The Angel Alejandro

by Alistair Cross

  She began to feel lightheaded and very tired. Her thoughts became a blurred cluster of vague notions.

  The water turned light pink, then deep red.

  Red. The exact shade of Elektra’s signature color. But Elektra was nude now, wasn’t she? There was no red and therefore, there was no Elektra, not really.

  And without any of that, there was nothing.

  There was no Stardene Cassel.

  The Devil in the Details

  Draven Willard had talked to each of his lawyers and they’d assured him he could get St. Agatha’s back. One by one, they’d begun the process, and then, one by one, they’d backed out after speaking to Gremory Jones, each of them giving a different excuse for dropping the case. But it all came down to the same thing: They were cowards, and when faced with the persuasive Mr. Jones from Moonfall, California, they lost their nerve.

  Now, entirely lawyerless, Draven sat in Jones’ tall-ceilinged office on the second floor of the old church - which used to be the choir loft.

  Presently, Mr. Jones entered wearing his spotless black trench coat, the shiny black shoes, and the ridiculous hat that made him look like a figure from an 1880s London police sketch.

  Willard began to rise but Jones - obviously accustomed to being in command - gestured for him to remain seated. Even as he obeyed, Willard resented it.

  Jones removed his hat and coat then sat, clasping his hands together on a black marble-topped desk polished to such high shine that there were two of him - the real one, and his inverted reflection. The effect was mesmerizing … and disturbing.

  A smile touched the corners of Jones’ mouth and for a moment, he said nothing, just stared with those haunting amber eyes. “Mr. Willard.” Jones’ voice was rich and dark, molten chocolate lava cake topped with an extra helping of powdered sugar. “It’s very nice to see you again. How may I be of service?”

  Willard struggled to find words. “Uhh,” was as far as he got.

  Jones leaned closer, his eyes warm pools of patience and compassion. “I hope you haven’t been upset by something.” He tipped his head, waiting. “Take your time, Mr. Willard.”

  “Mine.” The word was a cracked, uncertain whisper. “It’s mine.”

  Jones stared, his gaze impaling Willard, then he leaned back, steepling his fingers. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Using all of his willpower, Willard reached inside himself and dragged out a few more words. “Tricked me. You tricked me. It’s mine.”

  “Ah.” Jones flashed a set of teeth so white, so shiny, they reminded Willard of freshly painted fence posts. “This must be about the property. I’ve spoken to your lawyer - several of them, in fact - and explained the situation to them. We’re all in agreement that there isn’t anything I can do to accommodate you further, Mr. Willard. I’ve invested far too much time and money into this project and-” he showed his palms, shrugging. “I’m afraid it’s out of my hands at this point.”

  Rage bubbled up from Willard’s chest. He felt the hot flush in his neck, his cheeks. Words, angry, furious, hateful words, had built up in his throat like a clot of matted hair clogging a drainpipe. “Liar!” Once he got that one out, the rest came easily. “You’re a lying son of a bitch! You tricked me! You … you forced me into it!” He slammed his fist on the desk hard enough that pain shot up his arm, into his shoulder. He gritted his teeth. “This property has been in my family for generations and I want it back.”

  Jones tapped his bottom lip with a pale, slender finger. “When I made the offer-”

  “I rescind my acceptance!”

  Jones’ face became a mask of amusement. “Rescind it? I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Mr. Willard. The deal is done.”

  “My lawyers-”

  “Your lawyers have already surmised that the cause is lost.” The plaster-cast smile never eased.

  “The contract!” Willard could feel the veins bulging in his forehead, the cords straining in his neck. Saliva bubbled and popped from his lips.

  “The contract is sound, I assure you.”

  “There has to be … a loophole! There has to be! Something in the fine print, the details!”

  “The devil is in the details,” said Jones. “I agree, but you’ll find no little devils here, Mr. Willard. Only me, and what is legally mine. If you feel you have a case, I invite you to hire another lawyer. You never know what the previous four might have overlooked.”

  Smug son of a bitch! Willard’s head throbbed, his stomach churned, and his words were once again lodged in his throat. “You…” His face shook with the effort.

  “Win,” said Jones. “I believe that’s the word you’re looking for. I win.” The smile flashed brighter. “Indeed, I do.”

  “You … you won’t get away with this. I’ll kill you, you son a bitch!”

  “Mr. Willard. I’m beginning to lose patience with you. Be a gentleman and cut your losses. There is no place in business for this kind of irrationality.”

  “Irrationality? Irrationality?” He slammed his fist down again. “You cheated me! You cheated! I don’t know how, but you cheated!”

  Jones looked at him the way you’d look at a naughty but adorable toddler. “I never cheat, I assure of you of that. Cheating is for the weak of heart. One must only know how to play the game, then cheating is unnecessary.” Jones pulled an ebony holder from his breast pocket and began working a cigarette into it. “People cheat themselves by the choices they make, Mr. Willard. We all have free agency and we must accept responsibility.” He struck a match, lit his cigarette, and shook out the flame. He exhaled a cloud of nauseating sulfuric smoke.

  The hatred within Willard began to die, and desperation stepped into its shoes. “Please, Mr. Jones. I have to have this property back. I have to.” The words came easily now. It was as if something in the atmosphere had shifted.

  Jones blew out another jet of reeking yellow-white smoke. It smelled of dark indefinable things and made Willard feel strange, lightheaded.

  Willard bowed his head. “I’ll do anything. Anything.”

  Jones tossed his head back and cackled, his body shaking with deep, rumbling laughter.

  Willard felt the vibrations in the floors, in his bones. Afraid another earthquake had struck, he gripped the edge of the table, but when Jones went silent, the shuddering stopped.

  He blew out a stream of smoke and it caressed Willard’s face, flirting with him, seducing him, and Willard found himself trapped in Jones’ eyes. He’d never thought of another man’s eyes as beautiful before, but there was no other word for them. It wasn’t just the thick fringe of lashes and whiskey-colored irises, but what was inside of them. Something deep, bottomless. Those eyes held ancient secrets and staring into them, Willard had the feeling he was tumbling, spiraling down the rabbit hole toward mysterious lands where hares were late for tea, cats stood on their heads, and red queens demanded decapitation. It was magical, beautiful.

  Don’t look into his eyes! Willard’s gaze dropped to the man’s lips. They were full and suggested wanton things, pornographic things. He was startled to find himself becoming aroused. He shifted, cleared his throat as fresh smoke toyed with him. “I have to have it back. Please. I beg you!”

  Now, the fiery blaze in Jones’ eyes brought Willard’s breath to a stop. “My mercy is not begged, Mr. Willard. It is bought. And you have nothing of interest to offer me.” His jaw muscles bunched, his nostrils flared, and he spoke each word as if he were spitting out pieces of rotten fruit. “My business dealings with you are done.” He stubbed out his cigarette then leaned back, the razor blade glint in his eyes softening just enough that Willard could take a breath. “You’re quickly becoming a problem for me, Mr. Willard, and you should know I don’t avoid my problems. I face them and I conquer them, so before you dare to threaten me, before you bother to beg my mercy, I want you to recognize that the very thin ice upon which you stand has cracked.” He brought his face close and his eyes, which just moments ago had been hyp
notic, were now maniacal. “Now kindly leave before you find yourself drowning in deadly waters.”

  Willard gaped, his fury returning. He’s threatening me! He was frightened of the man, terrified, but he couldn’t let it show. His words were stuck again, this time for good, and he did the only thing he could. He leaned back, hawked, and spat a thick wad of saliva in the face of Gremory Jones.

  It was the last thing Draven Willard ever did.

  Rosemary’s Shady

  The pounding on her front door brought Rosemary Hess, Prominence’s foremost matriarch, out of a long pleasant sleep. Her Rottweiler, Lucas, was in a barking frenzy. For long moments, she stared up at the ceiling, too tired to move. She’d been dreaming about her recent good fortune and, upon waking, wondered why she didn’t feel more enthusiastic. Somehow, the courts had decided in her favor, and any day now, the contents of her second husband’s will would be coming to her - all of it - and it was a lot. His daughters weren’t pleased of course, but then those freeloading ingrates never were.

  But Rosemary wasn’t happy either. She was finally going to be able to stop living like a second-class citizen - but somehow, she just couldn’t bring herself to care. She closed her eyes, already drifting back to sleep.

  Bam, bam, bam! The knocking startled her all over again.

  She sat up, smoothing her hair and pulling her nightdress tight around her. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” She glanced at the clock, feeling a jab of panic when she realized that it was nearly seven in the evening. How did I sleep all day? What the hell is wrong with me?

  Bart Aberdeen, owner of Bart’s Ark Pet Shop - where she’d adopted Lucas four years ago - stood on her porch, his mouth set into a firm, angry line. Behind him, Lucas bounced and barked.

  “Mr. Aberdeen? How can I-”

  “Ms. Hess!” He made her name sound like a painful sneeze. “Every day, I drive by on my way home from work, and every day, I see this poor creature chained - chained like some kind of … of beast!” He stabbed a finger at the dog. “The poor thing needs room to run, to play … to frolic!”

  “I ... I don’t always keep him chained, but-”

  But Aberdeen wasn’t finished. “You realize, don’t you, Ms. Hess, that this is animal abuse?” His jowls trembled and shook with rage. “Outright animal abuse!” His finger jabbed the air.

  Rosemary’s surprise became impatience, then anger. “Mr. Aberdeen, I don’t believe it’s any of your business what-”

  “None of my business? None of my business?” At some point, he’d stepped closer and now he practically stood in her doorway. His breath reeked of stale cinnamon cookies. “If we all went around saying it’s none of my business, then who would protect the animals? Who would speak for them, Ms. Hess? Do you know?” His eyes were glassy and strange; not sane. “Do you know?”

  Lucas hopped around, barking his fool head off, a look of pure jubilance on his face.

  “Mr. Aberdeen, I take good care of my-”

  “You don’t take care of diddly-squat!” His voice shrilled through the neighborhood. “You’re an abuser! An abuser!” Now his finger was poking her in the chest. Hard.

  Lucas growled, sensing the threat, and began tugging at Aberdeen’s pant leg.

  Rosemary did not appreciate being finger-stabbed by this lunatic and as her anger spiked, her energy began to return - she began to feel normal again. Angry, but normal. “You get your dirty, filthy rat hands off me, Mr. Aberdeen, and if you so much as look at me wrong again, I’m calling the police!” The life that had been drained from her began coursing through her veins. It felt amazing, as if her heart had just begun beating again after a very long pause. She was a vampire taking her first taste of blood.

  “Don’t you threaten me, you sagging old wind-bag!” Aberdeen’s finger continued poking her sternum.

  “How dare you!” Rosemary brought her hand back and slapped the man, putting her whole body into it. His head shot to the side, and for a moment, he was stunned into stillness.

  Her arthritic knuckles rang out pain, but it felt glorious. She felt alive, so alive! “You go fuck yourself, you goddamned weirdo!” She cocked her arm back and swung again, but this time, Aberdeen was quick, catching her wrist.

  She slammed the door on his arm. Aberdeen screamed, but didn’t let go. He shoved her back, both of them landing with an Oof! on Rosemary’s living room floor, he on top of her, his weight crushing the air out of her.

  But Rosemary’s fists were like little arthritic slabs of granite. She felt no pain at all as she pummeled him, beating him about the head, shoulders, and throat, using her chunky fake rings to their full advantage.

  He got his hands around her throat and was squeezing off her air, shaking her head, his face a purple mask of murder. “Abuser! Abuser!”

  Rosemary’s cheeks flamed. Her searching hand landed on a single shoe - a sensible ruby-red pump with a low but sharp heel - resting at the foot of her chair. She clutched it, brought it up hard and struck, heel-first, into the side of his head.

  His grip loosened. Blood poured down his cheek, dripping onto Rosemary’s face, her hair. With renewed rage, she brought her knee up hard and caught the chubby bastard right between the legs.

  His breath hitched, his eyes bulged, and he rolled off of her, hands clutching his injured genitals.

  Rosemary was on her feet, circling the downed man, shaking her pump. “Come on. Come on, you fat son of a bitch. Get up!” She knew she should have been terrified but instead she buzzed with fury … and joy. “Get up, you fat Nancy!” She’d never been more confident than she was at this moment, and she knew no matter what Aberdeen - or anyone - threw at her, she could take it. She could take it and then some. “GET UP!”

  But Aberdeen didn’t get up. He was curled into a fetal position, still holding himself like a toddler who needed to pee. He was weeping.

  “You sissy Mary!” she shrieked. “Get up and be a man!” She shook the red pump.

  Aberdeen managed to get to his knees, wavered as if he might lose consciousness, and held his hand out: Don’t hit me. Slowly, he lumbered to his feet, pale, bleeding, and teetering.

  Rosemary was a python, the shoe’s heel her fang, and she was prepared to strike.

  He touched the side of his head and stared at his bloody fingers with wide eyes. “Abuser. You’re an abuser.”

  Rosemary Hess screamed and charged the man, throwing herself against him. All ninety-eight pounds of her collided with him and they crashed through the flimsy screen door and onto the porch, Rosemary on top this time.

  Lucas the Rottweiler bounded toward them, barking out his elation, ready to play.

  Rosemary sat on Aberdeen’s chest bringing the flat side of the pump down like a gavel upon his balding head.

  “Stop! Stop!” He twisted this way and that, bleeding and weeping. “Please stop!”

  Rosemary gave him a rapid-fire series of blows - rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat! - then got to her feet, prying herself away despite the urge to beat the man straight into the Afterlife. A delectable feeling purred through her body, buzzing like the slow-descending hum of a full-body orgasm. “Get off my property!” she screamed, as loud and high as her lungs let her. It echoed through the streets and she loved the sound of it.

  Aberdeen stumbled to his feet and, unable to stand straight, scurried down the sidewalk in hunched limp, both hands cupping his dangly bits as Lucas bounded and barked, herding him and escorting him off the property.

  She smiled as he gimped to his car, and laughed aloud as he winced, trying to hunker into his tiny pink Mini Cooper. “Sissy Mary!” She shook the shoe once more.

  As he sped off, the damaged screen door fell off its final hinge and knocked her flat on the porch. The shoe flew from her hand and Lucas, who hadn’t had a toy in ages, fetched it and brought it back to his mistress, tail wagging giddily.

  Rosemary pushed the door away, got to her feet, and dusted off her nightgown, realizing that it had come wide open, and probably had be
en for a while.

  “Rosemary!”

  Rosemary whirled.

  Across the street, that damned gossip Marion Busby stood in her yard at the fence, eyes wide, hands wringing together. “Are you okay? What happened? Do you need any hel-”

  “You mind your own goddamned business, Marion!”

  The woman recoiled as if Rosemary had slung a rock at her. “Well,” she huffed. “Well! I never!”

  “And you never will, you COW!”

  Marion Busby stormed into her house, her wide buttocks battling it out under her housedress like baby elephants frolicking under a tarp. No doubt she’d be on the horn in record time, telling all of Prominence about the neighborhood debacle.

  Rosemary shrugged, pulled her nightgown closed, and played fetch with the dog a few moments. “Tell me I don’t take care of my dog!” Then she let him off the chain and into the house.

  Lucas looked confused.

  “We’re getting all new antique furniture soon. Sit wherever you like.” She gestured at the couch.

  Lucas hopped up, panting, the biggest doggy-grin she’d ever seen on his face. She handed him the shiny red pump and smiled as he chewed and slobbered.

  Rosemary had never felt so alive, so potent, and she wanted more of it.

  She almost wished that Fat Nancy Aberdeen would come back for more.

  A Feast of Madness

  At exactly seven p.m., the timer dinged and Madison turned the oven down to keep the lasagna warm until Nick Grayson showed up. She’d used her mother’s recipe - it had always been one of Madison’s favorite dishes, and she hoped the chief of police would like it, too.

  She was nervous. He’d said he wanted to help uncover Alejandro’s past and he seemed sincere. She’d taken a strong and immediate liking to him and she trusted her instincts.