Angel Time (The Songs of the Seraphim 1)

Toby didn't ask, Why not go to the police? He knew the answers to such questions as that and nobody from New Orleans ever trusted the police very much in these sorts of affairs anyway. After all, Toby's father had been a drunken crooked cop. It wasn't in Toby's nature.

"These girls they're bringing in," said Alonso. "They're children, slaves, just children." He continued, "No one's going to help me. My mother will be alone. No one can help me."

Alonso checked the clip of bullets in the second gun. He said he would kill all of them if he could, but he didn't think he could do it. He was very drunk now. "No, I can't do this. I have to get out, but there's no way out. They want the deeds, the legal deeds done. They have their men in the bank, and maybe even in the licensing offices."

He reached into his knapsack and took out all the deeds and spread them on the table. He spread out the two business cards these men had given him. These were the papers that Alonso had yet to sign. They were his death warrant. Alonso got up, staggered into the bedroom--the only other room in the place--and passed out. He began to snore.

Toby studied all of these items. He knew the house very well, its back door, its fire escapes. He knew the address of the lawyer whose name was on the card, or rather where he could find the building; he knew the location of the bank, though the names of these people meant nothing, obviously.

A glorious vision seized Toby, or I should say Vincenzo. Or should I say Lucky? He had always had a stunning imagination and a great capacity for visual imagery, and now he saw a plan and a great leap forward from the life he led. But it was a leap into pure darkness.

He went into the bedroom. He shook the old man's shoulder.

"They killed Elsbeth?"

"Yeah, they killed her," the old man said with a sigh. "The other girls were hiding under the beds. Two of them got away. They saw those men shoot Elsbeth." He made his hand into a gun, and made the noise of the gun with his lips. "I'm a dead man."

"You really think so?"

"I know so. I want you to care for my mother. If my sons come around, don't talk to them. My mother has all the money I have. Don't talk to them."

"I'll do it," said Toby. But it was not an answer to Alonso's entreaty. It was a simple private confirmation.

Toby went into the other room, gathered up the two guns, and went out the back door of his building. The alley was narrow and the walls went up five stories on either side. The windows appeared, as best he could see, to be covered. He studied each gun. He tested the guns. The bullets flew with such speed it jolted and shocked him.

Somebody opened a window and shouted for him to shut up down there.

He went back into the apartment and put the guns into the knapsack.

The old man was cooking breakfast. He set down a plate of eggs for Toby. And then he sat down himself and began dipping his toast in his egg.

"I can do it," Toby said. "I can kill them."

His employer looked at him. His eyes were dead the way Toby's mother's eyes used to die. The old man drank half a glass of wine and wandered back into the bedroom.

Toby went and looked down at him. The smell made Toby think of his mother and father. The dead glassy gaze of his employer as he looked up at Toby made him think of his mother.

"I'm safe here," the old man said. "This address, nobody has it. It's not written down anywhere at the restaurant."

"Good," said Toby. He was relieved to hear it, and had been afraid to ask about it.

In the wee hours as the new clock ticked on the sideboard in the little kitchen, Toby studied all the deeds and both the business cards, and then he slipped the cards into his pocket.

He woke up Alonso again and insisted that he describe the men he'd seen, and Alonso tried to do it, but finally Toby realized he was too drunk.

Alonso drank more wine. He ate a dried crust of French bread. He asked for more bread and butter and wine, and Toby gave him these things.

"Stay here, and don't think of anything until I come back," said Toby.

"You're just a boy," said Alonso. "You can't do anything about this. Get word to my mother. That's what I ask. Tell her not to call my boys on the coast. Tell her, the Hell with them."

"You can stay here and do as I say," said Toby. Toby was powerfully exhilarated. He was making plans. He had certain specific dreams. He felt superior to all the forces collected around him and Alonso.

Toby was also furious. He was furious that anyone in the world thought he was a boy who could do nothing about this. He thought of Elsbeth. He thought of Violet with her cigarette on her lip, dealing the cards at the green felt table in the house. He thought of the girls talking together in whispers on the sofa. He thought over and over of Elsbeth.

Alonso stared at him.

"I'm too old to be defeated in this way," he said.

"So am I," said Toby.

"You're eighteen," said Alonso.

"No," said Toby. He shook his head. "That's not true."

Alonso's guardian angel stood beside him, staring at him with an expression of sorrow. This angel was at the limit of what he could do. The angel of Toby was appalled.

Neither angel could do anything. But they didn't give up trying. They suggested to Toby and to Alonso that they should flee, get the mother from Brooklyn and get on a plane for Miami. Let the men of violence have what they wanted. "You're right that they'll kill you," said Toby, "as soon as you sign these papers."

"I have nowhere to go. How do I tell this to my mother?" asked the old man. "I should shoot my mother, so that she doesn't suffer. I should shoot her and then shoot myself and that would be the end of it."

"No!" said Toby. "Stay here as I told you."

Toby put on a recording ofTosca, and Alonso sang along with it and was soon snoring.

Toby walked for blocks before he went to a drugstore, bought a black cosmetic hair rinse, and unflattering but fashionable black-rimmed tinted glasses, and, from a table vendor on West Fifty-sixth Street, an expensive-looking briefcase and, from another vendor, a fake Rolex watch.

He went into another drugstore, and he bought a series of items, little items no one would notice, such as plastic devices people use to place between their teeth when they sleep, and lots of the soft rubber and plastic offered to help people line their shoes. He bought a pair of scissors, and he bought a bottle of clear nail polish and an emery board for trimming his nails. He stopped again at a vendor's table on Fifth Avenue and bought himself several pairs of lightweight leather gloves. Handsome gloves. He also bought a yellow cashmere scarf. It was cold and it felt good to have this around his neck.