A Peek Behind The Veil (c)
Chapter Three
By Fiction Writer #13
(nosex, paranormal)

I sat in my chair for about an hour after Melissa Gilbert left, staring into 
space.  That staring gave way to glaring across the hall at Seer Lena's 
'doorway to the mystic world'.  She had beaten me to the punch once 
again.

"You really should do something about that bitch, Nicky.  How dare she 
send you a charity case?  The nerve of that skank.  Why don't we have a 
drink and then go tell her what we think of her?" Jack said, droning on 
and on inside my head.

I'd spent many a night in the past hanging out with Jack, fixated on that 
damn neon sign.  Some nights I got myself so worked up I'd staggered 
out into the hall intent on destroying that fucking sign.  Jack was in one 
hand and my jealousy was clenched tightly in the other.

It should be no surprise that it was always Jack's idea to open the door 
and let some fresh air into the office.  Jack's words also kept me fixated 
on Lena's blinking sign.  Jack's plan all along was to shatter her beacon 
that shone out to those who sought help in the night.

"Without that light, they'll never find her," he egged me on repeatedly. 
"Then, they'll have to come to you."

For some reason, which passes all understanding, I always seemed to 
stop myself before crossing that destructive threshold.  Maybe it was my 
own conscience catching up with me in time to forestall my jealous 
anger.  Or maybe, in my booze weakened state, that was as far as my 
wobbly legs cared to take me.  Whatever it was, I'm glad that I never 
made it to her door.  I would have regretted doing anything to her sign 
for any number of more sobering reasons.

Shit!  I feel guilty now for having ever contemplated doing something so 
childish after all she has done for me since I began to sober up.  But, 
back then, I had my own little cheering section.  It was egging me on, 
urging me to act like a misguided teenaged vandal.

As I sat there, glaring at the humming green and blue sign mocking me 
from across the hall, I could feel the room start to spin again.  Jack's 
poison still flowed in my veins, cursing me for not partaking of more of 
his libation.

He was both the venom that was slowly killing me, and the cure for the 
tremors that ran wild through my body.  I could smell him oozing from my 
pores, taste him in the bile rising in my burning throat, and hear him... I 
could hear him cackling uncontrolled in my mind, taunting and teasing.

"Come on Nicky... you know what will make you feel better; just one 
more, one more for the road.  This should be a celebration!  You've got 
work to do!  I'm not asking much, just one swig and we can put all this 
sweating and shaking to rest, and get to work."

That bastard wouldn't shut up.  He just kept going on and on.  His voice 
rose and fell like waves on the ocean.  I felt as if I were on a tiny boat on 
that sea, my insides sloshing around with the tides of his oration.  I 
began to feel seasick.  It was Jack.  The fucker was trying to make me 
seasick, even though I was firmly planted on solid ground.

"Here comes a big one, Nicky!  Better hold on!  Wheeeeeeee!"

That was it.  That was all I could stand.  For the second time that day I 
found myself hunched over and heaving.  Drool and stomach acid 
dripped from my lips into the ash filled brass trashcan by my desk.  My 
eyes stung with the pain of my strained 'full body tension' tears.  Drums 
beat in my ears, perfectly in time with my heart, shattering any 
semblance of coherent thought.

"Just one more, Nicky... just one... come on... you know you want 
some... I can take the pain away... the sickness... all of it gone... just like 
that... no more worries... no more tears... no more memories... no more 
dark thoughts... come on, Buddy... you know I'm right."

I was just about to give in to Jack when a flicker of white caught my eye. 
I looked up.  I saw, in my blurry vision, what I first took to be an angel.

It was a young girl, maybe eight years old.  Her long honey-blonde hair 
was tied in a ponytail.  Her lips were frosted pale, her eyes a sparkling 
hazel.

A golden halo floated between her folded pair of snowy white wings as 
she stood in the open doorway of my office.  For a long moment I just 
stared at her in confusion.

She returned my gaze with apprehension.  The two of us were not 
speaking as we studied one another.  She seemed nervous, as if ready 
to bolt away like a gazelle if I showed any sign of being a lion.

Wiping away the tears in my eyes with the back of my hand cleared my 
sight enough for me to realize my error in judgment.  She wasn't an 
angel; she was just dressed as one.  The ballet leotard, crinoline tutu, 
and toe shoes laced up her slender shins, should have been my first 
clues.

The fourth floor of the building had been rented out to a dance school 
the year before.  Thankfully, the tap classes hadn't enough students to 
continue on for long.  But, for as long as they lasted, I seriously 
contemplated suicide.  You have no idea what it's like to be plagued with 
a hangover, while fifteen kids merrily stomp their feet above your head.  
The agony of it all is exquisite.  Luckily, ballet seemed a more popular 
pursuit in this part of town.  For the most part, the ballet dancers were 
silent in their educations, with the exception of when they were on point.

"Are... are you okay mister?" she asked in a quavering voice, finally 
breaking our self-imposed silence.

I cleared my throat to speak.  It must have sounded like a growl, 
because she took a tentative step backwards into the hallway. "Yes... 
uhumm... yes, Sweetie.  I'm fine. Thank you."

"I heard you getting sick, and I... I just wanted to make sure... you'd be 
all right." She took a step back inside, still wary of the straggly mess still 
hunched over before her on the floor.

"I'm okay... just a little flu." Once again I used the same lie I'd used many 
times before.

"Do you need a doctor?" she asked with concern.

"No... I should be okay, now," I said.  With that, I sat back on my legs 
and offered her a weak smile.

"Okay.  Can I get you anything?" she smiled back, her pixie face 
showing relief that I was not dying.

It was in that moment I suddenly realized I actually did feel much better.  
The room had stopped spinning, my stomach settled a bit, my head no 
longer thundered, and most importantly... Jack had finally shut the fuck 
up.

Three times that day a complete stranger came to my aid when I needed 
them the most.  Lena sent Mrs. Gilbert to me when I had lost all hope of 
ever working again.  Mrs. Gilbert hugged me when I so desperately 
needed to feel contact with another human being... and now, just as I 
was about to give up and submit to Jack's incessant chatter, an angel 
appeared at my door, concerned for my well-being.

I've never been what you would call a religious man.  Up until that day, I 
could have counted the number of times I'd gone to church on one hand: 
my baptism (Protestant, if you're wondering), my wedding, and the 
funeral services for both of my parents.  I've prayed, though mostly in 
times of great stress or pain.  Rarely have I ever felt that those prayers 
were answered by anything like a higher power.

On that day, kneeling on the floor of my office, looking up into the face of 
a little angel, I started to become a believer.  Someone, or some thing, 
was definitely looking out for me. In my time of need I'd been sent three 
messengers to answer my unspoken prayers for salvation, redemption, 
and inner strength.

I've since discovered that life is full of angels who seem to appear out of 
nowhere to save the day, though one might easily miss them.  It's not 
that they're invisible; far from it, in fact.  They're nearly everywhere.  
You've probably been helped by one, and not even known it.  Among 
these angels could be your best friend, or a complete stranger, a 
neighbor, or someone just passing through.

Oddly, they are almost always normal people.  They are just like you or 
me, but somehow they know in that critical moment, just the right thing 
to say or do to bring you back from the edge of the abyss.

Anyone can be an angel.  There is no trick to it, no mystery, no magic... 
just the need to do something good for someone, or anyone... to help 
without being asked for it.  That is what makes someone an angel, it 
seems to me.

I would have missed the little angelic ballerina completely if she hadn't 
been dressed the way she was.  I'd have shrugged her off as just some 
curious kid butting in on my miserable life in an insignificant moment, to 
be forgotten in a haze of alcohol and depression.

Back then, I was a bit too slow to see the subtle mysteries of life.  Jack 
doesn't understand subtle metaphors.  Fortunately for me, my angel 
showed up dressed for the part.  What further was there to understand?  
How many of you can say that your life's been saved by a children's 
dance recital?

"No, Sweetie, I think I can manage on my own, now.  Thank you for 
looking out for me, though."

In silent reply the cherub beamed a great big smile at me, before turning 
and rejoining a small group of girls, who were all dressed as angels.  
They had been waiting silently in the hall for her as she checked on me.

"He's okay, and he seems like a nice man," I heard her whisper to them 
before her little voice was overpowered by childish giggles.  Then, quite 
abruptly, she and her friends raced up the final flight of stairs, wings and 
halos bouncing.  The smile on my face lasted until Jack had to go and 
ruin the moment.

"They won't always be so pure and innocent.  One day they'll grow up 
and break someone's heart, just like yours was."

I ignored his remark, but the damage was done.  The moment was gone 
forever.  Only the warm memory remained.  I had been saved.  I could 
resist Jack.  I could win.

My knees cracked when I stood up.  The room took one final spin as 
blood rushed out of my head. It was time to get to work.

First, I had to get cleaned up and on the move.  There was a missing girl 
out there somewhere, and I had made a promise.

Two hours, a hot shower, a shave, fresh clothes, and a pot of coffee; 
they not only lifted my spirits, but cleared the last of the cobwebs out of 
my head.  I had already screwed up in my investigation before I'd even 
begun.  That mistake was over a simple picture.  I forgot to ask Mrs. 
Gilbert for a picture of her daughter.  Real good procedure, master 
detective!  I could have been sitting right next to Erin, and I wouldn't 
have known it was her.  I was off to a great start.

I decided I could resolve that little glitch later with a phone call to Mrs. 
Gilbert.  In the meantime, I wanted to track down some of my old bar 
buddies.

It's not what you're thinking.  I wasn't going out to get sloshed. My 'bar 
buddies' were all cops.  Some of them worked the Soho district.  If I was 
going to find some answers, I had to start with them.  It was just 
common courtesy.  By rights, it had been their case first.  Maybe they'd 
had a good reason for dropping it.

My first stop was a little place tucked away down an alley, called simply, 
"The Pub".  If you didn't know where it was, then you had little chance of 
finding it at all.  That's how the patrons liked it.  No signs, no awning, just 
one window and a large red door that was never locked.  The tourists 
stuck to the cobblestones and the shops, while the locals drank in 
peace.

It was dark inside.  The only light came from behind the bar, and from a 
few neon signs depicting the preferred beverages available.  The single 
window was so covered with years of caked on pollution that bright 
sunlight barely filtered in.  Dark wood tables and chairs, each a little 
worn and wobbly, filled the forlorn space.  The floor was scuffed but 
mostly clean, a few empty peanut shells lying here and there.  Smoke 
rose from forgotten cigarettes left to burn in blackened ashtrays.  A pool 
table seemed always in use, and a well-pitted dartboard hung off to the 
side.  The bar was protected by a polished brass rail, twelve hard wood 
stools lined up before it.  During the day someone was always sitting on 
at least one, and at night they were always all occupied.

You'd think a place like that would attract the worst kinds of people, and 
normally you would be right, but The Pub was owned and operated by 
Peter O'Malley.  He was a retired cop, and one of the biggest guys I've 
ever met.  At six foot eight, two hundred and sixty pounds, Pete was just 
one of a long line of red headed O'Malley's that ran the place.  All had 
been cops at some point in their lives.  It was a long-standing family 
tradition.  It was a tradition that a new visitor to the pub was made aware 
of, as soon as they walked through that red door.

The interior of the pub could have doubled as a history museum for the 
NYPD.  The walls were adorned with hundreds of photographs, dating 
all the way back to the nineteen- twenties.  Much of the other police 
paraphernalia on display dated back fifty years before that.  If that wasn't 
enough to alert you that this was a cop hangout, the stark glares you 
received upon entering would have been.

This was an 'old school neighborhood bar', not one of those places 
taken over by young punks out for a night of trouble.  No one would stop 
you from coming in, but if you didn't figure out how things worked on 
your own, they would make sure you found the exit.  My kind of place.

Just walking through that red door made me thirsty again, but I reminded 
myself that I was only here for information, not for comfort.  The memory 
of my angel helped me to steel my resolve as I moved up to the bar and 
sat down on my favorite stool.  Truth be told, they were all my favorite 
stools... after all, they were all at the bar.

"Hey, Nicky!  Long time no see!" Peter emerged from the trapdoor 
behind the bar carrying two cases of beer, which he promptly dropped 
on the bar with a thud.  Before bending down to close off the basement 
entrance, he offered his meaty hand for a vigorous handshake.

"So, what can I getya?"

"Nothin' today, Pete, I'm here on business," I said, while flexing my hand 
trying to regain feeling.  Some people just don't know their own strength.

"Business?  Here?" He looked around his nearly empty bar 
incredulously. "Haven't got much of my own to be goin' around sharin' 
wit you."

"Seriously, Pete," I laughed. "Any of the boys from the Sixth pop in here 
lately?"

He squinted and scratched his thinning red hair. "Nah, haven't seen 'em.  
Come to think of it, they haven't stopped in fer two weeks or so.  Why?  
What's up?"

"Nothing really, just a case I'm working on.  I didn't want to step on any 
toes."

"You see?  That's why I like you, Nicky.  Ya got respect," he said, turning 
from me to wash some dirty glasses. "These new guys out there, they 
don't know shit, but they expect ya to bend over and let them give it to 
ya.  Back when I was on the force, we'd 'ave put 'em in their place and 
show 'em what respect was all about.  But these days, damn, I don't 
know if I could've worked with some of these little pricks commin' out the 
academy." He turned back to look me dead in the eyes. "Things are 
changin' out there Nicky, an not fer the better."

"I hear ya." I pulled one of my business cards out and slid it over the bar. 
"If any of them stop in, could you have them give me a ring?"

"No problem." He slid the card off the edge and snatched it up. "Sure 
there's nothin' I can help you with?"

"Not unless you've heard about a missing girl named Erin Gilbert?" I 
asked while standing up to leave.  I didn't want to spend any more time 
around that much temptation than I needed to.

"Can't say I can help ya out with that one.  How long has she been 
gone?"

"About two weeks."

"Huh... same time as the Sixth precinct boys stopped commin in."

"Yep."

"An' you say they were working on her case?"

"They were," I said with emphasis. "According to the girl's mother, they 
filed it away as a prank and washed their hands of the whole affair.  But 
the thing is, the girl is still missing.  My client has tried to get them to 
keep looking, but they just keep brushing her off.  The other thing of it is, 
right after the case was closed, the girl's apartment building was burnt to 
the ground.  So now, if there was any evidence of an abduction, it's gone 
for good."

"Coincidence... has to be."

"I don't know... like you said: 'things are changing out there'.  Since when 
did you ever hear of a cop turning away a concerned mother looking for 
her missing daughter?"

He shook his head and shrugged. "You got a picture of this girl?"

I winced. "Not on me; left it at the office."

Sure it was a lie, but I wasn't going to tell Pete that I hadn't thought to 
ask for one.  He'd never have let that go.  After hearing about that stupid 
move, he would probably have posted my picture behind the bar with a 
note: "If you've seen this idiot, please call a real detective."

"If I hear anything, I'll give you a ring."

He held my card up to the light to read the number provided.

"Thanks, Pete," I said.  I pulled a twenty out of my wallet and set it on 
the bar. "I'd appreciate that."

"No problem, Nicky.  If she's out there, I hope ya find her."

"Me too, Pete," I turned and headed for the exit, "Me too."

My hand had just touched the handle when I heard my name whispered.

"Nicolas."

This was odd, considering that the only two people who ever addressed 
me by my real name were my dead parents.  I turned back to the bar, 
but Pete was gone again, back down the trap door into the basement to 
retrieve more stock, most likely.

"Nicolas, over here."

Again, it was barely a whisper.  I turned to my left, the direction the voice 
had come from, but in the darkened bar I couldn't see anyone.  I was just 
about to blame Jack when my eyes finally adjusted to the darkness.

Sitting no more than ten feet away from me was Ben.  He was an old 
barfly who tended to blend into the background, rather than join in with 
conversations.  He was a regular fixture at The Pub.  It seemed no 
matter what time you showed up at the Pub he'd already be there, and I 
never saw him leave.  He silently sipped on his Irish whiskey, no matter 
how rowdy things got around him.  The only reason I even knew his 
name, was because of overhearing a waitress one night.  I had no idea 
how he knew mine.

I walked over to his corner table, and as I approached he kicked one of 
the unoccupied chairs out for me.

"Have a seat; might be able to help ya."

I took the offered seat and got my first up close look at the guy.  Ben had 
to be at least in his seventies.  His face was worn and drawn, with dark 
spots peppering his skin.  His gray hair was so thin that his scalp 
showed through.  Deep creases surrounded his lips and eyes.  There 
was pain in those eyes, a pain long held in, and unshared.

"Yer lookin' for a missin' girl?" he asked quietly.

I nodded, and his gaze fell to his drink.  He swirled the dwindling 
remains around in the glass for a few seconds before setting it back on 
the table.  I mistook his silence as a sign that he wouldn't speak until I 
bought him another drink, so I pulled another twenty out and set it on the 
table beside his near empty glass.

"Keep yer money, Nicolas."

"Sorry, I thought..."

"I know what you was thinkin'," he said, cutting me off.  He slid the bill 
back to me with a trembling hand. "I was just thinkin' 'bout another lost 
girl, not waitin' fer yer charity."

I took the bill back and stuffed it into my pocket. "You said you might be 
able to help."

"Those boys ya wanna talk to, they won't be commin back here."

"Why not?"

"Two weeks ago, as Pete said, they were 'ere.  But they ain't gonna be 
commin' back."

"Why?" I asked again.

"Nobody bothers me, an' that's the way I like it.  I jus sit 'ere and keep ta 
myself.  After a while, people fergit I'm even 'ere.  They start ta talkin'.  I 
hear things.  Things they don't wan' others ta hear."

"You heard them say something about the missing girl?"

He nodded his head, eyes never leaving the table. "They was worried 
that they wouldn't find 'er in time."

"So, they were looking for her?"

"Yep.  Jus' not the way yer thinkin'.  They wan'ed ta find her before 
anyone found out."

"Found out what, Ben?" I asked, but, he remained silent. "Found out 
what?"

"That they was lookin fer her."

For a moment I was confused.  I thought old Ben was just giving me the 
drunken-run- around, but then it hit me what he was trying to say.

"They were looking for her before she was reported missing?"

He nodded.

"Did they say why?"

"Said she saw somethin' that she was'n' 'spose to.  They were worried 
she'd talk before they found 'er."

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" I must have sounded a little angry, 
because he looked at me square in the eye before speaking again.

"I'm tellin' you now, ain't I?"

"Yeah, but if you had said something sooner..."

"To who, Nicolas?  Who would listen to me, huh?  I'm a drunk an' a has 
been!" He gripped his glass and threw it against the wall.  Tiny shards of 
glass were still hitting the ground as his eyes fell back to the table, the 
fight leaving him as quickly as it had come.

"I thought you might've been dif'rent.  No one listened then; an' no one'll 
listen now."

"I'm listening, Ben." I leaned across the table. "There's a girl missing out 
there right now.  Those cops who were trying to silence her, I need to 
find them before they find her.  That's if they haven't already. If you know 
anything else, you have to tell me now."

"Jus' like before," he whispered.

"What's just like before?"

His hand went into his pocket.  He pulled out an old wallet, which he 
opened and began searching.  From its threadbare lining he slipped out 
two items.  One was a folded piece of paper; the other was a small black 
cross.  He grabbed my arm by the wrist and held it until I opened my 
hand.  There was a surprising strength in him.  Once the two items were 
in my palm, he gently closed my fingers around them.

"Put those away before someone sees."

Resisting the urge to examine what he had given to me, I stuffed them 
into my pocket with the unwanted twenty-dollar bill.

"I've got a feelin' 'bout you, Nicolas.  Maybe you'll have better luck than I 
did." He gave me a tired smile revealing yellowed teeth. "Now get out of 
here before Pete comes back."

Confused and a bit uneasy about what he had just told me, I got up and 
headed for the door.  I turned to look back at Ben one last time before I 
left.  His eyes were closed, but the smile remained.  He seemed at 
peace, like the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.

I later found out that he had passed away while sitting there, though no 
one noticed until Pete's daughter Maurine, the Pub's only other 
bartender, bothered to ask him if he wanted to freshen his drink some 
time well after midnight.  Pete said she'd found him exactly as I had last 
seen him, smile and all.



Continued in Chapter Four....


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