Chapter 21.

And then, lo, a gale-force wind roared, scattering in its wake shattered bones, dust, gravel, and sundry trash—including (but not limited to) cigarette butts, fast food containers, newspapers, and fliers for a funk concert ripped from telephone poles and shop windows—further cowering the horde and sending Frank to his knee. Not in adoration, but to keep from falling yet again onto his keister.

He’d seen this movie before.

Sure as shooting, a rainbow-graffiti blur flashed past Frank a quarter-beat later. He grinned, recognizing Metatron on the wing. With a loud ‘WHACK,’ the angel smashed into the dragon, wrestling it to the ground as Thin Man tumbled, arse over teakettle, to the pavement. Frank winced, sharing Thin Man’s pain, until glee tugged Frank’s face into a grin that he KNEW was evil, but didn’t care.

Serves the putz right, he thought, gloating over Thin Man’s defeat.

Metatron sparring with the beast, however, proved more interesting than the pale putz by a country mile. Hell, even the black leather skeletons ceased marching and watched the fight. Frank leaned on the lance, joining them. It was like the Thriller in Manilla times a million. What a spectacle. Two superhuman monsters in a death-match. The bee’s knees… though he doubted Umberto or Boots would believe him should he share this tale. He was Irish-America and his tribe’s penchant for tall-tales haunted him DESPITE his down-home nature.

Freaking stereotypes.

Though, truth be told, he did like a pint or two, and a dash of the old whisky, and he possessed the gift of gab in spades, aided in no small measure by his Dale Carnegie training.

So maybe they are right… at least a little?

It didn’t matter, though, because Frank watched, gobsmacked as the dragon slashed, its razor-sharp claws ineffectual against Metatron’s granite skin. The angel dragged the fire-spitting dragon off its rear legs and, in a blur of speed, drove it across Hough and into the alley, planting the beast several feet into the Eliot Ness mural. The dragon slumped, either knocked silly or dead. Frank rocked back on his heels, impressed, pounding the lance into the ground in applause.

Perhaps Metatron is a dimwit, but he’s one tough dimwit.

Though it had escaped his notice, between the gale-force wind and Metatron’s sparring with a dragon, the Morons no longer stood post between Maquis and Partisans. Instead, they waded through the skeleton horde, mowing down demons by the score. Frank reckoned they’d learned from watching hij, since they emulated his tactics.

#

A pained whimper rose from the intersection.

Frank’s gaze whipped back towards the sound, and his heart skipped. Thin Man stood over the supine chef, gloating. Mortified, Frank rushed forward, bracing for yet another battle. But when Thin Man placed a two-tone wingtip oxford on the chef’s throat, Frank skidded to a stop and raised his hands.

“Whoa, hold on there,” Frank said, “don’t kill him.”

Thin Man’s face sharpened into a dead-eyed, joyless grin. “Look at you, a knight in shining armor out to save the princess he’s sweet on from the evil ogre. So noble, so heroic, so… romantic.”

Frank snorted. He knew this putz’s game: mock, sneer, and probe for an exposed underbelly. Having no time for that schoolyard bully nonsense, Frank squared, staring Thin Man deep in the eyes. “Just let the guy go. He ain’t but a working stiff trying to get home to his family.”

“I’ll… think about it,” Thin Man said, stroking his chin in a mocking pantomime of deep thought.

Frank suppressed an eye roll as he lay aside the lance, suing for peace. “Look, buddy. Not sure why, but you’ve got a hard-on for me, so just take me, leave him. He didn’t do nothing, and you can take that to the bank.”

Thin Man’s face cracked into a creepy, ecstatic grin as he ground his heel into the moaning chef’s throat. “Nothing? Did I hear you right?”

His mouth bone-dry, Frank inched forward, nodding. “You heard true.”

“Liar.” Thin Man’s dark eyes brimmed. “Two duly appointed officers of the Cleveland Police told me he burned this poor man’s Cadillac.” Thin Man motioned over his shoulder to Zac, who emerged with Beefy from their hidey-hole behind a late ‘50s rust bucket of a Chevy, training their weapons on Frank.

Thin Man cleared his throat. “Rifles down, fellas.” He nodded Frank’s way. “This ‘valiant hero,’ this loser with a savior complex is mine. Have your way with the colored boy when I’m done and gone.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Frank said, his arms raised, fear for the colored man draining the heat from his cheeks, his gaze darting to Zac. “Don’t lynch him. Call off the dogs and then call the cops. I beg of you. Let them lock him up, investigate. I… I swear he’s innocent. You’ll… you’ll see.”

Beefy scoffed, cocking his rifle and pointing it at the chef, saying, “Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe, catch a n****r by the toe…” Zac chuckled, nodding in approval, his cold and hooded gaze laser-focused on the chef.

Frank gulped, helpless and wondering why no one heeded him, a credible witness and solid citizen. Even Zac, who seemed a reasonable sort, wasn’t listening. Now, he could understand Thin Man ignoring him. That guy probably tortured cats as a hobby. Frank could also understand Beefy. He’d met the type often enough. In fact, Beefy most reminded Frank of a fat Mississippian he’d almost fought in Liverpool during The War. The idiot went ballistic when Frank played Louis Armstrong’s innocuous ditty ‘Jeepers, Creepers’ on a jukebox.

Jeepers freaking Creepers, for Christ’s sake, and he goes off like a Roman candle. What an ass.

Anyway, that fool called Frank a race-traitor for listening to “n****r jungle music.” The asshole never paid mind that Frank’s next song was the Carter Family playing some hillbilly gospel ditty which Frank also liked.

Assholes are assholes.

And then the Mississippi fool had the nerve to say, “The South shall rise again, Yankee boy.”

Frank smirked, considering the ignorance the man displayed. First off, calling Frank O’Brien a “Yank” was absurd. He hated the Yankees more than he hated Satan himself. Worse, Frank was born and raised in Ohio, the land of Grant and Sherman, the generals who ended that rotten slaveholder’s rebellion. No way the South would rise again after the ass-kicking they doled.

Dumbass.

Lucky for Frank, the pub owner flagged the MPs before things boiled over, and the mental midget scurried out the rear door. The barkeep stood Frank a pint, telling him in his cockney accent, “I like you GIs well enough, but to hell with Jim Crow.”

Frank agreed. That Mississippian, like Beefy, was white trash. Not that Frank begrudged a simple man, being but a workingman himself. Thing was, In his experience, most simple people weren’t trash. Beefy and that Mississippi fool, on the other hand…

Fuck the dumbass peckerwoods, and fuck Thin Man, the sadistic monster, and God help them when they meet their maker.

Contrariwise, Zac seemed a solid citizen. He owned a business and worked hard. The guy was an American dreamer living the American Dream. So following Dale Carnegie’s advice, Frank moved forward with his arms raised, chest and chin high, and appealed to Zac’s better angels.

“Look, boss, I understand today’s sucked for you. An angry mob wants to destroy the bar you’ve built, brick by brick. But that’s just stuff, boss. Things. You can fix things, or buy new stuff. Besides, things ain’t the measure of a man, it’s what he does, who he is, and the people he raises up. His family, his community, and whatnot: you know, what he builds, and you of all people should know it’s harder to build than destroy.”

Zac waved his hands at the surrounding buildings, a sudden pain flooding his visage. “That’s why these thugs slay me. They’re hell-bent on destroying my life, my livelihood, and I’m not sure if I have the energy to rebuild.”

A knot in Frank’s heart eased as Zac’s shoulders relaxed. “Look, I feel your pain. I know what the cops told you. They told me too, but they’re wrong. I was there. This boy did NOT burn your car. Hell, he’s not even a rioter. He was giving me directions when some other dudes firebombed your car. You kill this man, lynch him or whatever you call it, you become a murderer, and that’s forever, between you and your maker. And, God forbid, the cops arrest you for murder. Think of your family. You want them to fend for themselves?”

Thin Man scoffed, smoothing his ruffled suit. “Listen to ‘the conscience of a generation,’ the new Ghandi.” He sneered, eyes narrow and slicing like lasers as Zac’s attention shifted to him. “Besides, aren’t you a businessman, an entrepreneur who creates jobs for other people? Are you going to let this nobody dictate to you?”

A fire hotter than dragon breath raging in his solar plexus, Frank squared against Thin Man. “Fuck off, slim.” A beat later, Frank’s focus shifted back to Zac. “Ignore the fool. Look… okay, okay… sure, I’m just a palooka, a nobody, a journeyman ironworker, but I’ll promise you this. I’m a long, long way from home and won’t, probably can’t, see my family for years. Facts are, I’m lost. If you let the chef go, or maybe call the cops so I can testify on his behalf, I’ll help you rebuild your bar. I promise. I can do most anything in construction: carpentry, pipefitting, cement work, masonry, wiring electrical and whatnot. You name it, and I can do it. Pay me apprentice wages, get me some strong backs and I can get them humming along. It’s what I do. We can rebuild you on the cheap.”

Thin Man choked on a stifled laugh. His eyes cut into Frank, sharp and sarcastic. “God, are you sanctimonious, a wannabe ‘working-class hero.’ Face facts, Frankie, you’ve always been and will always be, an insignificant nothing. A nobody.”

Frank suppressed a wince. This guy knew where to prod. But Frank would not fall down that rabbit hole. Decades of negotiating labor contracts had taught him a thing or three, so he took a deep breath. “Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re wrong, but facts are the chef’s still innocent, so bugger off, slim.”

Thin Man smirked. And then his face went blank, peering over Frank’s shoulder. “Not him,” he said through gritted teeth, his jaw muscles flexing as he struggled to keep his fake grin pasted on his face, “he’ll spoil the game.”

A sound Frank couldn’t identify startled him, and he followed Thin Man’s gaze. In a flash, he realized the sound was silence. Blessed peace. No longer were angels fighting demons. No longer were rioters huddling in the shadows, plotting against the armed, rag-tag shop owners and their families struggling to protect the tiny piece of America that sustained their families. Instead, the action had stilled.

And Corny… glowed… well, sort of….

The gift of Blarney failed Frank’s golden tongue, and he lacked the words for what he saw, but Frank trusted his eyes. Corny didn’t glow, per se. His skin was still the same rich, dark brown, his cardigan still red and black, and his straw cowboy hat a dull, dusty, faded charcoal gray. Despite this, Corny stood out from the background, more real than real, more in-focus than the surrounding reality.

He glowed… without glowing…

?

Frank shrugged. Words or not, he saw what he saw.

At the far end of the intersection, Corny raised his eyes, “Now, Zoltan, what in God’s green earth are you doing torturing my friend?”

“Mind your own business, brother.”

“My friends are my business,” Corny said, halting and leaning on his cane. “Now, leave him be. He ain’t your plaything. He doesn’t belong here, let me take him back where he does.” With a wince, Corny stepped forward, looking down as he stepped off the curb, favoring his fake leg, balancing to ensure that it stayed put.

An arm around his shoulder caught Frank by surprise. Before he could shrug from Thin Man’s grasp, the man, proving far stronger than Frank would have guessed, pulled Frank off-balance.

“Fuck that old gimp,” Thin Man said, his voice panicked and caustic. He waved his hand in front of them, slicing reality like it was a movie screen, revealing a dark emptiness behind. Before Corny looked back up, Thin Man had dragged Frank into the inky blackness, stitching the hole between the universes tight with another wave of his hand.