                                     
                       ANGELS WE HAVE HEARD ON HIGH
                         

     I always work alone.
     Here I am, walking down 42nd street on the lower east side
of Manhattan, wondering why I never took an accomplice.  Just too
much trouble.      
     Can't really allow myself to trust anyone.  
     It's a one-man operation, anyway.  Rather have the goods to
myself.
     I'm good at my job.  Yes I am.  What I do-- it's an art, a
skill that takes time to perfect.  Not everyone is cut out for
it.  
     I'm damn slick, and I know it.  Nothing's going to stop me.
     Damn holiday!  It's Christmas again.  
     Department stores with their stupid sales, people with their
carols drifting out of every open doorway.  
     Everyone's so fucking happy!  Bah, Humbug!  Even the traffic
seems worse than usual, but here in New York City, it's hard to
tell.
     Been a long time now since I celebrated Christmas, myself. 
Can't really remember what the big deal's about.  Christmas comes
every day for me now.  Don't need no holiday like everyone else.
     What fools.  
     Look at them.  Rushing around like they're the only ones on
the planet.  They've all got somewhere to go after they finish
their holiday activities, somewhere warm where they can settle
down and relax.
     Can't afford to relax, myself.
     Had an apartment, but I haven't seen it in over six weeks
now.  The roaches were threatening to take over while I still
lived there.  Guess they have by now.  
     Can't stay anywhere for too long.  Hardly ever stop.  
     Only one hobby now:  observation.  Watch everyone and
everything, looking for a break, waiting for an opportunity.
     Gets cold.  Sometimes I can get a little heat from the
radiator of a just-parked car.  Worst time is around four a.m.
when the night starts to give it up to the morning, and the
psychopaths do their best work.  
     Yeah.
     I'm no psychopath.  Don't actually hurt people.  In fact, I
probably don't have a reason to worry about getting caught.  What
I'm doing is nothing compared to the craziness going on out here.
New York is the best place to commit a crime.  Especially a
robbery.  That's pretty small-time.  
     Problem is that most people I can rob don't have anything
that's worth the trouble.  That's what makes Christmas time the
best.  Thousands of dollars worth of merchandise have passed
through my hands over the past three weeks.  
     When's Christmas?  The twenty-fifth, right?  Wish I knew
what day it was.  Christmas is coming right up, probably only a
couple of days away.  Pickings should be especially good right
now.  
     Tonight will be my last robbery of the season.
     Seventh Avenue!  Shit!  Didn't realize that I'd walked so
far!  
     The Russian Tea Room right across the street.  Tempted to
step inside for a quick cup of coffee.  The door opens and a pair
of uptown chicks walk out.  Too expensive for my tastes.  No such
thing as quick cup in that place anyway.
     I keep walking.
     Times Square.  
     Dazzling lights, drunk couples laughing hysterically at
things that only the rich would understand.  Seen it a dozen
times, but for some reason, tonight it all makes me nauseous.
     Got to get out of the city.  
     It wouldn't do for me to get sick tonight, the night of my
last robbery.  Got to pull this off.  Just one more time!
     I pass the front.  Billy's Pawn Shop.
     I don't look at the store.  Don't want anyone's suspicions
to get aroused.
     Shouldn't have even walked by here.  Too dangerous.  
     Billy's my fence.
     He knows where to go, where to get all the good shit.
     Lately, though, he ain't been too friendly.  Been pretty dry
as far as ideas, too.  I might have to drop him.  Go somewhere
else.
     I keep walking.  
     Watching.
     Sam's Grill.
     Coffee.
     Day-glo calls to me, and I want to go inside.  Thinking of
coffee again, and I can't resist.
     Across the street, hurry, hurry.  Cars are impatient
tonight.  Must be the holidays.  
     I see the ice before I step on it, but I'm not really
thinking about being careful-- not in that sense, anyway.  
     Damn it, I step right on it, and feel myself slipping.
     I bust my ass on the pavement.  
     Shit!  Hurts!  
     I stand up, quickly, cursing the patch of icy web along the
curb.
     "Sir, are you okay?"
     Look up into the eyes of some gorgeous blonde chick.  Damn,
she's fine.  Just stare and stare at her.  She's a little young
for me, probably eighteen or so.  Still, I want her.  Can't open
my mouth to talk to her, and finally she turns and walks away. 
Shoulda said no, so she'd stay and take care of me.  What I
wouldn't give to have her sympathy and attention!  I wonder if
I'll ever get a woman like that.
     I imagine myself calling after her, and she turns around and
smiles again, only this time, it's more sexy, more suggestive,
and I...
     "Are you gonna go in or not?"
     Some black dude glaring at me now.  Forgot I was standing in
the doorway of Sam's Grill.  The man squeezes by me and I scan
the crowd for the girl again, but she's gone.
     I go into the sleaze joint.  
     I'm immediately sorry I did.  No one here but the man who
came in before me, and some other black guy slumped over his cash
register.  Could be dead for all I know.  Probably is, knowing
this side of town.  Hell, this ain't Greenwich Village.
     Greenwich Village!
     There's rich assholes in Greenwich Village.... rich
vacationing assholes in Greenwich Village.
     Suddenly, the adrenaline flows through my body and I get an
instant hard-on.  This is it!  I can feel it.  
     It feels vaguely familiar, like I've had this idea before,
but I've never put in work in the Village before.  
     I whirl and bolt out the door, and hear:  "Hey!  You can get
an honest meal here!" at my back, but I don't turn around.
     I flag down a taxi.  
     It takes me almost ten minutes, but I won't get on the
subway at night.  You can get smoked if you do something stupid
like that.  Hell, I ain't stupid.
     In the Village now.  In front of a deli.
     I pay the cabby a twenty for a nineteen dollar and sixty-
five cent fare and tell him to keep the change.  Ha-ha!  
     I head away from the center, away from the shops and
activity, toward the darker sections of town.
     Ritzy apartment-duplex complexes on my left, and no one
around.  It doesn't get better than this, so I go for it.  
     I step into the lobby.
     Elevator inside.  
     Which floor?  
     I push the 'three' button.  Random choice.  Get off the
elevator.  Always pick the apartment at the end of the hall. 
Damn, this sure does feel familiar.
     I knock on the door.
     Just in case.
     No answer after a full minute, so I knock again.
     Tired of waiting.  
     Glance around, and take a screwdriver out of my pocket.  Jam
the slanted edge behind the knob and slam it home!  Yeah!  
     The knob pops off in my hand.  Now I can feel the guts of
it, I'm working it... The door clicks softly open.
     Risky.  
     Damn!  What's wrong with me?  
     This is more risky than usual, because I haven't scouted the
area, and I don't know anything about the dude that lives here. 
Could be a chick.  Could come waltzing in any minute.  It's not
even completely dark outside yet.  Risky!
     Still there's something... in the air.  I'm not gonna get
caught-- that is, if I can keep from getting cocky.
     Nice pad.  
     I whistle to show my appreciation, even though no one's
around to notice how much I'm admiring it.  Not lacking anything,
that's for sure.  
     Huge Christmas tree.  Good God Almighty, what I wouldn't
have given to have a tree like this as a kid.  Presents
everywhere!  Like a damn department store or something.  Like
those rich families you always see in the movies, with eight
thousand gifts for each person.
     Great idea.  
     I'm so brilliant sometimes.  Why have I never thought about
coming out here before?  
     Wait.  That damn familiar feeling again.       
     Something's bugging the hell out of me, but I don't know
what it is.  
     Nothing's wrong.  What's the matter with you?  Look at all
this!  I'm not even going to be able to get it all.
     I pull a large department store sack from my coat.
     "It's Christmas time!" I say, finally getting into the
spirit.  I scoop up presents left and right.  I love this.  Never
know what you'll end up with.  
     Reading the tags now.  This one has to be jewelry.  Who to? 
A wife?  A lover?  
     Shove it in the sack.  Hurry.  
     A flat four-by five box wrapped in red paper.  
     To Stanley From Miranda, it says.
     Stanley.  What a coincidence.
     Never come across a present with my name on it before. 
Intrigues me for some reason.  
     It's stupid, I know.  But I open it.  Rip right through the
paper.  
     It's a picture frame.  Gee.
     Holding it up to the light to see the picture.
     What?
     It's that chick.  The good-looking one from Times Square.
How did--  
     Voices!
     People talking real loud in the hallway.  Damn!  Can't they
see I'm busy?
     I glance away from the picture, but the tree is gone.  So is
most of the furniture.  The apartment is empty.
     I blink...
     ... and find myself outside the apartment door holding the
screwdriver, trying to pry off the knob.  
     Frantic work.  
     The cops!
     Three pigs right on top of me.  Behind them some hyped-up
dude.
     One of the cops grabs me roughly and jerks my arm behind me. 
     "So you're a present snatcher, huh?" another of the
policemen asks.  He lifts his arm and smacks me hard across the
nose.
     I recoil in shock and feel droplets of blood run into my
mouth.  I glance at the doorway of the apartment I could swear
I'd been in a moment before.  It's boarded up, and tape is
wrapped around the doorknob.  
     "But I-- I just came out of that apartment."
     "No, you didn't," says the dude, the one who's not a cop. 
Must be the manager.  
     "That was my daughter, Miranda's apartment," he says.  "She
died last Christmas Eve when a burglar entered her apartment. 
She came home while he was here and he killed her."
     Yes. 
     I remember now.
     But I didn't know I'd killed her.  
     Her face, her beauty, had haunted me over the past year.  
     "It was an accident!" I scream.  "I didn't know she was
dead.  I didn't mean to kill her!"
     Confession.  I had just confessed to murder.
     The cop who'd hit me stares at me like I'm a roach under his
shoe he wants to crush.  He pulls handcuffs out and clamps them
onto my wrists.  They're too tight and they begin to cut off my
circulation.
     "Let's go, scum-bag.  You'll be lucky if I don't kick the
shit out of you before we even get to the station," he says.
     Numb, I follow.  
     Crash!
     Something falls out of my pocket.  
     That picture.  Her face.
     "Where did you get this?" the man cries and picks it up. 
"It's Miranda."  There are tears in his eyes now.  "Oh she was
such an angel.  Now she's in heaven where she belongs."
     The cop pushes me roughly forward and I move on.  
     "It's going to be a good Christmas," the cop says to no one
in particular.  
     The manager begins to sing.  "Angels we have heard on
high... sweetly singing o'er the plains..." He hums the rest.
     She was such an angel.
     Really.
     Suddenly, I'm beginning to understand.
     


@ 1994 by Black Sunshine
