Chapter 3

I sat in my chair for about an hour after Melissa Gilbert left, staring into space. That staring gave way to glaring across the hall at Seer Lena's 'doorway to the mystic world'. She had beaten me to the punch once again.

"You really should do something about that bitch, Nicky. How dare she send you a charity case? The nerve of that skank. Why don't we have a drink and then go tell her what we think of her?" Jack said, droning on and on inside my head.

I'd spent many a night in the past hanging out with Jack, fixated on that damn neon sign. Some nights I got myself so worked up I'd staggered out into the hall intent on destroying that fucking sign. Jack was in one hand and my jealousy was clenched tightly in the other.

It should be no surprise that it was always Jack's idea to open the door and let some fresh air into the office. Jack's words also kept me fixated on Lena's blinking sign. Jack's plan all along was to shatter her beacon that shone out to those who sought help in the night.

"Without that light, they'll never find her," he egged me on repeatedly. "Then, they'll have to come to you."

For some reason, which passes all understanding, I always seemed to stop myself before crossing that destructive threshold. Maybe it was my own conscience catching up with me in time to forestall my jealous anger. Or maybe, in my booze weakened state, that was as far as my wobbly legs cared to take me. Whatever it was, I'm glad that I never made it to her door. I would have regretted doing anything to her sign for any number of more sobering reasons.

Shit! I feel guilty now for having ever contemplated doing something so childish after all she has done for me since I began to sober up. But, back then, I had my own little cheering section. It was egging me on, urging me to act like a misguided teenaged vandal.

As I sat there, glaring at the humming green and blue sign mocking me from across the hall, I could feel the room start to spin again. Jack's poison still flowed in my veins, cursing me for not partaking of more of his libation.

He was both the venom that was slowly killing me, and the cure for the tremors that ran wild through my body. I could smell him oozing from my pores, taste him in the bile rising in my burning throat, and hear him ... I could hear him cackling uncontrolled in my mind, taunting and teasing.

"Come on Nicky ... you know what will make you feel better; just one more, one more for the road. This should be a celebration! You've got work to do! I'm not asking much, just one swig and we can put all this sweating and shaking to rest, and get to work."

That bastard wouldn't shut up. He just kept going on and on. His voice rose and fell like waves on the ocean. I felt as if I were on a tiny boat on that sea, my insides sloshing around with the tides of his oration. I began to feel seasick. It was Jack. The fucker was trying to make me seasick, even though I was firmly planted on solid ground.

"Here comes a big one, Nicky! Better hold on! Wheeeeeeee!"

That was it. That was all I could stand. For the second time that day I found myself hunched over and heaving. Drool and stomach acid dripped from my lips into the ash filled brass trashcan by my desk. My eyes stung with the pain of my strained 'full body tension' tears. Drums beat in my ears, perfectly in time with my heart, shattering any semblance of coherent thought.

"Just one more, Nicky ... just one ... come on ... you know you want some ... I can take the pain away ... the sickness ... all of it gone ... just like that ... no more worries ... no more tears ... no more memories ... no more dark thoughts ... come on, Buddy ... you know I'm right."

I was just about to give in to Jack when a flicker of white caught my eye. I looked up. I saw, in my blurry vision, what I first took to be an angel.

It was a young girl, maybe eight years old. Her long honey-blonde hair was tied in a ponytail. Her lips were frosted pale, her eyes a sparkling hazel.

A golden halo floated between her folded pair of snowy white wings as she stood in the open doorway of my office. For a long moment I just stared at her in confusion.

She returned my gaze with apprehension. The two of us were not speaking as we studied one another. She seemed nervous, as if ready to bolt away like a gazelle if I showed any sign of being a lion.

Wiping away the tears in my eyes with the back of my hand cleared my sight enough for me to realize my error in judgment. She wasn't an angel; she was just dressed as one. The ballet leotard, crinoline tutu, and toe shoes laced up her slender shins, should have been my first clues.

The fourth floor of the building had been rented out to a dance school the year before. Thankfully, the tap classes hadn't enough students to continue on for long. But, for as long as they lasted, I seriously contemplated suicide. You have no idea what it's like to be plagued with a hangover, while fifteen kids merrily stomp their feet above your head. The agony of it all is exquisite. Luckily, ballet seemed a more popular pursuit in this part of town. For the most part, the ballet dancers were silent in their educations, with the exception of when they were on point.

"Are ... are you okay mister?" she asked in a quavering voice, finally breaking our self-imposed silence.

I cleared my throat to speak. It must have sounded like a growl, because she took a tentative step backwards into the hallway. "Yes ... uhumm ... yes, Sweetie. I'm fine. Thank you."

"I heard you getting sick, and I ... I just wanted to make sure ... you'd be all right." She took a step back inside, still wary of the straggly mess still hunched over before her on the floor.

"I'm okay ... just a little flu." Once again I used the same lie I'd used many times before.

"Do you need a doctor?" she asked with concern.

"No ... I should be okay, now," I said. With that, I sat back on my legs and offered her a weak smile.

"Okay. Can I get you anything?" she smiled back, her pixie face showing relief that I was not dying.

It was in that moment I suddenly realized I actually did feel much better. The room had stopped spinning, my stomach settled a bit, my head no longer thundered, and most importantly ... Jack had finally shut the fuck up.

Three times that day a complete stranger came to my aid when I needed them the most. Lena sent Mrs. Gilbert to me when I had lost all hope of ever working again. Mrs. Gilbert hugged me when I so desperately needed to feel contact with another human being ... and now, just as I was about to give up and submit to Jack's incessant chatter, an angel appeared at my door, concerned for my well-being.

I've never been what you would call a religious man. Up until that day, I could have counted the number of times I'd gone to church on one hand: my baptism (Protestant, if you're wondering), my wedding, and the funeral services for both of my parents. I've prayed, though mostly in times of great stress or pain. Rarely have I ever felt that those prayers were answered by anything like a higher power.

On that day, kneeling on the floor of my office, looking up into the face of a little angel, I started to become a believer. Someone, or some thing, was definitely looking out for me. In my time of need I'd been sent three messengers to answer my unspoken prayers for salvation, redemption, and inner strength.

I've since discovered that life is full of angels who seem to appear out of nowhere to save the day, though one might easily miss them. It's not that they're invisible; far from it, in fact. They're nearly everywhere. You've probably been helped by one, and not even known it. Among these angels could be your best friend, or a complete stranger, a neighbor, or someone just passing through.

Oddly, they are almost always normal people. They are just like you or me, but somehow they know in that critical moment, just the right thing to say or do to bring you back from the edge of the abyss.

Anyone can be an angel. There is no trick to it, no mystery, no magic ... just the need to do something good for someone, or anyone ... to help without being asked for it. That is what makes someone an angel, it seems to me.

I would have missed the little angelic ballerina completely if she hadn't been dressed the way she was. I'd have shrugged her off as just some curious kid butting in on my miserable life in an insignificant moment, to be forgotten in a haze of alcohol and depression.

Back then, I was a bit too slow to see the subtle mysteries of life. Jack doesn't understand subtle metaphors. Fortunately for me, my angel showed up dressed for the part. What further was there to understand? How many of you can say that your life's been saved by a children's dance recital?

"No, Sweetie, I think I can manage on my own, now. Thank you for looking out for me, though."

In silent reply the cherub beamed a great big smile at me, before turning and rejoining a small group of girls, who were all dressed as angels. They had been waiting silently in the hall for her as she checked on me.

"He's okay, and he seems like a nice man," I heard her whisper to them before her little voice was overpowered by childish giggles. Then, quite abruptly, she and her friends raced up the final flight of stairs, wings and halos bouncing. The smile on my face lasted until Jack had to go and ruin the moment.

"They won't always be so pure and innocent. One day they'll grow up and break someone's heart, just like yours was."

I ignored his remark, but the damage was done. The moment was gone forever. Only the warm memory remained. I had been saved. I could resist Jack. I could win.

My knees cracked when I stood up. The room took one final spin as blood rushed out of my head. It was time to get to work.

First, I had to get cleaned up and on the move. There was a missing girl out there somewhere, and I had made a promise.

Two hours, a hot shower, a shave, fresh clothes, and a pot of coffee; they not only lifted my spirits, but cleared the last of the cobwebs out of my head. I had already screwed up in my investigation before I'd even begun. That mistake was over a simple picture. I forgot to ask Mrs. Gilbert for a picture of her daughter. Real good procedure, master detective! I could have been sitting right next to Erin, and I wouldn't have known it was her. I was off to a great start.

I decided I could resolve that little glitch later with a phone call to Mrs. Gilbert. In the meantime, I wanted to track down some of my old bar buddies.

It's not what you're thinking. I wasn't going out to get sloshed. My 'bar buddies' were all cops. Some of them worked the Soho district. If I was going to find some answers, I had to start with them. It was just common courtesy. By rights, it had been their case first. Maybe they'd had a good reason for dropping it.

My first stop was a little place tucked away down an alley, called simply, "The Pub". If you didn't know where it was, then you had little chance of finding it at all. That's how the patrons liked it. No signs, no awning, just one window and a large red door that was never locked. The tourists stuck to the cobblestones and the shops, while the locals drank in peace.

It was dark inside. The only light came from behind the bar, and from a few neon signs depicting the preferred beverages available. The single window was so covered with years of caked on pollution that bright sunlight barely filtered in. Dark wood tables and chairs, each a little worn and wobbly, filled the forlorn space. The floor was scuffed but mostly clean, a few empty peanut shells lying here and there. Smoke rose from forgotten cigarettes left to burn in blackened ashtrays. A pool table seemed always in use, and a well-pitted dartboard hung off to the side. The bar was protected by a polished brass rail, twelve hard wood stools lined up before it. During the day someone was always sitting on at least one, and at night they were always all occupied.