[Smurf]

Great Chapter Angela , George is crazy about you Can't wait to read more

[Veritas]

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear, reaching double-digit temperatures by eight AM. Criss sat at the breakfast table reading the Las Vegas Sun while sipping a chilled glass of orange juice. He regretted missing the auction last night. Though he had orginally proposed it and donated the cars to be sold, he had avoided the event after his speech, unable to watch his favorite toys, especially the Hummer, being sold off. He felt like a coward for doing so. He should have gone out there and faced it like a man instead of hiding in his black room watching it on closed circuit television, only to turn it off after the Hummer was sold. Well, it was too late now. With a sigh he set aside the rest of the paper and turned to the local news. A small sidebar article caught his eye:

CRISS ANGEL, LUXOR RAISES $2M FOR HOMELESS RELIEF

Master illusionist Criss Angel hosted the Grand Charity Auction at the Luxor Hotel Friday night for homeless relief in the Las Vegas area. Items donated were four Harley-Davison motorcycles and six customized automobiles from Angel's personal collection. A rare 1960 Bugatti fetched $950,000, while a customized Humvie with a card-shooting device in front and over twenty speakers mounted in the interior went for $750,000. A total of $2,130,000 was reached by the end of the evening. All proceeds will be donated to Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless in North Las Vegas.

Over two million dollars. Criss should have felt triumphant over topping Angela Honi's original donation of seven hundred and fifty thousand, but after the loss of his prized motorcycles, his Diablo, and his Hummer, his spirits felt weighted down with lead. He sighed in resignation, drained the last of his juice and rose from the table. What was done was done, he told himself. No sense crying over spilled milk and all that. Life went on regardless of whatever loss comes our way, a lesson he had learned the hard way years ago when his father succumbed to cancer. The pain and grief eventually passes, he knew. Auction or no auction, he had a job to do and he was not going to shirk it.




Criss walked across the car-park where the rest of his fleet was on display. His new Quattroporto stood among them as if trying to replace the Hummer in his affections. He strode past it without even a glance. His grief was still fresh in his mind; it would take some time to overcome it. Without a word, he approached the spot where the Hummer was usually displayed. He expected the space to be empty, the jacks supporting the giant vehicle sticking up like metal ribs. What he saw instead surprised him.

Before him stood the Hummer, still mounted on its jacks just like before. The only difference was the soap mark on the windshield had been wiped away. He knew it had been sold--he had watched it on TV--but why hadn't it been picked up? Did the new owner change his mind? Did he renege on the deal? What had happened?

As Criss stood there puzzling over this mystery, none other than Felix Rappaport approached. "Morning, Criss," he greeted him jovially. "Congratulations on the auction last night."

"Uh, yeah, thanks," Criss replied absently. "Uh, Felix? Why is the Hummer still here? I mean, we did sell it last night, didn't we?"

Felix smiled broadly. "Oh, yeah, it was sold," he answered cryptically.

"Who bought it?" Criss inquired, still bemused.

"We did."

Now Criss was even more puzzled. "You?"

"Yeah, since you were so attached to it, and since it's such a big draw here, I got the Board of Directors to purchase it," Felix explained. "Your car is now the official property of the Luxor Hotel and Resort. Of course, we'll let you drive it every once in a while--if you keep up with the insurance payments. Just remember to fill the tank every once in a while, willya?" he added with a laugh and a pat on Criss' shoulder.

Criss laughed in return. "Felix, you are the man!" he exclaimed.




Criss' "job" that Saturday morning was to present the proceeds from the auction to Sanctuary Shelter. Actually, he was to hold up a large prop check (it had been arranged earlier to direct-deposit the money into the shelter's bank account as soon as the bidders' checks cleared in order to avoid any potentially embarrassing financial situations)while posing with Pastor Bob and Father Stefan in front of the local news cameras, and give a little speech about doing his part for Las Vegas' less fortunate citizens. He really didn't see the need for this little ceremony, but Dave Baram had told him about the potential publicity benefits it would bring to both himself and the shelter, and he had already set it all up for him, so, in a word, he was stuck. I hope this doesn't take all day, Criss griped to himself as he rode one of his remaining Harley-Davisons to the shelter. I got too much to do already.

The Harley glided away from the neon paradise of the Strip and toward the crumbling purgatory that was North Las Vegas. Criss' senses went on full alert the minute his wheels touched the cracked pavement of the neighborhood which the shelter strove valiently to serve. Roving bands of tough-looking youths swaggered and strutted up and down the sidewalks, flashing their obscure handsigns either in greeting or defiance. Shabbily clothed drunken bums staggered through the streets, begging for money or scavenging for a half-empty bottle of booze in which to drown their sorrows. The less threatening citizens scurried like mice to and from their homes, fearing for their own safety, distrusting anyone who accosted them to the point of avoiding any human contact whatsoever.

For the first time since he became a celebrity, Criss felt vulnerable. He had no bodyguard to shield him from the gangs who dominated the streets, no RV in which to take shelter; not even his older brothers were there to back him up. He had entered the lion's den alone and unprotected. With a chill racing down his spine, he realized that whatever came his way, he had to deal with it himself. "God, protect me," he pleaded heavenward in a half-whisper.

The square brick building that was the shelter came into view. Criss could see the TV news camera trucks with their microwave transmitters pointing skyward lininig the curb. Passersby gave them a glance and kept on moving, not caring at all why the media was parked by Sanctuary. It was just a church-run homeless shelter; nothing exciting ever happened in there. To the apathetic, crime-hardened local citizenry, if there were no cop cars, no yellow CRIME SCENE tape cordoning off the area, nor anyone being hauled away in handcuffs or on a gurney under a sheet, it was not worthy of interest.

Criss pulled into the shelter's small parking lot. It was like entering a prison. In the midmorning light, the razor wire over the chain-link fence shimmered menacingly, their sharpened tips bared like metal claws. Again, he felt the icy chill down his spine. He knew that just one of those surgical steel blades could slice off a finger should anyone be foolhardy enough to try and climb over the fence. And not even he, who had gone through unimaginable, inconceivable lengths to prove himself the master of escape and illusion, was willing to attempt such a thing.

He parked his Harley as close to the entrance as possible, taking the extra precaution of setting the anti-theft device, and pocketed the key. As he dismounted, he spotted a familiar looking Range Rover parked nearby. A warm wave of relief washed over him when he recognized it as belonging to his cousin, George. He must be here with Angela, he reasoned. Thank God he's here!

Confident now, Criss strode into the shelter where he was greeted with applause from staff and residents alike. They all crowded around him, thanking him profusely and shaking his hand until it ached. Then the media swept in, armed to the teeth with microphones and cameras, all aimed squarely at him while they fired volley after volley of questions and demands for statements. It was all he could do to fend them off so he could get in without being crushed by the mass of bodies surrounding him. "Everybody, please!" he shouted over the din. "I'll tell you everything later, okay? Just let me get through in one piece, willya?"

Suddenly, a pair of large, powerful hands grabbed him by the arm and yanked him away from the crowd. Freed from the compression of so many bodies, Criss filled his lungs with fresh air, grateful to be able to breathe again. "Thanks," he gasped to his rescuer. "You saved my life."

"Don't mention it," he heard Pastor Bob say.

Criss looked up at the pastor, who returned his surprised expression with a jovial smile. "Now let's get you into the office," he said, towing him along. "We got a press conference in ten."

There were only four people waiting for them, but in the tiny office it seemed overcrowded. Criss had expected to see George there with Angela, of course, and Father Stefan's presence didn't surprise him much, but to see Felix Rappaport here in North Las Vegas, let alone in a homeless shelter, startled and puzzled him. "Felix? What are you doing here?" Criss asked.

Felix shrugged. "Hey, we're in this together, remember?" he laughed. "You hosted this thing in our hotel, so of course I'm here! What, you were going to claim all the glory yourself?"

"I'm not here to claim any glory," Criss protested, "I'm just here to give a prop check, that's all."

Felix nudged Father Stefan beside him. "Modest, isn't he?"

Father Stefan shrugged his eyebrows, saying nothing. There was an awkward silence in the room. Criss sensed the two clergymen seemed uneasy, almost tense. "Something wrong?" he asked innocently.

"Well, I don't know if you've heard about it yet," Pastor Bob spoke up, his normally jovial tone lowering to a more serious note, "but the donation box was robbed last night. Someone came along and emptied it right after the auction ended."

Criss was stunned. He turned to Felix. "You know about this?"

Felix nodded. "They got it all on tape," he said. "They saw a woman in a white dress slip up behind the box and slip away again. They're still trying to get a fix on her face."

"A woman? In a white dress?" Criss tried to recall whom he had met wearing a white dress that evening, but the only one he knew who had been wearing one was--

"Oh, dear God!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean to tell me...Angela?"

George stepped up defensively. "Now wait just a minute, there, Criss!" he growled. "Angie's innocent and you know it!"

"I know she is, George!" Criss protested. "I know she couldn't have done it! No way in hell could she have done it!"

"Then why--"

"Because she's the only woman I remember wearing a white dress that evening! It had to have been somebody else!" He turned to Felix. "Tell me it was somebody else, Felix, please?"

Felix raised his hand to placate him. "Look, I don't know who did it, but I'm not pressing any charges against Angela here, or anybody else until we get the results from the AV tech! So, just calm down, willya? All we know is that the money was stolen from the donation box last night by a woman in a white dress. Nobody knows it but us, so when we go out there we're gonna keep a lid on it--for now, anyway. Last thing we need is a scandal. Agreed?"

All agreed silently. "Now, let's go," Felix ordered, picking up the giant prop check. "It's show time."

He followed Criss, George, Angela, and the two clergymen out of the office. "I didn't do it," Angela whimpered. "I was nowhere near that donation box the whole evening!"

George gave her an affectionate squeeze on her arm. "We know you're innocent, Angie," he whispered in return. "It had to have been somebody else. I know it."

"Of course it was," Criss agreed. "If I know Macaffey, he'll turn the whole damn hotel inside out looking for whoever did it."

George halted in midstep. "Hey, wait a minute! Didn't Macaffey search your purse when they found out about the money being stolen?"

"Why, yes," Angela answered. "He dumped out the whole thing on the table; he didn't find anything, so he let us go."

"Well, then, hey, you're innocent!" George said brightly. "You ain't got nothin' to worry about!"

"No," Angela said, realizing that George was right. "I guess I don't."

"So, let's all stop worrying and get this thing over with," George said. "Let Macaffey and his men handle the crimebusting. We're here to help the homeless!"




The little ceremony went off without a hitch. Felix proudly presented the prop check for two million one hundred and thirty thousand dollars as flash bulbs popped all around him. Pastor Bob and Father Stefan accepted it with all the humility their callings required. Criss made his little speech to the press, thanking all who had participated in the auction for its success and urging continued support to aid the homeless not only in Las Vegas, but throughout the country. George and Angela merely stood there, posing behind the giant posterboard check with the others and smiling for the cameras. They had a sense of deja vu as they did so, remembering the last time they posed with a large prop check presented by Felix Rappaport. The media peppered Criss with so many questions about why he chose to sell his cars and bikes for homeless relief that he just said, "Hey, take a look around you! I mean, what would you have done under the circumstances?"

Finally, it was all over. The reporters had milked the story for all it was worth and set out to return to their news rooms to broadcast it. The TV cameras were taken away; the technical crew packed up their audio equipment and hauled to the vans outside. Criss heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank God that's over," he muttered.

Father Stefan laid his hands on Criss' shoulders. "Christopher," he said, "I am proud of you. Not only did you save our shelter, but you kept your promise to your family and me as well. You see? You didn't have to try to kill yourself by performing some harebrained stunt to prove your greatness. What you have done for us far surpasses any escape or magic trick you've done before. You've truly lived up to your stage name."

Criss smiled modestly. Father Stefan embraced him. "May God bless you in all you do," he said.

Criss embraced the priest in return. "Thanks, Father."

Father Stefan backed away. "Well, Bob and I have a lot of work to do," he said. "Now that we have the funds, we've got a lot of bills to pay, supplies to order, things like that, so if you'll excuse us, we'll be going now." He shook Criss' hand. "Give my regards to your mother," he said.

Criss nodded. "Sure thing, Father."

Pastor Bob also shook Criss' hand. "Bless you, and thank you for all of your help."

"You're welcome, Pastor Bob."

The two clergymen left. Angela stepped up to Criss and hugged him. "Thank you so much," she said. "I can't tell you how grateful we are to you."

Criss hugged her back. "Hey, anytime, Angie."

Suddenly George stepped in. "Whoa, whoa, wait a minute there," he said, laughing as he pulled Angie away from Criss. "That's my girl you're huggin' there, you know."

Criss held up his hands in surrender. "Nothing personal, George," he protested meekly. "Nothing personal."

"Now, George," Angela said with mock indignation, "you're not the jealous type, are you?"

George wrapped his muscular arm around Angela's thin waist. "Hey, y'know, you gotta watch this guy," he said conspiratorially, nodding toward Criss. "Last girl he went out with, she was in the car with him--she laid a hand on his thigh and he turned into a motel!"

Angela both giggled and grimaced at the racy joke. Criss feigned a right jab at his cousin. George deflected it with a well-practiced right-arm block. "C'mon, let's get outta here," Criss growled impatiently, heading for the parking lot.

George planted a wet one on Angela's forehead. "I'll pick you up later," he said, "if Criss doesn't keep me too late."

"It's okay," Angela said. "I've got my car here."

George grimaced with distaste. She should sell that thing for scrap, he thought. I don't think they even make parts for it anymore. Why didn't she keep some of her winnings and get a new car instead of giving the whole bundle to the shelter? Wouldn't have made much difference either way. "Sure thing, babe," he said. "Talk to you later."

A quick peck on the cheek and Angela went down the corridor to resume her volunteer duties. The two cousins walked out together to the parking lot. "What'd you drive here?" George asked Criss. "Viper? Lambo?"

"In this neighborhood?" Criss scoffed. "I'm not that dumb! I rode my Hog."

"Which one?"

"The Spirit, the plain-looking one. Thought I'd be less conspicuous that way."

"Good idea, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Well, in this neighborhood, they got thieves and carjackers who'll steal anything that isn't nailed down. If you'd taken your Lambo, it'd been stolen the minute you turned your back, even if you had all the security devices in the world in it, they're that good. Or it'd be stripped for parts."

Criss opened the door and followed George outside. "Hey, man, if anyone touches any of my rides, even my go-karts, that guy's ass is gonna be grass! Besides, all of my cars and my bikes have anti-theft devices."

George walked a few steps, then halted. "You wanna tell that to them?" he said.

"Who?"

He pointed to where Criss' Harley was parked, and where a surly-looking welcoming committee in identical jackets leaned casually against it, glaring at them defiantly.

[The unnamed one]

Nice have a good day

[Smurf]

Great Chapter , NO step away from the harley can't wait to read more

[Veritas]

"What are we gonna do now?" Criss muttered from the side of his mouth.

"You tell me," George muttered back.

Criss remained silent as he sized up the situation. "Stay here," he told George.

He strolled up casually toward the gang holding his Harley hostage. "That's my bike you're leaning on," he told them firmly.

The tallest youth leaning against the handlebars shrugged. "So?" he sneered. "Whatcha gonna do about it?" His companions laughed sardonically.

"What am I going to do about it?" Criss sneered back. "I'll show you what I'm gonna do about it!"

He grabbed the tall youth by the shirt and slammed him against the side of the building. The other three cleared away, startled. "You and your buddies here had better get the hell away from my bike right now, or else I'm gonna get down to some serious ass-kicking!" Criss snarled in the boy's face. He flung the tall youth aside like a bag of garbage. "Now beat it!" Criss shouted angrily

The punks made no effort to beat it, but simply stood in front of the Harley like a human barricade. George's fury mounted. He strode up to the punks, his fists clenched. "Didn't you hear him?" he roared at them. "Move!"

"(Bleep) you, mother(bleeper)!" a boy with a faded red bandana tied convict-style around his head spat in reply. "This is our turf, and we make the rules around here." He held out the palm of his hand to Criss. "You wanna move your bike, you gotta pay up."

"(Bleep) you, (bleeper)!" Criss spat. "I ain't givin' you (bleep)!"

"Then we ain't givin' you your bike," Bandana Boy sneered.

George stepped up to the punk. "How about I give you five?" he offered.

Bandana Boy eyed him warily. "Five? Five what?"

"Five of this!" George's powerful right hook collided with Bandana Boy's face, sending him spinning to the concrete.

Bandana Boy sat up, covering his left eye with his hand and groaning in pain. The tall youth flicked open a springblade knife and pointed it at George's chest. George grabbed him by the wrist and wrenched his arm behind his back, the point of his own blade a hair's breadth away from stabbing him in the back. "Owwwww!" the youth cried. "Hey, man, leggo of me!"

"You're not so tough now, are you, mother(bleeper)?" George sneered. He kicked the tall youth to the pavement. He landed with a thud, the springblade flying out of his hand and skittering across the lot.

Bandana Boy got up with the help of his two other companions, still clutching his injured eye. The tall youth rose to his feet, rubbing his sore arm. "You wanna piece of me, mother(bleeper)?" he challenged, beckoning George to step forward. "C'mon! Bring it!"

Surrounded by the four punks, Criss took his fighting stance while George braced himself into position as he had been trained by Seamus Linehan. Wait for your opponent to make the first move, he heard the old man say in his mind, then follow through. Don't be in such a hurry to rush him.

Stay focused, Criss told himself. Be aware of every move your opponent makes. Use his strength against him to bring him down.

With his gang buddies cheering him on, Bandana Boy took a swing at Criss with all of his might. Criss blocked the blow with his arm, then grabbed the punk's wrist, pivoted around and sent him crashing to the pavement. Bandana Boy cried out in agony on the moment of impact, then rose up for round two. Again, Criss assumed his fighting stance, ready for action. Bandana Boy charged, howling with fury, ready to tear him limb from limb. "YOU MOTHER-UHHHHH!!!"

Bandana Boy had no breath to finish his insult, owing to the fact that it had been knocked out of him when Criss' knee jabbed squarely into his abdomen. He doubled over like a pocket knife, his eyes bulging in shock and pain, his mouth gaping like a landed fish. Then a swift kick to the shin sent him down for the count. Criss stood there while Bandana Boy lay on the pavement, gasping for air. There was no time to gloat, he reminded himself. He had to save his cousin, George, from the other three.

George, however, was holding his own. The tall youth had come back at him with a wide right swing. George easily deflected it with a left block and returned with a right jab to the face. The tall youth crumpled like an aluminum can, his nose gushing blood like a broken pipe. George merely stood there, massaging his right hand. God, that hurt, he thought. Next time, I'm wearing my gloves.

"George! Behind you!" he heard Criss shout.

George whirled around just barely in time to see a third gang member lunging straight at him. With a power born of desperation, he swung his arm like a baseball bat and delivered over two years of boxing training right into the punk's face, sending him sailing four feet over the pavement and landing with a crash on solid concrete. The punk lay there sprawled on the lot, his face a bloody mess. That left the fourth member, a short boy built like a sumo wrestler who stood boldly before the two cousins like a brick wall, his beefy fists clenched. George and Criss braced themselves against this solid wall of flesh. "Yo' asses are mine, mofos!" Sumo Boy spoke through flabby jowls as he waddled toward them. "Yo' asses are mine!"

Criss turned to George. "Think we can take this guy down?"

"If we work together," Criss replied quickly. "On my signal, we tackle him."

They tensed their bodies as they waited for the right moment to strike. Sumo Boy waddled closer like an fat, angry bear. "I'ma crush both yo' asses inna the groun', mofos!" he growled. "I'ma gonna--"

"NOW!!" Criss shouted.

The two cousins bolted forward, grabbed Sumo Boy by the forearms, kicked him in his stumpy legs and brought him down like a pair of quarterbacks. Sumo Boy crashed like a fallen tree, cursing all the way, taking Criss and George with him. The three lay there on the pavement, panting, then George released his grip and rose to his feet, helping Criss up as he went. "You all right?" he asked.

Criss nodded. "Yeah, I'm good," he replied. "Good job, George."

Gradually, Bandana Boy, the tall youth and the third punk rose to their feet, dazed but still angry enough to keep up the fight. Sumo Boy struggled to rise, but his bulk kept him anchored to the ground; it took the combined efforts of his companions to get him back on his feet. "You dead, mofos!" he cursed at them. "You (bleepin') dead! You hear that? You all (bleepin')--"

"Casio!" a voice boomed from behind.

George, Criss and Sumo Boy, aka Casio, turned to face an angry Pastor Bob storming up to them. "What's going on here?" he demanded.

"Well, it seems Casio and his buddies here were trying to extort parking fees from me," George explained. "That guy over there flashed a knife at me after I told them to clear out."

"Is this true, Casio?" Pastor Bob demanded.

"We ain't done nothin', man!" Casio protested. He pointed a pudgy finger at George and Criss. "Them guys started it!"

"I don't care who started it!" Pastor Bob snapped. "I'm ending it!" He turned to the tall youth and the two other punks. "You go to the nurse to treat that bloody nose you got!" he ordered the third punk, then he turned to Casio. "Then I want you and your homies in my office in five, got that?"

Casio nodded, still reeling from the tackle. The four youths filed into the shelter, shamefaced over their defeat. Bandana Boy flashed his middle finger at George as he passed. George ignored the insult; he just wanted to get away from this hellhole of a neighborhood as fast as possible.

Pastor Bob came forward. "You okay, George?" he asked.

George nodded. "I'm good," he replied. "Sorry about all that, but--"

"No need to apologize," the good pastor said. "Those four have pulled this stunt before all over the neighborhood. Some folks couldn't even pull out of their own driveways unless they paid em." He looked over his shoulder at he retreating gang. "Quite a beating you gave 'em, I have to say."

George rubbed his sore hand. "Well, I just hope they finally learned their lesson," he said.

Pastor Bob's good nature returned. "After the way you two handled them, I'd say they did. But just in case, when either of you ever come back here, don't come alone. These guys'll be lookin' for payback sure as come Sunday."

The cousins agreed to heed the good pastor's warning. Pastor Bob went back into the shelter to tend to the four toughs. Criss drew a deep breath, exhausted. "Well, that was fun," he said facetiously.

"You got a wierd idea of 'fun', Criss," George mumbled.

Criss sighed wearily. "Look, let's just go home, okay?" he groaned. "I'm tired, and this place sucks."

George agreed readily, grateful to be leaving at last. Criss mounted his newly-liberated Harley while he climbed into his SUV. He kept one eye on his cousin ahead of him and the other on the road as he drove; a man on a motorcycle was more vulnerable to attack in this neck of the woods, he thought. His right hand was still sore, but at least nothing was broken, thank God. He hoped the whole incident would not become public--the last thing he wanted was another suspension from another match like the time when he decked the Vegas Flasher (1). At least we showed those punks who's boss, he gloated. They ain't gonna mess with us anymore!


(1) Risque Business.

[The unnamed one]

Yay.... For Liberated Harley's .... Have a nice day

[RACHEL02189]

Never mess with guys from New York or Boston

[Smurf]

Don't mess with Criss and George

[Veritas]

Unaware of her boyfriend's rumble in the parking lot, Angela was busy setting up her adult literacy class for the day in the bland cinderblock cell the shelter called Classroom C. There was barely room enough for ten wooden student desks, a small metal one for herself, and a blackboard. She had tried her level best to brighten up the place by hanging up colorful inspirational posters with captions underneath (which her students could barely read if they could read them at all), but the chipping pale green paint still made it look depressing. Angela hoped that with her donation and the funds raised by Criss' auction, they could finally afford to fix up the building. Better yet, maybe they'd add on to it, make it larger, or buy a whole new building altogether! Wouldn't that be wonderful! Well, whatever the shelter's founders decided, it woud be a vast improvement over what they had right now.

One small worry trickled through her mind--what about the stolen funds from the donation box? Angela brushed it aside. She was already in the clear as far as the security people at the Luxor was concerned. In fact, she was confident they had already caught the thief and returned the money to the shelter. She knew how diligent Chief Macaffey was in keeping law and order (George had told her once that he had been a prison guard, which explained a lot), and the entire hotel had every square inch of space covered by video surveillance. The thief would have been detected in a heartbeat and arrested on the spot. There was no way on God's green earth anyone could get away with anything in that place! Indeed, her own sister, Bianca, had been caught in the act of trying to kill her by throwing her over the balcony when--

A shadow crept over her desk, startling her. Angela looked up and saw Darlene Milliken standing before her. "Oh, dear God," she gasped. "Darlene, you scared the life out of me!"

"Well, sorry," Darlene apolgized half-heartedly. "Didn't mean to do that."

Angela smiled understandingly. "It's okay."

"Well, anyway, I came to tell you that Criss and your boyfriend, George, got into a little scuffle with some gang out in the parking lot a few minutes ago," Darlene reported to her.

"A scuffle?" Angela was suddenly worried. "What sort of scuffle?"

"Oh, nothing much," Darlene replied lightly. "At least, nothing a good right hook and a karate chop in the gut couldn't cure."

"What happened, Darlene?" Angela demanded.

Darlene suddenly became animated with enthusiasm. "You should have seen them, Angie!" she said excitedly. "I saw the whole thing through the kitchen window! George landed a wicked right hook right into one punk's face, while Criss took down another with his martial arts training! Oh, God, he was magnificent! Then they both tackled this fat guy together--boom! Just like that! I'm telling you, those two could have taken on a whole army without even getting winded!"

"Did George get hurt?" Anglea asked anxiously.

Darlene laughed. "George? No way! Those punks didn't stand a chance, especially with Criss kicking their asses all over the parking lot!"

"So, what happened?"

"Oh, Pastor Bob came out and broke it up," Darlene explained drily. "Then they left--Criss and George, I mean." She sighed with disappointment. "By the time I got out there, Criss was already gone. Bummer!" Her lips puckered into a pout. "Just my luck to miss him again."

"Well, you were there at the presentation ceremony, weren't you?"

"Oh, sure--way in the back! I was stuck in the kitchen most of the morning, and when I was able to get out to see him, there were so many people in that lobby I couldn't get through! I barely managed to catch one little glimpse of him--God, I hate being five-five!" She sighed longingly. "So near, and yet so far," she mused, "story of my life."

"Well, you'll get your chance someday," Angela said as she laid out the workbooks for the morning's class. "Look, class is going to start soon. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

Darlene checked her watch. "Oh, (bleep)!" she gasped. "I gotta get going, too! Later, okay?"

Angela waved good-bye as Darlene scurried out of the classroom. Mrs. Beamer, Pastor Bob's wife and acting supervisor of volunteer activities, had put her on KP that day. She was a sweet-tempered lady of about fifty or so, but she ran a tight ship: she disapproved of tardiness as strongly as she did drinking, swearing, gambling, and too much TV watching in the common room among residents and volunteers alike. Sanctuary Shelter was a Christian-run shelter, she reminded everybody repeatedly, and all volunteers were to behave in a manner that reflected Christian values so as to be good role models for the residents. Anyone who strayed even a millimeter from the straight and narrow was subject to a long sermon from Mrs. Beaman or the pastor himself (or both), and/or summary dismissal.

Darlene took a short cut through the lobby on the way to the kitchen, hoping to slip in unnoticed and spare herself a long-winded lecture on the virtue of punctuality. At least she had not been caught watching the fight in the parking lot--that would have unleashed unholy hell on her head. Still, it had been worth seeing Criss again, even if only from a dist--

She jolted to a stop when she crossed the lobby. A chilling sight met her eyes, in the form of Angela's sister, Bianca, stepping through the doorway. Darlene could only stare in surprise and bewilderment. What the hell is she doing here? she wondered. I got to warn Angie! This can't be good!

Her friend's safety taking precedence over Mrs. Beaman's protocol, Darlene started to turn back to the classroom. As bad luck would have it, though, Bianca had recognized her the minute she stepped out of the glass-encased foyer. "Oh, hello, Darlene," she said with obviously insincere cordiality.

Darlene gritted her teeth and turned toward her. She wanted to sneer Well, if it isn't the Wicked Witch of the West! to her face, but she refrained from doing so. Mrs. Beaman would not have approved. "Hello, Bianca," she managed to force herself to say politely, yet not quite able to say how good it was to see her again; that would have been an outright lie, and both of them knew it.

Bianca glided up to her. "Have you seen Angela?" she asked casually.

Darlene shrugged. "Why do you want to know?" she asked in return.

Bianca shifted her high-heeled feet. "You know, it's not polite to answer a question with a question. I just want to know if you've seen her, that's all."

Instinct told Darlene not to trust this woman. "I've been in the kitchen all morning," she alibied quickly. "Haven't been out until just now. Hardly seen anyone outside."

Bianca nodded, not believing a word Darlene had said. "Never mind," she said. "Just go back to doing your dishes or whatever. I'll find her myself."

Before Darlene could think anything to stop her, Bianca walked down the corridor, the heels of her Manolo pumps clicking on the worn linoleum tile floor. Darlene dashed to the receptionist desk phone and frantically tried to recall the extension number to Classroom C. Dear God, she prayed, keep Angie safe from that mad-dog (bleep)! Trip her up, let one of the residents mug her--anything! Just keep her away from Angie!



Where is she? Bianca fretted as she peered through tiny window after tiny window down the corridor, searching for Angela. She's got to be here somewhere! Well, I'd better find her soon--I got a nail appointment at three today, and I don't want to waste my time looking for her in this dump.

She passed an AA meeting, a Bible study, a job search workshop, a living skills class, and a child-care center, each one populated with shabbily-dressed men, women and children with nowhere else to go. Anyone else would have felt a twinge of pity for these unfortunate people. Bianca felt only her contempt for them. Bums, she thought disdainfully. Worthless, good-for-nothing bums, that's what they are. Sponging off the taxpayers because they're too lazy or too drunk to work. I don't know why Angela bothers to deal with these people in the first place.

She peered through yet another tiny window through the door of yet another room. There, lecturing by a small blackboard in front of another group of homeless residents, was Angela, looking no better than her students in her faded print dress in Bianca's opinion. She could make out what was printed on the board: simple alphabetical block letters forming three and four letter words. Bianca dimly recalled that Angela did teach adult literacy classes here at the shelter; the proof was now before her eyes, and it made her more contemptuous than ever. Must be a bunch of retards or something, she thought.

A ringing noise came from inside the room. Bianca watched as Angela set down her pointer and walked over to the small plastic office phone on her desk and picked up the receiver. Angela's face tensed as she listened to whatever she heard from the other party; she didn't say a word but hung up quickly, excused herself and walked to the door. She could see Bianca's face through the tiny window, tensing her even more. She opened the door just enough to slip through, then closed it quickly. Whatever greeting she had stuck in her throat. She could only stand there, paralyzed.

"Hello, Angela," Bianca said casually but with a tinge of malice in her voice that only Angela could detect. "Nice to see you again."

Angela swallowed hard. "Nice to see you, too, Bianca," she returned, though deep down she knew it was anything but nice to see her. "What brings you here? I-I mean, you swore to me once that you'd never set foot in this--"

Bianca held up her hand to silence her. "Don't worry, my stay will be brief. I have a nail appointment at three o'clock, so I'll just get to the point. You were at that charity auction last night, were you not?"

"Well, yes, I was. George took me; he had an invitation."

"Oh, Geeeooorrrrge took you" Bianca purred. "Did you two have a nice time?"

Angela was suddenly on the defensive. "Well, of course we did. What are you getting at, Bianca?"

"Well, I don't know about you," Bianca hedged as she pulled something from her purse, "but Georgie certainly did,"

"What are you talking about?"

Bianca flashed a photograph at her. "Take a look at this," she said. "Seems Georgie's been playing the field behind your back--with your new roommate, no less."

Angela took the picture and studied it. There was George and Darlene, sitting at the VIP table, embracing. It startled her at first, but upon closer scrutiny she couldn't detect any sort of passion between them. Besides, she knew that Darlene's heart belonged solely to George's famous cousin, Criss Angel; if it had been the latter, Darlene would have been all over him like a rash. As far as she was concerned, it was just a friendly hug. The tension receded as she handed the picture back, her skepticism clearly showing on her thin face. "Nice try, Bianca," she said drily, "but it's not going to work with me. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my class."

"It may not work with you," Bianca retorted, "but everyone else will believe it--especially on the Internet."

For the first time in her life, Angela laughed at her sister's threat. "Oh, right," she scoffed. "You really think people are going to believe that? Not everybody's that gullible, Bianca. One little hug doesn't mean they're having an affair. You're wasting your time with that thing. Why don't you go show it to Darlene? I'm sure she'll get as big a laugh out of it as I did--if she doesn't punch you in the face." She placed her hand on the knob, clearly intending to return to her students.

Bianca sullenly put the photo back into her purse. "Okay, maybe you're not convinced about George," she said, "but there's still the matter of the stolen donation money."

The hand slipped from the knob. Angela stared at her sister. "What do you know about that?" she asked dumbly.

"Darling," Bianca purred, "everybody knows about it. Well, not everybody, since they did such a good job covering it up, of course, but everybody concerned, that is. Your Pastor Bob, for instance, and that other guy, the priest. Oh, and you and George, of course."

"And you," Angela added.

"Well, I just found out secondhand," Bianca said with feigned modesty. "But the point is, we all know who stole that money, don't we?"

"No, no one knows who did it. All they know it was a woman in a white dress--"

"And you were wearing a white dress that evening, weren't you?" Bianca charged.

"They've already cleared me, Bianca," Angela told her. "They searched my purse and found nothing. I am completely innocent."

Bianca tisked. "Oh, Angela, Angela, Angela," she sighed pitifully. "You know when you lie, you make the angels cry. You stole that money and you know it. Now, why don't you be a good girl and come clean, all right?"

"Because I didn't steal it!" Angela exploded.

Her protest echoed up and down the cinderblock hallway, startling the few people present. "I didn't steal it," she repeated calmly this time.

"Then who did?" Bianca demanded.

Angela threw up her hands. "How should I know? That's for the police to find out."

A man's deep voice interrupted them. "Excuse me, ladies, is there a problem here?"

Both sisters turned to face Pastor Bob standing before them. "Oh, Pastor," Angela gasped, relieved, "Thank God you're here. I was trying to convince Bianca here that I didn't steal the donation money last night."

Pastor Bob turned to Bianca. "So, you must be Angela's sister, Bianca, right?"

"Why, yes, I am," Bianca replied. "And I was trying to convince Angela to admit that she really did steal the money and to make it easy on herself by giving up. Wasn't I, Angela," she added with an icy tone.

"Pastor, you know I'm innocent," Angela pleaded.

"I know you didn't do it, Angela," the pastor said. He turned back to Bianca. "How do you know she stole it, anyway?" he demanded.

"Simple," Bianca replied. "The video surveillace cameras spotted a woman in a white gown stealing the money. Angela was the only one wearing a white gown that evening, so it stands to reason it was her."

"You know, it could have been someone else," Pastor Bob argued. "And I know that the videotape was in black and white--it could have been a grey, blue or pink gown the person wore. And she was wearing a turban and dark glasses, neither of which Angela was wearing at the time."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure! Angela would never do such a thing! Now, I suggest that you leave this minute, Ms. Honi. And might I also suggest you review the commandment about bearing false witness, because that's what you're doing to your sister! Good day to you!"

With that, Pastor Bob stormed away. Angela slipped back into her classroom, unnoticed. Bianca just stood there, irate. It seemed that little sister Angela would need some more convincing...




The hour passed. Angela's shift at the shelter was finished. She packed her school satchel and walked toward the parking lot, secretly praying that the gang who extorted fees would not be there. Then she recalled that George and his cousin Criss had pummelled them raw, a thought that cheered her greatly. For once she could get into her car without paying for the privilege. She reflected on how much her life had improved since she had met George Strumpolis: her first date, her first kiss, a magical evening at the Luxor (even if it did end on a sour note), a new place to live, finally free of her overbearing sister, and now relieved of those punks who made her pay up just so she could drive her own car home. For once, life was good.

Angela stepped through the stifling hot glass foyer into the equally stifling hot afternoon air. She crossed over to her faithful little Chevette, waiting for her like a patient friend in the parking lot. She opened the driver's side door, pausing to let out the heat that had been building up inside over the course of the afternoon, then tossed in her satchel. As she did so, she noticed three objects she had never seen before lying on the front passenger seat: a pair of sunglasses she knew weren't hers, a white silky scarflike thing that looked like a pullover hat, and a bundle of envelopes bound together with a rubber band. The top envelope had Criss Angel's name and other strange doodlings all over it. She picked up the bundle and pulled open the flap of the top one. It was full of money in various denominations.

A shadow loomed over her like a phantom. Angela looked up and saw Bianca standing before her with an expression on her face that read like a death warrant. In shock, Angela dropped the bundle. Bianca calmly picked it up and flicked the envelopes like a deck of cards.

"Oh, Angela," Bianca said in a pitying tone. "How could you?"

[RACHEL02189]

I'm really starting to hate Bianca