She Talks To Angels

“Says she talks to angels,

Says they all know her name.”

-- The Black Crowes

  The little girl skipped to a stop in front of Vince’s newsstand.  Though she was younger than Vince liked, he still felt a stir of lust and heard the Voices demanding satisfaction louder than he’d ever heard them before.  Between customers buying papers and porn mags Vince studied her from his stool. 
  As evening rush hour traffic crawled past she stood at the curb of 4th Avenue, animatedly talking to herself.  She was sun-browned and slender, with a mop of auburn curls bouncing off the shoulders of her faded blue dress.  She lacked the gawkiness of her apparent youth and seemed utterly confident despite the crowding strangers.  
  In his growing predatory fascination Vince lost track of time. He took care of customers without the usual banter or advice, ignoring their Voices so he could look back to the girl.  Finally she turned and gave him a cheerful smile.
  A hunter’s reflex slid his eyes away, trying to hide interest in possible prey.  Vince now noticed the lengthening shadows and emptying streets.  Soon an early autumn dusk would cut the day’s warmth and darken the streets; soon he could hunt.  He didn’t even try to keep from looking back at the girl.
  She was standing right in front of him, inches from his left knee.  Conflicting emotions paralyzed him, even seemed to quiet the Voice.  Embarrassment from being caught, lust at her nearness, even fear clashed within Vince, but worst was the sudden silence.  Memory rose into that fragile void – stinking, bloody, guilty memory usually suppressed by the consuming din of the Voices.
  “Hello, Vince.  I can call you Vince, can’t I?”  She didn’t wait for a response.  “You need to turn yourself in to the police before you do it again.”  Her hands waved between them, light from passing headlights briefly changing them to white, flapping wings.  “I know it’s not all your fault, and I promise you’ll feel better if you do.”  She leaned close.  “Don’t listen to them, whatever you do, don’t listen.”
  Vince sat frozen as she skipped across the street.  Desire for her was gone, replaced by fear and wonder.  Was it as simple as that, he thought, just turn myself in?  The Voices came back louder than ever, promising, threatening, cajoling, and drowning out everything else.  
  He lurched off the stool and clawed his knife from under the stand.  For a moment he stood swaying, unwilling to go on, unable to resist.  Then he saw the girl disappear around the corner of Grant Street and predator instinct to chase turned the tide.  He shambled across 4th Avenue, bent like an animal on the scent or a man being whipped.


* * *


  “Will ya lookit this?”  Detective Russo's voice echoed in the dimness of the condemned loft.  
  “Excuse me.”  Detective Williams turned from the uniformed officer he was interviewing and carefully stepped to where Russo squatted beside the victim.  “What?”
  “Got the weapon here.”  Russo lifted the corpse’s blood-stiffened jacket with the one remaining earpiece of his broken glasses.  “One of those gurky knives.”
  Williams squatted also, aiming his penlight where Russo indicated.  He could make out the distinctive hourglass shape of the weapon's handle.  The rest of the knife was buried in the victim's abdomen.  “You mean Kukri.  It was used in World War Two by the Ghurkas.”
  “You're so fulla crap.  I remember seein' these in Nam, some little gook guys carried 'em.”
  “Nepalese.  The Ghurkas are from Nepal.  Man, this guy is really torn up.”  The exchange was completely without heat, the banter of long-term partners.  Both of the men's eyes roved over the corpse and the surrounding littered floor as they spoke.  Williams pointed to a bent and bloodied length of pipe in the trash near the corpse's feet.  “Maybe another weapon.  Officer Andrews says folks heard it across the street.  Gang fight, maybe?”  
  “We better get the forensic guys out here.”  Russo grunted as he stood up and fished a cell phone from his pocket, then cursed when it wouldn't power up.  “Hey, do me a favor and make the call; this damn phone is broke or something.”  He shook the offending device.
  “Why don't you just get a new one?”  Williams pulled his phone from its belt holster and offered it up over his shoulder to Russo.  “And while you're at it, why don't you get some new goddam glasses.  I'm tired of driving all the time.”  
  “Because I'm married to a broad who likes to shop.”  Russo took the phone.  “I'm poor, awright?”
  Williams remained squatted as Russo dialed, carefully examining a possible blood trail.  The circle of illumination from his penlight followed smears and spatters to the support post a few feet away. There at the base of the post lay a pair of blood-soaked slippers, red as Dorothy's magic shoes.   
  His stomach sank when he saw bloody smudges trailing up the post into the darkness under the roof.  Sitting back on his heels, Williams redirected the beam upward into the shadows.  
  “Holy shit!”  Williams surged to his feet, clawing for his Glock.  “There's something up there!”  In seconds the three men had their guns out, shining flashlights into the rafters. 
  “Hey, you up there.  C'mon down, now.”  Russo's Italian accent added threat to the order.  He switched to a whisper.  “What did ya see, partner?”
  “Something moved.  I thought I saw . . .” The younger man paused and swallowed, trying to control his trembling voice.  “A face.”  Williams didn’t dare say what he'd really seen, that some horned monster demon-thing was up there.  
  Like performing some ritual dance they circled around the room, flashlights, guns, and faces pointing up.   In moments the uniformed officer hissed and waved the detectives to him.  Framed in his flashlight beam was a girl.  She was perched in the rafters barefoot, clutching the upper part of a support post.  Blood made it difficult to guess the color of her hair or clothing.
  “Hey, it's okay.”  Russo's voice was now soft and reassuring.  He holstered his revolver and motioned at the girl.  “Are ya hurt?  Can ya come down to me, honey?”
  “No, I'm not hurt.  I'm just stuck.”  She looked away, embarrassed.  “I'm afraid of falling, sorry.”  
  “What the heck,” blurted out the young uniformed officer, “is she twelve?” 
  “No,” she said haughtily, “are you?”
  Russo reached out blindly, slapped the officer's shoulder and hissed, “Shaddup.”  Frustration sharpened his accent as he spoke to the girl again.  “Well, how did ya get up there?  Maybe you could come down that way?”
  “Uhm,” she said and squirmed with chagrin.  “The angels said I couldn't leave, but I had to get away from the blood, so I climbed up the pole.  Now I'm afraid to climb down.  Is he dead?”
  “Who, honey?”
  “The man I stabbed, he's finally dead, right?”
  Williams and Russo exchanged looks as if hoping the other hadn’t heard her question.


* * *


  The old cassette recorder squeaked as the playback started.
  Male voice:  “Can you describe it to me?”
  Young female voice:  “Red, all red.  As in red.  A red room, Doc.”
  “Will you tell me what's in the room?”
  “Sure.  There are pictures on the wall, but they are painted over with red.  The couch is red, the table is red, the TV is on but the screen is just red.” 
  “Is there nobody with you?”  A chair creaked.
  “Of course, it's Red Skelton!”  The young girl giggled.
  “Go on.”
  “Just kidding.  Really, there's a nun, a Neanderthal nun and her habit is red.  She's trying to talk to me, but all she can do is grunt.  She tries harder and harder to talk, but I just can't understand.  The nun is really getting frustrated, and then she spontaneously combusts -- poof.”
  “Why do you think that happened?”
  “Why did she get frustrated, or why did she burn up?”
  “Well . . .”
  “Never mind.”  Tsk.  “I was just messin' with ya.  It's just a dream, anyway.  The symbology seems easy to me.  Red is the color of blood, a menstrual allusion, and this extinct virgin is trying to tell me something. She burns up, which would be anger about sex, or lack of sex.  Basically my subconscious is reminding me that I'm young, normal, childless, and the old biological clock is ticking.”
  The scruffy office chair creaked as Dr. Carl Chinov leaned forward and hit the stop button on the recorder.  He propped his elbows on the battered desktop, dropped his chin onto his fists, and looked woefully at the woman on the couch across from his desk.  
  “Carl, dear,” said Dr. Jacqueline Staller, “is it me, or does she sound smarter than you?”  She smiled to quell any sting from her observation.  Despite encroaching wrinkles and middle-age spread, she was still proud of her smile.  And she knew Carl liked it, known since their shared residency years ago.
  “That's probably the worst part of this case, Jacks.”  Carl straightened up and scrubbed his hands through his short hair.  “In the damned movies all the crazies are savants and geniuses.  The inmates here are neither.  Most are uneducated thanks to their psycho-pathology, the rest are clinically deficient.”  He stood up and paced.  “And I don't even see the worst ones.  This girl. . .”  He stopped in front of the desk, perched nervously on the corner closest to her, arms crossed.  
  Jacqueline's smile widened and she caught his eye before he continued speaking.  “Carl, dear, look at your body language.  Relax.”  He just threw up his hands and flopped on the couch beside her.
  “Sorry,” Carl said.  “She's in Central State because she admitted to committing a murder.  The state found her incompetent to stand trial but, yes, she's likely smarter than me.  Just like you.”  His chuckle had little mirth; he continued to look out the window.  “She knows things, things she can't possibly know.”  He finally met her eyes.  “Jacks, I need help.  Can you take some time?”
  “Absolutely, Carl, you know that,” Jacqueline said.  His relief was flatteringly obvious.  “Whatever you need me to do, I'm here.  It'll be like old times, helping you cram.”  Seeing the desperation fade from his eyes pleased her, and stirred old feelings.  
  Carl stood.  “I'll get her case file so you can acquaint yourself. . .”  He paused as Jacqueline waved her hand and shook her head.
  “No need for that right now.  What I need is a good first impression of the girl, the sooner the better.”  She stood up beside him, smoothed her skirt.  “Now would be fine, if that's okay?” 


* * * 


  “Okay.  The truth is that I talk to angels.”  Angelouva gave Jacqueline a mischievous smile.  “Bet that's not the answer you were lookin’ for.”  She rocked back and balanced on the rear legs of the plastic chair.  The shabby interview room was small, barely wide enough for the table and two chairs.  Sunlight trickled in through the metal grate on the filthy window and painted a faint geometric pattern on the stained tabletop.
  “That's not true.  I wasn't looking for anything specific.”  She tapped the file folder in front of her.  “I already know you have a very active imagination.”  Jacqueline closely watched the girl's reaction to the not-so-subtle challenge.
  “Good one, Doc,” said Angelouva.  She swung her slippered feet on the table and propped the back of the chair against the wall, perfectly balanced on two metal legs.   The girl closed her eyes, rearranged the hospital gown.  “So you're Jacqueline.”
  Jacqueline had to smile.  “You can call me Jacks if you like.”
  “Yeah, I know,” the girl said, nodding, “your angel told me.”
  “I have an angel?”
  “Yup.”  Angelouva was fully reclined now, hands behind her head, a smile on her lips.  “Everyone has an angel.”
  “Like a guardian angel?”  Suddenly Jacqueline wished she had set up a video camera.
  “Whatever.”  The girl snorted, opened her eyes to stare at the grimy ceiling.  “Not much in the guardian department, usually.”
  “Why do you talk to angels?”
  “The same reason you try to help crazy people, 'cause we were born that way.  Anyway --” the chair slammed down on all four legs so Angelouva could look Jacqueline straight in the eye, “-- it's really more like they talk to me.  They all know my name.”
  Jacqueline decided to accept the challenge of the girl's stare.  “Did the angels tell you to kill that man?”
  “No.  That was my decision.  His angel told my angel what he was planning, but not to kill.  He came after me, like the other girls.  I had to stop him.”  Angelouva leaned closer to Jacqueline.  “Have you ever killed anyone?”
  Jacqueline's composure staggered; her mind traitorously held up a snapshot of that terrible night so long ago in County ER.  She coughed down a stab of nausea, touched back stray hair as she muttered an apology.  
  “I'd . . . I'd rather talk about you while we can, Angelouva.”  Again in control, Jacqueline had to admire the girl's perceptiveness.  “What did the angels tell you about the man you killed?”
  “Angel.  Just one, one for each of us.”  Angelouva frowned and looked down at the table.  “You sure you want to hear any more?  Most of the cops and lawyers and doctors didn't get this far, just pegged me as crazy.”
  “Not me.  Do you think you are crazy?”
  Angelouva laughed and looked back up at Jacqueline.  “What I think doesn't matter a bit, does it Doctor Staller?”  She sighed.  “Sorry about bringing up that woman who died.  It's not the same thing, 'cause that was an accident, and mine was on purpose.” Jacqueline jumped to her feet and bolted into the institutional green corridor.  Vomit rose in the back of her throat; she was able to stagger to a trash can and drop to her knees before losing control.  When the spasm was past, Jacqueline became aware of Angelouva holding her shoulders.  Drooling vomit and snot and tears, Jacqueline could not resist asking.  “You know what happened?”
  “Your angel says another intern loaded the wrong medicine in the syringe.  You just did what you were supposed to do.”
  “Did the . . . angel tell you who?”
  “I already knew.  It was Dr. Chinov.  Sorry.”


* * * 


  “What do we do?”  Jacqueline was sitting on the couch again, shaking from reaction.  She could still smell bile.
  Carl shook his head, slumped back in his protesting chair.  “The same thing we did when I screwed up and killed that woman.  Nothing.  There's nothing we can do.”
  “Sure there is, Carl.”  She took a deep breath.  “We certify her and get her out of here.  She's not insane.”
  “Of course she is.  She's delusional and violent.  The rules say so.”  The weak sarcasm seemed to push him further into his seat.  “And if she isn’t, then she goes to trial.”
  “Did you ever ask her why she killed the man?.”  
  He flinched.  “No.  I was avoiding a direct confrontation of her delusion.  I haven't brought myself to speak with her since she . . .” Carl let the sentence die.  They sat silently, separately considering the long ago accident that had crippled their careers and crushed the life they could have shared.  Finally, Jacqueline stood up and straightened her red jacket.
  “Let's go,” she commanded, “we're going to do the right thing this time.  Together.”  Despite a groan of protest Carl moved lightly with her, wearing the beginnings of a grin.


* * * 


  “He was a demon talker.  Everyone has an angel, right?  Well, everyone has a demon, too.  The angels and demons can't do much, really.  They whisper to you all the time and sometimes people kinda hear them.  I help by telling people what their angel says.”  Sound of sipping water.  “Thanks.”
  “You're welcome, go on.”
  “Well, he talked to demons, and told people what their demon wanted them to do.”
  “Excuse me.  You can't see the demons?”
  “Nope.  Just the angels.”
  “So you killed him because he talked to demons?”
  “Heck no!  The demons sent him to kill me, the same way he’d done before with other girls.  I was ready because his angel told me what was happening.”  Pause.  “I was scared, really scared, but the angels kept me company.  First I hit him on the head, then used his knife.”  Several seconds of silence.  “Both of your angels say that you need to get married, 'cause things are gonna get worse before they get better, but they will get better.”  
  Several seconds of silence.
  “Angelouva, what do they look like?”
  “Do you know what a Giant Voodoo Lily is?  No?  Well, that's what they look like.”  Sigh.  “About ten feet tall, skinny and beautiful and white, with their wings pulled up around 'em like giant flower petals.”
  Jacqueline turned off the recorder.  “Think she’ll be okay?”
  Carl shrugged.  “You’d think so, all things considered.”
  “How long until they'll know she's gone?”
  “Maybe a week.”  Carl scratched his head and perched on the desk beside her.  “I can do a paper runaround for that long without it definitively pointing back to me.
  “Then what?”  She reached out and took his hand.
  “Then we go to Las Vegas and get married.”  His smile was filled with certainty.  “I'm done with this job.  We'll find someplace where we can really help people.  Do real medicine.”  He looked into Jacqueline's eyes.  “If that's okay with you.”
  She smiled back.  “What, you think I'm crazy?  No way I'll let you get away this time.”  On a happy impulse she kissed him.  He kissed her back the way he’d been imagining all day.  


* * * 


  “What a creepy place.”  Russo stopped at the battered door marked Staff Psychiatrist and adjusted his new glasses.  “I've seen prisons nicer than this.”
  “Yeah,” said Williams, “sounds like the zoo primate house.”  Russo shot a puzzled glance at his partner; the dilapidated administration wing was almost silent.
  “Partner, you up to this?”  The older cop had barely noticed his partner’s moodiness lately, distracted by events in his own life.
  “I’m good,” Williams muttered.  “I just wonder if we’re doing the right thing, y’know?”  He flinched, looked down the hall.  “She’s a killer, remember?  Everyone seems to forget that.”   
  “You trust me, don’t ya?”  Russo clapped Williams on the shoulder.  “So, don’t worry.”
  Williams nodded and knocked.  There was a shuffle and quiet words behind the door before Carl answered and ushered them in.  As Carl conducted the introductions, the two detectives noted his slight dishevelment – lipstick lightly streaked across his cheek, hair mussed – and exchanged a deadpan look of amusement.  When Carl started to offer them seats in the small office, Russo politely cut him off.
  “No, sir, that's not necessary.  Won't take that long, I promise.”  Russo turned to Jacqueline.  “Before I get started, I need to know how you're involved, ma'am.”
  “I'm consulting on the Angelouva case,” Jacqueline said without hesitation.  “Carl called me in last week.”  She gave her best smile to the detective and sat on the couch.  “I'm completely involved.”
  “Then let me get right to it.”  Russo faced Carl.  “Dr. Chinov, your night staff reported to the Department of Corrections that Angelouva is missin’.  Found her yet?”  Russo pinned Carl with a stare that had chilled many suspects into confessions.  Williams discreetly watched Jacqueline.
  “Uh, no.”  Carl glanced at Jacqueline for a moment; she nodded confidently and he continued.  “You two were the arresting officers, right?”  
  “You knew that already, Chinov.”  Russo let his expression ease.  “C'mon, Doc, spit it out.”  Somehow, the detective knew what was coming. 
  “Did she tell you . . .” Carl paused to clear his throat, “that is, give you any advice?”  At the question, Williams stepped back into the door jam and looked down.  Jacqueline noted the movement; his withdrawal piqued her professional interest.
  Russo smiled.  “She told me my wife was bangin' some guy, and that I had to decide between forgiving or leaving.  So I bought a new cell phone and moved out.”  He waved his hand to include Jacqueline.  “So, you guys sprung her?”  He laughed at Carl’s startled look.  “Don't worry, there ain't no proof yet.  Let's see what me and you can do to keep it that way, okay?”  
  Russo pulled papers from his coat and spread them on the desk.  Carl hesitantly bent over the desk with the detective, studying the papers as Russo spoke.  Williams remained huddled against the door.
  “Detective Williams,” Jacqueline asked quietly, “what did she tell you?”
  “Nothing,” he lied, “she just gave me this.”  Williams showed her the tiny silver cross around his neck.  “Excuse me.”  He stepped into the hallway and closed the door before Jaqueline could ask any more questions.  The bedlam of all those demons ranting at the poor nutcases was better than more questions.
  He knew he could never tell anyone what the girl said, or what plagued him since he'd seen that demonic face in the shadows with Angelouva.
  “Don’t listen,” the girl who talked to angels had told him.  “No matter what, don’t listen.”
  Williams clutched the cross tightly until the voice of his demon faded.


* * *


  Stan pulled his city bus to the curb precisely in front of the Third and May Avenue bus stop.  Though the rain was cold and sheeting down, a young girl was waiting in the weather shelter.  As soon as the doors hissed open she danced in, smiling and chattering to herself.  He waited until she cleared the steps before flipping his cigarette butt into the downpour and lighting another.
  For half-a-dozen stops she rode the city bus like a princess, greeting patrons and carrying on her imaginary conversations.  Stan couldn't help but smile at how much she reminded him of his own young daughter.  He was surprised when she pulled the cord for the Tenth Street stop; not a good neighborhood.  He opened the door as she came up the aisle, but she stopped beside him.
  “Hello, Stan.”  Angelouva stuck out her hand.
  “Haw.  Hello, dear.”  He shook her hand firmly.  “Need a transfer?”
  “No, thanks, I just need to tell you a couple of things.”  She leaned closer and whispered.  “You need to quit smoking and stop seeing that woman Phyllis.  If you don’t, you're gonna wreck your marriage, and you're gonna need your wife 'cause you got lung cancer.  Your angel says you can beat it if you start now.  Okay?”
  Stan watched in stunned paralysis as the girl skipped away.  The rain swallowed her up before he could bring himself to flip his cigarette out the door and drive away.  He didn't light another.


    The End