Den of Dark Angels

Chapter Five

Chapter Five“Fiat Spider sports car. Low mileage. Leather seats, AM/FM stereo, aluminum wheels. Nine thousand,” the stranger's voice on the speaker phone rumbled.

“Dollars?” Patrick scratched his arm beneath the sleeve of his shirt. His psoriasis was acting up again. Dust motes swam in the yellow sunlight of late afternoon as he and Astria sprawled on the couch in their rented basement, the springs digging into their buttocks as usual.

“No, tomato juice,” Astria said to her partner. The voice on their landline chuckled.

“Bought it for my kid in '84 when he graduated from college. He drove it in the summer. It's been sitting in my garage since 2006.”

“Will it start?” Patrick asked.

“I start it up every spring and drive it a few blocks. Check it out, it's in perfect condition. You'll love it. My kid drives a minivan now.”

“What color is it?”

“Black with beige interior.” The speaker phone crackled.

Leather interior and aluminum wheels. Yee haw. The address was in Mount Royal on Richmond Hill and accessible by bus. Patrick remained on the couch by the shelves of books and the empty pizza cartons from the weekend. Astria flicked a mop over the floor. She opened a drawer and removed her checkbook, still thinking it over. They needed a car but the money her parents had sent was for tuition and books next semester. Her parents would not be pleased with their purchase. Her father, particularly, would not be impressed.

“Will you hurry up?” Patrick threw a ball of paper across the room, missed the wastebasket, and grinned when Astria frowned. “He might change his mind. That's a darn good price.”

“He won't change his mind, Patrick. He's lucky we're interested. That car's been sitting there for six years and he hasn't sold it yet. We've got cash and cash speaks.”

“Loud.” Ping! Another ball of paper bounced off the metal basket. “If you've got the money, honey, I've got the time.”

“Let's give it a test run, anyhow, Pat. That can't hurt.”

They went for a test run; a perfectly humming engine and spotless chassis, the cutest car with lots of trunk space for her camera equipment. Astria bought the car. Patrick drove them home with borrowed plates. An hour later they flaunted their own license plates, the front plate (unnecessary in Alberta) boasted the logo of the Mount Royal University, the vanity plate on the back proclaimed CAMEL.

“This car,” Patrick said, “Is the modern equivalent of the camel.”

“Desert car or camel, it doesn't make any difference to me,” Astria said. “You bought the plates, Pat. Your choice. But the car's for both of us, and remember who had the cash.”

“How could I forget?”

CAMEL it would remain. They would take looks askance from cowboys and oilmen because of that plate, but Patrick was adamant. He was the Sheikh of Araby, and Astria…? She swung her hips. “What a great car. I don't mind walking or bussing it. But what a great car, Pat. It can be our beast of burden when I start my photography classes next summer. I have too much equipment to carry by myself.”

“I'll help. I'm just glad you've changed majors. Law sucks.”

“Honey, you're a terrific help and strong like Ironman. But you're no camel.”

“Let's take it up north to show it off to your parents. It's about time we did something that showed I'm good enough for you. They think I'm a low-life SOB sponging off your money.” He pushed past the old chrome table doing double duty as a desk in their kitchen. His scuffed Brooks shoes left marks on the faded blue carpet. He sank onto the old couch in the next room. The corners of Astria's eyes crinkled. Her eyes under the blue tortoise frames were the color of violets at dawn and her hair curled tightly around ears as delicate as shells. She reached out to stroke his hair.

He scratched his face. “Ever since I saw you standing in the line of freshmen students three years ago, so aloof, so intelligent looking, so detached, I knew you were too good for me,” he said.

“You remember that?”

Patrick smiled. “I remember what you wore; black jeans and some sort of tie dyed top and sweater like you're wearing now. You were alone in the crowd.”

“Just me and my books.”

“You had that air about you, you know? Too good for this world.” He lit a cigarette and blew smoke in her face. “Too good for me.”

“Too good for you? You're right.”

Patrick crossed his ankles. His legs felt heavy. Time slowed down to a grey haze that snaked away from him and he grinned, pulling on a scab on his arm. Astria noticed his hands were shaking.

“Let me count the ways.” She sat beside him. “First. My parents are not the epitome of good breeding.”

Patrick raised his eyes and puffed. Ash trembled at the tip of the cigarette. He caught it in a cupped hand.

“Why not?”

“First, dad drinks too much,” she said.

“And…?”

“Second, mother is a c***k head. Her good breeding is all up her nose.”

“I don't hold that against them,” he said. “Pot calling the fry pan black.”

“You think you're the only pothead here? Take a look around you, Pat. My mother's got holes in her nose. My father's got holes in his stomach. They didn't raise me. My nannies and my gram raised me. Our money…they control everything. I have no money or anything of my own. An account in the City Bank for my tuition and equipment, enough in my checking account for rent and food. Maybe some left over at the end of the week for a movie and the Poe dates.”

“And a new car?”

“You better believe it. Straight from the account for books and tuition.” Grinning, she lit one of his cigarettes and inhaled deep into her throat. A column of smoke twirled from her mouth. She coughed and gave it back. “Next and lastly, I inherit that empire of theirs when they pass on.”

“I knew there was a catch. You know you're too good for me. You're rich, all right, or will be. But right now, you're poor as I am, thanks to the cheap SOBs.”

She coughed again. “There could be a fire. Something that kills people.”

“What are you saying?”

“To warm you up.” Astria stroked her hand along the side of his face. She removed her cardigan and flung it over both of them. “I was just kidding. Nothing serious will happen to them, not as long as we're together. We're like a lucky charm. I was just thinking of something that happened once. A fire killed my uncle, you know. There was no lucky charm for uncle Almos. I was there at the time,” she finished dreamily. “My Hungarian nanny was there, too. The fire was in our house. I was lucky to escape.”

“What?” He groped her breasts and she pulled down the zipper on his jeans, suddenly too tight.

“Yes,” she said, breathing heavily. She placed her glasses on the back of the couch. “The curtains caught fire. A candle did it. The papers blamed me. But it was an accident.”

Their moans were muffled by the moving warm woolen sweater she had thrown over their backs. He pulled away for a moment. His lips brushed hers. “I'll follow you,” he said. “Just like the lions. To the death.”

“Oh, gosh. You don't think they will, after all?” She shivered. “Follow me, that is?”

“No.” Patrick thrust again and again into her firm young body.

Outside on the silver path, there were footprints that puddled to a door and a small dirty window looking into a world inside. Patrick and Astria humped like a beast with two backs, and great glowing eyes watched from a corner of the dark room.