Angels on Fire

by Nancy A. Collins

  The driver paid rapt attention to whatever it was the angel had to say, then proceeded to pepper it with what appeared to be numerous questions, all of which Joth responded to. After nearly a half-hour of driving-and-questionings, the cab came to a halt at Forty-Ninth Street and the Avenue of the Americas.

  “How much do I owe you?” Lucy asked, reaching for her purse.

  “You owe me nothing, ma’am.”

  She shook her head, certain she hadn’t heard right. “Beg pardon?”

  “I would not dream of charging one of my own!” the cabbie said, with a broad grin. “It has been many years since I left my village, and it is good to see a face from home!”

  Lucy glanced at Joth, with its gleaming golden locks and alabaster skin, then back to the driver. “You mean him—?”

  “Yes! Of course!”

  “Uh—if you don’t mind me asking, how do you tell my friend is from your village?”

  John Madonga gave her a curious look that made the ridges of scar tissue under his eyes even more prominent. “Why—it is as plain as the nose on his face, ma’am.” And with that the bright yellow cab surged back into traffic, to be lost amongst its brethren in Midtown gridlock.

  Lucy stared after the taxi for a long moment, and then looked at Joth, who was standing patiently at her elbow, crystalline eyes fixed on her as if the towering skyscrapers and bustling pedestrians that surrounded them existed.

  “Where did you learn to speak Swahili, or whatever the hell that was?”

  “I am asked questions and I answer.”

  “You mean—you understood everything he said and were able to hold a conversation, even though you’d never heard the language before?”

  “Yes.”

  Lucy had to admit she was impressed. “Wow! So you’ve got one of those Universal Translators like they have on Star Trek built into you? That’s cool! But that doesn’t explain why he thought you were from his village. What did he ask you?”

  “Who has died, who has gotten married, and who has been born in his village since he left it.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “His second cousin married a woman from the next village, that his uncle broke his leg while herding cattle but is doing well, and that his best friend from school has become the father of twins.”

  “You told him all that?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you lied to that guy?”

  “Lied?”

  “You know—said something that wasn’t true.”

  “Everything I say is true. All those things have happened.”

  “But—how could you possibly know—?”

  “I am of the elohim—a servant to the Divine Clockwork. All of Creation is known to me.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay. If you say so.”

  The lobby of Spanner Works, the production company responsible for The Terry Spanner Show, was surprisingly decorous, given the show’s reputation. Lucy had expected something more in keeping with the audience—say, shag carpeting on the walls and vinyl bean-bag furniture— instead of muted colors and plenty of glass and chrome, with light classical pouring from the sound system.

  A neatly coifed secretary sat behind an ultra-modern black-matte reception desk. The only thing that hinted at the nature of the goings-on at the company was a poster-sized head-shot of the host leering down at visitors. Terry Spanner looked like a slightly demented TV weatherman— perhaps a debauched sports announcer—with a carefully groomed but patently bogus toupee worn at a jaunty angle. He certainly had a lot of teeth—all of them capped and trimmed to a uniform length—and he exposed them to good purpose in his trademark shit-eating grin. Lucy glanced at Joth from the corner of her eye. In a way, Terry Spanner seemed more like an alien life form than the one standing beside her.

  The receptionist looked up from her desk, smiling with blank inquisitiveness. “Yes, may I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Spanner.”

  The receptionist’s politely glassy gaze shifted from Lucy to Joth. Her eyebrow rose slightly. “Do you have an appointment, Ms.—?”

  “Bender. Lucy Bender. And, no, I don’t. But it’s important.”

  “Of course. But I’m afraid no one sees Mr. Spanner without an appointment.”

  “I understand that, really I do. But this is different. Honest! I’ve got something big to show him! Really big! Bigger than UFOs! Bigger than Elvis, even!”

  “I see—could you and your friend please sit over there, ma’am? I’ll check with one of the assistant producers.”

  “Sure. No problem.” Lucy guided Joth to a tastefully upholstered couch. It had been so long since she’d dealt with a sofa that didn’t leak horsehair she almost didn’t know how to sit on it.

  The receptionist spoke into the receiver and a couple of minutes later a tall, slightly frantic-looking man in his mid-thirties emerged from the door behind the desk. He was missing his suit jacket, his tie was askew and his cheeks were flushed, and he spoke with the breathlessness of a man working on his first stress-related cardiac event. He shook Lucy’s hand as she rose to greet him.

  “Hello—Miss Fender, is it?”

  “Bender, actually. Lucy Bender.”

  “Well, Miss Bender—what is it you have to show us that’s so groundbreaking?”

  By way of explanation she pointed to Joth, who was still seated on the couch.

  Talbot frowned at the angel’s upturned face. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Could you be a little more explicit?”

  “I’ll be more than happy to go into detail, but not here—is there somewhere else where we can talk? Somewhere more private?”

  “Of course. Follow me.”

  Talbot lead Lucy and Joth past the receptionist and down a corridor that took them by rooms filled with partitions and computer terminals, with equally harried-looking men and women rushing from cubicle to cubicle.

  “There should be an empty interview room around here somewhere,” Talbot explained, as he rattled the knobs on a couple of closed doors. The third one swung open. “Ah! Here we go!” he said, gesturing for Lucy and Joth to enter ahead of him. The room was only slightly larger than the boardroom-style table squeezed inside it. Framed pictures of Terry Spanner posed with various guests decorated the walls. “Please, take a seat,” Talbot said, motioning towards a couple of executive chairs. “As you can see, we’re busy around here. But never too busy to check on a potential guest! Now—what is it that you and your friend have to show us that is so exceptional, Ms. Bender?”

  Lucy smiled, leaning forward so that her elbows rested on the conference table, her fingers steepled. “What I am about to show you, Mr. Talbot, will make your boss one of the most famous men in broadcasting. If not the most! How does that sound?”

  “Some would say Terry’s already one of the most famous in the business...”

  “How about respected? Do they say that?”

  “Go on.”

  “What I have to show you will not only make Terry Spanner the most famous man on television—it will also make him the most revered tele-journalist ever!”

  “Ever?”

  “He’ll come out looking like Walter Cronkite! Hell, when he’s through, Morley Safer won’t be fit to fetch his slippers! How does that grab you, Mr. Talbot?”

  “I’m intrigued, to say the least. You certainly talk a good game, Ms. Bender—but can you follow through?”

  “This isn’t an empty boast; what I’m about to show you will change the world forever!”

  Talbot leaned back in his chair, fixing Lucy with a calculating look. “Okay. You’ve got me hooked. What’s this earth-shattering secret you want to have on our show?”

  Lucy turned in her seat and motioned for the angel to stand. “Joth—could you be so kind as to remove your coat for Mr. Talbot?”

  A look of genuine relief crossed Joth’s face. It eagerly shrugged free of the duster, exposing its deep, hairless chest and wide, muscled shoulders. Talbot shifted in his seat, glan
cing from Lucy to Joth and back again.

  “Joth—spread your wings, please.”

  With what sounded like the rustle of stiff silk, the angel’s wings unfurled like the petals of an exotic night-blooming flower, pulling themselves up and away from Joth’s torso. The light from the overhead fluorescent bars shone on the multicolored underpinning, and for a brief moment they resembled panes of stained glass. Lucy was so moved by the beauty of it all she had to compose herself before she could turn back to face Talbot.

  “So—what do you think? Is this big or is this big?”

  Talbot stared at Joth for a long moment then turned his gaze on Lucy. However, instead of the dumfounded delight she had expected, what she saw was rapidly rising indignation.

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “Huh—? What do you mean?”

  “You come in here wasting my precious time—and for what? Tattooed men are a dime a dozen, lady!”

  Lucy looked from Talbot to Joth, whose gleaming fourteen-foot wingspan all but filled the room, then back again. “Tattooed—? What the hell are you talking about—can’t you see his fucking wings?”

  Talbot stood up rapidly, his face rigid. “Ms. Bender, I think I’ve seen all I need to. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “I can’t believe this! I bring you the Eighth Wonder of the World and all you see is a tattooed man? Well, if you can’t see the wings, maybe you’ll notice a few other differences. Joth, would you take off your pants—?”

  Talbot hurriedly raised his hands. “That’s quite enough, Ms. Bender! I’ve already seen more altered genitals than a moil—I don’t need to look at your boyfriend’s!”

  “He’s not my boyfriend! He’s not even a he!”

  “And that’s certainly not new around here, either!”

  There was a sharp knock on the door and a burly man in a security guard uniform thrust a bullet-shaped head into the room. Behind his broad shoulder Lucy glimpsed the receptionist and a couple of anxious-looking interns gathered in the hall.

  “Mr. Talbot—is there some trouble here—?”

  Talbot looked relieved. “No, Jamal. No trouble at all. However, if you would be so kind, please see to it that Ms. Bender and her—friend—leave the building?”

  The security guard nodded his understanding. “Sure thing, Mr. Talbot. Come along, lady.”

  Lucy looked at the waiting security guard then back at Talbot, who was nervously tugging his necktie into a Gordian knot. For the second time in twenty-four hours she had done the unthinkable and Caused A Scene. No doubt Mam-Maw would have died of embarrassment, if she weren’t already six feet under.

  She glanced back at Joth, who was standing perfectly still, watching her with those strange, colorless eyes, head cocked to one side like an inquisitive robin. The angel was still stripped to the waist, its unmarked flesh glowing in the light from the overheads. She had to shake her head and laugh. To think Talbot had looked at such perfect, flawless flesh and seen swirls of pigment and ink!

  “C’mon, Joth, put on your coat. This is no place for you. We’re among Philistines here.”

  “Please, Miss—if you’ll just come along quietly—” The security guard motioned toward the hallway. He glowered at Joth, one hand resting on the butt of the revolver secured at his hip, apparently expecting some sort of trouble, but Joth merely smiled back. The security guard looked momentarily confused but quickly regained his composure.

  It was a long march down the hall to the lobby. Heads popped in and out of open doorways to give Lucy and Joth curious stares, and then rapidly retreated. No doubt this would make for a couple of jokes at the water-cooler, then be quickly forgotten. Just another crazy white-trash viewer vying for her fifteen minutes, nothing more. When they reached the lobby the security guard leaned between Joth and Lucy and pressed the call button for the elevator. Lucy could tell the guard was still watching Joth from the corner of his eye.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  The security guard started slightly. “Oh! No—it’s just that your friend reminds me of someone I used to know.”

  “Yeah. That happens a lot.”

  The guard cut his eyes to where the receptionist was sitting. “Uh, look, ma’am—don’t worry about the cops, okay? Long as you and your friend leave the building everything’s cool—understand?”

  Lucy smiled ruefully and nodded. “I understand. You’re just doing your job.”

  The elevator chimed and the doors opened. Lucy stepped in, Joth following on her heels. As the doors closed behind them she glimpsed the security guard still standing there, staring after Joth, rubbing the back of his neck. The look on his face was that of a man trying to talk himself out of thinking he’d just seen a ghost.

  Lucy hadn’t really been expecting to have to get back home on her own. She’d imagined that once the TV people caught sight of Joth’s magnificent wings she would be squired back to her apartment in a limo. But that was clearly not going to be the case. While she still had the money she had planned to pay the cabbie for the drive uptown, something told her she better hang onto it if she expected to eat and buy toilet paper later that day. That meant taking the subway home. Luckily, she happened to have a couple of tokens on her. She paused outside the entrance of the Rockefeller Plaza subway station and turned to Joth.

  “Look, we’re going to take the subway back home—”

  “Subway? Is this like the cab?”

  “Sort of. Except that there are a lot more people, you don’t talk to the driver, and it’s underground.”

  “Underground?”

  “Yeah. Beneath the surface of the earth. Below the street.”

  Joth glanced down at the gray pavement, then back up at Lucy. “Below belongs to the Machine,” the angel announced, with the dire seriousness of a five-year-old convinced that there is a tiger living under the bed.

  “Whatever,” she sighed, taking the angel’s hand in her own. “Just don’t let go of me while we’re down there, okay?”

  With that, they descended into the maze of interconnecting tunnels beneath Rockefeller Center that led, eventually, to the F Train platform.

  The production meeting was already under way when Talbot arrived with a bulging file-folder tucked under one arm. He smiled anxiously as he took a place at the end of the table, mopping his brow. “Sorry I’m late, everyone.” Although his excuse was supposedly to the entire group, his eyes were focused on the head of the table.

  The Executive Producer glanced up at the interruption, fixing Talbot with a pair of eyes that were as dark and unreadable as those of a cobra. The eyes seemed even darker when taken in contrast to their owner’s hair, which was as red as freshly spilled blood.

  Terry Spanner turned toward Talbot, flashing a smile that possessed more teeth than one would have thought possible to fit in a human mouth. “No problem, Carl. We really hadn’t started yet. What was the hold-up?”

  “I had to give another crazy the bum’s rush.”

  “I thought I heard yelling a little while ago. Anything interesting?”

  “Not really. I thought I’d gotten better at spotting these types. Well, the man was dressed like a street person—but the woman looked okay enough. Turns out she was just another East Village burn-out trying to palm her performance-artist boyfriend off as the Eighth Wonder of the World. Granted, the guy had some nice tattoos—”

  The Assistant Director looked up from her notes and frowned at Talbot. “Tattoos? Are you talking about that woman Jamal showed out?”

  “Uh—yeah. Did you see them?”

  “They walked right past me! And whatever that guy was, he sure wasn’t tattooed! I mean, it was kind of hard to get a good look, what with the dreadlocks and all, but those were ritual scars he had all over him—you know, like African shamans or Australian aborigines...”

  “Dreadlocks—?” Talbot laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t know who you were looking at, but the guy I’m talking about didn’t ha
ve any hair at all! He had this big yin-yang symbol tattooed on his skull...”

  “I saw Jamal escorting two women out of the building earlier, but I didn’t see any guy at all—black, tattooed or otherwise. There was a woman dressed in black jeans and a motorcycle jacket, and then there was the Chinese woman in the black duster,” the Head Writer said as he picked at his cardboard container of fried rice.

  “Chinese woman? Are you sure about that?”

  “I think I’d recognize someone from my own ethnic group, don’t you? Surely you couldn’t have missed her, Carl! After all, she was topless under that coat!”

  Spanner’s shit-eating grin had disappeared, replaced by a far less amiable scowl. “Wait a minute, Carl—how many nuts did you have escorted out of the building today?”

  “Just those two, I swear, Terry! I have no idea what they’re talking about—!”

  Although the Executive Producer had remained silent throughout the exchange, his gaze was now directly on Talbot, who felt his stomach tighten as a bead of sweat raced down his back and into the crack of his ass. He’d never felt very comfortable around the Executive Producer. There was something—strange—about the man. Not that he ever did or said anything untoward. But Talbot couldn’t escape the feeling that there was something very unpleasant going on behind those unnaturally dark, glittering eyes. When the Executive Producer finally spoke, Talbot flinched as if he’d been struck.

  “Did you get the young lady’s name, Talbot?”

  “Y-yes, Mr. Meresin! She filled out the standard forms! They should still be with the receptionist.”

  “Good. Very good.”

  Meresin smiled and Talbot quickly looked away, for fear of what he might see looking out from behind his boss’s eyes.

  Luckily for Lucy and Joth it was still early in the day and the subway car was relatively uncrowded. Lucy sat on the hard plastic bench and stared forlornly at the bilingual placards advertising wart removal, warning about AIDS, and posing the eternal question: Hammertoes?

  All her fantasies of multimillion-dollar marketing deals, licensed T-shirts and being interviewed by Larry King had disappeared as quickly as they had arrived—but taking more than mere high expectations with them. What good was it to have an angel no one else could see for what it truly was? She might as well have stumbled across a singing and dancing bullfrog, for all the good it did her. She glanced over at Joth, who was openly staring at the faces of the other riders in the car as only small children and the utterly mad are wont to do. She quickly leaned over and nudged the angel in the ribs with her elbow.