The first had been a pickpocket on the subway. The girl, Kelly, had been dressed as a Goth, all in black, with dyed black hair and hideous dark makeup. She was standing outside the station, and as men went to the automatic ticket machines, she would wait for her equally ridiculously looking boyfriend to drop change on the floor, and then, as the mark was distracted, she would go for the wallet, having seen which pocket to target.
However, on one occasion, Kelly had just got the wallet, and had slipped it from the pocket when she suddenly felt a vice-like grip on her hand.
She looked up and saw a very tall and attractive blonde lady staring at her.
“You don’t want to go to jail, Kelly? Your kid will be taken into care, and then what will you do?” she said.
The man turned round, and Kelly was suddenly very afraid, for she tried very hard to escape, but found the other girl’s grip was just too strong.
“Excuse me. You dropped your wallet,” she muttered, and handed the wallet to the man, who seemed shocked but relieved.
Bruce, the boyfriend had run, so she swore.
“Hey, he isn’t worth it, he’s screwing your friend Jeanette anyway,” said the tall girl, as she released her hold.
“Who the fuck are you?” Kelly asked. “And how come you know so much?” She had her suspicions about Bruce and Jeanette already.
The woman smiled, and Kelly thought she was beautiful, but menacing.
“I know everything. I’m the Avenging Angel,” she said, turning away. She vanished before Kelly could say anything else.
Kelly leaned against the wall, her heart racing and her mind unable to really take in what had happened. She then looked round and walked off, vowing to get a proper job.
Michelle’s last encounter was with a black car-jacker. She was waiting to cross a road at an intersection, and a BMW pulled up at the lights. Before everyone’s startled eyes, a heavily built black lad, simply went over to the driver’s door, opened it and started to pull the driver, a middle-aged white woman, out of her seat.
“Gimme you car, bitch!” he said, and then his voice went up several octaves.
“I don’t think so,” said a delightful female voice in his ear. But he was in no position to appreciate her, as both feet were off the ground, and she had a very tight grip of his genitalia.
“Say sorry to the nice lady,” said the voice.
He resisted, but then pain tore through his nether regions.
“Say it!” she insisted, her voice laden with ice.
“Sorry ma’am,” he squeaked.
He was then propelled through the air, landing painfully hard on the sidewalk. A booted foot on his chest pinned him to the ground before he could react, pressing him firmly into the hard ground.
“Okay Leroy, hear this, and hear it good. Your Mom would be so proud of you. Think, do you want to spend your next five years as someone’s bitch in the state pen?”
He looked up at the girl, but his pain-ridden eyes were unable to focus. All he could see was a golden halo of hair, and the most wonderful voice, which seemed to speak directly into his brain.
“Go, and if you sin again, I’ll take your balls away for good. I’ the Avenging Angel.” The voice seemed to mock him.
With the pressure gone, he was left there gasping for breath on the sidewalk. Passers-by had stopped and seen the silent tableau in front of them, but not heard a word.
Leroy rolled over and struggled to his feet, massaging his bruised testicles, and slowly walked away, wiser and suddenly a very sorry young man.
Gordon found Michelle in the lobby of the hotel chatting with a couple from Texas who had come to New York on a winter break. She had seen him enter the lobby, so had waved.
He came over and kissed her. He thought she was looking as gorgeous as ever.
“Hi Honey. Good meeting?” she asked.
“Yeah, it was okay. Our capital availability for expansion is a little more restricted than I would have liked, but all in all we are pretty healthy. What have you been doing?”
“I just went for a little walk. This is Mervyn and Julia from Houston. This is their first time here as well,” she said introducing the couple to him.
“Gordon is my boss, and someone special as well,” she said, smiling at Gordon. The couple could immediately see that these two were most definitely a couple and a well matched pair at that.
Gordon noticed that Michelle’s English was remarkably good, and her accent was if anything more American than Ukrainian. As Mervyn and Julia left, he told her of his observation.
She smiled.
“Of course, I’m trying to speak as well as I can, so I have been chatting to everyone who I can, and trying to get rid of the Ukrainian accent. How am I doing?” she asked.
“Well, very well, but the New York accent is hardly ideal.”
“Well, I shall have to be awfully careful to speak just as you do,” she said, mimicking his upper class English accent.
He laughed.
“You are so wonderful. Marry me?”
She looked at him, knowing he was deadly serious.
“Perhaps. I need more time. Is that okay?” she asked, and he nodded.
“So where do you want to go for lunch?” he asked, changing the subject while she gave him hope.
“I heard of a place. It’s small and Italian, and only a short cab ride from here,” she said.
“Fine.”
Mario Cambretti had come to New York as a child after WWII. His father had been killed during the North African campaign and his Uncle ran a restaurant on the lower east side.
He worked for Uncle Guiseppe and, when he’d died, he had taken over the business. His wife, Maria, had provided him with three sons and two daughters, all bar one had followed the family footsteps, so now the restaurant was three times the size and even had an outside catering business as well.
One of his sons had joined the NYPD, and he was a frequent visitor to the restaurant. His family was his pride and joy, and his restaurant was the unofficial office for the patrol division of the local precinct.
Mario was always to be found by the front door of the restaurant, greeting everyone who came through the doors, wearing the customary dirty apron. In fact, he never cooked, opened a bottle or cleaned away, so his apron had never been used in anger, but it gave him the appearance of being personally involved in the preparation of everyone’s meals.
The door opened and he stared up into the face of the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life, and the tallest. Unfortunately, right behind her, and with a proprietary hand on her arm was an even larger male, who looked as if a train would lose a one-on-one contest should one be made between them.
“Hi, room for two little ones?” she asked.
Mario smiled; little ones. Who was she kidding, they were both nearly six-six?
He showed them to a booth and gave them a menu.
The man went to the restroom, so the girl took off her cape.
Mario took it, and as he turned to leave, the girl asked him a question.
“How is Marco?”
He turned back. Marco was his youngest son, the cop.
“He is good, do you know him?”
“Si. Yes kinda. Tell him a friend of Mike Dunwoody sends regards.”
Mario was surprised, he hadn’t heard that name in a while, and now twice in a week.
“You knew Mike?”
The girl nodded.
“You heard he died?”
She nodded again.
“How come you knew him?”
“Let’s say at one point our families were close, but it’s not something I want my friend to know about,” she said, smiling, as Mario felt a powerful urge to protect her secrets.
“Mike was a good man. He left at the right time.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t look after him self. A heart attack I heard,” she said.
“Is that so? We just heard he died.”
“Look, just pass on his regards to your son. He never forgot he taught Marco his first beat.”