The Angel Alejandro

by Alistair Cross

  Shiny, she thought. I feel shiny. Her self-confidence was at an all-time high. Whereas she used to question herself as a beautician, she now cut, colored, weaved, permed, and styled with the bravery of a soldier on the battlefield, often foregoing the aesthetic whims of her clients in favor of her own instincts which, she was now convinced, were always right.

  Sometimes the clients were happy and sometimes they weren’t, but she was neither delighted nor dissuaded by their feedback, forging ahead and doing what she knew she did best. Rebecca McNair, for the first time in her life, was unaffected by the opinions of others.

  The same could not be said, unfortunately, for her boss, Evelyn Vang, who’d given Rebecca multiple warnings, each one more stern than the last. But Rebecca didn’t care; she’d nodded and Mm-hmmed, but even while Evelyn was dressing her down, Rebecca was planning her next creative venture. I’m an artist! And artists don’t follow orders!

  And today would be her greatest achievement to date. She had Lynita Fontoya - she of the Katy-Perry-purple tresses - in the chair, and as the woman expounded tirelessly upon the tedious adventures of her cats, Bill and Mr. Whiskers, she had no idea she was getting far more than a touch-up on her roots.

  Rebecca had disliked the woman’s hair from the beginning and could no longer in good conscience allow Ms. Fontoya to parade around town with what looked like an eggplant on her head. So, after giving her what she promised was no more than a trim and some finishing touches of color, the moment had arrived. It was time to show Ms. Fontoya the final results.

  She washed the woman’s hair, patted it dry, and led her to the mirror, beaming with pride.

  Ms. Fontoya’s jaw dropped open like a glove box and she made a mewling sound that would have made Mr. Whiskers proud.

  The women in the waiting area gasped.

  “Rebecca!” Evelyn Vang was at Lynita’s side, apologizing and making breathy promises of immediate restoration. She whirled on Rebecca, her eyes full of ice and fire. “What’s gotten into you?”

  Rebecca did know what had gotten into her, as a matter of fact: Corson, the exotic dancer from Club Mephistopheles. Since their twenty minutes of passion in the small cemetery behind the club - on the grave of one Harry Longman, no less - she’d been experiencing life in a whole new way, and though she didn’t know what Corson had to do with the changes in her, she knew - at a cellular level - they involved him. She shrugged and touched her moon pendant, which always made her feel better. “I like it.”

  Lynita Fontoya’s now ink-black hair brought out her eyes, making them brighter than ever. The streaks of silver that shot through it were age appropriate and gave her an awesome Bride-of-Frankenstein look.

  “I’m so sorry, Ms. Fontoya,” said Evelyn. “As I said, I’m sure we can fix this somehow. At no charge to you, of course.”

  Ms. Fontoya turned her head this way and that, studying her reflection. “I rather think I like it, Evelyn.”

  See? thought Rebecca.

  Evelyn sighed relief, but continued to glower.

  She’d never seen Evelyn angry before, and she had to admit: she kind of liked it. She beamed at her boss and called for the next client noticing that, again, Rosemary Hess was not among the gossiping gaggle of women. Today, without their fearless leader, they hadn’t even brought up the Disrobed Daredevil.

  The thought of the mysterious man stopped her dead. She’d seen his pictures online, of course, but beyond his painfully gorgeous good looks, she hadn’t had much interest. Until now. For the first time, she found herself wondering who he was, what he was all about.

  Whatever happened to that guy? Suddenly, she wanted to find out.

  For the first time, she became aware of a growing need - an ache - swirling and expanding just beneath the surface of her newfound confidence. Her thoughts had hooked onto him - and there was no turning back.

  She touched her silver moon pendant.

  * * *

  “Mmm.” Olivia LeBlatte moaned. “That’s right, big boy, and then what will you do to me?” She listened as Jeffrey Gimple expounded on the many ways he’d pleasure her, straining to hear his hushed whispers above the buzz of her vibrator. “Are you alone, or is she close by?”

  “I’m in the basement. She’s in the kitchen doing dishes.”

  “How do you know?” she asked. “Are you at the bottom of the stairs? Can you see her?” A thrill shot through her at the thought.

  “No,” Gimple said in a breathless tone, “but I can hear her.”

  Olivia would have liked it more if Gimple had been looking at Nedra while they phone-fucked, but you couldn’t have it all. She pushed the vibrator deeper, letting out a groan of pleasure.

  The slap-slap-slap on the other end picked up speed and Jeffrey Gimple’s breath shuddered.

  “I wish you could see her,” said Olivia. “I wish we could do it right under her nose.”

  “Me too.” Slap-slap-slap. “Me too.”

  “Wouldn’t she just shit if she knew?”

  “Yes. Yes, yes, yes.” Slap-slap-slap.

  “We could tie her up and make her watch.” Olivia giggled. “Now where is she?”

  The slapping sound slowed. “I think she’s done with the dishes. I can hear her footsteps.” He sounded slightly annoyed. “She’s walking down the hall now, I think.”

  “Good. Keep telling me, big boy. Keep telling me.” The vibrator buzzed and hummed, mining her woman-cave deep, so deep.

  “I think she’s in the bedroom now.” Slap-slap-slap. “She’s right above me.” Slap-slap-slap.

  “Oh-oh-ohhh.” Olivia shuddered. She was getting so close. “If only Nedra knew what was happening right beneath her feet!” This nearly pushed her over the edge but she eased up, not wanting the pleasure to end.

  * * *

  Upstairs, Nedra Gimple sat on the edge of the bed, knowing what she had to do. She sighed, feigning reluctance in case Jesus was watching, but secretly, she couldn’t wait to do it.

  “I don’t know what’s got into him, Lord, but enough is enough.” Jeffrey had snipped at her every time she asked about his day, and now he absolutely refused to lift a finger around the house, preferring to spend his time alone - usually in the basement - doing God-knew-what.

  She’d done a good deal of complaining, but in truth, it didn’t bother her. The complaining was a formality, a duty that she, as housewife and Christian woman, was obligated to perform lest she be accused of having it too easy. But in fact, having Jeffrey out of her hair was a blessing. Nedra had a lot on her plate and she was in charge of it all! It wasn’t as if anyone else could lead the Christian Women’s group or the bowling league or run her household. And now, with Founder’s Day coming up, she had a lot of baking to do. She always took first place for her fig and persimmon pie and that wasn’t going to change!

  Yes, Nedra Gimple enjoyed any time away from her husband that she could get, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t curious about what he was up to. It’s the phone calls that really bother me. He’d been getting several a day, always taking the calls where Nedra couldn’t hear. She’d tried eavesdropping, but never made out more than hushed whispers. And this was why she was being forced to do what she was about to do.

  “I know you’ll forgive me for this, Lord.” Carefully, very carefully, she lifted the phone from the cradle, held her breath, and listened.

  At first she heard nothing but what sounded like bursts of wind rushing across the mouthpiece.

  Then they began speaking.

  As she listened, her mouth fell into an O of shock.

  And when she recognized the voice of that vulgar LeBlatte woman she’d terminated from the bowling league, her shock turned to rage.

  Blood-red bubbling rage.

  * * *

  Paulette Driscoll, manager of the Sandman Motel, had woken up to insistent texts from Carly, the desk clerk. It was nearly one in the afternoon and though - until last weekend - she hadn’t had a drink in over twenty years, Paulette was still drunk
.

  Her downward descent had begun at Club Mephistopheles. Saturday night, Carly had offered her a taste of one of the club’s specialty drinks. Paulette was surprised to find herself tempted, more tempted than she’d been in years, but she’d managed to refrain.

  The next day, hunky dancer Astaroth from Mephistopheles, was standing at her door when she’d arrived home from work. He had a gift for her - something to show his appreciation for her patronage.

  It was a bottle of blush wine, her favorite brand. She declined, but he’d insisted. Before she knew what was happening, she was sharing the bottle with him. And that hadn’t been the only thing they’d shared. She’d never been with a man of such carnal lusts and as the wine loosened her up, she found herself eagerly satisfying every one of them.

  Afterward, he’d left and she’d slept it off, but on waking, realized the full weight of her poor choice. The old booze craving was alive and well - it was screaming and snarling, clawing, biting, and kicking, demanding satisfaction. One thing led to another, and she’d been drunk every day since.

  Now, she had no choice but to drive to work. To drive drunk - something she hadn’t done since the night she’d killed the young boy all those years ago.

  I’ve got it under control, she told herself as she carefully backed her lemon yellow Camaro out of her driveway. I’ll take it slow and easy.

  She drove cautiously, her eyes alternating between the road before and the road behind. In the rearview, she noticed her big Tweety Bird decal was curling up at the edges. It seemed appropriate: Tweety made her happy, and her happiness, like the Tweety, was peeling away.

  I’ve got it under control.

  It was a lie, an old, familiar lie that was as comfortable as it was deadly.

  * * *

  Festus Crawley, who suffered from a different affliction entirely, balled himself up in the shadowed trees beyond the cemetery of the nightclub formerly known as St. Agatha’s Catholic Church - not that he had any idea where he was, or who he was, for that matter.

  They’re going to get me. This was what he knew, and it played itself over in his mind, like a stuck record. They’regoingtogetme, they’regoingtogetme, they’regoingtogetme. The trouble was, he didn’t know who they were.

  He couldn’t recall where he lived, but knowing he’d need shelter, he went in search of someplace warm. He happened upon a Dumpster in a gated area behind a restaurant and the sight of it brought a flash of memory back to him: the woman he’d attacked. She was screaming. Then there was a man with golden hair and strange silver eyes. He’d beaten Festus and done something to his head, scrambled his brain somehow.

  These visions pattered his memory like soft raindrops as a police car pulled into the lot. Seeing it, he panicked. They’regoingtogetme, they’regoingtogetme, they’regoingtogetme!

  All he knew was that he’d done something bad … and they were going to get him.

  * * *

  Just over a hundred yards from where Festus Crawley crouched in the shadows, Officer Clint Horace rapped on the front door of St. Agatha’s rectory, responding to the intruder call.

  At first he wasn’t sure the woman who’d answered the door was a woman at all. Her flaming red hair and petite nose were the only soft things about her. And they weren’t enough to counteract the broad shoulders and muscled arms exposed by the orange wifebeater that fit so tight he could see the ridges of her stomach muscles. ‘Breasts’ was far too delicate a word to describe the woman’s chest. What she had were pecs. Pecs with rigid little nipples that looked sharp enough to cut glass.

  “Officer Horace.” She forced him into a powerful shake with a large hand that popped with sinew and veins.

  He wasn’t sure how she knew his name and didn’t have a chance to ask.

  “I’m Zazel. Zazel ... Hassenfuss. I work at the club.” Her voice was Marilyn-feathery, as odd on the rest of her as the button-nose and gorgeous red hair.

  Clint wished he’d seen her perform the other night.

  “Come in.” Zazel’s big hand circled his thin arm as she dragged him through the living room, into the kitchen. “There.” She leaned forward to stare out a window, the edges of her cut-off jeans rising to show the curve of an ass so muscular she could have cracked walnuts between her cheeks.

  Heat ran up his neck and the side of his face throbbed beneath the bandage. He opened his mouth to ask what she’d seen and, again, was cut short.

  “An intruder. I saw him. He was sneaking around the cemetery, then he saw me and ran into the trees. I’m probably overreacting, but he seemed dangerous and-” She paused, looking at him and batting her lashes. “My friends are out and I’m all alone. I just don’t know what I’d do if he wanted to rob me.”

  You could probably kill him with your pinkie! he thought, but that’s not what he said. “Wush the shushpect shum-one you know?”

  “Oh,” said Zazel in a sad, compassionate tone. “You poor thing. You can barely talk.” She looked at the bandage on the side of his face. “You must be suffering so terribly, and here I am taking your time when you really should be in bed, healing. You police officers are so brave.”

  Clint waved a hand: Ain’t nothin’ and puffed his chest a little. She may have looked like a man herself, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know how to make a guy feel like one. “Oww go take a wook awound.”

  “No.” Zazel clutched his forearm, fear in her eyes.

  Clint hadn’t felt a grip so strong and sure of itself since his Boy Scout leader had taught him to swing a bat. Below his belt, Old Faithful perked up, just a little, a lazy dog who’d caught the distant scent of fresh meat.

  “I don’t want to be alone.” The hulking woman looked down at her hands, fidgeting like a schoolgirl. The effect was oddly erotic, like seeing a petite little hottie behind the wheel of a tank.

  “I shee” said Clint. “Then I guesh oww jusht hafta shtay wiff you till your friendsh get back.”

  “Really?” Her eyes were the color of emeralds.

  “Of coursh.”

  “Well, at least let me make you some hot cocoa for your trouble.” More lash batting.

  “It’sh no trouble, mish. That’sh what the pol-eesh forsh ish here for. To sherve and pertect.”

  “My savior. And please … call me Zazel.” She touched his hand and this time it was as gentle as that same Scout leader’s when he’d delicately explained to young Clint what mommies and daddies did at night - and how if they did such things, surely it wasn’t wrong.

  Old Faithful was at full attention now.

  In the living room, Zazel was not gentle at all, but Clint had no complaints.

  Not that complaining could have stopped her.

  The Last Bath

  Stardene Cassel lived in an apartment with roommates who clearly didn’t give two squirts of pee about her well being. After being fired from Cafe Spastica, they’d offered her no sympathy. Instead, they’d told her she had one week to find a new job and pay her third of next month’s rent … or find a new place. Sighing, she stepped into the tub.

  The water was hot, good for the circulation - which she’d need. She brought two things with her, the only two things she needed - and would ever need again: Her once-prized Elektra No. 3 Nude Edition, and a single razor blade.

  She settled in, remembering how she’d once enjoyed her baths … but now nothing brought her joy. Not even the Elektra comic. Bringing it with her was only a formality. It seemed proper somehow that it should be the last thing she looked at. It had, after all, cost her everything.

  She’d gotten hold of the salesman, Mr. Jones, by phone and tried to make a deal of her own: The comic book - still in pristine condition - plus all of her other comics and Elektra paraphernalia, in return for … for whatever it was he’d taken from her.

  He’d laughed - not the earthy low chuckle of the handsome salesman he’d been when she’d first met him, but the high, mad cackle of the thing he’d become after the deal was done. He’d told her there was a
strict no-refunds policy. No amount of tears had changed his mind.

  Stardene picked up the comic and thumbed through the pages. Was it worth it? No. It was an object, a thing. And in exchange for it, she’d been hollowed out, her insides scooped clean with a giant jagged-edged spoon.

  The only sign of life she felt now was the thrill of doing horrible things to other people - like spitting into the iced mocha. That was the first of many terrible things she’d done, but no matter how dirty the deed or euphoric the high, in the end, it was all just a tease. The buzz died fast and became harder and harder to maintain. She quickly realized it worked the same way the body builds a tolerance to drugs - you had to take more of them, and more and more. Eventually the ever-shrinking window of bliss disappeared altogether and nothing could resurrect the buzz of that first high.

  She closed the comic book, set it on the floor, and picked up the blade. It glinted, as if to wink at her and say, Here’s looking at you, kid. She placed it against her wrist, just above a vein, and paused. What if there’s another way?

  She heard her father’s voice. “You’re too clumsy to be a martial artist, Stardene!”

  Then she heard Mr. Jones. “Whisper your dream into my hat.”

  And she had, figuring he was crazy … and even if he wasn’t, what could it hurt?

  But it had hurt. Plenty. She didn’t know it at the time, but that dream, even unfulfilled, kept her moving; it gave her purpose, and now, without it, she was an empty shell. She was nothing.

  “Absolutely no refunds.” Mr. Jones’ words echoed in her head.

  She pressed the blade down hard, dragging it from wrist to elbow. It hurt, and there was a tremendous amount of blood, but she was able to do the same to her other arm.

  For a moment, she watched the life ooze out, almost fascinated, or at least somewhat interested in something at last. Through the aperture of open skin, the meat looked like the slabs of raw steak she often saw at the grocery store. How easily the flesh separates from itself.