The Sword of Gabriel: Ten Days on Earth

by Tom Holloway

  Alfonzo and Rosa are both sitting in the kitchen, sitting at a little side table, drinking coffee. The place is busy, staff in well-used aprons, cooking, washing pots; the working space is bigger now, remodeled since my last visit. They are delighted to see me and stand up to hug me, both smiling big smiles, laughing, excited, and saying hello in Italian. I am delighted, too, smiling back at them although I am shocked by their appearance. The extra weight and the hair that is now grayer I can understand. However, they are both showing ugly dark bruises on their faces and arms. Not good, bruises? They are looking their age, the last ten years may have been hard, and they’re in their late eighties. Both seem weary.

  I can see they are truly pleased to see me although I know they are uneasy about my continued youthful appearance. I have always looked young on these visits, and they have speculated about it but never asked me. This year I can tell they are really wondering about me, even more so than usual. They are closely examining me, maybe a little stunned by my youth. To their amazement, they tell me, I look just like I looked when I first met them fifty years ago, when they were young like me. I smile and give another big hug to each of them.

  To my amusement their children, their grandchildren, and several great grandchildren are there, too, all in the dining room. There must be ten little ones, all happy and full of energy, running around, into everything. Two of their grown children have taken over the operations of the restaurant, and they and their families, including all the children, are introduced to me. It’s great fun to meet them; they’re all impressive people. Also the business has become very successful and quite famous, now a New York favorite. Per our agreement the restaurant is now closed, and one table is set for me in the main dining room. I am delighted to be part of the family, to sit, eat, and listen.

  There is a plate of hot spaghetti waiting for me on the table and a bottle of my favorite red wine. One of the sons lights candles, and another places my meal in front of me. I have been thinking about this moment for a long time, anticipating how good the sauce would be, how tasty the meatballs. I am not disappointed; the meal is superb. I can smell the tomato sauce. The aroma is splendid, and it tastes like I remembered. I drink the wine, and I feel human again. Happiness surges through me.

  Then a surprise: suddenly everyone leaves except for Alfonzo and Rosa. They sit down across from me, and while I eat they talk, more serious than usual, telling me about the last ten years—the kids, their health, the neighborhood, and the restaurant. Sadly, for the first time in all these years, they are nervous about being with me. When they talk about the restaurant, they act strange, anxious, and fearful. Definitely something is wrong.

  I have finished the meal. I look intently at them, with some concern. After a long pause, I ask, “What’s wrong? Where did the bruises come from?” They do not reply. I continue, “Alfonzo! Rosa! You can talk to me. We’ve known one another a long time. What’s wrong? You’re acting strange. How did you both get the bruises? Tell me, please.”

  Rosa starts to cry. Alfonzo has a serious sad look, afraid to talk, fear on his face, as if preparing to tell bad news he does not want to share. He starts to cry then attempts to gather his composure, takes a breath, makes eye contact, and starts to talk.

  “Mr. Johnson, please forgive me! I am so sorry. I have not been able to bring myself to tell you.” Alfonso catches his breath and continues, “I’ve put you in a terrible dangerous spot you do not know about, and I have no excuse. I’ll tell you everything. I have to confess, I have betrayed you. You have always been our friend, yet I’ve failed you. I’ve broken our promise to you not to tell anyone about your visit. We have a visitor coming in a few minutes. He is coming to see you, as he knows you are here. I told him you own the restaurant, and you would be the one he would have to talk to about his so-called proposal.”

  He pauses, asserts: “By the Virgin Mary, I had little choice, and I claim no excuse. It is bad, really bad; he is really a tough local Mafia thug, dangerous and threatening us for money, and now you. The Mafia is into many terrible things, crimes that are cruel and brutal. They enslave young girls into prostitution, extort money from small-business people, murder people, and then are never caught by the police. This one, Marco, is vicious and clever. He says he will have the health department close us down if we don’t do what he wants. The city inspector has already called to say he will visit us tomorrow. Marco, this thug, is also demanding we give him part ownership of the restaurant, allowing him to become our new partner. The bruises are because he roughed both of us up last week, wanting to know about the restaurant’s ownership. He slapped Rosa, knocked her down, and then hit me when I tried to protect her. We held out as long as we could, not agreeing to anything. When it looked like he might kill Rosa, I finally told him about you. Rosa could not walk for a week because of him. I told him about today’s visit, and we are so sorry. I was afraid for Rosa! I hate to tell you all this. And even worse, there is little time. He is coming to see you today.”

  Alfonso continues. “I apologize. I could not prevent his coming to see you today. Mr. Johnson, please, we have nowhere to turn. We do not know what to do. We cannot go to the police. Marco has done terrible things to other local businessmen who have refused him or gone to the police. He has even put women we know in the hospital after severe beatings, has cut off fingers and killed people. He’s never been arrested, so I think he’s paid off the police, or they are afraid of him. He will come with his thugs today and may do awful things to you and to us. I am so sorry. We will do whatever you want.”

  They’re so serious, I can’t help but laugh. They’re confused by my reaction and look hurt, maybe offended by my lack of sensitivity. I realize I need to make it up to them and explain my response.

  Now serious, I say, “Alfonzo, Rosa, I’m sorry for what you went through, yet no worries are needed now. I’m not laughing at you, just amused that you think I would be angry with you. You need not be afraid of this thug, especially for me. In this kind of situation, it’s always better to tell me. This is a very small problem. Do not be concerned about his visit here today. I’m happy to talk to this fellow. After hearing your story, I’m in the mood to meet him. I’ll try to reason with him. Either way, he’ll never bother anyone again; let me assure you. There will be no health-department issues, no reprisals, and no beatings from him. There will be no payments to him either. I want you both to leave right now, before he gets here. When you leave please keep the ‘closed’ sign up, leave the front door unlocked, and turn the lights down. Do not come back for two hours. Tell no one about his visit or our meeting. If asked, you know nothing. We never had this conversation. I will lock up when I leave.”

  “Also, I will see you again ten years from now. Please stay well. You’re both getting older, so please take care of yourselves. If you have any more problems like this, contact my law firm. Thank you for the spaghetti and your wonderful friendship. Don’t worry. You have done nothing wrong. This issue will be taken care of today.”

  They both look at me in amazement, concern on their faces. Alfonzo starts to cry, gets up from the chair, and comes over to me. I stand. We hug each other, Alfonzo blessing me in the name of the Virgin Mary. He smiles at me, tears running down his face, then turns and helps Rosa up from her chair. Then they are both looking at me intently, maybe a little awe on their faces or maybe real affection, or maybe it’s gratitude. Not sure exactly, and I would never do a mind probe to find out. It doesn’t matter. I can feel their love for me, and it makes me feel good, really good.

  Alfonzo’s eyes are still tearful. He finally speaks: “Mr. Johnson, thank you, thank you for helping us again. I thought or hoped you might be able to handle this horrible man. I know you are much more than what you appear, much more! Maybe you are a real guardian angel. We have always kept your secret until now, told no one and will tell no one about today. You have been so kind to us; we owe you so much. We do not understand about you but do not need to know more. We know you are a good
man. Please be careful, as Marco is a ruthless, brutal man who kills without conscience. We look forward to your return visit. If we can do anything for you, just ask. Thank you and bless you!”

  After they have left, I finish the meal with an apple, the first one in ten years. An apple is priceless, the perfect Earth food. I think life is good. Yes, and I can be of help to them once more. Even now, with these issues, I am in a very good mood. What a wonderful meal. What wonderful people, splendid grandchildren. What a wonderful family. Earth is such a treat!

  I am glad to be here for them. It’s easy for me, always has been. I know basically I am a predator by profession; it’s part of who I am naturally; and, I was rebuilt, and then trained to be the predator of predators. It’s my role in this life, and I have become really good at it. Yet I think I work for the betterment of those who cannot defend themselves. It makes me wonder about myself, though, as I look forward to meeting this Earth predator, glad for the challenge, pleased about him. He is a cruel one. His treatment of Alfonzo and Rosa left a bitter taste. I know I can kill him without any remorse or complications. It makes the universe a better place to cancel a wicked being, especially right here and now. Cut out the cancer. Then again, some may say he will do me in. I am sure he thinks so. Maybe he plans a cruel death for me as outnumbered by his thugs, treating me like his other victims? He might end my existence. Many have thought they could do so, and many have tried in many different worlds. I smile then I laugh!

  Right on cue he comes in the front door with his two large thug bodyguards, as if he owns the place. He looks around, as it is a little dark in the room with no lights on. He sees no one at first. Alfonzo was accurate: Marco looks like a bad man. He is big and muscled with cold beady eyes, dark bushy eyebrows, a big chin, and black hair to his shoulders. Yet he is dressed well, with a tailored black suit, a blue silk shirt, and a red silk tie. He smiles when he sees me, actually an ugly smile, and then lets out a really wicked laugh as he crosses the room toward me. He turns angrier as he moves, staring at me, swearing under his breath. No one could ever forget his laugh. I am impressed. He must practice the laugh. It’s really wicked.

  I’m sitting at the table drinking the last of the wine, waiting for him. The wine is excellent, and I pour another glass. I hear him getting closer.

  He pulls out the chair facing me, intensely staring at me, frowning. He slowly sits and then, very slowly, pronouncing each word in a thick Italian New York accent, says, “My name is Marco, and I knows your name: a Mr. Henry Johnson, and you are the owner of this here restaurant. You look real comfy sittin’ there drinkin’ your wine. I know you know who I am, right?”

  Intently looking at him, making eye contact, exclaiming: “Marco, why don’t you tell me what I can do for you?”

  “Mr. Johnson…I am not like you. I have earned my way in this world. You’re probably some kind of smart-ass Wall Street banker with a lot of money. Youse guys like taking advantage of poor little men like Alfonzo. You might be rich because of takin’ money from restaurants like this, or maybe your family gave you lots of money. It don’t matter. I think you’re smart enough to understand me. You look like you know what insurance is all about—like protection from unforeseen events, critical to your continued good health. I am a businessman sellin’ you some really good insurance. I need fifty thousand dollars from you right now for past-due coverage. The restaurant will be payin’ me directly in the future. By the way, I’m goin’ to be takin’ this business. You’ll sell it to me for ten dollars. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice, dipshit.”

  I laugh, saying, “Marco, I think it would be much better for you if you were not a predator. You’re not that good at it. You’re too predictable. The easy way for you to survive this is not what you think. Pay me everything you have, walk away, never come back to New York, and thank me for sparing you.”

  Marco’s face turns red in rage, and he blurts out, “Go screw yourself! You think you’re going to walk away from this? I guess you’re not as smart as I thought. This could be very painful for you!” He leans across the table, menacing, his eyes cold. Then his two mean-looking thugs start to come in behind me, one on each side, ready to close in and grab me.

  Marco spits out, “Do you know why I’m here, asshole?”

  I don’t reply. Ignoring him, slowly I take another drink of the wine, finishing it off.

  He shouts, “Do you have the money?”

  I respond in a quiet severe voice, staring into his eyes. “Marco, stop. Slow down while you’re still alive. It will be a bad death for you. Try to save yourself. Maybe tell me about this situation, think about saying you’re sorry, and make amends. Ask for salvation. You must have some regrets. Did you not have a mother who cared about you? Can we work this out? It doesn’t have to be this way. You have one opportunity to save yourself. It’s a procedural process for me that benefits you now, a guideline for me. It means even though you don’t deserve it, I will give you one chance at redemption. I’m warning you not to pursue this; instead, ask for salvation. Do you believe in God?”

  Marco has lost all control. Wild-eyed, in a guttural New York accent, he spits out his words. “Listen, you stupid asshole, you are the one needin’ redemption. I’m going to start cuttin’ off your fingers, then I’m gonna burn this place down with you in it. Maybe you think you’re a tough guy! You’ll be beggin’ me to stop before I’m done with you. Are you goin to be payin’ or not?”

  Shaking my head no, with a hard stare, penetrating his eyes with my anger, I say, “Marco, it’s going to be a bad day for you. You should have taken my offer.”

  Marco is not fazed. Now he’s completely in control, his eyes cold, heartless. He smiles an ugly smile, pulls a big closed knife from his side pocket, and opens it, a brutal, lethal-looking tool, razor sharp, something you might use to skin an animal, effective for his intent. Marco’s thugs are also big tough-looking guys, probably ex-military. Both move in closer, their eyes vicious, starting to reach for me.

  They are caught off guard, as I abruptly rise up, knocking my chair backward, grabbing the nearest thug by his hair and jerking his head hard, ramming it down on the table with a crashing thump. His face is smashed and bloody. I then punch him through the ribs, the force of my fist crushing and shattering bone as it penetrates, one rib splintered, stabbing into his heart. He screams in pain. He tries to pull away, with his back to me, and then he feels my second punch to his kidney as it explodes inside his body, creating an internal bloody mess. He shrieks, pisses and then passes out from the pain, almost dead before he hits the floor.

  The second one momentarily freezes, fright in his eyes, yet fares better as I grab his throat, easily lifting him off the floor, snapping his neck loudly, like a branch of a tree. He gasps, his eyes roll back, and then he dies. I gather him up as he falls forward, jerking him into the air, throwing him back about fifteen feet like a limp rag doll, and he hits solidly, with a loud crashing detonation, ending the future use of a good table. All this happens in just a few seconds.

  Now focused on Marco, loathing him, I can’t help letting out a low, deep growl. My eyes are meeting his, penetrating his brain, my thoughts searing his consciousness as I feel my own rage. Marco is astonished, all his confidence gone. He is trying to stand and back up as fast as possible, to make a run for it. I can see the shock, then bewilderment, and then terror across his face as he panics. His feet tangle, and he falls backward with the chair, dropping the knife and grabbing hard at the table, knocking it over.

  On the floor, spread-eagle on his back, and with his right hand, he is desperately trying to pull his gun out from a shoulder holster then finally jerks it out and fires at me. The first two rounds miss, but the next three are dead-on, striking my chest. I feel the pain penetrations but not for long; it’s gone quickly as my body repairs the damage immediately, no effect as I close in on him. He is screaming in absolute terror as I grab his right shoulder with my left hand, gripping and lifting him like
a child, my left hand gripping hard on his shoulder, compressing it like a steel vise, fracturing bone, causing him to shriek in pain; the gun drops from his hand.

  Still holding on to his right shoulder with my left grip, I slap him hard and fast several times across the face with my right hand, back and forth, each time a sharp whacking sound, a skin-to-skin pop; he is dazed, disoriented, his mouth bleeding now. At the same time I squeeze more, my left grip crushing his right upper arm more, still holding him tight and up in the air, just a little off the floor. He squeals in pain. I grab his mouth and chin with my right hand, fracturing his jawbones, smashed with a crushing squeeze. His eyes bulge in pain and terror, and he makes babbling sounds, breathing not easy, not able to use his mouth. I grab his left shoulder with my right hand, crushing it with my grip, hearing it rupture, then moving down to his left elbow, crushing it, too. I work my way down to his left knee, which I crush with the same right-hand grip. He tries to escape, trying to squeal in pain through his mangled, broken jaws. I drop him to his knees while at the same time hitting his right shoulder with my right fist, breaking his rotator cuff into splintered fragments. He can hardly move, both shoulders useless, and he falls on the floor, helpless, writhing in pain like a wounded animal hit by a car, sobbing, then let’s out short shrieks of agony.

  He desperately tries to crawl away, and I grab his right leg, the only limb not damaged, twisting it, lifting him up like a rag doll, and his leg bones snap like peanut brittle. I drop him, and he lands hard. He almost passes out, squealing at the top of his lungs. I roughly grab the hair on his head, pulling his face toward me, forcing his gaze to meet mine then hitting him in the nose. His eyes are wild and crazy as blood spurts out his nostrils.