Angels One Five

... Or Bandits at 6 o'clock?

Somewhere over Great Bend, Ka. I acquired an escort. More friends from the CBI, but no old pals, this time. I waggled my wings as we passed a American Airlines Dreamliner, just to piss the Celestial Agents off. Besides, maybe the pilot was old enough to remember the slogan; ‘Something Special in the Air’.

We touched down at Fedex Field. It was three in the morning. Angels don’t fly so fast, but we have good endurance. Better than those Dreamliners, for example. We didn’t even bother to furl. Security were Earthbound ex-cops, more interested in cooping in the CCTV room than patrolling on feet flattened by 20 years on the beat on the other side of the Key Bridge.

‘Gabe, isn’t it.’ He didn’t look old enough to be in charge.

‘You know it is.’ The other three looked older.

‘You’re to come with us.’ He turned to head toward the stand.

‘Says who?’

We can look how we like, and I wondered at a CBI agent who wanted to look like an 18-year-old Earthbounder.

‘The Director.’ He gave a smirk and I wanted to punch it off his mouth.

I took off and the damned kid lasso’d me. A frigging cow-puncher’s rope.

‘C’mon Gabe, got you hog-tied. Let’s go.’

He led me off into the stand and we headed for a certain men’s room. The next thing I knew we were all five on the Hellevator, going up heading for the top floor. Not even a stop off in 1^st Heaven for a drink. I realised that he looked like a punk kid so that dopes like me would underestimate him.

Uriel’s office was far from the unassuming utilitarian space of a career bureaucrat. It was the entire top floor of a 666-storey block. It looked down on all the other buildings in the administrative quarter of 7th Heaven. As far as I knew the Director of the CBI wasn’t famous for his sense of humour. He stood in front of a panoramic window looking out over all of 7th.

‘Looks nice, doesn’t it, son?’

He swept an arm to indicate he meant the view.

‘Guess so, if it doesn’t give you vertigo.’

At least he looked the part. 1950’s cut suit and a conservative tie. And Broderick Crawford’s face . He was sure to give me the profile for a moment before he got down to business. He did, then he shook his head,

‘Gabe, Gabe, what are we to do with you?’

‘Let me alone?’

He laughed a bluff, manly laugh.

‘They said you were funny.’

He straightened his face and pointed to a chair,

‘You’d better sit down.