Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

Shook reveled in tormenting his confessor, reveled inspitting in the face of his God.

Who possesses the real power? Who could take his pickof San Francisco’s lambs, orchestrate the Sunday school teacher’s suicide,baffle the blue meanies and manipulate everyone?

The priest knew exactly who Shook was and he trembledin his knowledge.

“Hello, Florence. Lovely to see you today.”

Shook’s ears pricked up at the sound of FatherMcCreeny’s voice. Ah, he had arrived as expected. Grazing with the flock.Demonstrating his devotion. Standing head and shoulders above the others,dispensing God bless you’s while piling his plate with food.

McCreeny stood before Shook. Emotion drained from hisface and his troubled eyes feigned kindness. At last he said: “God be with you,my son. Bless you for helping us.”

Shook remained silent, taking his time to scoopchicken soup into McCreeny’s bowl, placing it gently in the priest’s hands in amanner suggesting the reverse of the sacrament of communion.

“And God be with you, Father.” Shook smiled widely,showing McCreeny his hideous teeth.

Wintergreen Heights was Cleve’s home since his old man had walked three years ago. Helived here with Daphne, his alcoholic, welfare stepmother and half-brother,Joey, a sniveling puke. He was free of Joey today. Daphne was sober and keepingthe sniveler inside because he had the flu.

Cleve kicked up his skateboard and glided to the rearof the project. He loved how the rolling of his wheels resounded off of thefive towers around the courtyard. Time to sweep the neighborhood. The Heightswere his and he was going on patrol to see what he could see.

Wintergreen Heights was one of the city’s notoriouscommunities. Once an island of hope, it had deteriorated into a pit of despair.Every home had been burglarized, every person victimized. Anyone calling 9-1-1could count on waiting ten rings before counting on police. They rarely flewthe colors here, but when they came, they came by the hundreds.

Surfing down sidewalks, passing the crack house, Clevewas on the lookout for a little of this, a little of that, and was deep intothe Heights when he saw that that guy with the boat again. His place lookedlike a shithouse. Paint blistering. Weeds and shrubs were trying to swallow thething. His garage was open. The guy was in there, working on his boat up on thetrailer.

Cleve stopped.

His mind squirmed with questions: what was that guydoing with a boat like that down here? It looked like a classic. Cleve rolledup to the man.

“Nice boat.”

The man looked at him and Cleve saw two distortedversions of himself in the man’s sunglasses.

The man just kept on working. Cleve eyeballed him. Lotof lines on his face, looked wasted in his grease-stained T-shirt and jeans.Needed to shave. A breeze was lifting hi salt-and-pepper hair like a nest ofsnakes. He was inside the boat, working like a surgeon on the motors. Clevesmelled gas and heard the chink of a wrench against metal. He stood ontiptoe and peered into the hull at the boat’s massive engines, twin Mercs.

“Your craft must slash waves big time!”

The man didn’t answer.

Cleve stepped back. “What’s the bank on it?”

The man was silent.

“Is it like, an antique or what? It’s all wood. Ithought boats these days were fiberglass, like my Cruz Missile.”

The man’s ratchet clicked as he replaced a spark plug.Cleve was in love with the boat. Its dark polished wood gleamed, the sunsparkled on the windshield, the chrome trim fittings, and running lights. Thehuge wheel was white, matching the leather seats, which had a blackdiamond-patterned inlay. Tiny American flags drooped from tilted chrome flagposts fixed aft.

“Seriously, man, what’s the top end?”

The ratchet clicked, another plug was replaced.

“Where do you launch it?”

The man said nothing.

Cleve went to the stern, shook his head at the speedprops, raised his eyebrows after reading what was written above them. Inelegant, gold-reflecting script was the word: Archangel .

“What’s the name mean? Religious or what?”

The ratchet clicked faster, then he tossed it into a toolboxand jumped out of the boat, gathered the tarpaulin, pulling it over the boat.Cleve hurried to the opposite side and helped. The man didn’t object.

“The reason I came over here is because I saw somelocals scoping your craft here a couple of nights ago,” he lied.

A rope whipped around the bow as the man tied it downquickly.

“I told them the man who owns this craft is not a manto be messed with. They said they’d be back and do a number.”

The man tied down ropes at two more points.

“The way I see it is me and my buddy, we could guardit for you for a fee, which you wouldn’t have to pay if anything happened.”

The man stood on the trailer, stretched over the boat,and snapped down the tarp’s fasteners near the windshield.

“What do you think?” Cleve said. What was that?Thought he heard a child’s cry coming from the house. A little kid. Cleve knewa bawling brat when he heard one. He listened for a second cry. Nothing. Weird.Maybe a dog.

The man hopped down, walked around the boat, tyingdown the canvas. It took a couple of minutes.

Cleve was offended. “Hey, mister!”

The man collected his tools, wiping each one.

“The boat’s going to get trashed!” Cleve knocked hardon the bow with his skateboard. Loud enough for the man to stop what he wasdoing. Cleve felt the air tighten, as if someone had just pulled back thehammer of a gun.

The man’s face was serious as a headstone. Clevetightened his grip on his board, seeing himself in the man’s glasses.

He stood over Cleve and said, “A vigil is kept overthis vessel. Nobody has harmed her and nobody will harm her.Understand?”

Cleve nodded coolly.

The man held a finger an inch from Cleve’s face. “Itis not a boat,” he whispered. “It is a divine chariot!”

Cleve nodded.

“You think twice before you try to shake me downagain! Now, get your welfare-sucking ass off my property!”

Cleve stared hard at the man before leaving.

Edward Keller weaved a thirty-pound, forged steel chair through the eyeletsrigged to the doors of the garage beside his house, bolted with three“ burglar-proof” locks then activated the silent alarm.

Archangel was secure,awaiting its mission.

The overgrown grass covering the scrap of yard behindthe house was bordered by a fence and neglected hedge, obliterating theadjacent yards. An old alcoholic couple lived, if you could call it living, tothe left. The abandoned crack house to the right was condemned by cityinspectors. Police rarely showed up here where most people were too scared,stupid, or stoned to be nosy.

It was ideal for his needs.

Using a false name, Keller had bought the property fora pittance after discharging himself from the institute. Shrubs covered thebarred basement windows, junk mail carpeted the barely visible front yard.

Keller’s keys jingled as he unlocked the two deadbolts of the metal door to the rear of the house. He shrugged off the littleneighbor kid. The nosy little criminal didn’t know what he’d heard. Kellersmiled. His mission was blessed. His house was his holy fortress predestined touphold the will of God. No one could get in. And no one can get out.

Inside, he found deliverance from the sun in the cooldarkness. He bolted the door, descended the creaking stairs to the basement,the cocker spaniel scampering after him. He unlocked the room. Littered withdirty plates, glasses, fast food bags and wrappers, it smelled of urine. DannyBecker was asleep on the rotting mattress.