Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 40901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
He slides me a black business card with gilt edging. It shows nothing but a number.
“If I change my mind about what?”
He’s already started walking away, but he turns back to me when he hears my question. “About hunting angels.”
Either I just had a run in with a crazy man with a bag of fake money, or something interesting finally happened in this humdrum little town.
It’s three weeks before I use that card, and the only reason I use it is because of the letter from the bank telling me they’re going to take the bar if I don’t pay the mortgage. Banal shit. I thought I’d have a job by now, but all manual labor work in Salvation seems to have dried up, and the saloon has become mighty unpopular of late. Could be because of the new bar outside town. Could be because stories got around about me. Who knows. Either way, I’m thousands of dollars in the hole and about to lose everything when I pick up the phone.
“Starlight. I was hoping to hear from you.” He knows who it is before he hears me speak. This guy gives me the creeps, but as long as he also gives me cash, I don’t care.
“What do I need to do to?”
“We need to meet,” he says. “I assume you know the Chapel of the Wayward Lamb?”
“The church?”
“Yes, the only church your little backwater boasts. Meet me there at midnight.”
“Why midnight?”
“What I have to tell you should not be told in the light of day.”
It’s eight o’clock at night already. I’ve spent most of the day staring at the bank letter and experimenting with whether or not it looks any different through the bottom of a bottle. It doesn’t. Bold red text has a way of cutting through any lens you care to throw at it.
The Chapel of the Wayward Lamb has been falling down since it was built. Whitewash peels off the wood as soon as it is put on, mostly because nobody has taken the time to sand it back. Like most other places in Salvation, there’s an air of decay about the place. Weeds run rampant between graves, headstones weathered and cracked. It’s almost a full moon, but not quite. The light shines down with an almost harsh, nearly fluorescent glow, highlighting the lack of care the citizens of Salvation
provide for their most holy ground.
“Starlight, you are looking well.”
The man in black greets me from the shadows in the alcove of the church. He extends his hand, I assume to shake mine, but he puts something in my hand instead. A green device with a little red light that flashes intermittently for reasons known only to itself. It fits in the palm of my hand, and like everything else about this man, it feels like something old while being somehow new.
“That device will vibrate when you are in the presence of someone containing angel blood,” he says. “It detects a specific kind of genetic sequence attributed to divine lineages. I know you don’t believe in any of this, so don’t worry too much about it. I will make it simple. If that device buzzes, I want you to obtain control of the person and contact me. Doing so will net you the amount of thirty thousand dollars.”
That’s a lot of money. But it’s contingent upon catching an angel. I need money now. Just as that thought flashes through my mind, and probably across my face, he addresses it.
“And of course, there’s a retainer. Five thousand dollars a week, plus travel costs. First month’s pay up front.”
He’s offering to give me twenty grand just to take this job on, this ghost chasing gig. This is where I find out if the money is real, or if some psycho is wasting my time.
“Try,” he says. “You’ll see. This is a genuine offer, and one that I do not make lightly. You are the sort of man I spend my entire life seeking. A wounded man. A shamed man. A man who has lost everything. A man who will soon have more than he imagined.”
“Alright,” I say. “Let’s see what happens.”
“You’ll have to travel. Las Vegas. That’s where we believe the angel to be. You’ll call me when you arrive at Caesar’s Palace. I’ll provide further instructions then.”
“Alright, but I’m banking this money. I’ve got bills to pay. Debts to serve.”
The man smiles. “Don’t we all.”
I turn and walk away, my pockets full of cash. It occurs to me I don’t know the man’s name. I’ve just taken twenty thousand dollars from a complete stranger. Turning back, the archway to the church is empty. He is gone. I let the moment be the mystery it is supposed to be, and I leave too.
Caesar’s Palace, about a week later…
I’ve never liked Vegas. It’s not that it is filthy. It’s that it is fake. And not in the way most places are fake. People can’t get along while being real. It would never work. Vegas is fake in a way that saps your soul. I suppose it’s the perfect place for a so-called angel to hide. Nobody would ever suspect one here among the tacky sweetness, bright lights, and strawberry scent that seems to cling to everything.