Angel Flights

01

Summer 1974

The dark of night in Los Angeles is never black. The city lights had long turned the black to dark shades of gray. The city never slept entirely, and the best the night sky could do was temper the glowing ember of the city. The shades of gray in the night were much like the searing sunset turned to shades of fool’s gold instead of the purity of golden light.

Night or day, Los Angeles was not a city of black and white but shades of gray—some darker, some lighter, and not all was what it seemed to be.

The late June heat didn’t help. The city’s concrete and asphalt held the heat of the summer sun.

The curtains hung lifelessly in the front bedroom of the small pink stucco bungalow. Only a nod to privacy or dark. Even they were slightly parted—hoping for air movement if a faint breeze was possible. The night air hung—dead.

The cast metal phone on the nightstand mumbled through the cotton balls stuffed between the bell and the casing. Both the wall phone in the kitchen and the desk phone in the office rang a half-heartbeat after.

The large mass of bodies moved under the sheet. The thick outsized shoulder started to roll but was stopped. The phone rang again. Gabe growled. Damn it, Gertie—get off me. The shape slithered off the large man and retreated to the other side of the bed.

Gabe rolled over at the third ring and looked at the softly lit numbers on the clock. The two flipped over to a three. Three twenty-three... already arrested. He grabbed the handpiece off the cradle. Hello?

The cheery voice of an operator twittered in his ear. I have a collect call from Amelia Burns. Do you wish to accept the charges?

Which precinct is she calling from?

I’m sorry, sir... what did you say?

Gabe growled to clear his throat. I said which precinct is she calling from? Which jail?

Oh... Oh, she’s not in jail...

Gabe heard a small voice he hadn’t heard in four years... and never expected to hear again.

Angel...? Angel... it... it’s Cricket. I need your help. The last word broke into a wailing cry.

Sir?

Gabe’s mind was instantly clear. His legs swung over the edge of the bed as his left hand reached out for the chain on the lamp. Operator, I’ll accept the charges, but I need you to stay on the line a moment. He had not heard this voice in four years, but the code name Angel galvanized his heart.

Yes, sir?

I know you can tell me the address where she is. I need the information.

Sir, I’m not at liberty—

Gabe cut her off. I’m a former LAPD officer, and now an officer of the court. This is one of my street informants we lost a while back. Her life is in danger, and I need your help. If you need to kick this up to your supervisor... then I suggest you get them right now—because I also know, even at three in the morning, they are standing right behind you.

A deeper, huskier woman’s voice cut in. Sir, I have you listed as Gabriel Street at 471 Stockton Street.

Yes, ma’am. I’m a special investigator attached to the US Attorney General’s office here in L.A.

Yes, sir. I would like to give you an exact location, but unfortunately, she is in Artesia. The best I can tell you is she is about a half mile southwest of the 405 freeway. From the phone number series, I would say she is on Artesia Boulevard. Does that help?

You have the phone number?

Yes, sir. 555-7812.

Thank you. I’ll take it from here. He could hear the crying had subsided.

Good luck, sir. He could hear the audible click of the operator disconnecting.

Cricket?

Angel?

Sweetie, I need you to tell me exactly where you are. Where is the phone booth?

It’s a Shell gas station. I’m on a big street.

Can you see a street sign?

Not here, but let me go look...

Cricket...no. Do not leave the phone booth.

Okay.

Listen, I’m coming to get you... but it’s going to take a while. So there’s some stuff I need you to do first. He grabbed his jeans from the bed and pulled them up one leg.

Okay... what? Her voice was starting to become more stable.

What shoes are you wearing?

Penny loafers... We were just coming down to hang out on the pier...

The light in the phone booth, can you see the light, or is it in a plastic shield?

Her voice strained. He imagined her neck stretching as she looked up. There is a plastic thing, but it’s broken... I can see the light bulb.

Okay. Do you have anything you can use to break the light bulb?

The phone...

He pulled a sock on as he cradled the phone on his shoulder. Nah, the cord is purposely cut too short to... He heard the phone being used as a club and glass shattering. My mistake.

Now what?

Good girl. Now comes the hard part. I have to hang up for a few minutes, but I’m going to call you right back. Okay?

Angel?

Baby, I’ll call you back in less than ten minutes. Wait... how many lanes does the street have?

Six...

Artesia. What is across the street?

A bunch of small stores.

What are they?

A barber, a locksmith, a picture framer, and a dog grooming place—

What is the name of the dog groomer? He reached to the bottom shelf of the nightstand and pulled up the yellow page book.

It says Katie’s Pampered Puppy Palace.

Gabe scanned the listings. He underlined the small listing on Artesia Boulevard. Got it—Cricket, you’re my hero. If you have a watch, I’ll call you back in five minutes, ten tops.

Her voice started to crack. Okay, Angel.

Baby, it’s going to be just fine. We made it through a worse time before—this is just a piece of cake. When we hang up, I need you to squat down and hide in the dark until I call. Okay?

Okay.

Great... Oh, are you wearing pants?

No... a skirt and blouse.

Okay. I’ll call you right back.

The click on the other end made Gabe’s stomach lurch. He dialed a number he had known by heart since he moved into the little house in El Sereno—three months after leaving the Marine Corps.

Desk.

Stan, it’s Gabe.

Hey, Gabe. How’s the meat grind downtown?

I’ll let you know the day I actually have to go there. Listen, I need two huge favors. First, I need a jumpsuit for a trustee, or if you have a regular one, even better. If it’s your wife’s size—it’ll be perfect.

You don’t know my wife... she’s almost the size of you.

Wrong, Stan. I met her at the funeral last fall. I need to have someone run it over while I pull out my bike.

Gabe could hear the watch commander yell at one of the cops hanging around the station. Gabe, it’s coming. What’s the second thing?

I need you to call the precinct that handles this address in Artesia. He gave the sergeant the address. It’s across from a Shell station. There is a young girl in the phone booth at the gas station. She is waiting for me. I need one car to go and sit where she can see them but not approach her. She won’t open the door until she sees me.

The man was thinking, and the silence stretched. Got it. Are you going to hang on while I make the call?

I’ve gotta run as soon as the jumpsuit gets here. Stan—we go way back... I know I can trust you.

Should I warn them what you look like?

Gabe ran his hand through his curls, flowing down to his massive shoulders. Yeah, I guess you better. Warn them about the bike, too... Artesia is a touchy area when it comes to bikers.

I get off in thirty. Is the kitchen light on?

The coffee is never off, and there is always too much food in the fridge—but if you stick around for a second cup, you won’t be sleeping this morning.

Can I bring you anything?

A whole chicken for Gertie; I haven’t cooked anything for three days.

How does she like it?

Raw—but I’ve only seen her take it from a few people other than me.

I’ll just bring some stuff, and when you get back with the girl, we can have breakfast. I’m sure this is going to be a good story.

Thanks, man. I owe you. Gabe hung up and slipped his feet into the tall engineer boots. Grabbing his leather jacket, he went to the closet and pulled out a smaller one as well.

Walking through the kitchen, he smiled at the famous light over the kitchen sink. The commercial coffee maker showed half-full. He slipped out the back door and stepped over to the old garage sized for a Model A.

In the garage was his mass of black and chrome. Only in the light did the dark paint show the red flames there in the clear coat. Under the fluorescent lights of the boulevards, the mother of pearl radiated in the reds and pinks, making the flames dance. The oversized 1968 Shovelhead Harley was his latest bike—the fifth since he had left the Marines.

The bike rumbled to life. The neighbors were used to the quiet man coming and going at odd hours. His doings were his own, and nobody got nosey—they were positive they did not want to know the answers.

As Gabe closed the door to the garage, a police cruiser slid to a stop at the end of the driveway. Gabe walked down as he let the bike warm up. He retrieved the jumpsuit and reminded the cop that coffee was brewed. The car moved back, and the light went off as Gabe rode the bike down the drive. At the street, Gabe pulled on his gloves and slid the green-tinted glasses down onto his face. He nodded thanks as the officer closed his car door. The cop’s hand held his paperwork.

Gabe turned down the street and headed for Mission Boulevard. The freeway entrance was three miles away. Cricket was only fifty-three miles away.

But where their story began was a lifetime ago.

02

Seven Years Earlier

His last few years had been spent mainly in a Marine gymnasium in the frozen asshole of humanity America claimed as a state. Now Gabe sat hulking at the end of a grim bar.

The inside of the bar was no better than the outside, where Gabe had walked past for years on his way to school as a kid. He was sure the barflies from his youth had long since died and were replaced by younger ones—but the men along the bar this particular afternoon looked just as old as the last set he had seen about four years before.

The bartender quietly polished a line of beer glasses before storing them in the cooler. The painted blue letters of the sign on the front window were snow-covered—ICE COLD BEER. Even for a kid who didn’t shave yet, the words seemed inviting when the concrete felt like molten lava through a pair of worn-out, cast-off flip-flops.

The bartender flipped the towel over his shoulder and made his way down the bar. The man’s movements spoke of physical agility years before his middle turned to gut and the rest had settled.

The bartender leaned on the bar with his arms at spread angles. He took in the haircut and the heavy load of upper-body muscle. From personal experience, he knew this kind of muscle mass came from only a few places. Where did you just get out of?

Gabe hated being transparent, but he also recognized someone who made their living sizing people up. Marine Corps.

The man smiled softly and straightened up a little. He stuck his hand out. Squid. Gunner’s mate on the Mighty Mo. The name is Chet. Let me buy you a beer, leatherneck.

They shook. There was no animosity so fabled in bars between the two branches. Gabriel, Gabe—Master at Arms. My last base was Adak.

Chet laughed. His large belly bounced like a giant yo-yo. From the frozen asshole of the world to the stinking armpit—what brings you to Alhambra?

I grew up about four blocks from here. I walked past here on my way to school every day.

Folks still here? The man shaved the head off the beer with a knife. Gabe smiled at how the knife was a military KA-BAR.

Mom is. Dad passed away a couple of years ago.

Chet put down a coaster and placed the beer on it. I’m sorry to hear.

It was a blessing, really. He was in Luzon during the second. He came home pretty messed up and never was really healthy after, so Mom mostly carried the load. She’s a librarian and tutors kids how to read—every night. The survivor benefits are more now than he ever scratched out in a paycheck as a sweep or night guard somewhere he could sleep. Most of my memories of my father were of him sleeping.

A lot of bodies came home, but not the men.

Chet leaned against the back bar and crossed his arms against the horror of old buddies long gone. He turned and looked at the future. So what are you going to do now?

Gabe shrugged. I got home last night...

And decided to immediately hit the local watering hole. Chet rolled his body to face straighter, and his voice dropped. If your ambition is to be one of these alcoholics who spend their lives here... I don’t need your business.

Gabe nodded at the honesty of the man whose living he made off the regulars. Then he laughed lightly.

Actually, I came in because I had heard you have good homemade soup. He looked at his untouched beer and then looked up shyly. I don’t really drink beer... I’m more of a coffee kind of guy.

The bartender smiled and picked up the beer. He carried it down to one of the rummies at the other end. He strolled back to the Crock Pot. Taking a large bowl, he ladled out some beef stew.

Stopping, Chet poured a tall mug of coffee and held up the creamer toward Gabe. With a shake of the head, he returned the cream to the cooler and brought the meal and coffee.

Corned beef stew—my grandmother’s recipe. I only get the best beef. The stew is only free three times—your first bowl, the day you get an honest, respectable job, and at your wake. For you, the coffee is always on the house.

Thanks, Chet. Hopefully, I’ll be back for the next bowl soon. He ran his face with closed eyes and dramatically took a long sniff.

Just like your mama made.

Gabe laughed. Fat chance there. Mom never had time to cook like this. Our soup was Mrs. Campbells.

There are worse ways to grow up...

Very true, Chet... very true.

Chet tended to the others as Gabe enjoyed the stew. True to his word, the beef was lean and tender. Gabe thought he needed to find a good job.

The job landed in front of him. The want ads from the day’s Times. Chet had circled the ad. Gabe looked up.

Chet leaned in. I know people in a lot of precincts. You can go see them, or I’ll bring them here. You meet them, they get to know you, and they put in the word.

Gabe reread the ad as he chewed. He wiped his mouth. This is a general hiring call for the LAPD. They’ll have a thousand guys lined up down there.

Chet stabbed his finger at the ad. Either you aren’t as smart as I thought you were, or you don’t know shit about ads and how things work. The ad there—is nothing more than a billboard saying they have the money to hire new officers. It doesn’t say where. I know Alhambra and Pasadena are both hurting for good officers. South Pasadena may also have openings, but they are so tight-lipped a mouse can’t find even a whisper of cheese in the deli aisle.

Gabe laughed. The man was warming up, and Gabe liked his style. They talked about the military, policing in the coldest place on earth, and growing up in two very different generations but in the same town. Chet even knew the house where Gabe had grown up.

Most of the old men along the bar stayed in place, nursed their drinks, and stared at the air or the television. A couple left and was soon replaced by the later shift of three. Gabe watched Chet’s spare movements up and down the bar. The customers varied, but basically, it was a fifty-cent draft beer here and a buckshot there.

Over the course of the day, Gabe figured, it all added up.

As Chet was looking after one of the men, the door opened for just a brief moment. The spry older man was rail thin but a lot more limber. He gained his vision and headed for the bar.

Hey, Willie. What are you doing in the bottomlands?

As the man came closer, Gabe could see a large scar covering most of the man’s throat. Dropping an old bike and maybe picking up another car. How have you been? The man took a seat as he nodded at Gabe. It was at this moment Gabe could see the jagged scar had ripped its way up the side of the man’s neck to the left ear.

Chet stopped for another cup of coffee on his way down the bar. He put it down and nodded at Gabe. Captain William Knight, retired—meet Marine MP Gabe Street—newly retired.

The slender man leaned on the bar and extended his hand. Good to meet another enforcement person.

Gabe shook but frowned. You don’t look like Shore Patrol.

The man chuckled sardonically, Not patrol, Naval Intelligence after the Seals wouldn’t let me go play anymore. He ran the back of his finger along his neck.

Can I ask?

Sure, we’re among friends. My squad was a bit north of where we were supposed to be. I put up with hanging around for four days, took care of the problem, and seventeen days later, my boys were home where we belonged.

Chet harrumphed. With most of the old guys around here, the story gets grander with each telling. He turned to Gabe. After getting off the meat hook he had been hung on and killing all of the camp guards, he led his men and a bunch more into the jungle. It was a hundred twenty miles to the DMZ. He got them there in seventeen days.

Willie grumped. Kilometers. It was only a hundred and eighteen kilometers. Them klicks are a lot shorter than miles.

They still put you in for a commendation.

Willie fluffed his hand at the air. Whatever floats their boat—the puffy blue ribbon looks better on their record behind a desk than around my neck. I’ve got my glory scarf.

Gabe looked at the man who had just dismissed the greatest honor to be handed to a soldier. He knew the man ran a lot deeper than his keel was showing.

Chet looked at his friend, So what are you buying now?

I’m looking for something around a 1963 Dodge Dart GT. I want to stick a 340 or at least a 318 in it. Maddie wants to see what we can do up in the northern counties. We think we can bracket it about nine flat or just above.

Have you talked to Manny’s kid?

I called over there. He’s serving in Germany right now, and Manny only knew of a couple of guys. So I’ll be around and looking for a while. He looked over at the empty bowl in front of Gabe. Looks like the jarhead hated the soup today—I’ll have the same.

Coming right up. He called back over his shoulder, Hey, Gabe, how are you getting around?

Thumb or a bus—until I can find something cheap.

Willie looked at him. Know how to ride a motorcycle?

We had some Harleys down at Pendleton and a Jap 200 with ice tires up in Adak.

I know where a 1937 Knucklehead is... one nobody will touch because it was converted to a Panhead bottom-end with foot shift.

Why would it bother anyone?

It shouldn’t—it’s the fact the thing is blown out to ninety-two inches and has a high lope cam. The bike will hit about one-forty in a quarter mile.

Why are they selling it?

It’s too slow. Willie buried his smile in the first spoon of stew.

Chet leaned in. I heard that, you old bastard. You are evil. The man survived the Corps, and now you want to put him on a killing machine?

Who is selling it?

My girlfriend.

Chet barked a laugh. She’s nothing but a young girl, but she is a piece of work. She and your mama have something in common.

What’s that?

They both know crazy people, and they both are librarians.

Gabe smiled. He wanted to meet this librarian who owned a fast motorcycle.

Where do I go to see the bike?

Willie jerked his thumb back over his shoulder toward the street.

The bike was strapped down in the back of an old Studebaker truck. The un-muffled exhaust pipe Gabe was used to seeing around the military bases. The bike looked basically stock—just stripped of everything that made it street legal.

Do you have the rest of the parts?

The three laughed. The bike was not much—other than a tiny seat on an engine with wheels and a gas tank.

Willie looked at Chet. You think Roscoe is home?

Chet nodded like he was drifting off to sleep. Gabe had the impression the man was not only conveying the affirmative but was also evaluating the idea of the man as a choice. He probably could get it street legal by midnight.

Willie turned to Gabe and asked if he wanted to ride along.

The fence was an eight-foot tall chain-link, but by the look of the four dogs, Gabe wasn’t sure if the fence was tall enough.

Willie leaned over at the nervous Gabe and stage whispered, It’s not the dogs you need to worry about, it’s his wife. She will bite or cut off anything she thinks you might not need in a heartbeat. Oh, shit... here she comes.

Gabe looked up toward the deep front porch. A small woman pushed open the screen door. Gabe wondered if the woman was as tall as his belly button. He leaned over. She really does look scary.

Willie deadpanned and whispered back. If she sticks either hand in a pocket... run. She probably has a gun.

She put her hand up above her eyes and looked at the truck, the bike, and the two men.

If the asshole is filling your head with lies about me killing seven people, then it is pure bullshit. It was nine, and they were all bigger than me. Now, you can either come in the gate like polite folk or stand out there like ol’ chicken coward Willie. Either way, I have fresh apple pie almost cool enough to eat with some ice cream.

Willie grabbed the gate and swung it open. Four dogs raced at the two men. Willie put both arms out with palms down. The dogs came to a halt and sat in range of getting petted. Willie waited for the count of five and then squatted down and was amassed by fur. Woman, you know I hate animals...

The woman turned. You’re on your own, Willie. Come on in, sonny. Chet done called ahead. We gots pie to eat before any work can get done.

As Gabe stepped into the house, they could hear Willie protesting about being mauled and licked by slobbering beasts.

She closed her eyes and slowly wagged her head. The man is a conundrum. One day he hates animals, then he walks in the gate, and they jump him, and he’s like a little boy. We had a couple of dogs back when my Chester and he were serving together. That man and the dogs liked to have staring and growling contests. They never took to him, and he never could stand them. Refused to sleep in the same house—rather pay for a motor lodge somewhere.

She took Gabe’s elbow and guided him deeper into the house. Come on in the kitchen. Chester will be up in a minute.

I thought your husband’s name was Roscoe?

She cackled. Oh, heavens no... it was what they called him. It was on account of the 44 snub-nosed he carried. The gangsters used to call it a Roscoe... so the name stuck.

She leaned over and yelled in a doorway leading down into a basement. Roscoe, you have a new toy to play with. She turned and smiled. Gabe heard the pounding of boots on wooden stairs.

What the hell you yelling about... He came through the door and saw the size of Gabe. Oh, my. He stuck out his hand. Chester P. Coltrain—friends call me Roscoe. What can I do for you?

His wife backslapped his chest as she moved about the table with a large slice of pie and ice cream on a plate. Let the man sit and eat. Willie done bringed him... and the fool is out in the yard with the kids.

Oh, cripes. Willie brung you...? Oh, there must be hell to pay in some place on this earth.

I’m not in the military anymore.

The woman hauled off and slugged the man in the shoulder. Damn it, Chester. For the last time, sit and let the man enjoy my cooking in peace—before Willie gets in here and disturbs everything.

Yes, Honey. The man sat, and a plate with a small piece of pie and ice cream appeared. The old man stuck his lower lip out and looked at his piece and then at Gabe’s.

Honey came over and draped her arm around his head and shoulders. Oh, snookum bear, I done gave you Willie’s slice. Here is yours. She put down an even smaller piece and no ice cream.

The man’s smile resolved. He leaned toward Gabe. You have now met the real Honey—she’ll take your balls, and you’ll thank her for doing it.

Gabe looked at the woman sitting down with a plate as loaded as his was. So if they call you Honey... what is your real name?

She forked a bite into her mouth and shoved it over to one cheek. Honey. She chewed slowly. It used to be Honey Crackeneary, but Chester done gave me a much finer last name.

The front screen door squealed, and four dogs raced into the house but bunched up at the linoleum of the kitchen and eating area. Willie’s voice was clear and harsh. Boys! Come! Lay down. His footsteps were light. Honey, I could smell the apple pie all the way out on the grass. As Willie sat in front of the last plate of pie and ice cream, he blew a kiss at Honey. She snuck a hand over and slapped his hand. They both smiled. Gabe guessed it was an old game with them.

I saw the old Knucklehead out in the truck... How is Maddie, and why didn’t y’all bring her?

Willie took a bite and moaned his approval, and then through his full mouth, he explained. Maddie is done racing the ol’ underpowered heap. I thought maybe Gabe here might want it if you can make it street legal, and the price is right.

Roscoe looked at Gabe. What’s the right price?

Willie coughed. He just got out of the jarhead church... talk slowly and don’t expect much.

Roscoe stared at Gabe. Gabe shied a bit, but he knew this was the time to step up and trust. I have three hundred and some to go to transportation. I have four-fifty total to live on until I can find a job.

What did you do in Uncle Sam’s Marching Boys’ Choir? Roscoe was taking very small bites. Gabe figured he was probably diabetic. The bulbous nose with the exploded capillaries spreading across his face could speak to alcohol abuse or not.

I was a cop.

So get a cop job.

Gabe snapped his fingers. Just like that.

Roscoe softly put his fork down. Gabe worried he had just pushed too far. Roscoe deliberately wiped his mouth as he watched the young man. How long were you at Chet’s place?

A couple of hours. Gabe put his napkin on the table.

What were you drinking?

Some of the best coffee I have ever had.

Roscoe looked down the table to Willie, who was still eating. Willie noticed the silence and looked up. He thought a moment and nodded.

Roscoe turned back to Gabe. What did you have to eat?

Something he called corned beef stew.

He pulled it out of the old crockpot?

Gabe frowned at the strange questions. Yes... but why is it important?

Did you like the man?

Enough to make me want to go back more than a few times, sure.

Where did he suggest you think about working?

He showed me an ad for Pasadena and LAPD and mentioned Alhambra... so I guess he was talking around here. Why?

Roscoe smiled. Because it means you have whichever job you want. He sits on the civilian boards for all of them. We’re not supposed to know about it but also the South Pasadena.

And he’s just a bar owner?

Not really. He and his mother own about six or seven square blocks of the area—maybe more. All commercial. He is the biggest taxpayer in the Valley.

Gabe gave a low whistle. So why do you think he liked me?

Did you see anyone else drinking coffee?

Willie had a cup...

Anyone else would get Nescafe instant. And food... he has stale sandwiches. Roscoe looked at Willie. How was the stew?

It wasn’t roadkill. Remember the cook Brooks something? The man nodded. That good.

Roscoe looked at Honey. Honey smiled—she knew where they would be eating that night.

Gabe pushed his empty plate an inch. Ma’am, that was very good, thank you. Honey nodded and pushed at her tangle of puffed-up gray hair.

Gabe looked at Willie. So what did you want for the motorcycle?

Willie pushed his finger along the tabletop as he thought. He knew the motorcycle was a lot more valuable than a few hundred dollars, but he also knew it had made Maddie a lot of money in winnings at the drag races. Money wasn’t the real object here. He had hauled it down to give back to Roscoe to do what Roscoe did—find a buyer or part it out. I think you need to take it for a spin first.

Okay, let’s get it unloaded.

Not here. Willie looked to Roscoe.

How about the river bed through Glendale and Burbank... they’re dry right now.

Willie raised one eyebrow. Then maybe I might want to go for a ride.

About an hour later, in the dying light, the bike was on the dry concrete bed of the greater Los Angeles river system, where millions of acre-feet of rainwater moved through the city.

The rest of the year, there was only a trickle down the middle—or none at all.

Okay, you have about ten miles of an open shot from here to Sylmar. If I were you, I’d keep it cool on the way up. Then you know if there is anything dangerous on the way back.

Gabe thought about the logic. How do I know when I get to Sylmar?

"River bed is going to change, and you can’t drive up those stairs. There is an access ramp to the right just before the stairs. You know, in case you