The Angel of Zero City: Part 18

An urban-fantasy novella. It is an untold story between the chapters of its parent book: The Gauntlet of Maltese.

The Prick

 

 

Socrates held a glass of cognac in one hand and a pen in the other. His feet were kicked up on the couch of his small apartment, filled with book stacks, shelves, and old records. The window was open, and a light breeze shifted the pages on his notebook. He lowered his hand, and scribbled in a personal shorthand while speaking aloud,

“The golden hand

Its clock of eight

The master plan

Will not wait

 

“Action now

Youth is waning

Must endow

Soon it’s raining

 

“Hold one vow

No restraining

If life allow

Heart unchaining

 

“To change the man

Who cannot stand

While you debate

To plan your fate.”

 

“So who’s the skinny guy?” Finlay asked.

Joseph, the Angel, and Finlay were loaded into Finlay’s LeSabre and driving toward Hell.

“He’s my anonymous tip,” Joseph said.

“How can he be anonymous when he’s in the car with us!?”

The Angel winced. “Watch your blood pressure, Robert,” he said.

Finlay took his eye off the road. “How do you know my first name is Robert? Who are you?”

“Relax. He just knows things,” Joseph said. “Now can you watch where you’re going?”

“How does he know things?”

“He’s got … magic powers, or something. I don’t quite understand that.”

“Joseph … what are you trying to tell me?”

“Gentlemen,” the Angel spoke up. “There’s a whole lot to me that I don’t even understand, but if you want you can shoot me.”

“What?” Joseph and Finlay asked together.

“In the chest, at my heart. In seconds the wound will heal. I’ll spit out the bullet, and even the blood that splatters will disappear.”

The car became silent. They turned down a road and Finlay finally spoke, “Well … I’m not shooting a kid. So, how far away are we?” Over the phone, Joseph told Finlay that he’d gotten an anonymous tip about the whereabouts of missing people in Hell. In the backseat were a few meager supplies: some old bullet-proof vests, spare handcuffs, and a swiped box of ammo for the detective’s pistols.

“It’s a regular apartment building, with a cellar entrance from the sidewalk, but let me out a block before we get there,” the Angel said.

“Why?”

“Finlay, stop asking the Grim Reaper questions. Okay?” Joseph hammered. Finlay rolled his eyes, and as they approached the Angel got out of the car, and Finlay parked the LeSabre across the street.

The brakes squealed, and Socrates sat up and looked out the window. He caught sight of the headlights turning off, and watched as the two detectives put on their vests and loaded their guns.

“Where did your Angel go?” Finlay whispered.

“He said there was some kind of psychic barrier that was keeping him away,” Joseph replied. He couldn’t make the largest vest fit without hurting himself, so he decided to wear it like a big bib.

Finlay stopped while his revolver was half-loaded. “Joseph,” he said normally, “I don’t think I can go through with this. That Angel is a madman, and you’re in the same boat.” He put his hand over his partner’s arm. “I can’t risk you going in there and blasting away some innocent guy.”

Joseph moved slower and holstered his gun. “I’ve got no reason to believe that he’s lying to me. He could’ve killed me, killed you, and probably made sure that nobody found our bodies if he wanted to. Besides, you know I can’t hit the broad side of a barn. Whoever’s in there, I’ll probably miss them anyway.”

“Joseph, did something happen between you and Esmeralda?”

“Partner, it’s just business as usual again.” Joseph took the remaining bullets, put his hands in his pockets and walked casually across the street.

Finlay was now sure that his partner had gone insane. He looked in the backseat and reached for a pair of handcuffs. Good detective or not, when a man’s been nearly beaten to death, and had his heart broke in the same week and wont rest, sometimes they need to be stopped for their own good.

“Do you trust your partner?” the Angel asked, suddenly standing behind him.

Finlay jumped and turned cold. “I do, on most days.” He held the handcuffs intended for Joseph and considered where the Angel was. “If I were in his shoes, and I was getting out of control, he’d try to hold me back too.” Finlay whirled around with the handcuffs, but the Angel was gone.

On the wooden stage inside the building, behind the discreet door, Cavan was standing at his custom soundboard. Sigma, Lambda, Alpha, and their harnesses were returned to the toilets. The speakers were playing a recording of the Funny Bones crowd from last night when Cavan was on stage. The subjects couldn’t see, but Cavan was staring at the ceiling and crying. He thought, they’re laughing … and applauding, for me. I never believed such beauty could exist in Zero City. “Alpha, Lambda, Sigma, listen … someday the whole world will sound like this.”

The three subjects were too tired to lift their heads. Tara Jackson was taking short, quick breaths, and trying to suppress the pain from her back. Cavan’s contraptions were rigged with ten grill lighters around her. On her back they had burned a five by two grid of ten red, blistered, black spots. Each time they lowered, the old blisters boiled and burst, and the fluid stained the floor around her. During the experiments, she heard the sound of drilling and machinery from the other subjects, and it made her sick to think of how long the others must have been here.

The recorded crowd clapped, and Barto’s voice said, “Cavan DeMeco ladies and gentlemen! Alright, our next comic comes from Mason Coast. She’s been hitting the eastern�".”

“No,” Cavan said, as he rewound the recording. He closed his eyes and clenched his fist. Tara Jackson had gotten a bigger applause than him that night, and during the experiments, it was getting harder to separate his jealousies from the procedures. “I know repeating the same jokes isn’t professional … but does anybody want to hear it again?”

“No, it sucked the first time,” Joseph said. He was one step into the room, with his gun raised and his badge pinned to his chest. The recording restarted, and the crowd laughed.

“Who are you!? No, you see nothing!” Cavan stepped to the other side of his soundboard and threw his arm out to block the detective’s view.

“I’m detective Joseph Black of the ZCPD. Put your hands on your head and your knees on the floor!” Joseph barked.

Cavan wiggled his hands over the soundboard. “You can’t take me in. I’ve rigged the harnesses to kill my subjects! You want them back, right?”

Joseph glanced at the torture rigging to see whether he could destroy it with a bull rush. There were cables run over pulleys, and metal tubes weighted to the ground for structure. Springs were connected to releases, and the wires went to motors, but in that split-second Joseph didn’t notice a weakness.

“What do you expect to happen?” Joseph said slowly. “I’m here. People know now, not just me, so this isn’t going to disappear, but you can start to control how bad it gets.” He sidestepped closer to the contraption as he talked. With a second glance, he saw the cable leading from the soundboard to a black box, which was wired to most of the little motors.

Cavan’s mind was racing. It was like his first night on the Funny Bones stage. All those weeks of sleepless preparation led to three minutes of sweaty mumbling. The jokes were rushed, out of order, and his mind was fogging up from terror. All those angry faces were judging him, and then a beer bottle hit the stage and shattered.

Joseph fired his gun. Then he fired again. The black box connected to all the motors was smoking, and Joseph shot it a third time.

Cavan snapped back to reality. “You sick sack of f*****g filth, you’re ruining my s**t!” He sprung toward Joseph.

Suddenly, Allie Cook began to laugh. Her gag was choking her, but she was definitely laughing.

Cavan and Joseph froze, and Allie laughed harder. Cavan drifted toward her and removed her gag. Allie laughed harder. She drew all her strength and laughed. This was the moment she had prayed for.

“Oh Sigma … yes, yes! YES!” Cavan’s device was destroyed, but he needed to amplify her quickly. He reeled his fist to punch the side of her head, and Joseph sprung at him.

Suddenly, a hand came from the shadows, and grabbed Cavan’s arm and twisted it behind him. The Angel stepped forward. The sudden happiness in Cavan’s heart had allowed the Angel to enter and move into position.

Cavan screamed, “What’s got me!?” Then the Angel’s right hand reached for Cavan’s mouth, but Joseph yelled, “Stop!”

The Angel paused.

“We’re done,” Joseph said. He holstered his gun and snapped handcuffs over Cavan’s wrists. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to be provided with an attorney. Do you understand?” Cavan glared at Joseph. “They need to see he gets put in jail. I’ll make sure of it.”

“No, no! Not jail! No!” Cavan cried. Joseph swept Cavan’s legs and let him fall to the floor. He squirmed, but as he tried to get on his knees Joseph tipped him over.

“If Finlay is still outside, please tell him to come in,” Joseph told the Angel. “And you should probably go. I’m going to call this in.” The Angel nodded and left.

The recorded audience was still laughing, and Joseph shut it off. The silence brought stillness to the world, and he went over to Allie and said, “You’re safe now. I’m a detective.” He lifted her blindfold and saw two watery, blue eyes. Her lips were trembling. She was smiling and crying at the same time. “T-thank you. Thank you,” Allie said.

Joseph smiled back. “You’re leaving this place,” he said. He helped Lee Bui and Tara Jackson, and then he spotted Nathan Keflezighi’s body in the corner of the room. When Joseph went to check it out, Finlay came in and covered his mouth.

“I’m sorry.… I should’a been here,” Finlay said.

Joseph grimaced as he found no pulse on Nathan’s body. “It’s okay, partner…. It’s just a drop in an empty bucket.”

 

Twenty minutes later, Socrates looked out the window at the gathering crowd of neighbors and flashing sirens. A glint of gold appeared in the crowd. Socrates focused his gaze, and for a split-second he saw it again: as a golden disc on the hand of a leather gauntlet. The crowd grew, and the gauntlet and its wearer disappeared. Socrates reclined, and with a bemused grin on his face, he plucked Christopher Morley’s “Where the Blue Begins” and read, “All cities are mad: but the madness is gallant. All cities are beautiful: but the beauty is grim.”

Author's Note

This is a 19 part story. All of which are completed and are expected to be posted.