The Angel Alejandro

by Alistair Cross

  No, he was not gay.

  But his sexual preferences - and the expertise with which he’d pleasured her - was neither here nor there. The point was that she’d accomplished her goal, she’d scratched the itch, and that was what she cared about. All she cared about.

  Brimming with that energy she’d been craving, she boosted herself off the small table in back where he’d taken her, straightened her skirt, and smoothed her hair. “Very well,” she said to Aberdeen in her businesswoman’s voice.

  His eyes were soft and dreamy, his balding forehead shining with a mist of perspiration, as he tucked and buckled. He was no Adonis and for perhaps two or three seconds, she wondered what had possessed her to come to the unattractive shopkeeper. Am I a chubby chaser?

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms. LeBlatte? Perhaps you’d like a kitten?”

  “I don’t need a kitten, Mr. Aberdeen, but thank you.”

  “Are you sure? Prunella, the Parker’s cat, had a lovely set of twins, one male, one female, and-”

  “No.” Olivia held up her hand.

  For a moment he looked heart-broken and she knew it wasn’t because she was leaving. It was because she’d refused the kitten.

  “You’re a very strange man, Mr. Aberdeen.”

  Indifferent to the remark, he smiled, put a hand at her back and, on squeaking shoes, ushered her to the exit. “Sorry to rush you, but I have much to do. Have a wonderful day, Ms. LeBlatte.”

  “You too, Mr. Aberdeen.”

  A month ago, this might have been the strangest encounter she’d had with a man, but this morning, it seemed just another day. In her shiny red Volvo, she took a moment to enjoy the buzz that hummed just under her skin. This, like last night’s interlude with Jeffrey Gimple, had been right. There was no better explanation.

  And now, I’d really like to see Mr. Jones. As good as Aberdeen had been, there was no comparing him to Mr. Jones. As she drove, she wondered what he was doing right now, what he was thinking, where he was … and if he was thinking of her.

  * * *

  The ultimate price of the merchandise sold by Gremory Jones was never paid easily or quietly, and under normal circumstances, in a town this size, he couldn’t afford to make more than two or three business transactions. But there was nothing normal about Prominence - not since the angel had crash-landed - and exceptions could be made. Several more exceptions.

  The real estate agent had surrendered her dreams easily, as had that dreadful, plain-faced barista named Stardene. It was only a matter of time, he knew, before both women ended their own suffering. After all, those who could not dream could not live; that was his maxim. And even as he reaped the dreams, his assistants spread a sickness of their own - a sickness that would spread like a virus of the soul.

  Once that sickness gained legs, the community of Prominence would turn on itself, rotting from the inside out and making it easy for Gremory to move in on the angel unnoticed.

  Until then, he had more dreams to reap.

  On the ritzier side of town, he strode up Prose Road, walking stick under his arm, briefcase at his side, and his cigarette - in its ebony holder - clamped between his teeth. At a fenced white two-story home, he paused, admiring the impeccable yard, life-like AstroTurf, and row of well-manicured box hedges beneath a gleaming picture window. This is the place.

  A muscular canine raced toward the gate, barking out warnings. There were no BEWARE OF DOG or NO SOLICITING placards in sight. The growling, slobbering Rottweiler spoke for itself, stating very clearly the property owner’s feelings on door-to-door salespersons, over-friendly neighbors, and dutiful missionaries.

  Strings of slobber flew from the dog’s chops as it snapped, snarled, and expressed general unpleasantness.

  Gremory raised his hand. “Sleep,” and as he lowered it, the canine’s legs buckled and it slid to the ground, unconscious. Jones did not kill dogs, or any beasts for that matter, for their souls were of no use to him. Only the human soul was corruptible ... which brought him back to the matter at hand.

  Pinching his cigarette out, he opened the gate, stepped past the snoring animal, and strode to the porch. As he passed, red poinsettias shivered, wilted, and died in their planters. He smiled, and with the brass end of his walking stick, rapped sharply on the door. From within, he heard the creak of approaching steps, and when the door cracked open, he put on his best smile. “Ms. Hess.” He removed his top hat and gave her a little bow. “Good morning, my dear. Gremory Jones, at your serv-”

  “Who? What do you want?” Rosemary Hess’ copper hair shone in the sun.

  “Ha! A woman who gets straight down to business. I admire that. But the truth is, I’m here because of something you want.” And he knew exactly what she wanted: power. And the money to fuel it.

  Though the rest of the town hadn’t a clue, Gremory knew that would-be matriarch Rosemary Hess was, in fact, financially bereft. It wasn’t her fault, of course. She’d at least had the wherewithal to marry well - twice, as a matter of fact - but unfortunately, the will of her second husband, four years dead, was contested by his daughters. The whole mess had been tied up in the courts and in the meantime Ms. Hess, having long since drained the funds from marriage number one, was living from one social security check to the next. But she hid it well.

  She peered past him. “My dog-”

  “Is sleeping peacefully. Such a majestic beast.” He smiled. “Anyway, I would like to talk to you about improving your … situation.”

  Her high painted-on eyebrows didn’t quite come down, but rather, they slipped a bit, making her look just slightly less surprised than usual. “What situation?” Though shorter than he by several inches, she managed to look down at him.

  He hoped he wouldn’t be forced to give his pitch right there on her porch, though he’d certainly struck deals in more unpleasant environments. “Perhaps you’ll invite me in and allow me to explain. I’d love a cup of that-” he lifted his chin to sniff the air, “Darjeeling, I believe?”

  She nodded.

  He grinned. “Ah. A woman after my own heart.” He favored her with a wink and her cheeks flushed.

  Flattery and common interests were two keys that fit even the most rusted and stubborn of locks.

  Rosemary Hess let him inside.

  Her home was a precisely decorated mélange of imitation furniture, rugs, and famous - but unoriginal - prints. Mostly Degas ballerinas looking like flowers in their tutus. He smiled at a set of porcelain dancers - Lladro knockoffs - that sat on a highly polished upright piano - a Baldwin Monarch replica. The place smelled of lemon-fresh Pledge, mothballs, and, of course, Darjeeling. To the untrained eye, Rosemary Hess lived a life of great style, but she’d clearly sold off the real valuables and replaced them with fakes to keep up appearances.

  This will be my easiest sale yet, he thought. Hess was sixty-eight - though she’d shave off the better part of a decade if asked - and the years in which she might have fulfilled her lifelong dream of being a dancer were well past her. But in truth, she could still teach, and in fact, that's exactly what she’d been born to do. Rosemary Hess had been blessed with a rare and innate understanding of dance and would have easily gone from Juilliard to choreographer of world-famous musicals. And she still could.

  But, like so many, she’d made peace with mediocrity long ago, her excuse being a lack of time. And as the years piled up, the excuse shifted to her age. Age, parenthood, and having no time were age-old excuses. Human beings, already well versed in the evasion of self-responsibility, usually needed no help finding excuses. But Jones was a man of business and eagerly supplied them when the sale came hard.

  But Rosemary Hess would not be a hard sell. She wouldn’t be able to resist the promise of a speedy and favorable legal conclusion to her late husband’s will. Gremory was eager for her dream, for it was a big one. Decades old and still full of promise, despite her age. His mouth watered a little.

  “Please, sit.” Rosemary gestured at a sof
a - a faux-leather, would-be Fendi Casa - and he sat, laying his briefcase on a not-quite-marble accent table.

  She clearly wasn’t accustomed to company and watched him with the nervous eyes of a woman fearing exposure. He placed his hand over his briefcase and gave her his warmest smile.

  A Power Greater Than Ourselves

  There was no sense of time having passed. One moment Nick had been kissing the bottle, and the next, he was in bed, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets as sunlight burned through the windows, stabbing his eyes like an ice pick. His mouth tasted of booze and death, and he could smell the alcohol-sour sickness of his own body. A bowling ball rested where his brain should have been and his stomach teetered on unsteady ground.

  “Shit.” He looked beneath the sheets and saw he wore only a pair of briefs and a single sock. He tugged the blankets in search of its missing twin, quickly realizing this much movement was a bad idea. His stomach churned, clenched out a threat, and a fresh layer of cold sticky sweat broke over his body. On the verge of hurling, he let his leaden head fall back onto the pillow and stared at the spinning ceiling.

  “I thought I heard you moving around in here.” Father Thomas Wainwright appeared in the bedroom doorway.

  “What the-” Nick snapped up. “Padre? What are you doing here?”

  The padre smiled and sat on the edge of the mattress. “I got your call yesterday morning. Unfortunately, I was giving a sermon. I tried back and got no answer. By the time I got here-”

  “Yesterday morning?” Panic seized him. “I have to be at work!” He shot up and kicked the sheets back. He made it as far as sitting and groaned, planting the heels of his hands over his eyes as his vision dimmed and his head pounded out a sickening staccato that echoed through his bones and teeth. For a moment, he thought he was going to vomit and he closed his eyes, swallowing the urge.

  “Slow down there, Bullet.” The padre’s hand was on his shoulder. “You’re taking your first sick day today.”

  “But I-” The room spun and he focused on the spot between his feet, willing the earth still.

  “I took the liberty of calling you in sick.”

  “But I can’t. It’s too soon.” Cool sweat beaded on his forehead, prickling his skin.

  “You reek of booze, you’re sick as a dog and, I’m betting, still a few sheets to the wind. I think we both know you’re not going anywhere.”

  Nick’s mind spun with the room. Nausea, disappointment, and humiliation warred within him. “When did you get here?”

  “After last services, just after four in the afternoon.” He scratched his knee, an innocent move, but as far as Nick’s stomach was concerned, he may as well have been jumping on the bed.

  Nick closed his eyes. “What happened?”

  The padre chuckled. “I might ask you the same thing.”

  I guess I might as well tell him the truth. “I found vodka when I was unpacking. I-” he thought of the voice he’d heard - “Believe” - and decided not to bring that part up. “My emergency stash.” He looked at the man sitting next to him. Father Tom’s white shirt was wrinkled. His suspenders hung at the sides of his black church pants. “You stayed the night?”

  “Your couch is surprisingly cozy.”

  Humiliation was winning the war. “You didn’t have to ... babysit me. I’m really sorry about this.”

  “I’d say you’re lucky you didn’t end up in the hospital. You’d polished off that bottle before I even got here. That’s some heavy-duty drinking, my friend.” He paused. “And in case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t undress you. You were like that when I got here.” He slapped Nick on the back.

  “Ouch.” Nick’s cheeks burned, despite the clammy chill that encased him. “You’re not going to … fire me, are you? I mean, you’re still my sponsor, right?”

  “No, you’re not fired. But we do need to get moving on your recovery. We’ll talk about it later. Right now, you need sleep. You’ll be better in a few hours.”

  Nick lay back down - slowly - to keep the spins under control. Once in position, he sighed. There was no vomiting, thank God.

  “You need anything? Aspirin? Some water?”

  “No.” He looked at Tom, his eyelids heavy. “I can’t fu-, um, I can’t mess up this job, Padre.”

  “Then don’t.” Tom stood, careful not to rock the bed. “There are a lot of things you can do to help yourself stay sober that you haven’t done yet. Going to meetings and reading the Big Book are important, but there’s more to it. And as long as you’re serious about it, I’ll help you every step of the way.”

  “All twelve of them, eh?”

  “Bingo.” Tom smiled. “Whatever it takes, right?”

  Nick tried to return the smile. “Whatever it takes. But my job … I just got it.”

  “Don’t stress about it for now. I took care of it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  The padre sighed. “There are a lot of reasons I don’t lie, Nick. The most obvious one is that I’m a priest. Another is that I believe rigorous honesty is the only way to get sober and to stay sober. I also happen to believe that every time you make excuses for an alcoholic, you’re depriving him of valuable recovery; we don’t quit drinking because we’re having fun after all, we quit because our lives have become hell on earth.”

  “I hear you, Padre, but I’m not seeing your point.”

  “The point is that I lied for you today. I called your office and said I’d made you dinner last night, as a belated welcome-to-town gift, and inadvertently gave you a case of food poisoning so wicked that you couldn’t leave the bathroom. I apologized and took full blame for your absence.”

  Nick opened his mouth but the padre held up a hand.

  “The good news is that they didn’t question it - those are the perks of being a priest - but the bad news is that word travels fast in this town and I don’t think anyone will be asking for my shrimp salad at this year’s church Christmas party.”

  Nick laughed. He couldn’t help it. And it felt good, despite the wave of sickness it set off.

  The padre chuckled, too. “But I only did it because I believe you want to get sober. I can’t, and I won’t, cover up for you again. I’m not even sure I did the right thing this time.”

  The relief and shame were a mixed bag, but for now, Nick settled for just being grateful. “You did me a solid, Padre.”

  “Yes, I did you a solid. Now don’t make me regret it.”

  “You won’t regret it.” And Nick vowed it would be true. “Whatever it takes.”

  “We’ll talk when you wake up.” Tom moved to the door and paused. “You don’t mind if I try out your grill a little later, do you? I was thinking I’d cook us up some burgers for dinner. I’ll need to go to the store and get a few things. You don’t have much in the way of groceries.”

  The thought of food almost brought up the vodka. “You don’t have to stay, Padre. I’m okay. Really.”

  “I know, but I think I’ll stick around a while, just the same. If you get up and don’t feel like company, just say so and I’m taillights.”

  “Fine by me. If you don’t have anything to do but kick around my place all day, knock yourself out.” Maybe the booze hadn’t worn off as much as he’d thought, but he was touched, and had to will his eyes not to mist. “Padre?” he said. “Thanks. You know … for hanging out. I appreciate it.”

  Tom smiled. “Sleep it off, Bullet.”

  “Will do.” And he did.

  * * *

  At the rock shop, Dette manned the front desk while Madison tried getting in touch with Kathryn McLeod’s publisher. That had been easy, but getting any information regarding the model on the cover of her book … that was another story. Through phone calls and e-mail correspondence with marketing managers, editors, and literary agents, Madison learned that Kathryn McLeod had selected the design for Dark Lily’s cover art herself. Apparently, that was rare and, unfortunately, it hadn’t helped Madison at all.

  All anyone knew
was that the portrait was painted by an associate of Ms. McLeod’s. As for the identity of the painter, they either didn’t know, or they weren’t saying. Madison’s next thought was to try and contact McLeod herself. She soon found that wasn’t even a possibility.

  Apparently, “Kathryn McLeod” was a pseudonym for a very private author - and the publisher fiercely protected that privacy. After spending more than half the day at it when she should have been doing inventory, Madison accepted that it was mission: impossible.

  The whole thing was discouraging, and yet, that other part of her - the selfish one - breathed a little sigh of relief each time she met a dead end. She wasn’t eager to let Alejandro go, and her attachment to him only grew stronger as the days passed.

  “Any luck?” Dette inspected her nails.

  “Nope. I give up.”

  “Did you show Alejandro the book cover?”

  “I did. It didn’t bring anything back.” He’d seemed quite pleased that he might have worked as a “book model,” and Madison was charmed by his enthusiasm. She supposed it beat the pants off being a professional tourist.

  Dette rubbed her silver moon pendant. “Where is he, anyway? I haven’t seen him all day. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was avoiding me.”

  In truth, Madison had made the same observation - suddenly, Alejandro wouldn’t even look at Dette - but she hadn’t asked about it, not yet. “He’s in back, reading the Kathryn McLeod book.”

  “Well, he is the star.”

  Madison heard the bite in her friend’s tone and ignored it.

  * * *

  Olivia LeBlatte’s buzz had worn down to a nub and Mr. Jones wasn’t answering his phone. She’d gone to the rectory behind the church and been told by one of his sluts that he was out on business. Olivia recognized the woman from the night before - she was one of the Hell’s Belles. And probably more than an employee to Mr. Jones.

  She should have been furious, and on some level, she supposed she was. But it was a quiet fury, a distant one. One she couldn’t quite sink her teeth into. Too tired to care, she headed home, willing her eyes open as she drove. She considered giving her sister Lisa another call, thinking perhaps she could drive the dagger in a little deeper; that had certainly given her a spark of life. Anything to kill this boredom!