the heroin working its magic on his body. “You’re outta your fucking mind,” John said, tapping his tied off left arm and looking for any good veins left to hit. “There hasn’t been a real angel sighting in sixteen

  years. And that poor fucker didn’t make it through the trials, much less distribution.” The basement was cold and damp and smelled of mildew and age. The two childhood friends had been using the basement of Joe’s parents’ house to get away from their lives for years.

  After his father’s death and the fall that left his mother unable to care for herself, he and Nan had moved into the old place.

  Despite its memories—or maybe because of them— Joe still preferred the basement to the rest of the house. No matter what was going on in his life, the basement offered solace in the guise of forgetfulness. The pills and heroin didn’t hurt either.

  Joe smiled as the fog set in. Soon he wouldn’t need to rob Nan for money or get his shit off the street. The source of all his fixes for the foreseeable future was tied up in his laundry room. This angel was his lotto ticket, and the payout was better than anything money could buy. From now on, his own piece of heaven was right here on earth.

  “You’ll see, John,” Joe said, as the soothing waves of numbness began to envelop his mind and body. “Before long, we’ll have our very own angel essence empire.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The unloved were not a group of kids whose parents didn’t want them. The unloved were fallen angels. Cast out and abandoned by God here on earth till the end of time because they refused to accept God’s rules concerning his mortal children.

  According to the unloved, humans were worthless and should be treated as nothing more than excrement beneath their feet. They believed that angels were, and always would be, superior to men. Unlike their heavenly brothers, the castoffs refused to accept the fact humans were the most beloved of God’s creations and were given the gift of a soul because they were so favored by the Lord.

  To make up for their unfair treatment, these hopeless and abandoned creatures had made it their business to inflict as much pain and death on the “meatbags”—their name for humans—as they could possibly manage.

  This penchant for making humans suffer had, more often than not, been thwarted by the careful watch of their brethren still loyal to the lord. If not for their steadfast vigil, humans would constantly be in danger.

  In fact, the unloved considered their protection of lesser beings the ultimate act of betrayal, and therefore took great pleasure in destroying any of their heavenly brothers here on earth that they found engaging in such treasonous activity. This was not an easy task.

  When an angel came to earth on a mission, they were forced to assume an earthly form. With a few mind tricks, they could hide themselves from the easily manipulated humans, but their angelic powers made them practically invulnerable. Both of these factors made it next to impossible to locate an angel on earth if they didn’t want to be found.

  Belial took particular pride in locating the human lovers and relished in killing these angels even more than torturing humans.

  Unfortunately for Belial, there were only a couple of ways he could find one to destroy.

  The first method, and the one he took the greatest pleasure in planning, was to put the most innocent of humans in mortal danger. His favorite scenario involved having Mal park on the side of some street and wait for a young child or old lady to cross. If the hit and run went the way Belial wanted, an angel would try to save the person and he would make his move to capture it. However, th
is plan only worked if the particular human had an angel assigned to them. If they did not, Belial would not get to torture and kill a brother, but at least there would be one less human in this world. A win-win no matter how Belial looked at it.

  The only other way to catch an angel involved direct association with the meat-bags.

  Over the years, thousands of dollars had been paid by the unloved to all kinds of junkies, hookers, and miscreants for any tips regarding strange or abnormal activity, and specifically, any talk of miracles.

  Just this evening, a piece of shit with a hundred dollar a day habit told him about a miracle he had seen with his very own eyes.

  “So, so this guy, a regular guy, comes walking out of The Wrong Number on Avenue T and W. Sixth St., a couple of sheets to the wind and not paying attention to a fucking thing. All of a sudden, this delivery van comes around the corner doing fifty and heads straight for this schmuck. Before I can blink, this other guy comes out of nowhere—”

  “What does he look like?” Belial interrupted, growing bored of this bag of bones.

  “So, I’m getting to that.”

  “Get quicker,” Belial sneered.

  John started sweating even more. He hated these miserable fuckers with their five thousand dollar Armani suits, ten thousand dollar Rolexes and holier than thou attitudes.

  He had to admit, though, when he was walking on his ass, without a dime in his pocket to get high, they could be a real lifesaver.

  “Just before the van was about to splatter this guy,” John continued, twitching from the onset of withdrawal, “some other dude comes outta nowhere, pushes him out of the way, and takes the full brunt of the hit on himself.”

  “I’m not impressed. You can’t be hurting that bad,” Belial said, growing more annoyed with each breath this human took.

  “But that’s not the miracle, Be,” John pleaded.

  “So, he’s lying there, practically pinned under the trailer, and I swear to God—”

  “No need,” Belial said and laughed.

  “Huh? Uh, whatever. This guy is laying there and all of a sudden he sprouts some mother-fucking wings and pushes the truck off him and about ten feet away.”

  “Then what?” Belial asked, his interest finally piqued.

  “Then what? Well, after I shook the piss out of my shoe, I ran as fast and as far from that fucked up scene as possible.”

  “So you have no idea what happened to the drunk asshole or the guy with wings?”

  “Nah, not really. After seeing something like that, I needed to get high and get my head straight. What’dya think?” John asked, looking at Belial, his desperation blatantly obvious. “Story should be good for a fifty or a hundred?”

  Belial laughed again, his smile full of malice and his eyes shining with evil intent. From his

  brushed leather wallet, he withdrew two brand new hundred-dollar bills.

  “Here,” Belial said, tossing the money on the floor. He laughed as John scurried like a rat going for the last piece of cheese and remembered a time, so long ago, when he had first seen a man on his knees after giving up his friend.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The first time Joe had experienced what he called “angel essence euphoria” was sixteen years ago. He had been sixteen and went to the basement to smoke a joint. The basement was unfinished and used only by his mother to do laundry and his father when the old man and his friends needed a private place to discuss business.

  The minute he entered, he remembered feeling like everything in his young life was glorious.

  He immediately forgot all about his parents’ bitter arguments over every little thing and the strange phone calls in the middle of the night that left his father sweating profusely and white as a sheet.

  This sense of euphoria was better than the free feel of Mary Ann Maniscalco’s ample right tit. It was better than the first time he had copped his father’s car keys and took everyone for a ride in the Caddy. It was even better than the sensation he got whenever he had the house to himself and a copy of his mom’s Cosmo in one hand and his pecker in the other.

  Then he saw him. Bound by iron chains to a large metal crucifix. Each of his arms had a single needle sticking out of it that led to two different IV bags. Each bag was filling up with a beautiful blue liquid the same color as the sky on a clear, crisp fall day. His eyes had been covered by a black blindfold and his mouth was gagged.

  The prisoner was the most attractive person Joe had ever seen. His skin bore no blemishes, scars, or wrinkles. It was practically translucent. His silken hair was a color Joe had never seen before. More than just blond, each strand shone with its own special highlight. Even in complete darkness, he could tell this was not human. This creature was better than human.

  As Joe walked further into the room, he saw huge white feathers lying underneath the captive.

  Joe had never seen anything like them. Not even in comic books.

  But who would do this? Why was this beautiful creature being held against his will and what did his father have to do with any of this stuff? His mind was plagued with these questions and a hundred more, but at that moment, Joe was too busy enjoying this newfound feeling of joy that, apparently, came from being in the presence of a real live angel.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nan was tired. More tired than usual. The fatigue was getting worse as the days wore on. Usually, she could blame her exhaustion on how hard she worked, her age, and the tremendous amount of responsibility she had on her head, but right now she wasn’t so certain. Soon, despite having no health insurance and nothing left in the bank, she knew she would have to see a doctor.

  Not that Joe gave a shit. She could be bleeding from every orifice in her body and he’d still want her to make him something to eat. Lately, she questioned why she had even married him.

  They were only sixteen when they started dating. She had just moved to Brooklyn, specifically Ave. U, from a seventeen-story apartment building in the projects on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Nan was still getting used to being able to walk to the store by herself and not worrying about being mugged in the elevator when she met him. She remembered being mesmerized by him. So handsome and strong, he oozed charisma. When he walked down the avenue it was as if he owned it. Everyone stopped to say hello, and with good reason.

  Joe’s Father was Nino DeFalco, capo of a small Gambino crew that ran Avenue U. When it came to wise guys, that part of her move was not all that different from where she’d grown up. At that time, the mob still controlled many New York City streets.

  Nothing was sold or stolen and no one was strongarmed or even walked down the block unless Nino knew about it and said it was okay. And, God forbid he didn’t get his cut of any action happening on those streets. Many a local tough guy had gone missing for lesser insults to Nino.

  Nan still remembered the shock and terror she felt the first time she had witnessed Nino’s anger.

  Joe had taken her to the neighborhood’s annual feast. She couldn’t recall which saint was supposed to be the recipient of the funds garnered from the sale of sausage and pepper heroes, zeppolli’s, and “Kiss me, I’m Italian” tshirts, but it was a well-known fact to everyone who lived there that any money made during the feast went directly into the pockets of Nino DeFalco.

  Every night during the week-long celebration, in the middle of the rides filled with screaming kids, rigged games of chance for dollar store prizes, and an adult’s only casino in the basement of St. Simon and Jude’s church, was a small patch of land the neighborhood people called “the square” where a make-shift stage would be set up and long forgotten Italian singers or old time comediennes would perform for the old ladies.

  On this one particular night, a couple of

  neighborhood teens, who should have known better, started heckling some old guinea comic. Nothing crazy. No name calling, just some screaming out of the punch lines before the comic had his chance to finish the joke.

  Nan could still remem
ber the icy look Nino gave the teens and the angry way he dispatched his men to bring the offenders to him.

  After that, Nino walked into the schoolyard with the kids and no one knew what happened. It wasn’t until the next day, when she saw one of the teens with a black eye, swollen lip, and walking on crutches, that she really understood what a scary man Joe’s Father was.

  But that was a long time ago in a neighborhood that no longer existed. After Giuliani broke the mob’s back, all the social-clubs where the made guys would sit and play cards closed, leaving the people who lived there feeling afraid and vulnerable. That was definitely when the whites started moving out and a more mixed group of New Yorker’s moved in. Nan and Joe were just a few of the less than a handful of people who had decided to stay.

  When they found Nino in the trunk of a car on Bay Parkway with the back of his head blown off, and Nan’s mother-in-law had to be placed in a nursing home, she and Joe kept the house, she got a job, and life went on.

  Nan knew something had died in her husband when the old man was killed. Gone was his famous swagger and self-confidence along with any sense of who he once was or would ever be.

  She also knew what it was like to live under the specter of the mob, never knowing if or when your brothers or father might get mixed up with the wrong people and disappear.

  Most normal people watched movies like The Godfather and television shows like The Sopranos and thought the life they portrayed was glamorous and exciting. They never saw the real damage it could do to a family.

  But Nan knew it all too well. Her own father had gone to jail several times for bank robbery and would wind up spending three to four years at a time in the can, hanging out with people like Joe’s old man.

  And when her oldest brother, trying to emulate these men he saw every day in their flashy suits and expensive cars, tried to live the same way, he quickly wound up on the wrong side of the law and eventually made a deal with the Feds to turn state’s evidence in return for his freedom.