Saint And Sinners: The King Angel Child of New York

by Tiana Laveen

  “Hermano!” Bomb dropped his spatula on the counter and raced towards Saint, pulled him up under his arms like he weighed nothing and lifted his face. “Saint!” He gently smacked him, his calloused hands hitting his cheeks over and over as if making flatbread. Saint felt his eyes roll to the back of his head when his guts clamped on him again, impaired by the pain of something that had no name and no clear direction.

  “Oh…God.” He swallowed. “I don’t know…what happened, Bomb.” He exhaled and slumped back in the seat, falling from Bomb’s grip like a slippery glop. Bomb’s dark, thick eyebrows gathered, making him look mad as hell, though Saint knew that expression meant worry. His brother didn’t know how to wear a face of fear and concern, and this was the closest he was going to get.

  “Are you sick?!”

  “No…” Saint could barely answer. Beads of sweat tickled his forehead. “Not that…I…not that I’m aware of.”

  They were quiet for a few seconds while Saint gathered his wits, trying to grasp at small spikes of understanding, make sense of it all.

  “Something you said just now, it’s like…it unlocked something, something important.” Saint gulped and scratched the side of his temple as he tried to sew together the odd thoughts coming into his mind. “I was…drawn to come see…you today, man.” He swiped his forehead, removing a layer of sweat.

  “Here.” Bomb grabbed the cold piña colada mixture, “Drink this. It will give you a sugar rush and cool you off.”

  Saint grasped it and chugged it down as if he didn’t have a second to lose. He felt the dairy mustache above his upper lip, but didn’t care to wipe the silly thing away.

  “Okay…I’m better now,” he said, panting.

  Letting him go gently, Bomb walked swiftly to the stove and turned off all the eyes. He then reached over to a small, gunmetal and aquamarine boom box radio, and flicked it on. Out poured the low roar of, ‘Give Me The Night’, from George Benson.

  “Lunch will be done in a sec. You probably need something to eat, too, after all of that. I’ll just let everything finish cooking with the remaining heat.” He returned to Saint’s side, this time sitting down at the chair across from him. “Look, tell me what’s going on. Something is messing you up, affecting you.”

  “Bomb.” Saint’s tongue felt fat, thickened from an unknown source, no doubt psychological. What the fuck could he say to the man? How could he explain this? “I can’t clarify this shit to you. It wouldn’t make any damn sense. You already said you’re afraid of me… That’s not what I want.”

  “It isn’t any fault of your own, and I didn’t mean afraid like lookin’ over my back afraid.” He smirked. “You got it all wrong.” The man lazily waved his big hand in Saint’s direction. “I mean afraid to let you down, to not continue to look out for you, now that I can again.”

  Saint nodded in understanding.

  “Look, all type of shit is going on, okay? My son is dealing with a son of a bitch like you.” Saint grinned weakly. “This little fucker named Angel…some Puerto Rican kid that is bad as hell but attracted to my child. He likes Hassani, Bomb. He likes him a lot. But, he’s got some problems. He’s in the foster system, he’s talented as hell… He draws like a fuckin’ professional artist that does the shit for profit. You should see some of his shit, Bomb…” Saint held his hands up as if propping up a boulder. “It’s incredible. I saw some of his paintings up at the school when I picked up my son the other day. I have no idea how a fourteen-year-old can create pictures like that. It really looks like you can”—he reached out with one arm as if to grab something from the air—“reach out and touch the shit….like a real damn person standing there.” Saint took a deep breath, trying to regroup.

  “And you scared him away, didn’t you?” Bomb tsked. “Just like your father tried to do to me.”

  Saint hung his head in faux shame. “Yup. Hassani had been skipping school…” He caught his finger under his nose and sneezed. “And I just…yeah, I got rid of him.”

  “So what you think, huh? This is like dejà vu?” Bomb asked.

  “I believe it could be. You see…fuck!” Saint rolled his eyes in frustration.

  “What?”

  “I’m about to say some shit you are not going to understand. Can I do like before, when I ran into you at the diner, and just tell you a story and you weigh in on it?”

  “Nah, we waaaaaay past that, man!” Bomb protested as he got up, went to the stove and plated the food. “I done seen your damn eyes changing all sorts of crazy colors ’nd shit.” He chuckled. “No, you tell me whatever the truth is and if it is way over my damn head, beyond my level of comprehension, I will let you know.”

  Saint’s head hung lower than a tree branch being stepped on by an angry elephant. He sucked his bottom lip, as if nursing from the damn thing. Bomb was not going to let him weasel out of this tight corner he’d painted himself in, and hell, maybe he wasn’t supposed to. Maybe this was the day of reckoning.

  “Okay.” Saint closed his eyes and fell back into his chair as he waved the proverbial white flag in the air. “I’m going to give you such a compact, short version of this shit, it may confuse you even more. But that’s the best I can do, Bomb.”

  “Give it your best shot.” Bomb set the plates down then took his seat.

  “Damn.” Saint nodded in approval, smiling from ear to ear. “This looks good as hell. I haven’t had any good Puerto Rican food in years!”

  Bomb chuckled as he stabbed a fried banana with his fork and raised it to his lips. “That’s what happens when you move to Hollyweird,” he teased. “Now, wow me with the bullshit you’ve been keepin’ from me.” He took a noisy bite.

  “Alright.” Saint clasped his hands together. “You asked me if I’m an Angel or Demon one time, do you remember that?”

  “Yeah.” Bomb chuckled around a mouthful of food. “You had me pent up in that run down school they finally tore down a few months ago… I remember.”

  “Well, like I told you, I’m neither, but angels and demons are real, Bomb. Without making this sound weirder than it actually is, I was created from Angels. I’m a man, just like you, but angels touched me in a way that gave me special senses most others don’t have. I’m called an Angel Child, and I’m psychic.”

  He swallowed, trying to gauge the man’s reaction. Bomb kept his head down like nothing of importance had been stated, still stabbing his food and shoving it into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

  “There are a lot more like me. We are people, Bomb, flesh and blood, and we help protect mankind…kind of like guardian Angels that walk the planet.”

  Bomb nonchalantly picked up a red glass of water that had been sitting there from before they’d entered, tipped it to his tightly pursed lips and took a big, hearty swig. Afterward, he went back to his plate, offering no response as he gulped down more aromatic cuisine.

  “And uh…” Saint suddenly lost his train of thought, taken aback by Bomb’s response, or lack thereof. He felt rather silly explaining all of this to the man, but in a way, he supposed he owed Bomb the truth, so he pushed forward. “My son, Hassani, is just like me… Matter of fact…”—Saint smiled as he thought of his boy—“…all three of my children are like me, but he is the one that will be what we call multi-tiered.”

  “What’s that mean?” Bomb said without looking up, speaking around a forkful of rice. He kept his eyes on his plate and chewed on, as if planning his next gastronomic attack.

  “It means I have a bunch of psychic gifts, not just one or two. I can do things…and so can my son. I don’t know how many he will have—we won’t know until he is thirty-five. That is the age of psychic maturity for multi-tiered Angel Children.”

  “…Jesus died at age 33. By the time he was age 35, the whole world knew who he was. They say, after you die, once two years pass, you’ve paid for your sins,” Bomb said, then scooped up a spoonful of beans and rammed them into his mouth, his gaze still averted.

  “Uh,
okay…well, I don’t know,” Saint replied, a little flustered at Bomb’s response. “I suppose that could be true. Anyway…” Saint took a deep breath. “So, Angel Children, the ones like me, have domains over various places in the world to help keep balance, hold things together. I just found this out, actually. I’m always learning. I will always be a student. My domain is…”

  “New York.” Bomb grabbed his water glass once more, took another swallow and looked back down at his half eaten plate. A crumb of food clung to the side of his mouth, but he paid it no mind.

  “Yeah…New York.” Saint shrugged. “So I decided to come back without even knowing that was the reason why. I just knew I needed to return home, you know? I feel good now, even with this huge responsibility hovering over me. I can finally fucking breath, man.”

  “So.” Bomb chewed noisily, finally looking up at him, working the food around in his mouth as if each grain of rice needed eighty chews.

  Goddamn it! Would you stop moving your mouth that way?!

  It was driving Saint insane. He’d forgotten how disgusting the sight of Bomb chewing could be—almost worse than Jagger. The noises…the smacking! It probably grated his nerves a wee bit more than usual, due to the heaviness of the conversation unfolding. Bomb’s lips twitched like rapid fire as he really got to working something in his left jaw, moving about like a piston in the highest gear. Saints eyed him, trying his damnedest to not explode. But then, he was saved. He sighed in relief when the man finally swallowed.

  “Since you’re psychic, Lil’ Pharaoh, did you know I’d grow up to be a drug addict?” Bomb placed his fork down gingerly next to his plate, as if it needed to be done in the most delicate of ways. “In and out of jail? Almost losing my life? Since you say you’re psychic, did you know what would happen to me?” Bomb said quietly, an underlying anger clinging to his words like barnacles on an old boat. Just then, the room grew a bit colder.

  “Actually, no, man. I didn’t.”

  Bomb stared at him for a long time, a cold, hard stare that caused Saint’s chest to beat so damn fast, he thought it may cave. After all these years, the man still frightened him to some degree. That was the everlasting power of a true big brother who the entire borough of the Bronx had seemed to be fear so many years ago…

  Bomb swallowed air and finally looked away. He leaned back in his seat and ran his hand slowly over his stomach while he looked up at his ceiling. After a few moments passed, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a skull head illustrated lighter and a semi-crumpled package of cream and burgundy Dunhill cigarettes.

  Oh…he’s smoking fancy now…

  He carefully removed one from the package, raised his lighter in the air, and cocked his head to the side, his eyes turned to midnight slits. His onyx ponytail swayed just so as he lit the damn thing. His fleshy pink lips pursed a bit before an air of relaxation married to his smoke-filled exhale. The silence danced amongst them, sashaying on second after second as the man continued to smoke, then casually peered towards the partially opened window. He exhaled again, his lips slightly parting to let out thick, cloudy rings from the side of his mouth.

  “Here’s the thing, Saint.” He smiled ever so slightly, but then, it was gone, almost as if it had only been a figment of his imagination. “If I were to believe what you are telling me…”—He tapped the table with the cigarette box, shifting it from one side to the next—“…that would make me crazy. You have no worries with that one though, little bro, because, well, I am crazy, so we’re good there.”

  Saint smirked, but remained quiet as he crossed his arms over his chest. Feeling a bit more at ease now that Bomb had begun to speak again.

  “Since you were willing to tell me this unbelievable story, it’s only right that I share a few things with you, too.” He grinned, still staring out that window, as if a great television program were on that he simply could not break away from. “You see, a series of fucked up and straight out strange events have taken place in my life. The strangest ones of all though didn’t start happening until the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

  Saint frowned, feeling guilty and pissed all at the same time. He wasn’t certain where Bomb was going with this, but it might contain some shit he didn’t want to hear. He cleared his throat, crossed his legs, and pulled himself together.

  “Such as?”

  “I’m not a lucky man, by nature. But, I have had a steady string of bad luck since the day you kept following me and trying to mimic every damn thing I did.”

  The air became thicker, almost constricting, and the damn cigarette smoke wasn’t to blame.

  “Now.” Bomb traced his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue before placing his cigarette back up to his mouth. He puffed, squinted just so, then exhaled, filling the room with more smoke. He looked at the ceiling, as if heaven were calling his name. “You see, something about you, Saint, pulls mothafuckas to you. Let me break it down a bit for you, in case you aren’t following me.” He cleared his throat and leaned forward, punching the table. “Like, check this out. We’d go someplace, you know, maybe to a pool hall, a wine and beer run, whatever, and I’d look around and see sonsuhbitches crowded all around you. It be like ten at night, yo’ little ass wasn’t even supposed to be outside, but you were. That ain’t the point though. This is what would happen, man.

  “People would come out of their apartments and stand close to you. Shit, it didn’t matter if you were just standing there buyin’ some damn ice cream from the ice cream man with the money I’d slide you and yo’ boy Raphael. It was the strangest shit. You couldn’t even buy some fucking cinnamon gum, barbeque chips or orange soda without people coming around like you was some superstar. You loved orange soda, by the way.”

  Saint gave a weak smile, suddenly recalling that Bomb was dead on. That drink happened to be his absolute favorite.

  “Anyway, it would happen real slow like, gradual.” Bomb brought his hands close together, without touching.

  “This happened more times than not, to the point I got used to it and more than likely, convinced myself it wasn’t what I thought it was. I told myself it was all a fucking coincidence. And then, something even stranger happened, some shit that pissed me the fuck off.”

  “What?” Saint leaned back in his seat, running a finger along his chin. He was knee deep in this damn conversation now, hearing all about this bird’s eye view of his damn childhood, things he hadn’t even noticed.

  “I became even more attached to you. As each month passed, the more protective I became over you. It felt like my fucking job or somethin’. I would think about you, wonder if you were okay in school. Before I’d blaze up, I made sure you were safe, secure. I needed to know you was straight before I got high, got to feel out of it for a while.” He cracked a sad smile, his eyes glossed over, as if reliving whatever the hell he’d seen. “Then I felt something going on, to make shit even more complex, you dig? You was attracting mothafuckas alright, but I kept saying ‘hell no’ to that, you know? Because at one point I started feeling something bad around you…something evil.”

  Bomb paused for a long while, his eyes growing darker as he glanced out that window again, then back up towards the ceiling. The cigarette dangled out from between his fingertips as he seemed to drift into a secret daydream, leaving Saint all by his lonesome. Then, just like that, Bomb returned to speak clearly, succinctly, walk the path with words.

  “Now, my mother went bat shit crazy.” He laughed—a sound that held no joy. “You know about this. We already discussed that. You also know I don’t like talking about my mother, you know that, too…but, before she lost her fucking mind, she would tell me amazing stories, spiritual stories about Mary, Joseph, Jesus and Moses. My mother was religious, Saint.” He waved his hand through the air as a new, genuine smile budded over his face while he reminisced. “She wasn’t no zealot, but she had a strong faith, you know? She was Catholic…prayed every day; every damn day I’d hear my mother praying all the time.
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  “Her prayers never got answered, man, but she kept on anyway. Like, God never made my papa do right… God never got us out the fuckin’ ghetto, so, when I’d hear all that angel bullshit, and God will deliver and all that otha shit, I’d think, ‘What God need angels for? He already ain’t helpin’ nobody! He don’t need no damn assistants, he sleep on the job, ain’t like he busy helping mothafuckas out so much he now need backup.” Bomb laughed loudly, a sound born of deep, twisted, tangled pain. His upper lip lifted in a sneer, and the room absorbed his mood—cold. “Anyway, my mother would only pause to tell us to turn down the television.” He looked back up at the ceiling, working his jaw muscles as if trying to fish a piece of meat of from between his teeth.

  “I know a lot about religion ’cause of my mother. I know about angels and demons, and Jesus’ resurrection, too. She read the Bible every morning, and sometimes, when I didn’t have shit else to do, I’d read it to her while she ironed our clothes, so she could save time. Before I knew it, I’d read that thing cover to cover at least three times. It was written in Spanish, passed down from my great grandmother. My mother’s English wasn’t too good, so I’d read it in English to her, too, to help her get a better hold of the language. I’d translate as I went along. She liked that, she liked that a lot.” He cracked a grin, and then it faded as he appeared to fall into some deep hole, his thoughts turned ugly. He must have swam in them unwillingly, rolled in their muck.

  “Saint.” He took another puff of his cigarette. “She told me about dark spirits, too. Demons, as you said… She said those dark spirits stole my father’s heart away, made him not love anyone anymore.” He glanced back at the window, his brows bunched. He looked down at his cigarette, flicked the pearly ashes into a nearby ashtray setting on the table. “The demons though—yeah, that shit is real.” He smiled and shook his head. “There were these cocksuckers around you as a little boy… people I knew were up to no good, snoopin’ behind you, hanging on like testicles ’nd shit. There is nothing normal about a well to do pimp asking where some little fucker is, a little boy. Why would he want to know?!” He clicked his teeth; his tone grew angrier, yet once again his mood changed like a remote pointed towards a television screen. “A lot of people did that shit. I’d ask, and they’d say they didn’t know… I began to believe ’em. Maybe they didn’t know, but they always smiled a bit more whenever you were around.