Black-Winged Tuesday

by Alicia Ryan

  “Hi,” Charlie said. “A…um…mutual friend told me you might like a new deck?”

  “Will you look at that,” Price muttered.

  Tuesday grinned. “Good for Charlie.”

  A bright smile appeared on Mary’s face, and she gazed for a long moment at Charlie, then up toward the sky. “Thank you, Herman,” she said softly.

  Tuesday felt Price grab his arm. “Time to go.”

  Tuesday nodded. “I think they’ll be okay, don’t you?”

  “Are you kidding? She’s got a nice, younger man with a good job who adores her and is handy around the house. They’ll be the happiest couple in Strawberry for the next fifty years.”

  “You know, every now and again, you do say the right thing.”

  ***

  Back at the apartment, two yellow envelopes rested on either end of the couch. Tuesday noticed the one with his name on it was decidedly flatter than Price’s.

  “You first,” he said, frowning.

  Price tore open his package and pulled out a stack of papers. “Whoa.” He quickly skimmed the first page, and began to grin. “Says here you’re stuck with me again, asshole. Somebody really does have it in for you.”

  Tuesday laughed. “And it’s not even Tuesday. Great. What else?”

  “Well, we’re headed to Vegas, and our new ward is a stripper named Jezebel.”

  “Oh, brother. Did you pay somebody for this one?”

  “Nothing to do with it. I don’t know how they come up with these things. Just my lucky day, I guess. Maybe I’ll change my name to Friday.” He looked at Tuesday’s still unmoving hands. “Planning to open yours?”

  Tuesday gritted his teeth and tore into the envelope, pulling out two cards. The first one was plain white and said: “Jezebel – see Price for further information.”

  He handed it to Price, and then examined the other card. It was made of fine cream linen with gold thread woven through it.

  “Fancy,” Price commented.

  Tuesday stood frozen, staring at the name scrawled in black at the center of the card: “LUCIFER”.

  His jaw almost hit the floor, and Price jerked the card out of his trembling hands.

  “What – oh crap. No way.”

  Tuesday couldn’t manage a snappy comeback.

  “Hey, there’s something on the back.” Price had flipped the card over.

  Tuesday looked up when he chuckled. He flipped the back side up so Tuesday could read the rest of the message: “This assignment may take longer than is customary.”

  Tuesday barked out a laugh. “Are they kidding? Lucifer is my new assignment?”

  “I don’t think you can question your assignments, T.” Price flipped the card over again, holding it up to the light. “Especially not when it’s so clear where it came from.”

  “Well, that’s just great. It doesn’t even say what I’m supposed to do.”

  “Make him less evil?” Price ventured.

  ***

  They took turns driving the eight hour route to Vegas, arriving about two in the morning. Tuesday had taken advantage of his turn in the passenger seat to read the complete case file on their new ward.

  “Did you get through the whole thing?”

  “You’d better believe it; no way I’m making that mistake again.”

  “Good. At least you learned one thing on your first assignment. Want to give me the cliff notes on this one?”

  “Sure. Our Jezebel is one of the dancers at the Palomino Club, just off the Strip. She’s twenty-six, has a husband who’s a general contractor, and a little girl, aged four, named Emily.”

  “Palomino Club, huh? Ride ‘em, cowgirl.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask what we’re supposed to do?”

  “Okay, why does the undoubtedly luscious Jezebel need our help?”

  “Says here she and her husband, Gerald, have agreed she should start turning tricks on the side, targeting the most respectable men who come into the club and then robbing them when they aren’t looking.”

  “Nice family.”

  “It doesn’t say much more than that. I assume we’re supposed to turn her from her wicked ways?”

  “Mission impossible. I think your other assignment may be easier.”

  “Let’s not talk about that. I plan to ignore it as long as I can.”

  Price chortled. “With your luck, something tells me that won’t be very long.”

  The bright lights of the Vegas Strip came into view, and both of them craned their necks to stare out.

  “Man, it sure has changed.” Price commented.

  “You haven’t been back since…the first time?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Where are we staying?”

  “You’re going to love this. Hotel room at the Venetian.”

  It wasn’t long before they saw the sign.

  “Huh. You won’t believe it, but this used to be the Sands. Or rather this is where the Sands used to be. It was one of the hotels I helped build.”

  “Cool. You glad to be back?”

  Price looked around. “Hmmm, I guess so. Maybe I’ve been avoiding it up to now, but it’s so different. Different time, different place, I guess.”

  “You going to be okay? Not wandering off to mope around old construction sites, I hope?”

  Price scoffed. “Of course, I’m okay. It’s been over fifty years, and I’m pretty happy being dead – in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Now that you mention it, you are quite the role model in that department.”

  Price turned into the glittering drive and gave the keys to a waiting valet. “We’re going full service on this one, Tuesday. Better get that credit card ready.”

  “The package says middle range room only.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Tuesday grinned. “You think they don’t know you?”

  The mid-range room turned out to be better than either of them imagined. It was a suite - apparently all the rooms at the Venetian were suites – and the door opened into a small, but beautifully furnished living/dining area complete with oriental rugs and a polished, mahogany dining table.

  A short wrought iron staircase led up to an open loft that housed two white-draped queen beds with dark yellow curtains that could be drawn between them. Gold and burgundy chairs sat at the foot of each bed and on either side of a large mahogany desk that took up the other end of the space. Further in, the marble bathroom had a free-standing, claw-footed tub that brought back warm memories for Tuesday, and a glistening, round, glass-enclosed, dual-headed shower.

  “I think I’m in heaven,” Price said, gawking.

  Tuesday turned to him. “Have you ever seen it? The real heaven, I mean?”

  Price shook his head. “Pretty sure the chance for that only comes once, and I missed it.”

  “Do you ever regret it?”

  “Not until now. Wanna go gamble away some of your cash?”

  “Maybe we should head over to the Palomino instead. Do you know what time strip clubs close?”

  “Open till dawn if I remember right.”

  “So we have plenty of time. Let’s go over and see if she’s there. If not, we can come back and play a few hands of blackjack or whatever. Are you good at anything?”

  “Is that a trick question?” Price waggled his eyebrows.

  “Anything of the gambling variety?”

  He shrugged. “I play pretty good poker. Blackjack – I know the rules, but I get too excited and always take more cards, no matter what I have in my hand.” He grinned. “I mean, the game is ‘21’ right? What’s the point of stopping at seventeen?”

  “I’m guessing you’re better at strip clubs than poker or blackjack. Let’s get over there.”

  “Aye-aye, captain,” Price said with a mock salute. “You’ve gotten a lot bossier since you started this angel gig. You know that, right?”

  “Only because you’re such a good teacher, Price,” said Tuesday, heading down the stairs.

>   “Oh, shut up.”

  ***

  “Yee-haw,” Price said as they entered the first floor of the club and spied the oversized stage in the middle of the room. A girl in a white cowboy hat, white boots, and nothing else except a white lasso was currently entertaining the crowd. “Oh, man, I am loving this assignment already.”

  “Wonder if she’s Jezebel?”

  Price shook his head. “Doubt it – too wholesome. I’m not seeing any girl whose stage name is Jezebel dressed up all in white.”

  Tuesday looked around. The room was a sea of maroon velvet and leather, with dim lighting provided mostly by little candles on each cocktail table. A few waitresses in little black outfits navigated between high tables and low, round booths.

  “There’s no bar?” he asked.

  Price nodded toward a red-carpeted staircase. “Maybe up a floor?”

  Tuesday led the way through the crowd and up the stairs. Sure enough, a long bar took up the full length of one wall of the second floor. There was a runway in the center of the room with three poles, each with women in varying degrees of undress snaked around them, but it wasn’t nearly as large as the stage downstairs.

  Tuesday ordered a Jack and Coke, and Price a neat whiskey, after asking the bartender about Jezebel.

  “She’ll be on again soon.” He nodded toward the poles. “She’s already done her feature downstairs, but she has another shift up here. She’ll be in black and red.”

  “Thanks,” Price said, encompassing both the drink and the information.

  They took seats on high stools at one of the small, round tables near the bar. Tuesday sipped his drink, but Price was on his third before Jezebel made her appearance.

  Wavy, flame-red hair hung down almost to her waist, and she wore a saloon-style corset of red satin with big, silver hook-and-eye fastenings, and stiff, black ruffles at top and bottom. It covered a pair of frilly, black boy-shorts. Sheer black-striped hose, a red garter, and black, lace-up boots completed the ensemble.

  “I like it,” Price commented. “Look at that hair. That’s got to be our girl.”

  The boy-shorts, it turned out, laced up the sides, and quickly gave way to black panties and a matching garter belt.

  “Maybe we should wait for her in the back,” Tuesday said. “It seems weird to watch her get naked and then go tell her we’re her guardian angels.”

  Price sighed. “I hate to admit it, but you might be right. She might never listen to us if she thinks we’re creeps up front – even me.”

  Tuesday hopped off his stool, and Price followed suit. “Think we can just walk back there?” Tuesday asked.

  “You sometimes forget you’re an angel, don’t you? We can just show up back there with no one the wiser. Besides, I’m not sure how we introduce ourselves on this one. We can’t just pop up in the dressing room – though watching might be fun. We can’t just pop up beside her at her car at five in the morning – we’ll scare her to death.”

  “Maybe we just follow her home and go see her tomorrow?”

  “Why follow her home? Didn’t they give us her address in the folder?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” Tuesday thought a moment. “You know, we might be going about this all wrong. Why would she ever listen to us? She’ll probably just think we’re rejects from some stage show. What if Tricia got a job here?”

  “Oh, no.” Price’s head was moving vehemently back and forth. “Tricia likes her fun, but she’s not that kind of girl.”

  “Well, you’re not supposed to be following Jez’s lead. You’ll just be dancing.”

  “You know this is an all-nude club, right? Would you want to dance naked in front of that crowd downstairs? In fact, if you’re so keen on the idea, why don’t you conjure up a girly shape and do it yourself?”

  “I don’t know how to be a girl,” Tuesday objected. “Tricia could do this easy.”

  “Tricia is me, dipshit. And I know better. I’ll deck the first creep who puts his hands where they’ve got no business. There’s no way I can carry it off. Plus, it’s harder to be a convincing woman when surrounded by other, real, women.”

  “Oh, come on. How long can it take? And I can be your boyfriend. That’s our in.”

  Price growled and slammed his glass down on the table. “That is not our in. I told you Tricia is not that kind of girl, and I won’t do it.”

  Tuesday realized he’d never seen Price angry before. Grouchy, yes, but never truly angry.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Tricia’s virtue was such a touchy subject.”

  “Shut up, Tuesday. There’s a lot you don’t know.”

  “Like what? What’s got you so upset?”

  Price turned away from him and stared blankly at the stage. “There was a real Tricia once.”

  Tuesday couldn’t have been more shocked if someone had hit him over the head. He reckoned he looked about the same. “Before you died?”

  Price nodded, then slipped off his chair and stalked toward the bar. It took a few minutes, but soon he was reseated and in possession of another drink.

  “Tricia was a cocktail waitress at the Flamingo,” he began. “She was the one who died of cancer, not me. I watched her; I watched her go through all those horrible treatments and die anyway.” He looked back at Tuesday. “I really did die in a motorcycle crash. I rode my bike out into the desert and smashed it into a canyon wall.”

  Tuesday found himself at a loss for anything to say.

  “And I’ve never seen her since. I’m sure she’s a Good angel somewhere, brightening up other people’s lives.”

  “Then why didn’t you choose the Good path?”

  Price studied his drink. “I don’t know. Part of me thinks you can’t really choose something that’s not in your nature. Then again, part of me thinks I just couldn’t bear to see her again. She wouldn’t approve of what I did. She was so strong, and I took the coward’s way out.”

  “Why do you…why do you pretend to be her?”

  Price looked up. “It’s creepy, right? I guess I just miss her – and it helps me remember her, all the details, you know?”

  “I never thought about it. I guess memories fade even for angels?”

  “Especially of your human life.”

  “Huh. I hadn’t even thought of trying to see my father, but then he’s been gone from my life for a long time now. Plus,” he smiled wryly, “I’m sure my dad is a Good, and I sort of thought I had the Good thing nailed.”

  Price snickered. “With your luck, you should really know better than to take anything for granted.”

  “Yeah. Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for asking…what I asked.”

  “It’s okay.” Price sighed. “It’s not a terrible idea, actually. They do have cocktail waitresses downstairs. Tricia could do that.”

  “Not if you don’t want to. The package didn’t specify how we had to go about counseling Jezebel. We could go back to the idea of following her home.”

  “Well, maybe we should do that, too. If Tricia is supposed to make quick friends with her, it wouldn’t hurt to have some inside information. We should spy on her whenever I’m not working.” He gave Tuesday a once-over. “I don’t suppose you can tend bar or do anything otherwise useful?”

  “You should know better,” Tuesday said, smiling. “I can hang out and give Tricia moral support, though. And keep an eye on Jezebel.”

  “For the record, I still hate this plan.”

  Tuesday furrowed his brow.

  “And I hate you, you remember that, right?”

  Tuesday grinned with relief. “Yep. It helps me sleep at night.”

  “Meet me at the car,” Price ordered. “Tricia needs to go find the manager of this hokey joint.”

  It was over an hour before Price appeared from around the back corner of the club. Tuesday looked up from where he’d been fiddling with the radio dial.

  “I guess it went well?” he said, when Price sank down onto the seat beside him.

  �
�That’s debatable, but Tricia got the job. She also got the grand tour, including a visit to the dressing room. I introduced myself to Jezebel – which, incidentally, is her real name. She’ll probably be leaving soon.”

  For five minutes, quiet stretched between them. Tuesday wasn’t sure what to say, and he was tired enough even chit-chat felt like too much of an effort. Price must have felt the same.

  Soon their quarry emerged, getting into an ancient Toyota. They followed at a reasonable distance for about twenty minutes, out to a neighborhood that a small welcome sign told them was called ‘Sunrise Manor’.

  Tuesday almost laughed, wondering why they’d given an actual town a trailer park name. After the first few streets of small, dilapidated homes, he started to think perhaps it wasn’t a misnomer, after all.

  Jezebel’s car made a few turns and led them into a nicer stretch of homes – still small, but more modern and well-kept. She parked at the curb in front of a red, wood-sided one with a white garage door. The house was neat and had a vaguely farmhouse look. A very tiny farmhouse.

  “Let’s go spy on her for a bit,” Price suggested.

  Tuesday kept driving and turned the next corner, parking the car in front of an even tinier house. Making themselves invisible, they approached the house on foot, but stopped before going in. Voices carried from the back of the house, and Price held up his hand and pointed in that direction.

  Jezebel and a man Tuesday guessed must be her husband sat on the three-step back stoop.

  “Only about $500. You know business is off.”

  Her husband nodded. “Can’t you get any more early shifts?”

  “Not without being too obvious. I’m already afraid Scooter knows what I’m about with his best customers. If he finds out for sure, he’s going to be pissed. You know how he is about us doing anything that could get him sent to jail.”

  A long silence stretched between them as Jezebel looked expectantly up into her husband’s taut face.

  “Maybe I could try,” Jezebel said, finally. “I really don’t want to lose the house.”

  Another long silence.

  “I think I have a better idea. You may not want to go along with it at first, but promise me you’ll think about it, okay?”