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

by Nola Cancel

  Michael approached her quietly, the most perfect red rose appearing in his right hand.

  “Hello, beautiful,” he said, holding out the rose. “I saw this and thought of you.”

  She turned, startled and confused by his sudden and silent arrival.

  “How do you do that?” she asked, rising from her knees and accepting his gift.

  “Do what?” he teased, smiling mischievously.

  “Don’t give me that. You know what,” she replied, feigning annoyance.

  “I just like to surprise you,” Michael said, suddenly concerned that he had really upset the woman he adored.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized.

  “C’mere, you!” She laughed, grabbing him by the lapels of his trench coat and kissing him softly and slowly.

  Michael had known and experienced all the pleasure of paradise and still had never been happier than when he was in Maria’s arms.

  “I thought you were working today?”

  “I finished early and I missed you,” he answered, lost in her eyes and comforted by her touch.

  “Well, Mr. big shot, it must be nice to be your own boss and not have to answer to anyone else about your comings and goings,” she said, mocking him.

  Michael had told Maria he was a private investigator for a large insurance company and his job was to watch people who made phony insurance claims for any sign of fraud. Not the truth, but not so different from his existence on earth that he couldn’t make it believable. His job explained away frequent or long absences, and though he tried not to leave her very often, his work provided a cover when separation was absolutely necessary. Like recently.

  “Hey,” Maria said, requesting his attention, “remember me?”

  “I could never forget you if I tried.” He smiled and kissed her again.

  As they walked arm and arm towards their home, Michael recalled a time, not so very long ago, when the only true happiness he’d ever known was almost taken away.

  They were on their third date after her near fatal car accident.

  He had taken her to see Book of Mormon on Broadway. While he detested crowds—anything could happen in a crowd—Maria loved the sights and sounds of the city and was more than passionate about live theater. So much so, she had told him, she owned practically every original cast recording of every Broadway musical that had opened in the last twenty years.

  The irony of the choice of musical to see was not lost on Michael. He’d picked Book of Mormon because he found human interpretations of anything to do with God or the gospel to be fascinating. Even he had trouble trying to read the Bible and often thought to himself, if only they knew.

  Afterwards, he had taken her to a restaurant where the walls were covered with caricatures of people he didn’t know. Maria knew them all.

  “Ooh look,” she said, her voice growing higher with excitement. “That’s Carol Channing, that one’s Liza Minnelli. I love Liza. And there’s Bernadette Peters.” She stared at him for any sign of recognition, and seeing no acknowledgment, just continued. “I saw her play Mama Rose in a revival of Gypsy. I still get goosebumps when I think of her singing Mama’s Turn.

  He had no idea who she was talking about, but it didn’t matter. She was happy and her eyes reflected great joy. She was enchanting and he loved her completely with no regrets.

  Michael knew then and there he would take her to every musical in the world if her eyes would continue to shine as they did now.

  He felt the other angel’s presence long before he ever saw him at a nearby table.

  It was Ezekiel. Preternaturally beautiful, as they all were, with long red hair the color of the setting sun.

  Michael had never officially met him, but all angels knew their own kind and all angels knew God’s warrior, Michael. The real question was, did Ezekiel see him?

  Forced for eternity by the ‘no interaction between angel and soul,’ the rules were quite clear.

  They could watch and they could intercede if a special soul was in mortal danger, but under no circumstances should they communicate or be part of the individual soul’s life on earth.

  Michael had clearly broken that rule when he fell in love with Maria. In fact, she probably should have died in that car accident but when Michael saw it occur, he just couldn’t let it happen. Rules be damned. He knew he risked his unlimited “God’s pass” and didn’t care. Her life would be short in comparison to his eternity and he’d pay any price to spend that lifetime with her.

  But, not now. He was not yet ready to answer the council’s questions about her or about their relationship. At this moment, his main concern was formulating a plan to leave the restaurant without Ezekiel’s notice.

  Just then, the middle-aged man sitting across from Ezekiel began to choke on his food and clutch at his throat.

  Ezekiel sat perfectly still, not moving at all. He made no effort to assist the human or ease his distress. Instantly, Michael knew why; his brother was not there to stop the man’s death but to ensure it would happen as willed.

  For some very special souls, those whose lives were nearing an end and who had lived a life of kindness and charity, the council sent an angel to make sure their transition from one plane to another would be easy and painless. Ezekiel was this man’s guide on the rest of his journey.

  Michael used this much-needed distraction to feign an illness, pay the check, and get Maria out of there.

  As they grabbed their coats and left, Michael felt Ezekiel’s gaze briefly shift his way. He never turned and never acknowledged the other angel. He also never knew if his secret was discovered.

  Walking hand in hand back to Maria’s car, he knew it didn’t matter. He was with her now and he would keep her safe no matter what. Even if she wasn’t his mission, Maria had become his existence and he wasn’t giving her up without a fight.

  The Toyota pulled away from the curb on 46th Street and 8th Avenue with neither occupant aware of the sinister gaze that had been trained on them since they left their home in Rigby.

  Watching them leave, Malachi reached for his most beloved human invention, the cell phone, and called his boss.

  “Yea, it’s me,” Mal said into the device. “Michael just left the city with his bag of meat. You want me to keep following?”

  “No,” Belial said, smiling on the other end of the call. “Let them have their time. Our time will come soon enough, and then Michael will fully understand the meaning of true loss.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Nan had been going up and down these same basement stairs ever since she and Joe began dating.

  Back then, they would sneak downstairs for some serious make-out sessions and some hot and heavy petting. Her first sexual experience had been on that battered old brown couch with the guy she knew she would marry after their second date.

  Now, it was just a sad reminder of the wasted years she had spent with her failed husband. A pitiful testament to a life that had little to no meaning.

  It was as if she had let God down by existing in such a miserable way. And, she was certain, he had abandoned her for taking his precious gift for granted.

  Nan had stopped praying altogether after they lost Joe Jr.

  Alone in the hospital room, surrounded by loss and emptiness that threatened to consume her body and soul, she was certain her son’s death was her fault.

  In her head she knew it was impossible for her to have given Joey leukemia, but in her heart, broken and grieving for her only child, her guilt was all too real.

  Flipping on the basement light, her thoughts drifted back to that old saying taught to every child in catechism, “God helps those who help themselves.” Those words rang as true today as the day she had lost him. Perhaps, she concluded as she mechanically sorted the colored clothes from the whites, if she had left Joe and taken the baby away from this nightmare, God would not have forsaken her and Joey would still be alive.

  A noise resembling a muffled cry pulled her away from her own tho
ughts and back to the present.

  She stood quiet until she heard it again. The sound was coming from the small room that housed the washer and dryer.

  Turning around, Nan spotted Joe’s iron bar covered in black electrical tape over in the corner.

  Joe had called it his “better be good stick.” He would take it with him whenever he felt threatened, like scoring in a bad neighborhood or if someone wanted to fuck with him.

  She had thought it ridiculous but right at this moment was comforted by the weight of the weapon in her hand.

  Silently, she approached the door to the small room and turned the knob. The iron bar fell from her grasp with a loud thud that Nan didn’t even hear.

  The very second she opened it Nan was engulfed by the most magnificent feelings of peace and calm, and a sense of euphoria she had never known before. Gone was the guilt, the self-doubt, the worry, and the pain that had plagued her for the past few months. As if in the midst of the best orgasm she had ever experienced, she quite loudly moaned, “Oh, God.”

  The feeling seemed to go on forever, and if truth be told, when that first wave finally did recede, the joy that remained was equally, if not more so, satisfying.

  When at last she was a little more clearheaded, Nan opened her eyes and beheld the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. It would take another few minutes of staring before she got a grip on herself and really surveyed the situation.

  Whatever it was she was certain, by the large wings protruding from its back, that it was not human.

  “Oh sweet Jesus…God in heaven,” she whispered when she noticed his eyes were covered, his mouth was gagged, and his limbs were bound. “Joe, what the hell have you done?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  John had walked up and down McDonald Avenue for the last half an hour. A product of the old neighborhood, he was as much a fixture on the streets of Avenue U as the corner pharmacy and the Carvel Ice Cream store.

  In his thrift store jeans and second hand tee shirt, he was indistinguishable from anyone else except for the constant empty look of desperation that his eyes betrayed.

  Pacing back and forth, he would occasionally break stride to acknowledge a familiar passerby with the requisite head bob.

  His guts were beginning to tighten as the all too familiar unease of withdrawal began its assault on his central nervous system. Within the hour, he would start to sweat and shake uncontrollably.

  John feared withdrawal, as most junkies do, more than the possibility of death from shooting bad shit or getting caught by the police.

  After all, was there any better way to die than high off your ass and with a buzz on that made you forget your own mother?

  He had been a junkie for most of his adult life, addicted to one drug or another. But, not always. John Maleo was the youngest child of seven belonging to John Sr. and Sally Maleo. Rumor had it that the Maleo’s were first cousins and that’s why all their children were fucked up.

  With large heads, small eyes, and more often than not, vacant looks, the children were Special Education students from the first grade up to the time they dropped out.

  Ridiculed and constantly beat up, John found quick and certain refuge from the neighborhood bullies by getting so stoned he forgot everything and everyone else.

  It wasn’t until Joe DeFalco took pity on him and let him hang out at his house that his tormentors finally left him alone.

  No one fucked with Joe. Not if you wanted to live. If you even looked at him wrong, there was always the chanced he’d tell his father and then you were really in trouble. Everyone on Avenue U knew Nino DeFalco and had heard all the stories about what he’d do if you messed with him or his.

  Occasionally, they bore witness to his temper in the form of a lifeless corpse left in a trunk on Shore Parkway with the back of its head blown out.

  Slower than most, even John knew he had scored big time when he landed Joe as a friend and “get high” partner.

  “So, where the fuck is he?” John was getting desperate.

  Sure, he could easily sneak into Joe’s basement— learned how when he was eleven—but that angel juice never did have the same effect on him that most others seem to feel.

  He remembered the first time he had tried angel essence. He wasn’t impressed.

  They had just found Nino dead and Joe was using anything he could get his hands on to get high and forget. New York was going through one of its drug crackdowns and dope was almost impossible to find. So, Joe found the next best thing.

  Strung out and hurting, Joe had brought out a vial of clear blue liquid. He said it was angel’s blood, and if you shot it, it was the most intense, the most climactic, the absolute best fucking high you would ever experience. The word angel didn’t even register with John until later when Joe had told him all about the guy his father had kept in the basement. The only thing that mattered was the get high part.

  In a pinch, John thought as he continued pacing, it might do. But his preference would always be heroin. The purer, the better.

  John never noticed the black Lincoln Town car as it turned the corner and came to an abrupt stop in front of him.

  “Get in the car.”

  Before he could even see the gorilla in the driver’s seat, John recognized the sound of Mal’s voice.

  “Hey, Mal, what’s up?” John said, his mind racing at the myriad ways he might have offended this walking wall. “Can’t go anywhere right now…you understand.”

  The rear passenger window rolled down ever so slowly and stopped after a couple of inches. John knew what was coming and felt the first pangs of diarrhea cramps as he willed his ass cheeks closed.

  “Get in the car. NOW!” Belial’s voice was

  unmistakable, a mixture of snake venom and gravel.

  Whatever this was, John knew it wasn’t good. For a brief second he considered running, but who was he kidding. They were in a car and he could barely get his dope-sick body to respond to anything other than not soiling himself.

  As if to punctuate his thought, Mal got out of the driver’s seat and held the back door open for him.

  By the time he got in the car, John was sweating profusely. Every piece of clothing he wore was drenched and sticking to his skin.

  Silently he swore if God got him out of this, he’d never get high again.

  “Be. What’s good, what’s going on?” John heard the fear in his voice and silently prayed harder to a deity he never truly believed in. “You kinda caught me at a bad time. I was right in the middle of doing a piece of work for Tommy Tottola,” he lied, hoping it would make any difference, any at all. “You know Tommy. Runs Avenue X.”

  “Shut up,” Belial spat as his fingers found his favorite coin.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean nothing,” John stuttered, the smell of the cheap aftershave making him nauseous. “If you guys need me, I’ll just finish up for Tommy and meet you back at your club.”

  “I said, shut up.” John didn’t even see the punch but he felt the excruciating pain as the cartilage in his nose crunched and the taste of his own blood appeared on his lips.

  “I don’t give a fuck who you were working for or what slimy junkie shit you thought you had to do,” Belial said, using his silk handkerchief to wipe some of John’s blood off his leather seat.

  The Lincoln made an abrupt right turn, sending John head first into the door and spreading searing waves of pain throughout his entire skull.

  “I want the angel,” Belial demanded.

  “Wha-I don’t know nothing about no—”

  The second blow was even harder and faster than the first. Instantly, John lost all control of his bowels and shit all over himself.

  “Oh God—oh Jesus,”, he prayed for all he was worth.

  Belial’s smile was inhuman. John had never see anything so malevolent in his entire life.

  “Try again,” Belial said, obviously amused. “I think you’ve reached a number that is no longer in service.”

  This
time John’s bladder released. Before he blacked out, he remembered how warm and soothing his own piss felt.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The emergency room in Coney Island Hospital was packed as usual. A gunshot wound here, a stabbing there, and a very loud pregnant woman in labor in the cubicle adjacent to Joe’s.

  Her contractions were coming every four minutes and Joe knew this because each and every time she felt one, she would scream, “Motherfucker,” at the top of her lungs.

  “MOTHERFUCKER!”

  Joe checked his watch. Right on cue.

  His wrist hurt like that pregnant woman’s favorite

  word but Joe’s pride hurt even worse. Fucking Belial, he thought as he cradled his broken wrist. One of these days I’m going to put you in the ground, bury you and piss on your fucking grave.

  His arm throbbed and Joe instinctively reached for the bottle of Percocet Nan’s doctor had given her for back pain, the one that he had stolen weeks ago.

  How many times had he fucked over his own wife. The number was endless. His pregnant neighbor was right. He was a motherfucker when it came to Nan, and she deserved so much better.

  The pills were hitting him nicely now and the familiar fog that enveloped him brought the added assistance of dulling his pain, as well as his memories.

  Joe’s eyes started the long slow blink followed by the customary junkie head nod. He was drifting away.

  A gunshot rang out in the night. The blast had been muzzled by his father’s silencer, but from the back of the ally, through a cracked slat in his father’s boarded up club window, Joe could see and feel the impact of the bullet just as surely as Johnny Mac lying dead at his old man’s feet, the single bullet hole in his forehead still smoking.

  “I never liked that stuttering cock-sucker,” his father calmly declared. “I know he had something to do with our missing feathered friends.”

  “But what about Belial?” Paulie G., Nino’s right-hand man, asked nervously.