The Angel in Charlie's Bar
Rhonda Ellis wished her boss a good evening, shut down her computer, put the phone on "night" and deposited a FedEx letter in the drop-off box as she left the office. It had been a long, exhausting day, and she was glad it was finally over.
As she walked across the near-empty parking lot to her Subaru WRX, she thought about what she would eat for dinner. She wasn't in the mood for a hamburger from Wendy's, McDonald's or Burger Barn, and she didn't have a taste for either fried chicken or Chinese take-out. So, it looked like it would be a personal-size pizza. The one good thing about living alone again was that she no longer had to worry about rushing home after work to cook dinner. In fact, she thought disconsolately, she didn't have to go home at all. No one was there waiting for her—no husband, no children, not even a dog or a cat.
As Rhonda backed out of her parking space, the small crystal angel hanging from her rearview mirror began to swing back and forth, as though flying in a holding pattern over the Subaru's dashboard. Although she held no strong religious convictions, Rhonda firmly believed in the existence of angels. Furthermore, she felt that each person had his or her own personal guardian angel that kept full-time watch over the living being in its charge, ever vigilant to the dangers that often befell mortals.
Rhonda was driving through the center of Copperwell's business district, weighing the respective virtues of pepperoni or mushroom on her pizza, when an eighty-two-year-old woman ran a stop sign and plowed into the Subaru's passenger door. She felt her car spin around and jump the curb before finally coming to a stop on someone's front lawn. Once she got over the initial numbing shock of the collision, Rhonda was reduced to a quivering mass of nerves. Her legs turned to rubber and shook with a life of their own.
A squad car arrived at the scene before she could open the door and exit her car. Both women had been driving at a relatively low rate of speed, so neither vehicle suffered extensive damage, and since there were no injuries as a result of the accident, the matter was quickly concluded. Within fifteen minutes of the crash, Rhonda was once again behind the wheel of the WRX driving toward her home in Puritan Falls. Still shaken up, she looked at the angel above her dashboard and silently thanked him or her—whichever the case may be.
As she turned onto Route 692, Rhonda realized her appetite had taken a leave of absence. What she wanted more than pizza, she realized, was something to calm her nerves, so she drove down the street to an unimposing little place called Charlie's Bar. It was Monday night, and the parking lot was just about deserted.
Charlie's was no singles hangout, no nightspot for college kids. It was a quiet establishment, the kind of bar where a businessman could take a client to discuss the finer points of a deal over a martini, a young man could bring a date and talk without blaring rock music playing in the background and a married man could discretely meet his girlfriend for a cocktail before checking into the Ramada Inn immediately across the border in Essex Green.
The shaken secretary opened the door and waited a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dim light of the bar. As Rhonda had guessed from the number of available spaces in the parking lot, Charlie's was far from crowded. An anxious-looking young woman sat at one of the tables, glancing from the door to her watch and back again.
She's been stood up, Rhonda thought with compassion, having known only too well what that felt like.
A businessman in an expensively tailored suit sat at another table, intently scrutinizing a document he'd taken out of his jacket pocket. At the bar were two career women who, like Rhonda herself, probably had no one waiting for them at home. The only other person in Charlie's besides Rhonda and Sanford Prouty, the bartender, was a middle-aged, overweight, balding man wearing a cheap sports suit, nowhere near the quality of that worn by the businessman sitting at the table.
Rhonda walked up to the bar, placed her oversized handbag on a stool and ordered a glass of red wine. The man in the cheap suit, who had already struck out with the solitary woman at the table and the two career women at the bar, turned his unwanted attention toward Rhonda.
"What's that you're lugging around, honey, an overnight bag?"
"No, honey," Rhonda replied, emphasizing her annoyance at his inappropriate use of the term of endearment. "It's just my purse."
She then grabbed both her drink and her handbag and went to sit at a table. Perhaps if she ignored Cheap Suit, he would take the hint and leave her alone. No such luck! Cheap Suit picked up his Jack Daniel's and sat down in the seat next to her.
"A purse, huh? What do you carry in a purse that size?"
"No offense, but I've had a bad day, and I'd rather be alone. Okay?"
"What's this?" he asked, examining the key ring attached to the purse's strap.
"It's an angel key chain," she explained as though dealing with an annoying, overly inquisitive four-year-old child.
"What's an angel doing in a crummy dive like this?" he asked, laughing loudly.
The businessman at the next table looked up from his document. His eyes narrowed when he looked at the drunken man, and then he turned away in disgust, apparently deciding Cheap Suit wasn't worth the trouble.
"What do you know? An honest-to-goodness angel in Charlie's Bar." Then, as though he'd thought of a one-liner worthy of George Carlin or Robin Williams, he announced, "Hey this must be one of Charlie's Angels! Get it?"
He laughed so hard that tears fell down his chubby cheeks, and his face turned a rather unpleasant shade of red.
"It don't look a thing like Farrah Fawcett, though, does it?"
"I guess grammar is not your strong point," Rhonda said with not-so-thinly veiled sarcasm that eluded him.
"Why do you got an angel on your key chain, anyway? Don't tell me you're one of those born-again Christians!"
"No."
"Want to try to convert me, cutie?"
As if honey hadn't been bad enough, now it was cutie. What would be next: doll-face, sweetie pie or maybe even sugar?
"Why don't you and me go to the Ramada Inn down the street? Maybe you'll get lucky, and I'll let you baptize me. What do you say to that? Want to save my soul, hot stuff?"
Rhonda had had enough.
"Let's get something straight. I have no interest in either your soul or your mind—if you have one, which I seriously doubt—and I most definitely don't have any interest in your body."
The two career women at the bar laughed heartily, and even Sanford the bartender chuckled at the put-down. The anxious-looking young woman at the table finally gave up her hopeless vigil and left. The businessman, still intent on reading his document, paid no attention to the scene being played out between Rhonda and the middle-aged, overweight, balding man.
"Listen, angel," Cheap Suit said angrily.
Oh no, thought Rhonda, there is nothing worse than a belligerent, loud-mouthed drunk.
"I'm more of a man than you've ever had."
He grabbed her wrist, but Rhonda pulled away. Sanford the bartender stepped in and tapped Cheap Suit on the shoulder.
"Why don't you go back to the bar and leave the lady alone?"
Charlie's didn't have a bouncer to toss out the unruly customers, but Sanford, a former linebacker for the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame, had no difficulty handling both jobs.
"And what if I don't feel like going back to the bar? What if I want to just sit here and talk to this pretty angel?"
"Look, pal, I can't allow you to harass the other customers."
"Harass? Harass my ass! These days a guy can't show interest in a woman without being accused of harassment. You know what the problem is with this world, don't you? It's those butch women's libbers out there trying to emasculate us men."
The two career women at the bar were clearly offended.
"Come on, Beatrice," one said to the other. "We don't have to stay here and listen to this."
"See the trouble you're causing," Sanford told Cheap Suit, after apologizing to the departing career women.
"Don't worry about those two," Cheap Suit laughed. "They're probably dikes, anyway. Even if they're not, they're too ugly to get harassed."
"That's it!" Sanford proclaimed, having exhausted his patience. "Out you go."
"You're throwing me out?" Cheap Suit asked, amazed. "Don't you realize we guys gotta stick together? Or are you one of those liberal faggots, the sickening kind of man who cries and shows his tender side?"
Rhonda watched, amused, as the brawny bartender escorted the drunk out the door by the seat of his pants as though he were running down the thirty-yard line to a rousing rendition of the "Notre Dame Victory March."
"Cheer, cheer for old Notre Dame," Rhonda sang softly as Cheap Suit was ejected from the bar.
"I'm sorry for all the trouble, miss," Sanford apologized.
"Don't worry. The guy probably just had one too many."
Rhonda finished her wine and left a tip on the table. As she hefted her bag over her shoulder, the angel from her key ring fell to the floor. Cheap Suit must have broken the chain.
"God damn him!" she exclaimed, looking at the broken crystal seraph.
"That's no way to talk to an angel, young lady," the businessman said, without looking up from his paper.
Oh great! Rhonda thought.
She'd just gotten rid of one nuisance. Would she now have to deal with another? But the businessman said nothing else. Once again, the document in his hand had his full attention.
What is he reading anyway? she wondered idly as she slipped the little angel into the pocket of her blazer.
"Goodnight, Sanford," she called to the bartender who waved goodbye in response.
Rhonda opened the door. It was already dark outside, and there were few lights in the parking lot. She wasn't worried, however. After all, this was peaceful little Puritan Falls, not Boston or New York. The darkness may be a bit unsettling, but it represented no danger to an unaccompanied woman—or so she thought.
As she headed for her Subaru, Rhonda saw a sudden movement in the line of trees and shrubs that separated Charlie's parking lot from that of the chiropractor's office next door. She peered into the darkness but couldn't distinguish one shadow from another.
It's probably just a deer, Rhonda thought optimistically.
Then the shadow moved again, much closer this time, and she could see that the figure was clearly that of a man.
"Hello there, angel," Cheap Suit said, drunkenly slurring his words. "Have you decided to take me up on my offer to visit the Ramada Inn, cutie? Wise choice!"
What Rhonda really wanted to do was tell the obnoxious, dime store Don Juan to take a running leap in front of an oncoming train. Fortunately, she had been born with the good sense not to anger a man who had more than two sails in the wind. Drunks, like pit bulls, were unpredictable; you never knew when one might turn nasty. Frankly, if she were given the choice, Rhonda would have preferred to take on the pit bull.
"Come on, angel," Cheap Suit urged as he drew nearer. "An hour with me and you'll think you really are in heaven."
Spare me! Rhonda thought.
"Sorry, but heaven or not, I really don't have the time," she answered, smiling sweetly. "I'm already late for an appointment. Perhaps we can meet some other time."
"Don't lie to me!"
Cheap Suit was getting angry.
Rhonda didn't know if she should try to reason with him or just bolt and make a run for it. But suddenly Cheap Suit grabbed her arms, making flight impossible.
"Please let go of me. I promise I'll meet you here tomorrow or maybe even later tonight."
"You think I'm stupid, don't you? That I'll buy any line you feed me?"
"No. I think you're a smart guy. Honestly, I have a doctor's appointment now, and if I miss it, I may not be able to get another one for a month or two. You know how hard it is to get in to see a doctor these days."
"Liar!" he screamed, as he savagely backhanded her across the mouth.
The whole right side of Rhonda's face was stinging from his slap, and blood started to drip into her mouth from her split lip. Now that Cheap Suit had her in his vice-like grip, escape was impossible. Rhonda realized she had two choices: fight him or submit. Or, maybe she could outsmart him, she fervently hoped.
"Okay, you win," she said with an air of defeat. "Let's go to the Ramada Inn."
"It's too late for that now, angel. You missed your chance."
The overweight, balding drunk pulled her toward the line of trees where he'd been hiding earlier. Terrified, Rhonda was beyond analyzing her course of action. The instinct for self-preservation kicked in, and she fought her assailant with great fury. She screamed, bit, scratched and kicked, all the while being pulled ever closer to the line of trees. Rhonda could hear a ripping sound as her clothes were torn and was dimly aware of pain emanating from her face, arms and legs. Still, she fought like a hellcat.
With great difficulty, Cheap Suit managed to wrestle her to the ground. Rhonda braced herself for what she feared was coming. Then she saw a quick flash of metal. Cheap Suit had a knife! She closed her eyes, fearing the end was near. The fight was over, and she had lost.
Suddenly, the weight of her attacker's body was gone. Rhonda cautiously opened her eyes. Cheap Suit was standing with his back toward her. A glowing bright light, violet-blue in color, formed an aura that outlined his body. Was someone shining a powerful flashlight at him? Perhaps Sanford had heard her screams and had come to investigate. More cheers for old Notre Dame!
With a profound sense of relief, Rhonda saw the knife drop to the ground and heard Cheap Suit let out a surprised cry before he crumbled and fell. Now that he was out of her line of vision, Rhonda could see that the violet-blue glow was not from a light at all. Standing about five yards away was the businessman from the bar. He was glowing like a radioactive creature, a mutant survivor of a nuclear holocaust. After several seconds his luminescence faded, leaving only a faintly glowing circle, halo-like, above his head.
"You must be my guardian angel," Rhonda laughed, though her eyes were filled with tears.
The angel did not reply. He merely smiled before fading from sight.
Rhonda supposed she should check to see if Cheap Suit was still breathing or not, but she couldn't bring herself to get close to him. Instead, she straightened her torn clothing, picked up her handbag and limped back to Charlie's Bar.
* * *
After Sanford phoned the police, he poured Rhonda another glass of wine.
"On the house," he said. "You can probably use it. A car accident and attempted rape—if not murder—in one day!"
He shook his head in disbelief.
Rhonda had given Sanford a condensed version of what transpired in the parking lot. She told him that a man had come to her rescue and then left before she could properly thank him. What she hadn't told the bartender, and what she had no intention of telling the police when they arrived, was that her savior had been her guardian angel. She saw no need to complicate the situation by mentioning immortal guardians that glowed in the dark with a strange violet-blue light. After all, she didn't want to exchange her Liz Claiborne blazer for a straitjacket.
"So you've got no idea who the guy was?" Sanford asked.
"I didn't get his name, but he was in here earlier this evening."
"I wasn't talking about your attacker. I meant the one who came to your rescue."
"I know. They were both in here tonight: the guy who attacked me and the one who saved me."
Sanford shook his head.
"I only had five customers all evening: the dead guy outside, you and three other women—the one at the table and the two at the bar."
"And the businessman at that table over there," Rhonda added, pointing to the spot where she'd first seen the angel.
"There was no one at that table."
"You must have seen him. He looked about forty years old, dark hair, expensive suit. He sat there looking over a letter or a contract or some other document."
"The only male customer in the place tonight was that fat, bald drunk who jumped you in the parking lot."
"I must be seeing things then," Rhonda sighed, reasoning that guardian angels probably appeared only to those in their care.
"Hey, maybe you had a premonition," Sanford suggested. "You could have seen the image of the guy in here before he actually appeared outside to save you."
"That just might be what it was," she said with a smile as she sipped her wine, thus putting an end to the conversation.
* * *
After the police finished questioning her, Rhonda left Charlie's Bar and walked back to her Subaru. She was glad to see that Cheap Suit's body had already been taken away.
"The guy probably had a heart attack," Officer Shawn McMurtry hypothesized when the ambulance drove off.
An autopsy would be performed, but a cursory examination done at the scene of the crime revealed no gunshot or knife wounds. Other than the bite marks and scratches inflicted by Rhonda, Cheap Suit's body bore no signs of violence.
As she put her key into the driver's side door lock, Rhonda saw a piece of folded paper lying on the ground just underneath the Subaru's door. She stooped to pick it up and recognized it as the document that the angel had been reading in Charlie's Bar. Curious, she unfolded it. Written in Old English letters, similar to those seen in medieval bibles, were two words: Angelus Mortis.
No sooner did Rhonda read those words than the paper, like the being that had left it behind, began to emit a violet-blue light before fading and then finally disappearing. Rhonda knew enough Latin to understand the meaning of those two words. The paper, left as some form of divine business card, confirmed the fact that she had indeed been saved by an angel—not the guardian angel she imagined was there to protect her, but the Angel of Death who had been sent to earth that night to claim the life of the man she had known only as Cheap Suit.
To paraphrase the words of the old song: He's got the devil in his heart, but he's an angel sent to me!
