Now I aint never been one for religion, in my line of work God Will's a nine millimeter and Jesus sells crack to the kids.
But I did meet an Angel,once-and son, you better be wary it never happens to you.
I'd been stalking this kid for months, and I can tell ya he was lower than the shit on a rats backside. Tipo deWrrym,
the name his mother gave him. Musta been all she gave him, 'cos this punk had a thing for broads, and cutting them up after.
Scum like that dont last long, but this one was smart, real smart, and mainly with the dollars. Crooks look after a man like that,
he keeps them in green and feds offa their backs. No way I could wave the badge at him, most likey he'd walk free while
I felt a knive in my kidneys. So I stalked him, and finally there he was, sat at the bar of a low end bistro, waiting for a
steak and booked at a table for two.
He still had some heavies, wearing grey shadows in stale, smokey booths. So I sat casual like, not catching his eye, playing
the lonely drunk and thats a play I know verse for verse. He favoured a line or two, between Tempronillios, and often he would
drag the nights lucky girl with him, glaring at the heavies to stick to their seats. So we both sat there, idling, waiting for the
broad to make her entrance;his anticipation to another deprivation, mine to the grim satisfaction of a dirty job done. Neither knowing
that the fates held tonight closely to their chest, and with their fickle fingers in the pie, surpise is all that gets served.
I swear I never heard the doors, or saw the streetlights cut through the gloom-but there she was. I almost dropped offa my perch,
and if I had I would have landed on my tongue. She swept the room slowly, with a languid glance, piercing eyes betraying nothing,
freezing everyone. Tipo sauntered out of his seat to collect her, but even he was walking too fast and irregular like, a puppy dog
meeting his first tigeress. Captive in her gaze, he tottered off with her coat, and there was a smile touching those rouge lips that coulda
cut glass. Swaying over, I held my breath as her hips danced to that private score only beautiful women hear. For one heart wrenching moment
I thought she was walking straight at me, but she just shot me that smile and stood at her table. DeWrrym sat her down like a gentleman,
but I saw his gaze travel down her back, and the dark glint to his eyes. He must have gained some nerve, 'cause the moment he sat down he took
one of those dainty little paws in his and planted greasy kissies halfway to her elbow. She tinkered a laugh like ice giving under a
lake fishers boots, and now I knew my stalking was over. I didnt even want to know this girls name, or ever see her again; I wasnt fooling
myself if I had a whisker of a chance-but I was willing there and then to bite a fistful of bullets before Tipo got his knives into this one.
Still, I figured I was owed a few more dry whiskys before an epic fall.
Almost too many whisky's; Tipo was having fun with this one, and his face was flushed and leaking oil. She was running his blood so high he hadnt
bothered with his toilet exploits, I could almost smell his dirty desires when finally I saw his hand stray to his jacket. Eyeing the heavies one last time,
I took back the final slug and smarted with a burning throat. Hand brushing my pistol, I knew now I had to kill him with a clean shot before he made it to
the swingdoors, and the heavies peppered me with lead. Just as I was making to move with a last prayer pinching my lips the broad stood and caught Tipos
arm. I caught a glimpse of a druggie bag, awash with white powder, and deWrryms eyes light up on fire. A brusque wave to the heavies and they sat back, holstered.
I too settled back in my stool, figuring following now would blow my cover and that the girls only danger was a scorched nose. Too late I saw the flash or steel
in Tipos hand, as he held open the door for the girl. The bastard couldn't hold his sickness in check-I knew he meant to have his fun there, surrounded by the shit
that kept him good company, piercing with one weapon, and then after, another and another. The door slammed behind them and I had a crisis of thought-rushing in,
I might take too much shot in my back to finish the bastard off. Not only the girl slashed to ribbons, but another escape for the slimy deWrrym. 30 seconds I sat there,
hell in my thoughts burning a hole to my gut. Finally, I was saved the dilemma. A mean looking tough walked into the front of the bistro, arms flexing, and in the
moment when every heavy sized him up and found him not to their liking, I exploded to sudden action.
A second after I smashed through the door the
bistro errupted in gunfire,
and then sudden silence. Unharmed, amazed, I launched myself at the stall but a sliver late. I heard that haunting sound, the moan as a soul
slips to the beyond
on a steel stairway straight through the heart, and mine bled as I kicked aside the door, pistol raised.
She stood there, a frozen smile on those rouge, rouge lips. deWrrym slumped against the wall, as she ripped the stiletto out and his blood followed in a gush.
I saw some splash those snow kissed cheeks, and her smile deepened. She looked past me, and I felt a muzzle click against the base of my skull. I brushed those cheeks,
tears in my eyes, ready to cast myself down at St Peters feet and accept the crimes these heavies were about to commit upon my angel.
but she shook her head free and whispered
"Not this one, Jack."
I turned to see the tough eyeballing me, ready to blast my teeth down the toilet, but he sighed and backed out, readying the broads coat. I was past fear or hope or the
how or the why, or any emotion, as I sank to the floor, tearing ragged gasps into my throat. She smiled, almost wistful, and wiped herself clean with a 'kerchief
that she then settled on Dewrryms upturned face. She lit up, sauntered out in a cloud of smoke, halo in the yellow light above her.
And was gone.
I kept that 'kerchief, son, I figured even in death Tipo deWrrym couldnt deserve such a blessing. And it was some years later, when I went to throw that jacket out
along with the badge it pinned up I found it again, crumpled in a front pocket and still stinking of death. Only then did I look at it, being numbed by time and whisky
to dare remember the night I met an angel. And it was then I caught the lace, in red deeper than any blood, and it said;
"Monica".
Beware of angels, son. They dont need a knife to steal ya heart...
-Written by Ben Jones.
