Natural Born Angel (16 page)

T
he buzzer panel for the building was faded and covered in filth, the names and unit numbers barely readable. Sylvester’s eyes ran up and down the list, trying to discern one name from the other. Some of the names were written in Russian letters, and the detective tried to piece together what they might mean. Others were written sloppily in black marker.

Sylvester’s investigation into the grisly Angel bombing had taken him through all the official ACPD reports that had been filed, all the traditional HDF informants and their statements. He’d uncovered nothing new. But Sylvester had other resources. He pressured an HDF operative who was close to the group’s leader, William Beaubourg himself. Sylvester had used her as an informant for years, off the books and out of the ACPD database. And the detective had got one word out of her: Minx. That’s all she’d say about the bombing. But maybe it was enough.

Garcia had radioed in the name “Minx”. There were maybe two dozen Minxes in the Angel City database, but only one that seemed right to Detective Sylvester. It was on a dingy industrial block on the outskirts of abandoned downtown.

Minx Watch and Clock Repair.

Now Sylvester stood outside the address. Could be another dead end. Afternoon sun beat down on the cracked pavement. The rumble of steady traffic on the freeway just a couple of blocks away created a dull white noise. A homeless man pushed a shopping trolley towards the detective, one of the wheels squeaking terribly. The man saw Sylvester, instantly – and correctly – took him for police, and crossed the street. Sylvester looked towards the north and figured most of the homeless disappearances he’d been following had happened only twelve blocks north of here.

Since he’d been pulled off that non-Angel case, at least ten more destitute men and women had disappeared mysteriously off the streets or out of fleabag residential hotels. Yet the ACPD hadn’t even detailed anyone else on the case since Sylvester had been reassigned. The detective got an ache in his kidneys just thinking about it. He wasn’t going to let that case just die now that he was on the Angel bombing, so he’d dropped Sergeant Garcia near Skid Row and asked him to question anybody who might have seen anything involving the disappearances. It was risky having Bill work on that off-limits case, but Sylvester wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t.

But today he had to investigate the bombing. Leaning further in, Sylvester peered through his glasses at the numbers and found the one he was looking for: 1C. There was no name next to the buzzer number, just a description: WATCH AND CLOCK REPAIR.

Sylvester pressed the button. Only a few seconds later, the door buzzed, unlocking.

The detective entered a large, dingy hallway. Sylvester easily found the door inside: 1C. The words WATCH AND CLOCK REPAIR were etched on the dirty frosted glass of the door. The detective entered.

He was met with a terrible mess. Stacks of old clocks sat atop each other on the scratched glass countertops, more stacks of old plastic clocks were propped against the wall, and various clock parts were scattered around. The storefront was lit dimly, and old-fashioned jazz was playing on a radio in a backroom somewhere. He noticed a brass bell in front of him. He pressed down, and the ring carried loudly through the store.

After a few moments, a man emerged from what was probably the back office. He pushed aside a tattered old green curtain with gold trim and began lumbering up to the desk, breathing heavily through his nose. He was short and wore a stained brown apron over a white button-up shirt. The apron bulged over his belly. His thinning, wispy hair was matted to his scalp with sweat. The most remarkable feature about the man was his elaborate pair of eyeglasses, which were more like a visor attached to his head with a black rubber strap; a number of moveable magnifying lenses and loupes were attached to the front of the glasses, able to swing back and forth to provide the right enlargement of detail for the eye.

The man wiped his fingers on the apron and looked at Detective Sylvester as he approached the counter. His brown eyes were exaggerated and bulbous through his thick glasses. As he smiled, his yellowed teeth shone out at Sylvester.

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

“Mr Minx?” Sylvester said.

“Yes?” he said.

Sylvester reached into his pocket. “I’d like to have a watch fixed,” he said, pulling out a wristwatch. Its glass face was beautiful, trimmed with gold, and the numbers inside were almost art deco in a 1930s kind of way, harking back to the heyday of Angel City.

The man took the watch in his hands and inspected it through his glasses, holding it up to the light. The light danced and refracted in his glasses.

“This is a beautiful piece, yes, yes. The inner workings are quite complex, but durable. A different era, a different era. I haven’t seen one like this for quite some time, Mr. . .  ?” He dropped his gaze back to the detective.

“Sylvester. Detective Sylvester, ACPD.” He reached into his other pocket and produced his badge.

“Oh?” Minx attempted to hide his surprise, continuing to innocently look at the watch. He glanced into the backroom, just for a moment, and then his attention was back on the watch. Sylvester studied the man in front of him. “And is there something else, Mr Sylvester? I have the feeling your visit might not just be about this timekeeping piece.”

Sylvester looked at the man squarely.

“A bomb.”

Minx didn’t miss a beat. “A bomb, Mr Sylvester? Nasty devices. Liable to do much damage. But why would I know anything about a bomb? I’m a simple watch repairman, running my simple shop.” He smiled innocently again at the detective, his eyes distorted through the lenses.

Sylvester leaned in quickly towards the fat man, spitting fire, his words sharp and fast. “Yes, a bomb. The one that turned the front wall of the Angel Administration Affairs office into thin air and fire. And killed ninety-two people. Ninety-two counts of murder. I’m not going to waste time going back and forth pretending you aren’t what we all know you are. A bombmaker.” Minx flinched just a little. “And I know your anti-Angel sympathies.”

Minx opened his mouth in a big yellow-teethed smile. “You have your facts wrong there, Mr Sylvester. It is true, I would weep no tear if the Angels were to disappear from the earth tomorrow. But I also cannot bear the tyranny of
human
politicians, businessmen, lawyers and the police state. They should all be cleared away.”

Sylvester studied the man in front of him. “An anarchist.”

“To use one term.” Minx coughed and placed the watch down on the glass display case. He looked at the detective. “I did not make your bomb, Mr Sylvester. You could investigate for some time and find no trace, I promise you that. There is a man, though. He might be interested in talking with you.”

“Who?” Sylvester asked.

“I can’t give you a name. All I can say is that, when the time is right, he may appear.”

“Do you always talk in riddles?”

“Not always. Just with policemen.” He grinned again.

Sylvester placed a card flat on the glass counter. “I’ll give you a couple of days. Then I’m coming back for you. With friends.”

Minx looked at the card, thumbing it in his hand. “It is funny to meet you this way, Mr Sylvester. At one point you were quite notorious down here, you know.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“True. Does time mean less for you than for the rest of us? Or have you . . . adapted since you lost your wings?”

Sylvester gritted his teeth, looking at the man standing amid the strewn stacks of clocks and gears. “I’d say it’s about the same. More or less.”

“Some of us may pity you. Others, not so much. Myself, I still haven’t decided.” Minx looked at Sylvester. “I hope you aren’t neglecting your other investigation.”

Sylvester raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Minx raised an eyebrow. “The homeless disappearances are concerning us. It’s not like the Angels to ‘slum’, as they say.”

“The Angels?” Sylvester said. And who was
us
? A strange feeling began to spread in Sylvester’s stomach.

Minx brushed off the question.

“Dig far enough and you can find some who may have witnessed
something
. If they can even be made to talk,” Minx said. “A man named Gerald Maze might be a good place to start.”

“Why are you helping me? I thought you hated police?”

“There are some things that can be hated more than even the police, Mr Sylvester. As hard as that may be to believe,” Minx said, grinning again. “The police are just the symptom of the larger sickness, Mr Sylvester, the institutions. But cracks are appearing. Demon sightings. The rise of the Godright girl, half-human, half-Angel.”

“Maddy.” Sylvester blinked at the name. “But how do you know all this, if you’re just a bo— ”

Just before he said the word
bomb
, a sudden bolt of realization struck Sylvester. His thoughts raced back and forth over details in his head. Were the bomb and homeless disappearances somehow related? But how?

“The disappearances, the growing unrest throughout the country, the strange occurrences across the world. The bomb. You yourself have been interested in London, St Pancras, I believe.” The nutty bombmaker smiled through his glasses.

“You think . . . these are all connected?” the detective said. The startling potential of a link between the events sent his detective mind into overtime. He struggled to comprehend it all, but the meaning still lay flickering just outside his understanding.

“The time of the Angels may be coming to a close, Mr Sylvester,” Minx said. “But then again, so may the time of the humans. It is foolish to take sides. Let the powerful destroy themselves, and then we can pick up the pieces after clearing away the garbage of this society.”

“The homeless aren’t just trash to be taken away,” Sylvester growled.

“
You’re
the one implying that, detective.” Minx grinned from behind his weird glasses.

Detective Sylvester noticed for the first time
The Book of Angels
sitting off to the side of a pile of old clocks. The apocryphal book with its famous prophecies didn’t seem likely reading for an anarchist who hated Angels. It was the kind of stuff the crackpots read from the corners while people quickly walked by, trying not to pay attention.

“Violence never solved anything.”

“I think you’re quite wrong there, Mr Sylvester. Quite wrong.” Minx coughed hard into his hand and wiped it on his apron, grinning again, his wild eyes peering through the lenses and loupes. Sylvester felt like taking a shower.

“Remember. I’m giving you seventy-two hours,” Sylvester said.

Putting his jacket on, Sylvester began walking towards the door.

“
Detective
,” Minx said.

Sylvester stopped and turned around to face the bombmaker. Minx was holding the watch in his hand.

“This may take me some time to adjust. I want to make sure I do a fine job on such a beautiful piece.”

“That’s fine, take as long as you want,” Sylvester replied. “I just want the job done right.”

The frosted glass rattled on the door as Sylvester walked out, Minx still peering at the watch through his strange glasses as the detective’s footsteps faded down the hall.

That evening, Detective Sylvester walked down the hall of his old building, floorboards creaking under his loafers as he made his way to his apartment. He had a plastic bag with a container of green chicken curry from his favourite spot in Thai Town, which was just down Angel Boulevard from all the tourist shops and the Walk of Angels. He was looking forward to eating it. And getting some rest.

It was eerily quiet, the hallway empty except for a neighbour, an older Mexican woman, walking her Pomeranian. The small dog yipped at Sylvester as they passed.

“You have a visitor,” she said, nodding down the hallway.

Sylvester looked up and saw Jackson Godspeed leaning against the door to his apartment.
Interesting
, Sylvester thought.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” he said.

“Not too long, detective,” Jacks said. “I would have got your number from my stepfather, but . . . well, I didn’t want him to know I was visiting.”

The detective opened the door to his apartment and fumbled around in the dark for the light.

“Please, come in and take a seat.”

Jacks entered the modest apartment and looked around at the walls that had given him and Maddy refuge almost a year before, after Sylvester had saved them from the demon in the high school. He sank down into the couch. He was holding a small envelope in his hands.

Sylvester put his keys and the Thai food down on the side table. He pulled a chair over from the kitchen and sat down.

“What can I do for you, Jackson?” the detective asked.

Jacks offered him a small manila envelope, placing it on the coffee table.

“Inside is a zip drive and a DVD. On the drive are all the statements the Angels’ investigating committee has received, and that DVD has video surveillance from outside the Angel Administrations Affair on the evening of the bombing.”