The Angel Alejandro

by Alistair Cross

  And that required a mix of colors that made Rebecca feel more like a mad scientist than a stylist at the color bar.

  She returned to the chair and began slathering the purple formula upon Ms. Fontoya’s head, making sympathetic noises as the woman regaled her with a thorough report of Bill and Mr. Whiskers’ latest trip to the groomers.

  The women straightened and went silent when Howard Blackburn, president of Prominence Bank and Trust, entered the salon, and asked if Ms. Vang might squeeze him in for a trim.

  Rosemary Hess, Lena Harding, and Diana Stout all agreed that Howard could go before them. It wasn’t as if they had anything else to do, after all.

  “I’m just about finished with Cloris,” said Ms. Vang.

  “What?” asked Cloris.

  Ms. Vang placed a hand on her shoulder, bent close, and spoke loudly. “I was telling Howard that you’re just about done.”

  Cloris nodded, and inspected her hair in the mirror. It looked no different as far as Rebecca could tell.

  As she worked the color into Lynita’s hair, Rebecca was alarmed to realize she could smell Mr. Blackburn’s aftershave over the chemical fumes of dye. Howard took a seat next to Rosemary Hess, who eyed his suit and black greased-back hair with admiration. She did a lot of smiling and leaning as they talked, and Rebecca hoped she never lived to be so old that she considered a man like Howard Blackburn a hottie. He had the look of a guy who’d been handsome thirty years ago, and still hadn’t accepted the ravages of age. Rebecca and Ms. Vang knew his hair wasn’t naturally so black, but had never colored it themselves. Rebecca figured dying his hair was an indignity he preferred to do at home. If he was going to insist on continuing the charade, however, she wished he’d consider a more natural shade than shoe-polish black.

  Ms. Vang finished up Cloris and as Mr. Blackburn took a seat in the chair, another man walked in - one that Rebecca had never seen before - and if Rosemary and her ladies thought Mr. Blackburn was a catch, they must have been gushing in their panties at this guy.

  His panther-black hair tumbled past his broad shoulders, pulling all eyes to the open V of his white poet’s shirt, which revealed smooth, tanned skin over the bulk of chest muscles that notified onlookers that he worked out. A lot. Tight, black pants hugged his physique, sending a thrill of carnal heat through Rebecca’s body. His face was just as stunning, his features exotic, Greek perhaps. She smiled. “Hi. I have an appointment …”

  “Oh,” said Ms. Vang. “You must be Mr. …?”

  Rosemary and her legion watched as the man strutted toward Ms. Vang and held out a hand. “Lombardo. But, please, call me Corson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  They shook and Ms. Vang said, “Rebecca’s almost finished. Have a seat and she’ll be right with you.”

  Rebecca’s heart was a clumsy acrobat in her chest. Me? The women in the waiting area made no complaints. They knew that appointments trumped walk-ins, and Ms. Vang had told them that someone from the new nightclub had an appointment - that’s why they were here. And this must be the guy.

  But why do I have to do him? She blushed. She’d never been in such close proximity to this caliber of male beauty and suddenly worried about ruining his hair. She knew Ms. Vang frowned on making scheduled clients wait, so she hurried and lathered the rest of the dye into Lynita’s hair and ushered her to a different chair while the dye did its work.

  “I’m ready for you, Mr., uh, Corson.” Rebecca’s voice seemed a bellow in the uncharacteristically silent room. “Would you like a wash?”

  “No, thank you. I just washed it.” He stood, smiling as he made his way to her chair, unconscious to - or ignoring - the stares that followed him.

  In the mirror, Howard Blackburn - no doubt bitter about relinquishing his title as the hunkiest man present - cast a narrow-eyed glare as Corson was seated.

  Rebecca’s tongue felt dry as tree bark as she spread the black cape over him and lifted his hair - it was like silk! - and fastened it. All eyes were on the two of them, and Rebecca felt a kind of performance anxiety she hadn’t experienced since beauty school, when she’d given her first haircut in front of the class. She cleared her throat and spoke to the man’s mirrored reflection. “What are we doing for you today?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing drastic. Just half an inch off the ends.”

  There was a collective sigh of relief and Evelyn Vang put a hand to her chest. “Thank God,” she said. “Your hair is just so … gorgeous! I was terrified you might ask us to cut it off!”

  “And lose all my strength like Samson?” Corson Lombardo flashed a beamer. “No way.”

  The women of the salon giggled. Howard Blackburn groaned.

  “What?” called Cloris Riddley, who’d obviously left her hearing aids at home again.

  Rebecca dampened his hair and combed through it, struck by its dark and humid scent. Like fresh rain on smoldering coals. She retrieved her scissors and as she began trimming, Rosemary Hess spoke up. “So, Mr. Lombardo. You’re staying at the old church rectory, I hear.”

  In the mirror, his gaze slid toward her. “Yes, I am.” His voice was low, as rich and smooth as devil’s food cake, and Rebecca thought for a moment she could taste it on her tongue.

  Ms. Hess patted her dyed puff of rust-colored hair, recrossed her bony legs, smoothed her silky royal blue skirt like the town matriarch she thought she was, and closed her magazine. “How fascinating. What brings you to our community?”

  “We just fell in love with the location. Prominence is so charming, don’t you all agree?” In the mirror, he flashed the women a handsome smile.

  Several heads nodded, Howard Blackburn grunted, Cloris Riddley strained forward to hear, and Rebecca wondered where on earth the man must have come from to be charmed by a place like Prominence.

  His dark lively gaze cut to Rebecca’s. “We come from Moonfall. Have you ever been?”

  It was as if he’d read her mind. It chilled her. Rebecca shook her head, looked quickly away.

  Rosemary Hess plowed on. “We’ve gathered that it’s a nightclub. But what kind?”

  “Marion Busby says it’s a supper club!” Cloris Riddley’s voice shrilled through the room.

  Corson Lombardo laughed, deep and growly and sexy. “I’m afraid Ms. Busby is misinformed.”

  “I heard it’s going to be a comedy club.” Diana Stout’s chair groaned as she leaned forward, her plump fingers fidgeting in her lap. “Is it?”

  Rosemary Hess rolled her eyes.

  “I told you it was a supper club!” called Cloris.

  “He said it’s NOT a supper club!” hollered Rosemary.

  “What?” yelled Cloris.

  Lynita Fontoya’s purple wet head swiveled one way then the other as the women argued.

  “Well, it’s obviously some sort of entertainment club,” said Lena Harding, batting her eyes and looking every bit the proverbial blond bimbo.

  Corson laughed. “It looks like we have a winner, ladies.”

  Howard Blackburn coughed into his fist.

  “And gentleman,” added Corson with a nod.

  Mr. Blackburn straightened, looking pleased.

  Lena fingered the ends of her bleached bobbed hair. “The signs all over town certainly haven’t been any help! All they said was to come for a devilishly good time.” She touched her tongue to her lip. “So what kind of entertainment do you provide?”

  “I hope you’ll forgive all the questions,” said Evelyn Vang. “We don’t see many new businesses around here.”

  Corson shrugged. “Not at all.” Smiling, he looked at each woman in turn. “As for what kind of entertainment, you’ll just have to come and find out. The doors open at eight. And I fully expect to see all of you young ladies there.” He winked. There was some girlish giggling that made Rebecca feel a bit sick. Old ladies should not giggle at gorgeous guys half their age. Ever.

  “Well, I don’t know about young,” said Diana Stout.

  “Or ladies, for that matter,”
added Lena Harding, practically salivating.

  “Speak for yourselves,” said Rosemary Hess. “Some of us are ladies.” She straightened her skirt and recrossed her knobby knees.

  “Well,” said Corson. “We’ll certainly find out tonight, won’t we?” His voice was deep, dark, and daring, nearly pornographic.

  An erotic current saturated the air, as palpable as the electrical charge during a lightning storm. Rebecca herself felt aroused, her skin tightening and tingling. The world was on pause ... and then Howard Blackburn cleared his throat - a noise that sounded like a fork caught in a garbage disposal.

  Evelyn Vang said, “Oh! Sorry, Howard!” She was staring at the back of his head.

  She’d cut it too short and Rebecca spotted his gray roots. She’d never seen Ms. Vang off her game before, not ever, and could only assume that she, too, was flustered. “How are you doing over there, Lynita?” asked Ms. Vang, her voice a little unsteady.

  “Oh, fine,” said she of the purple hair, and her eyes, like everyone else’s, were on Corson.

  He smiled at Rebecca and she blushed. Though she had no clue what kind of place it was, there was no way she was going to miss opening night at the new club.

  Roads Best Left Untraveled

  It was a slow day and at four o’clock, Nick Grayson left the station and cruised the town. After making sure no crimes were being committed, he went home to indulge in a nice hot soak in the tub before the A.A. meeting at St. John’s tonight.

  He ran the water as hot as he could stand it and lowered himself in - which was no graceful feat given the dainty size of the tub. Women could complain all they wanted about cupboards being too high but bathtubs clearly hadn’t been built with men in mind, so the injustice went both ways.

  No sooner had his bare ass touched bottom than some jackass began hammering on his front door. He considered not answering but worried it might be an emergency. He stood, slapped the water off with a towel, yanked up his jeans and threw on a T-shirt.

  The man on the other side of the spy-hole was no one Nick had seen before. He was balding, wearing a light jacket and holding something Nick couldn’t make out. He opened the door and stared.

  “Oh, uh, hello, there!” The man was no more than five-foot-five, mid-to-late forties, overweight - especially around the midsection. He held a large fruit basket.

  Nick stared.

  “We haven’t met, not in 3-D, anyway.” The round man laughed, a machine-gun series of high-pitched notes. “I’m Jeffrey Gimple.”

  Nick recognized the grating, staccato laugh from their phone calls before he’d moved to Prominence. The landlord. “Of course. Nice to officially meet you.” He shook his hand and opened the door for him.

  “I meant to welcome you sooner, but I haven’t been feeling well.” He touched his stomach and pulled a face, then held out the basket. “This is for you.”

  Nick took the fruit basket and set it on the coffee table. “Thank you.”

  Jeffrey sat on the sofa and made himself at home, his eyes roaming the room as if in search of lease violations. He sniffed. “I’ve been blowing my guts out from both ends since late last week, but it seems to be letting up, so … here I am!” Another god-awful laugh.

  Nick made a mental note to toss the fruit promptly upon the chubby landlord’s departure. His hands look clean, but e-coli happens. He took a seat on the other sofa.

  “How do you like it so far?”

  “Not bad at all. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No, I’d better not. What with my stomach and all.” He paused. “Well, maybe just one cup won’t hurt.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Gimple followed him into the kitchen, beady eyes roaming. “Doesn’t look like you’ve moved much in yet.”

  Grayson scooped grounds into the machine. “I left most of my stuff in Crimson Cove. I brought a grill, that’s about it.” He glanced at the coffeemaker. “And that, of course.”

  “And the posters.” Gimple seemed put off by the Hitchcock art. Well, I’m glad someone’s getting some use out of this old furniture, anyway.”

  The smell of coffee infiltrated the room as it dripped into the carafe. Nick thought of his bath, slowly going cold without him.

  “Looks like the wallpaper is starting to peel again.” Gimple waddled toward the wall and smoothed a hand over the edges where it curled up. Beneath it, Nick saw what looked like even uglier wallpaper.

  “If you just put a little glue on that, it’ll last a long time.”

  Nick handed the landlord a steaming cup of coffee. “I’ll remember that.” He wanted to ask about the gecko-green drapes, but knew there was no point. He had one question, though. He thought of the word he’d seen on the mirror: REMEMBER - and asked, “Has anyone died in this house?”

  Gimple snorted into his coffee. “Oh, heavens, no … of course not. Why?”

  Nick shrugged. “Just curious.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t think the house is … haunted. We’ve had half a dozen tenants here since I bought the place. No complaints. You don’t believe in ghosts, do you, Chief Grayson?”

  “Of course not. I’m just curious.” He used his friendly cop voice.

  There was a long awkward silence.

  Nick sipped coffee.

  Jeffrey Gimple’s stomach grumbled, roiled, and rolled. “Do you have any other questions about the house?” He drained his cup and stood, looking pale. “The stove’s a real dinosaur, but I haven’t had any complaints. Also, I’m sure you’ve noticed the icemaker in the freezer is broken. The repairman is coming next week. Of course, I’m sure I already mentioned all this ... ”

  Nick smiled. “Nothing I’m too worried about.”

  “Well, then, I suppose I should be on my way. I just thought I’d come and officially introduce myself.”

  “It’s a great place, and I appreciate you renting it out to me.” Nick stood, but didn’t offer a handshake.

  “Oh, of course, of course. And thank you for the coff-” He paused, a look of alarm on his face. “Oh, dear. I think I need to use the bathroom.”

  “Of course.”

  The plump little man tight-cheeked it from the room.

  At first, Nick thought this might be the landlord’s way of snooping around the house unsupervised, but the unspeakable noises emerging from the bathroom confirmed that the emergency was real. Nick sighed and sat back down, no appetite left for coffee or anything else. And there goes my bath. No way was he going near that bathroom for at least an hour, except to turn on the fan and open the window.

  As he waited for Gimple to finish his indelicate business, Nick wondered about ghosts and hauntings. Is it possible? No way. He’d caught glimpses of those ghost-hunting shows on TV and seen nothing but a bunch of fools catering to an even more foolish audience. Ridiculous. When you’re dead, you’re dead. Poof. Like a light. Right?

  Right. Ghosts, my ass. There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for the noises, the footsteps - the mirror.

  Right.

  * * *

  “I do not want you to go.” Alejandro stood at the window, his back to Madison.

  With a nauseating fog of hairspray and perfume, Dette had rendered the bathroom unbearable so Madison sat on the couch, staring into a compact mirror applying makeup.

  She didn’t want to go to the new club any more than Alejandro wanted her to. “I told you I wouldn’t be long. People are still too curious about you, so you can’t come with us.” And a break from you would be nice. She almost felt like she should hire a babysitter.

  “I did not say I wanted to go with you. I said I did not want you to go.”

  Madison dusted her eyelids with smoky shadow. “Don’t you think it’ll be nice to have a few hours to yourself? You can read or watch TV, whatever you want. Even Family Feud or Tomorrow’s Singing Stars. And there’s plenty of honey for you to eat. But please, use a spoon.”

  Alejandro turned around and Madison felt the change in atmosphere. The air
seemed heavier, the room colder. “I do not want honey.” He spoke in a deep measured tone. “I do not want you to go.” His eyes were dark, storm-gray rather than silver, and his hands flexed into fists at his side. “There is something wrong there - in that church. I do not want you to go.”

  His tone put Madison on edge. His sudden possessiveness didn’t sit well. She didn’t like being controlled and it was time to lay down some rules. “I’m going, Alejandro. You can either sit here and enjoy yourself, or sit here and be pissed off.” She spoke carefully, with a sternness that left no room for argument.

  His jaw flexed and his eyes went even darker. In the kitchen, silverware rattled in drawers.

  Madison’s breath caught. Another quake?

  Alejandro’s mouth became a tight line. “That place is ... bad.” Plumes of frost punctuated his words and Madison, stunned, watched the vapor clouds dissolve.

  “What the hell?”

  Dette emerged from the bathroom, shattering the tension. “Well, what do you think?” She spun around, showing off an outfit that made her look like a mob-wife. Despite all the makeup, she looked tired as her gaze flicked between Madison and Alejandro. “Whoa. What’s going on out here?”

  “Nothing.” Madison spoke a little too fast. “I was just reminding Alejandro not to answer the door.” She stood and smoothed her blue tunic, trying not to think about what she’d just seen. Or were my eyes playing tricks? She shook her head. “Stay inside. I don’t want you on the roof. I’ll be back in an hour.” She swiped her purse off the coffee table and grabbed her keys. “Let’s go, Dette.”

  At the door, Madison paused. “Alejandro, I mean it. Do not answer the phone or door for anyone, and stay inside, away from the windows. Eric Cooterman is still hanging around and if he realizes you’re here alone, he’ll be all over you.”