by Sawyer Black
It was Samantha.
He froze. She turned back to her wine and glanced at her watch. Henry’s feet moved without feeling or thought. His hand rose to brush the hair from her shoulder. He fought it like Peter Sellers in the War Room. He was close enough to smell her perfume. Arcana Rosa.
“Excuse me,” Henry said.
She turned further away, glancing over her shoulder in a look that didn’t even touch him. “I’m waiting for someone.”
“I knew Henry.”
She spun with a gasping inhale, her eyes wide. Even after knowing her for so long, Henry couldn’t tell what emotion was playing across her face. He panicked, flapping his hand in embarrassment and shaking his head. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, the muscle in his legs contracting to run.
She reached out and held him there with a hand on his forearm, looking into his eyes. “You really knew Henry?”
Henry looked out over the diners. Most faces he didn’t recognize, but many that were familiar. “Jesus, you probably hear that all the time.”
She chuckled with a bitter twist of her face that he’d never seen. “Not anymore.” She indicated the space beside her with a nod. “How did you know him?”
Henry covered his nerves with an awkward shrug and leaned against the bar. “We used to roll together back in the day. Name’s Mike Serafino.”
She took his offered hand and constricted his heart. Her brow drew down in concentration, making the line appear between her eyes. He had called it her thinking line. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recall that name.”
“Well, we had a falling out a long time ago. Never spoke since.”
“A falling out?”
Thoughts flooded his brain. “Oh, yeah. I’ve kind of regretted it ever since.”
A thousand answers flashed by. What to say that would have made him stop talking to someone but still keep a little sympathy for Mike Serafino. “There was a guy used to roll with us.” Henry dug for a name, and it popped out of his mouth unbidden. “Curly Sanders.”
Samantha’s face twisted with disgust. Curly had been a piece of shit. Hitting on teenagers and getting sloppy drunk. Running on the same circuit as Henry for a summer during his What Happened to Me? CD release.
“Yeah,” Henry said. “He stole one of Henry’s jokes.”
Samantha hissed with a wince. She knew what that would have meant to him.*
“I know. And he was wrong, but I tried to defend him.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah. Curly and I had history, and I owed him a lot. Probably even my career now. Anyway, I defended him, and Henry and I never spoke again.”
“Oh, I’m sure if you had called after the tour and talked, he would have forgiven you.”
That’s bullshit, and you know it Samantha. If that had really happened, I would have gone to my grave telling the guy to go fuck himself.
“You think?”
She squeezed his hand. “I know it.”
The bartender came up, and she slid her hand off of Henry’s, leaving a cold spot behind. Henry moved his attention from her beautiful face. “Margarita, no salt.”
He looked back, and her face was slack. “What?”
“That’s what Henry always drank when we came here.”
“Oh, shit.” Stupid, stupid asshole. “I’m sorry. I can order something else.”
Her eyebrows rose in surprise, and she laughed. Free and without self-consciousness. “No, that’s fine. It just caught me off guard.”
“He talked about you all the time, you know?” Henry blurted it like it had been growing in the back of his throat for days.
“Really?”
“Yeah, he said the thing that used to keep him going was the crowd. Their laugh, you know? But after he met you, you’re what drove him.”
His drink arrived, and he took a sip. The citrus and tang mixing with the floral cloud of Samantha’s scent, and he was back at Halcyon’s a decade ago, with the only woman that ever mattered. Like none of the insanity had ever happened, and they were sharing a drink before dinner. The silver ring on his right hand sparkled, and he stared at it.
The fuck am I even doing here?
He swirled the margarita and watched the spinning ice.
“He used to write letters, you know? These long letters. Page after page, sitting by the window or in a diner booth or something. Personal, you know? And sometimes, he’d read ’em to me. Before we stopped talking.”
The road was so lonely. Just miles under the wheels, slowly grinding the funny right out of the routine. Pounding out words on his shitty Dell laptop that he had to balance atop a stand of Coke cans to keep it from overheating.
Just one more call to that guy he’d met out front of the club that said he knew a guy that was friends with a guy at ABC. Coffee and weed. Transferring money from his credit card to his phone card to call Sam every other Friday. She’d tell him enough. She couldn’t keep waiting for him. Then he’d come home, and there’d she’d be.
“He wrote this one letter. The end of May just outside of Arizona, and it was hot. I think they broke a record, like a hundred and ten or something. Even though he hated taking his shirt off, he’d taken it off that day because the air conditioner in the room wasn’t working.
“We were sitting outside under the awning to catch a little breeze. I was writing a bit I was gonna try out in Scottsdale, and he was writing a letter to you. He was being morbid all morning, and I remember he wanted to make a list of things to tell your children if he died on the road.
“I know you guys had been talking about having kids, but he didn’t think he was ready. Not enough stability. At least, that’s what he claimed. It was mostly because he thought he’d make a bad father. That, and the money.”
One of the ice cubes cracked with a pop that spit margarita on his hand. Light refracting through split as the two halves of the cube floated to either side of the glass.
“The part that had taken him the longest was the part about dating and relationships. He’d write a few words and wipe the sweat off his chest with his balled-up shirt. And the letter said, being alone hurts. Almost more than anything. Even more than a broken heart.
“I spent so much time by myself, that I didn’t know how empty my heart was until your mother came along and filled it up. And that’s what hearts are for. Not for moving blood like they’ll tell you in school. Nope. They’re made to pump love. Love that will fill it to the top, spilling out like when your Mommy leaves the water running in the sink. But instead of spreading across the kitchen floor and getting Daddy’s shoes wet, it will spread through your body, all the way out to your fingers. Then, you can give it back to the one who loves you. That way …”
“Your heart will always have room for more,” Samantha said.
Henry snapped out of the memory and looked into her eyes. Shining from the tears that rolled down her cheeks. And then, tears of his own. “Ah, shit. I’m sorry … I just regret … you know, falling out with him.”
“No. Thank you so much. I still have that letter, you know?” Her face twisted into grief, her bottom lip quivering. His throat ached, and he longed to pull her into his arms. To feel her pressed against him, wiping her tears on his shoulder. She grabbed his upper arm and drew him into a hug.
He took her against his chest, laying his cheek against the crown of her head.
“Thank you,” she said.
“What’s going on here?”
The voice at his back raised Henry’s flank. He let go of Samantha, and they jumped back at once, spinning to confront the person who had interrupted such a private moment.
Mike Stone stood with his arms crossed and his eyebrow cocked. Calm, but with an energy brewing in his stance. Henry smoothed the rage from his face and forced an innocent smile. He thought he might bite the fillings right out of his mouth.
Samantha put her hand on the cop’s arm, joining him to look at Henry. “Mike,” she said, wiping the tears away with her fingertips. “This is … Mi
ke. He knew Henry.”
The tension fell from Mike Stone’s frame, and a guilty twitch ruined an otherwise friendly smile. He nodded and extended his hand. “Good to know you.”
Henry took the hand, fighting the urge to bear down with all his strength. He held his smile, wiping his own tears away with the back of his hand. “Same here, Mike.”
Stone peered into Henry’s eyes, his expression confused. “Have I seen you before?”
“Probably. I’m on TV.”
Stone shook his head and opened his mouth, then stepped back when a hand fell on Henry’s shoulder.
Henry turned, and the Halcyon hostess stood by with a menu in her hand, and an empty grin on her face. “Mr. Serafino, your dinner companion is waiting at your table.”
“My dinner companion?” Henry followed her finger to Mandyel. He raised his whiskey glass in a silent salute, and Henry rolled his eyes. “That’s right, my angel. Agent.” He shook his head and took the menu. “I’ll be right there.”
“Enjoy, sir.”
He turned back to Samantha with a rueful shrug, but it was wasted. She was looking up into the cop’s eyes. A look Henry remembered all too well.
Motherfucker. She’s not YOURS!
“Hey, it was good meeting you, Mike. And seeing you, Samantha. Sorry for coming at you like that.”
“What? No, no. Thank you for that memory of Henry.” She dug into her clutch, the one Henry bought her for Mother’s Day two years ago. She scribbled on a scrap of paper and held it out. “This is my number. Call me sometime. I would love to hear more. Please.”
He took the paper with a small bow. “I will. Promise.”
The smile felt more natural as he turned away, but the ache in his clenched jaw had spread down his neck. He wanted to look back, but was terrified to see her looking up at the cop with eyes that should have been for him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Henry sat across from Mandyel and blocked the angel’s face with the open menu. The Halcyon Tavern had started putting their prices next to the lovingly crafted descriptions.
Holy shit.
Mandyel cleared his throat. “How is she?”
Henry dropped the menu and took a deep breath. “She’s really good.”
“Does that bother you?”
“What are you, my shrink? Yeah, it fucking bothers me.”
“That she’s doing well?”
“No, God damn it! That she’s doing so well with him."
“I know it hurts, pal.”
“Do you?”
The angel’s tired eyes and drawn mouth. The weary hang of his shoulders. “Yes, Henry. I do.”
“I’m sorry.” Henry put a fist to his mouth and looked around, but nobody seemed to be paying attention.
Maybe they think I’m auditioning.
“Are you able to feel happy for her at all?”
“Of course, I am … I just … is there any way I can keep this ring forever? You know, maybe come back and be with her?”
“You can keep the ring, but know there’s a price for wearing it.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the price. If it means I can be with her, I don’t care.”
“Well, as to that …”
“What do you mean?”
Mandyel sighed and leaned forward. The dark fire in his eyes swirled, and Henry fought the urge to lean away. “What would she wake up to in the morning. Have you learned anything?”
“Fine. What’s the price?”
“You don’t care, remember?”
“Fuck you,” Henry said in a fierce whisper.
“Fine. You don’t want to be square with me Henry? As soon as our deal is done, you can be Mike Serafino to your heart’s content, but don’t come crying to me when the price becomes too dear.”
“You still haven’t said what the price is. Wait a minute … does that mean you’re still going to save Amélie?”
“Of course, Henry. As soon as we get the horn.”
I’m crying again for fuck’s sake.
Henry wiped his face with a linen napkin. The monogram thread scratched his forehead. He took a calming breath. “Then I’m not changing my mind. I’ll pay anything.”
“It’s your choice.”
“Yeah, yeah. Let me use the gifts God gave as I see fit.”
“And that’s the beauty of free will, Henry.”
Henry threw his hands up. He took a drink of ice water, crunching on some ice to clear his head. “So, did you bring something for the Purveyor?”
“I did.” Mandyel set his glass down and reached into his breast pocket. Henry thought the angel was going to pull out a check, but instead he saw a small leather bag drawn with a piece of copper wire. Mandyel set it on the table then slid the bag into Henry’s hand. He reached into his pocket again and pulled out a similar bag. He opened it and spread out a line of tobacco into a flat paper square.
“What is this? God’s stash?”
“That is the Zechariah’s Whistle.”
Henry worked it open and poured a small copper whistle from the bag into his palm. “What’s the whistle for?”
Mandyel licked the edge of the paper and rolled it over into a cigarette. He lit it with a match that appeared in his fingers out of thin air.
“That’s a neat trick. But there’s no smoking in here.”
Mandyel stuffed the bag into his pocket, blowing smoke from the side of his mouth. “Nobody’ll even notice, pal.”
Henry looked around again, but the diners were as oblivious as before. “Fair enough.”
“It’s a shepherd's whistle, made to call back one’s flock. It represents God’s promise to gather the Jews back to Israel. He sowed them like seeds all across the globe, Henry. Planting them in the ground in every nation. How a farmer doesn’t forget those seeds, the same way God won’t forget about His people. But see, He plants his seeds in difficult climates sometimes. Testing them against the unfavorable conditions of a life set against them, one that might in fact kill them. That way, they will not trust in themselves, but rather in God.”
“That’s … great? It still doesn’t tell me what it does.”
“You blow the whistle, and help will arrive, just like God’s delivery of the Jews from slavery.”
“What kind of help?”
“Whatever kind of help is nearby.”
“Like you?”
“If I’m nearby, yes.”
“That is oddly not reassuring.”
Mandyel smiled through the smoke and leaned to the side. He dug back into the pocket of his overcoat, hanging on the back of his chair. He slung a length of rolled fabric across the table. Henry fumbled the catch, the roll spinning like a baton in front of his face before dropping into his lap.
“Fuck, you’re being kind of casual with this stuff aren’t you?”
The angel smiled and lifted his glass. He drained the whiskey, smiling with the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
Henry lifted the roll. It was tied with golden twine. A rich blue, the fabric glinted with a sheen of unbroken wax. It flattened into a bag with a wide opening at the top. “Okay, what’s with all the bags?”
“You ever hear of the Horn of Plenty? Well, that’s like the bag of enough. It is actually called the Gratia Lapides Sacculi. A satchel full of grace.”
Henry held it upside down. “It’s empty.”
“It allows the bearer to pull whatever food he desires from the bag, three times a day.”
“Holy shit.”
“As we’ve already established.”
A waiter came by and took Mandyel’s empty glass, replacing it with a fresh one, a single ice cube floating at the surface. The waiter sat a margarita with no salt in front of Henry, and spun away, carrying his tray above his head. Mandyel lifted his glass, stretching across the table. Henry shook his head in confusion before realizing the angel wanted to toast. He tipped his margarita glass against Mandyel’s whiskey.
The angel nodded with a smile and
knocked back half the glass before taking another puff. He blew the smoke from his nose in twin jets. Henry thought of a dragon.
“Are you drunk?”
“I’m trying, pal.”
“Why?”
“Because I will have to make a choice this night, and unlike you, I know the price that will be asked.”
“Yeah? And what is it?”
“In their hearts, humans plan their lives, but the Lord establishes their steps. He calls the Heaven and the Earth as witnesses against them, setting before them life and death. Blessings and curses. And they must choose life, so that their children may live. But death is also a decision.”
Mandyel drained the glass, lowering it with its rattling ice cube spinning the light into Henry’s eyes like a star. The angel’s eyes watered. Henry couldn’t tell if the tears were from his words or the alcohol’s burn. The angel took a final pull from the cigarette before stubbing it out on the ice, halting its spin. A tiny swirl of black smoke sizzled up, and he waved it away.
“Henry, if we say we are without sin, even if it’s only in our minds, then we are lying. We sin through choice. Not admitting fault or blame. Responsibility. Sin is always by choice. Maybe even design. Just like yours, my choices will lead me to stand for judgement at the seat of God, and I will have to give an account of myself to Him.”
“But, you’re an angel.”
“In a way, pal.” He nodded his head toward Henry’s glass. “Drink up, and then we’ll go get the horn.”
“You’re coming with me?”
“I already have plenty to answer for, Henry. I’m not going to let you go off alone and have to add that to the list.”
“Because then you’d have to stand in front of God some day and tell Him all about how you fucked up?”
“That’s exactly right, Henry. And it scares the shit out of me.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Purveyor’s house was a massive Gothic block of angles and peaks. The darkening sky turned all the shadows into purple streaks, and the windows reflected the orange burning just above the horizon. Heavy iron gates swung wide at their approach, and Francesco pulled the limo through the turnaround to park parallel to the front door.