The Angel Alejandro

by Alistair Cross

  He nodded, looking resigned. “I remember. We do not want him to get any new pictures for my Instant Gram account.” He was suddenly the lost little boy again and Madison’s heart felt sore. I really don’t want to leave you alone.

  Dette laughed. “It’s Instagram, bud.” She eyed his Winkie the Golden Hedgehog hoodie. “We really need to get him some new shirts, Maddy.” She grinned. “Not that he doesn’t look just fine without one.”

  Madison pushed Dette toward the door.

  “Madison?” Alejandro asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful.”

  Careful of what? “I will.”

  “And you look very pretty.”

  Madison’s cheeks warmed. “Thanks.” She shut the door behind her, wishing she’d never agreed to go out. “I hope we’re dressed appropriately,” she said as they got into Dette’s red Mustang.

  Dette started the car and drove down the slope toward town. “The flyers I saw said, Come as you are. Obviously, it’s not a strict dress code.”

  Madison watched her house disappear in the rearview mirror and felt terrible for leaving. She thought of Alejandro’s words: That place is bad. A little melodramatic, she thought, but there was something in his voice that worried her.

  Dread nestled into the pit of her stomach as they drove to the former church.

  ‘That place is bad.’

  She shuddered.

  Opening Night

  Purple and white searchlights gleamed, slashing through the sky, beckoning the entire town of Prominence. And it was working - the parking lot was packed.

  Dette turned the Mustang into a narrow slot and squinted up at the blazing red neon sign that flashed above St. Agatha’s main entrance.

  “Mephistopheles,” said Madison. There were little devil horns on the tops of the M and the final S trailed to form a pointed tail. “They named their nightclub, which used to be a church, after a demon. That’s creepy.”

  “No, it’s awesome!” Dette inspected her reflection in the rearview. “Damn it. I have lipstick on my teeth.” She began polishing with her finger.

  St. Agatha’s - now Club Mephistopheles - loomed against the starless black sky. Aside from the new sign, fresh red paint around the doors and windows, a pair of crossed pitchforks flashing neon lightning tines above the main entrance, and the removal of the giant cross that had topped the building, it looked the same as always: arrogant and threatening. “I hate this place.” She thought of Alejandro’s words and could see why he called it “bad.” It certainly looked bad, but how would Alejandro know that? He’d never been, and for all his unusual talents, she doubted he could see the place very well from his perch on the roof. God, I hope he’s not up there now.

  “It is pretty garish,” agreed Dette as they got out of the car. “Hopefully they’ve done more remodeling on the inside.” She handed her keys to Madison.

  They joined the queue of people standing between red velvet ropes that swayed along golden stanchions. The line was long, all the way down the steps, but it was moving quickly. Dance music blared from within and strobe lights flashed. Madison felt like she was waiting to enter a haunted house at Halloween.

  The lingering crowd outside laughed and talked. Some were in jeans and T-shirts, others in heels and skirts; it was clear that no one knew the dress code. Madison was glad her black leggings and cobalt blue tunic wouldn’t stand out. Dette’s black lace top, snakeskin-print pleather pants and four-inch black stilettos however, were a different story. The silver crescent moon necklace she wore - which Madison had never seen before - was the only accessory that didn’t reek of bad taste.

  Madison recognized several faces - Roxie Michaelson from the diner was there with Tiffany Rhodes, her waitress and pal. Both wore dark jackets over black stretch lace dresses, and were bent together in conversation. Despite Roxie being fifteen years older, she looked just as good as Tiffany, if not better.

  Paulette Driscoll, manager of the Sandman Motel, was with her clerk - Carly? - who’d been so smitten with Alejandro when they paid a visit last week. Paulette looked over and Madison averted her gaze, still embarrassed by the woman’s unexpected drunk-driving confession the other day.

  Behind them stood realtor Olivia LeBlatte, in a slinky red dress. She lit a cigarette and ignored the dirty looks. She’d aged badly since Madison had last seen her.

  The line moved forward and at the door, Dette said, “It’s on me,” and handed a twenty to a gangly young man with a wispy goatee. He cast perfunctory glances at their IDs, took the money, and stamped the backs of their hands with red, horned Ms, and let them in. They passed two bouncers who stood on either side of the entrance, pitchforks in hand. Both were twenty-something muscle heads, shirtless in mirrored sunglasses, black-and-white bowties, dark slacks and shoes so shiny she could see their silver nipple rings reflected in them. Each stood in a wide-legged stance and had horned Ms painted on their left pecs.

  “Who are those guys?” asked Dette over the thump of synthesized chaos. She smiled at them. Neither smiled back.

  Inside, the place had been given a thorough facelift, though enough of the original style remained to give it a creepy religious vibe. The floors were redone in a glossy black-and-white checked pattern, and black-lacquered circular tables and chrome chairs dominated. Some of the pews remained in back - now painted black - and the baptismal fonts now contained something that looked suspiciously like blood - though that might have been a trick of the red lights overhead.

  The six confessionals lining the walls of the main room were also painted black, brightened by pulsing strips of neon. There was a design atop them, inverted crosses that tilted to either side.

  Madison and Dette were heading toward an unclaimed table when Shawn Barzetti shrilled out a whistle and waved them over. Shawn and Bobby, the electricians, sat at a table in the center of the room. Dette yanked Madison toward them. Madison frowned at the centerpiece - a red horned goat’s head holding a black rose in its mouth.

  Shawn scooted his chair closer to Dette. “Pretty great, huh?”

  “It’s cool!” Dette stared ahead at what used to be the chancel. Now it was some kind of stage.

  Bobby Beckstead leaned close to Madison and she refrained from recoiling. He reeked of cigarettes, alcohol, and cheap aftershave. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  Madison looked at his goblet.

  “It’s good.” He sipped.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s called the Devil’s Punchbowl. Want a taste?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He eyed her. “Are you in A.A.?”

  “No, I’m driving tonight.”

  “Because if you are, you can buy drinks with your chips!”

  “Chips?” Madison had no idea what the idiot was talking about.

  “Yeah, your sobriety chips. One month of sobriety buys you one drink, and six months buys six drinks.”

  Madison had never heard anything so unethical in her life. “That’s just … wicked. How is that even okay?”

  Bobby shrugged. “Take it up with the waitress. She’s the one who told us.” He pulled out a roll of tropical fruit Pucker-Buttons. “Want one of these?” He popped one of the candies into his mouth.

  “No, thanks.” Madison watched the waitresses buzzing from table to table. They wore red bustiers, high boots, and Spandex G-strings embroidered with inverted pentagrams and goat heads. Fishnet stockings sheathed their legs and red pointed tails matched their devil-horned headbands.

  Dette took a sip of Shawn’s drink. “Is everything in this place designed to piss off the Christians?”

  “Looks like it,” said Shawn. “Does that bother you?”

  “No, but I can’t imagine it’s good for business.”

  Bobby leaned forward, his eyes ablaze with interest. “Atheism is way popular right now. The masses are rebelling against Christianity and it’s about time! According to a survey they did in Europe last year …”

&n
bsp; Madison stopped listening to the idiot electrician. Her gaze was on the bar. It ran lengthwise between the confessionals and, behind it, a shirtless, bow-tied bartender made acrobatic moves with bottles and glasses, his glistening pecs flexing with each dramatic gesture. A crowd had formed and they oohed and ahhed as he donned a pair of welding goggles, touched a small torch to a glass, and lit the liquid within. He grinned as he wiggled his fingers over the flame like a sorcerer at his cauldron, then tossed the blazing glass over his shoulder, catching it from behind with his other hand, before sliding it down the bar toward a patron.

  “Are you sure I can’t buy you a drink?” Bobby asked Madison, moving even closer.

  “I’m sure.”

  “It’s not that strong.” He nudged his glass toward her. “Tell her, Shawn.”

  Shawn, whose eyes were glued to Dette’s breasts, blinked stupidly. “Uh, yeah. You could have a couple and still be good to drive.”

  “No,” said Madison, “but I will have a Coke.” She stopped a passing waitress and placed her order. Dette, Shawn, and Bobby ordered too.

  The waitress disappeared and Madison looked around for familiar faces, which wasn’t easy under the strobing lights. She was surprised by some of the folks who’d come - town matriarch Rosemary Hess, arms crossed, lips drawn into a tight firm line, was joined by her herd of women around a nearby table. Diana Stout, one of her followers, was asking far too much of the dainty chair in which she sat, and the freshly-bleached Lena Harding, dressed in a tight white top beneath a shiny black jacket, talked enthusiastically to banker Howard Blackburn and a man Madison didn’t recognize. Rebecca McNair, Vang’s Bangs stylist, sat with a group of friends a few tables down.

  Every seat was filled, including some of the pews, where people lounged, arms across the tops of the benches, talking and drinking. She saw no sign of Clint Horace, so at least there was that.

  Eric Cooterman, nearly unrecognizable without a camera pressed to his face, leaned against the back wall, drink in hand, clandestinely snapping pictures with his cell phone. At least he’s not bothering Alejandro. She looked away before he could lock eyes with her.

  Madison glanced back at Rosemary Hess, who touched her copper-colored hair and crossed her spindly legs. In a silky sapphire-colored blouse, she looked out of place. But everyone looked out of place.

  Madison checked her watch; they’d only been here for six minutes. She wondered how Alejandro was faring at home. At “home,” she thought, amazed by how quickly she’d become accustomed to his presence.

  The waitress returned with their drinks and Bobby said, “I got yours, Maddy,” and began reaching into his back pocket.

  “It’s fine.” Madison opened her purse. She didn’t want him buying her drink. It sent the wrong message. Not to mention, he’d need the Jaws of Life to extract his wallet from those skin-tight jeans. “Shit,” she said under her breath. Her money was gone. She re-checked the many pockets of her purse. Nothing but a couple of ones. I know I put two twenties in here.

  “I’ll get it,” said Bernadette, and handed the waitress a bill. “Keep the change.” She made a sad-face at Madison. “You must have left your money at the house.”

  The devil-bedecked waitress disappeared with Bobby’s glazed gaze fastened to her ass as Dette and Shawn bent together, talking and giggling. Bobby leaned in to Madison who sighed, sipped her Coke, and tried - in vain - to ignore his invasive, musky aftershave.

  The sudden silence was startling. The music hadn’t faded, but stopped as if the speaker wires had been clipped. Laughter and chatter died instantly.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” A deep voice boomed from all directions. “Welcome! Welcome to Club Mephistopheles, where your darkest desires are realized, all in one place, all in one night! We’ve got one hell of a show for you, so just sit back, enjoy one - or five or six - of our specialty beverages, and allow us to take you to the places your mother warned you about!”

  A collective chuckle buzzed through the crowd. Madison looked at Dette, who grinned at Shawn. The boys stared ahead at the stage as spotlights began lighting it up.

  “First on tonight’s agenda,” boomed the emcee, “we’ve got a very special treat for you all!” A black curtain Madison hadn’t noticed began to rise, and on the stage, thick smoke shot up from the floor. “These ladies come from a place far, far away - a place renowned for its debauchery and its heat - and I’m not talking about Las Vegas, ladies and gentlemen!” The smoke thinned and three hooded figures stood, heads bent, hands clasped in front of them.

  Nuns? Seriously?

  The slow whine of violins played behind the emcee’s voice. “For your pleasure,” he shouted, “ladies and gentlemen, please welcome … Hell’s ... Belles!”

  The violins reached a shrill, shuddering crescendo, then stopped.

  The room was silent.

  The three nuns were motionless; not even their clasped rosaries dared sway. Then, in slow, perfect unison, they raised their heads and stared out at the crowd. The thump of a bass drum hit - just once - and as one, the holy women blinked, the light shifting from white to red.

  What the hell is this?

  Another drumbeat, and the women snapped their wimpled heads to the left. Another, and they turned to the right. The kick drum hit steadily now, and the women walked - no, glided - toward the front of the stage. The smoke thinned and three chairs appeared - as if from nowhere - just as three glinting brass poles lowered from the ceiling to the floor.

  Madison had a pretty good idea where this was going.

  * * *

  At St. John’s, Nick Grayson was surprised to see so many new faces, and as Laura C., an obese middle-aged woman with an early 90s ‘do, talked about her experience, strength, and hope, he looked around for familiar ones.

  In front of him was Patrick, the newly sober kid with piercings and tattoos. Again, he sat next to the crocheting grandma. From time to time they bent their heads together and whispered.

  Father Thomas Wainwright sat at the front table, eyes bright with compassion as he listened to Laura C., who dabbed at tears with a tissue. Power Suit, the attractive business woman, sat at the back of the room, nodding agreement with Laura C.’s story, and Nick was pleased to see she wore another flattering outfit tonight - a form-fitting collarless blue blouse, matching skirt, and shiny black pumps. Nick saw no sign of elbow-nudger Dave F., and wondered if the members of A.A. panicked when one of the herd missed a meeting.

  Nick’s eyes went back to Father Tom, who flashed him a friendly smile. Nick had decided to invite the priest out for coffee after the meeting so they could talk about this whole “sponsor” thing; he’d been reading the “Big Book” and having a sponsor seemed to be pretty important. He wasn’t in love with the idea of a priest ushering him toward the “spiritual awakening” the twelve steps promised, but considering his other options, Nick had made peace with it.

  Unless …

  He glanced back at Power Suit, who blew on a steaming cup of coffee.

  No. Bad idea. A.A. wasn’t keen on opposite-sex sponsor/sponsee relationships, and as Power Suit’s ruby-painted lips touched the edge of her Styrofoam cup, an inappropriate thrill shot through him. Nick understood the wisdom of this rule.

  The attendees clapped, Laura C. returned to her seat, and Father Tom moved to the podium. “Thank you, Laura.” His eyes roamed the seated members. “Any burning desires to share?”

  No hands rose.

  “Anyone? Or should I call on someone?” Father Tom grinned and people shifted uncomfortably. “All right. Have it your way.”

  Nick hadn’t seen it coming. Thomas had given him no warning glances, no nothing - but the next thing he knew, the priest’s eyes were on him. “Nick. We’d love it if you’d share.”

  What the blue fuck! Nick’s stomach lurched upwards as if deciding to make a run for it … straight out of his mouth. But he couldn’t show fear. He was the chief of police and it wouldn’t do. Besides, he’d been in much tighter spots
than this in his career. He could handle this. You bet.

  He stood, willing his legs to carry him with dignity. Thanks a lot, Padre. He moved toward the podium. He had no idea what he was going to say but guessed he’d find out once he opened his mouth.

  * * *

  Though he knew Madison would not like it, Alejandro perched on the roof listening to the whispers.

  They were different tonight - muffled, despite the fact that he’d opened himself up to them - just a sparse peppering of voices, each asking for different things, none too insistent or desperate.

  He turned his head toward the old church - the bad place - and there was only silence. It was as if the whole town had gone quiet when he faced the church and, other than the beams of light that flashed overhead, the place had no life at all. There was no one in there who was asking for anything, he guessed. He thought of Madison and again, his anger spiked. She should have listened to me. He stared at the bad place, concentrating on it, trying to determine why it unsettled him.

  By the time he became aware of the new voice, it had been speaking for several moments.

  Dear God, it whispered. Make him go away. Just make him go away …

  Alejandro stood, sniffed the air, trying to detect the frightened voice’s location, but he couldn’t smell anything except earth and sky, forest and water.

  Please … make him go away, make him go away …

  There! It was coming from Alejandro’s left, near downtown.

  Make him go away …

  Something flashed in front of Alejandro’s eyes. A sign. It was glowing, with a bright seven on it. And an eleven, too. And there was a Dumpster next to a squat redbrick building. A woman was running, a man close behind her.

  The whisper turned into a scream. No! God, no!

  Instinct took charge, and Alejandro lunged from the roof, landing cat-like on the soft earth, and ran toward the voice.

  * * *

  The nuns whipped off their wimples, and the hair beneath was a dazzling combination of colors. Black, blond, and red.

  Midnight, water, and fire, thought Madison.