Under Angels: Chapter B

January 15, 2009

Under Angels
by Jace D. Albao (b. 1969)

Besides the faces, the diner hadn’t changed in half a century. It was the only one Pete would frequent, walking distance from the house, where the city meets the sea. Open before sunrise, the joint was a breakfast hot-spot for a blue-collar community of fishermen, longshoremen, and construction workers. It always smelled of sausage.

Rip Greamer was lanky and ageless. He sat in the booth closest to the door, dressed down in a black hooded sweatshirt with a black unlabeled baseball cap pulled down low over vaguely shaded thick-rimmed glasses. Stirring black coffee with a knife, he sat quietly with his cell phone, pushing buttons in a smooth fury.

Pete slid into the old vinyl booth. He breathed through his mouth, looking straight across the table at Greamer, not daring to catch a whiff of the putrid breath he knew better than yesterday. Hellish.

“I’ve found the entrance.” Pete pressed his back into the padded booth, trying to gain another inch or two of precious space between himself and the creature.

Greamer continued pushing the buttons of his phone with demon-like proficiency, glaring down on his quiet handheld business.

“That’s what you said last time, Sergeant.”

“This time I’ve got it. Puzzle solved. Reverse my choice.”

“Man never reverses his choice,” said Greamer, not looking up. His abrasive voice was so thick Pete could almost see it. “Resolve, his journey’s key.”

Pete didn’t hear him.

“My dog’s outside. We’re ready to go.”

Greamer set his phone down and looked up with a flat coated smile. Pete couldn’t even tell where one yellow tooth ended and the next one began.

“You haven’t aged an hour,” Greamer said emptily. “So where is it?”

“Not where,” Pete clarified.

Greamer grinned ugliness, surprised. Clearly pleased.

“It’s when,” said Pete. “I know when the tunnel entrance is. Two-twenty-five.”

Greamer slapped his hard palm on the table, silverware rattling, coffee splashing on his knuckles.

“Not bad, Sergeant. Not bad at all.”

Greamer wiped the spilled coffee from the tabletop with his sleeve, holding up his mug like a crooked best man proposing a toast.

“A regular Sherlock Holmes. And you’ve gone in? You’ve seen the tunnels?”

Greamer sipped his coffee.

“Well, no,” said Pete, “But I found the entrance. I can tell you where to be, and when to be there.”

Greamer hissed, shaking his head. “Finding the entrance is only part of it, Sergeant. You know that. Only when you go into the tunnels will you complete our agreement.”

Pete thought he could see Greamer’s eyes celebrating.

“You never said anything about me going in.”

“Did I have to?” Greamer gulped down the rest of the scalding hot coffee in one shot. “You’re not finding these tunnels for me, Durante.”

Pete said nothing.

Greamer slammed his empty mug on the table. His sleepless eyes, dark as sin, steamed through his glasses and looked right through Pete. “Getting warmer, Sergeant. Finish what you started, solve the mystery. I’ll be waiting for you, and our deal will be closed.”

Pete said nothing, watching the butter melt.

Greamer reached into his pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope. Branded into the envelope, inkless:

PETER DURANTE

Greamer’s bony finger slid the envelope across the table.

“What’s this one?” Pete asked.

“Final instructions.” Greamer exhaled a stream of gaseous filth across the table.

Pete grimaced. “Instructions?”

“You’ll understand when you see me again,” said Greamer. “And you will see me again, Sergeant. I assure you. Turn repeated. Your choice and your journey are about to collide.”

Greamer looked back down to his cell phone, continuing his other business.

“And for what it’s worth,” Greamer continued, “I must say I sympathize with your losses.”

Pete stared at the envelope.

“Like Hell you do.”

Greamer looked up. He smirked, amused.

“Trust me, Sergeant. I don’t lie.”

“Fine,” Pete said coldly. “I’ll go in. Tonight. But then we’re done with this tunnel horseshit. Forever. No more rainy day games.”

Greamer laughed. “I’m not one to breach an agreement.”

Pete couldn’t disagree. He knew Greamer was a creature of his word, despite his trickery.

“I always admired your resolve, Sergeant,” Greamer said, leaning forward, tapping the envelope on the table. “Your journey’s key.”

Greamer stood up from the booth, taller than Pete remembered.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, Sergeant Durante, I have a quota to meet.”

And with that, Pete sat alone at the table. He picked up the envelope.