Riding With the Angel Of Death

By

Warren Bull

The Angel of Death parked her car, flipped down the visor, studied her reflection in the mirror.  She turned her head a quarter turn left and right.  Then she checked her teeth.

“I know it seems foolish, but appearance is important at the time like this.”  She looked at me.  “Once when I was new to the job I showed up with a piece of food in my teeth.  It was disrespectful to the dead and to the family.  I will never do it again.”

        She sighed, closed her eyes for a moment and whispered something I could not hear under her breath.  Then she opened the door.  “You’re sure you want to come?  Not many do.”

        I nodded.  We both got out of the car.  She left it unlocked. It would be safe.  Everybody knew her and what she was.  With each step, there was a tearing noise when I moved my feet.

        “That’s slime, oil and garbage,” she said.  “Clean your soles before you go home.”  The air smelled of decay and mildew.  She stopped in front of a wall and deciphered the graffiti that bled down it.

        “I see the 39^th street gang has recovered almost all the territory they lost when the Central American gangs teamed up with the Bombaderos.  The alliance couldn’t last of course.  They never do.  Gang bangers have been killing each other for the same turf for generations.  Gangs switch back and forth between coalitions but the wars continue.”

        She walked up to a man washing his car.  He was shirtless and his torso was covered with tattoos and scar tissue so that it was impossible to tell where one started and the other stopped.

        “Jaime,” said the angel, “how old is your son now.”

        “He turned eight last week,” answered Jaime.

        “Your daughters are getting older too,” said the angel.  “Is this what you want for your children?”  She gestured at the uncollected garbage, the barren muddy ground and the row of shabby grey concrete apartment buildings.

        “Some of the others can’t get out,” she said, “but you have a good job.  You can.”

        Jaime winced and shrugged.  “My homies are here.  My family has lived here since my father’s time.  Everywhere else people treat me like a criminal and a wetback.”

        “Think about it,” she said.  “Is respect worth your children’s futures?  I don’t want to come here to visit you.  You wouldn’t like that.”

        “No,” admitted Jaime.  He focused on me.

        “He’s with me,” she said.  We walked on.

        A group of boys, wedged between childhood and adolescence, passed around a malt liquor can and a hand-rolled cigarette.  Their posturing and cursing was immature and unnatural.

        “Wannabes,” said the angel to me.  “They haven’t been jumped in yet.”

        The boys leered at two girls jumping rope.  The girls must have been about ten, but the first curves of womanhood were just beginning to develop.

        “Don’t even think it,” she said to the boys.  “You know what prisoners do to child molesters. If I talk to the judge, you won’t even sniff juvenile hall.  I can do that.  I am the angel.”

        The boys muttered but walked away.  One of them managed to bump into me with his shoulder as he passed.  I ignored him.  As we walked along the cracked uneven sidewalk, people nodded to the angel.  When we passed by an apartment building, people on the balconies outside the building relaxed visibly.  American rock clashed with rap, corridos and mariachi music.  The angel entered one of the buildings and I followed.  The smell of spices engulfed me.  I shadowed her as she climbed to the third floor.  People moved out of our way without speaking or looking at us.  Finally, she came to an apartment door no different than others we had passed.  She knocked on the door.

        “Mrs. Lopez,” she called.

        A young woman threw the door open and yelled at us in rapid Spanish.  As best I could tell she was yelling, “It’s not true!  The police lied.  He’s just late getting home.  He’s not dead.”  Mrs. Lopez collapsed into the angel’s arms sobbing and gasping for air.  Murmuring Spanish, the angel steered her to a threadbare couch.  Women from other apartments came in to caress and comfort her.  They exchanged looks of relief that the angel had not come to them today.  An older woman hugged Mrs. Lopez and they rocked back and forth together on the couch.  Frightened children peered through the open door.  The angel left some papers and business cards on a rickety table.  “I’ll be back.”

        We made our way back down the stairs.  The angel greeted adults and passed out candy to children.  People were friendlier now as we headed back toward the car.  Jaime frowned at us and shook his head.

        “You haven’t got much time left,” the angel called to Jaime. 

By the time I got to the car I found I was sweating and trembling.  “I’ve got only four more stops this afternoon,” said the angel, “and three of them are follow ups.”

At the end of the day I slumped, drained and numb, into on one of the battered chairs in the waiting room of the Department of Social Services.  I heard a co-worker talking with the angel.

“That college student stayed with you the whole afternoon?  Amazing.  Books and classes don’t prepare you for the streets.  Was it a bad day, Angelica?”

“Not too bad today,” answered the angel, “considering that the gangs are in open warfare again.  A shooter on a bicycle killed one kid.  Another kid was killed waiting for the school bus – collateral damage.  Six more wounded in drive-bys, but only one seriously.  Tomorrow will probably be worse.”