The Wingless Angel. A detective story. (standard:action, 1953 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 30 2020	Views/Reads: 1168/864	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Detective Parker is sent to prevent a suicidal jumper.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“Oh, but Sam, here ... he's gonna stop her.” The other one laughed. 

“All you guys, out. And I mean right now,” Parker ordered them. “No. Not
you, Transki.” 

Parker asked Patrolman Transki, an older more mature cop, what he'd
found out. 

“Nothin', ‘tective. I tried ta draw her out, but she won't say nothin'
'bout nothin'.” 

“Hang around. Maybe you can help, okay?” 

“Sure, ‘tective. I ain't a goin' nowheres. Poor little girl. I's gotta
‘dauter ‘bout'a same age a'home.” 

Sighing, Parker steeled himself, one hand jerking at the knot of his
necktie, and went over to sit on the windowsill. Using his foot, he 
jerked a nearby bed closer to his perch, then locked an ankle under it. 
He motioned Transki to sit on the bed to help hold it down. On his 
back, he leaned outward, half his body outside to gaze at the woman. 

She looked much younger than he'd thought, hardly old enough for working
at a bar. Bright yellow hair -- obviously not any natural color -- 
partially obscured a broad Slavic face. He studied her briefly. He saw 
no tears, probably impossible in that breeze, but her face appeared to 
be reddened around the eyes. 

Parker knew that he had to calm himself down. Hurrying or any hint of
excitement on his part wouldn't help the cause. 

The girl wore an almost-shear light-pink negligee. Parker couldn't help
becoming a little excited, sexually, as the material flowed out, in, 
and around a trim figure. He noticed her breasts were budding like a 
middle-teen's and wondered again about her real age. Fake IDs were easy 
to find in her profession. Taking a deep breath, Parker let half of it 
out and forced a smile. 

“Young lady,” he called gently, “you shouldn't practice your dance out
here. It attracts the wrong kind of attention. Those aren't paying 
customers down there, you know?” He forced a small laugh, trying to 
make light of the situation. “Why not come in and shake it for me 
instead? It's safer and you won't catch a cold?” 

She looked at him with wide-eyes, heavy brows crinkling. “You think this
is funny? All you men are alike, just like those bastards down there 
... waiting for me to fly.” 

Parker saw her eyes narrow. They might have been misty but he couldn't
tell; the breeze would have kept them dry. He saw her wipe strands of 
hair away from a scowling face. She was gently swaying on a foot-wide 
ledge, two fingers of her other hand through a rusty steel “eye” bolt 
protruding from the edge of a window next to his. Parker knew it as one 
of the supports for a window-washing rig that could be slid up the 
building by a maintenance crew. Now it was serving to save a life, at 
least temporarily. 

She edged away to stand in front of the other window. 

Damn, Parker thought. While she looked below, he jerked his head back
toward the open window. 

“Transki. Get into that other apartment, quick. Find one or two of the
others and see if you guys can grab her from that other window. Hurry.” 


Parker stuck his head back out to see her looking at him, a puzzled look
on her face. 

“What you doing?” she asked. “You got some kind'a cop trick?” Grabbing
something out of his sight on the other window, she steadied herself 
and peered upward. “You got one of those rope chairs or something up 
there? Mister, the first time I see anything, anything at all, I jump. 
You can count on it.” 

At least she was talking, Parker thought with relief. That was the first
hurdle, overcome. 

“Can you at least tell me why? I mean it's not something someone does
lightly. There must be a fairly good reason? Besides, jump or not, I'll 
have to make out one of those idiotic reports before I can go home. I 
don't suppose you want to do the same ... go home, I mean?” 

“Why would you be interested? I'll bet you got a wife there, all lovey
dovey? A nice comfortable middle class house and steady paycheck?” She 
paused, seemingly thinking. “No excitement outside a yearly trip to 
Disneyland.” 

“So things are hard for everybody. That's no reason to kill yourself.”
Parker thought about what Transki had said and lied with, “I even have 
a nice middle class daughter about your age. She looks something like 
you, except she's smarter. She'd never jump off a window ledge.” 

“What makes you think I'm going to kill myself? Maybe I'm going to fly
like the angels and soar out of this filthy fucking town?” 

“Wait a few years, lady. At least until you grow wings.” He tried again
to laugh, wondering where that damned Transki had gotten to? Probably 
trying to decide how to get to her? Parker thought. Since she was in 
front of that window, it might be hard to open it without her noticing. 
All he could do was keep her occupied. It was frustrating as hell. 

“Besides, you know that if you commit suicide you can't go to heaven. No
heaven equals no wings.” Desperate, he thought a few seconds, coming up 
with, “You mentioned Disneyland. You ever been there?” 

She stared at him a few seconds, taking one hand down to wipe her eyes
before looking downward and bending both knees. 

Seeing her jerk away from the window, seemingly into a diver's stance,
Parker hooked both legs more firmly under the bedsprings and jerked his 
upper body outside, hoping the weight of the bed would hold him ... 
them. A sudden sight of the sidewalk and police cars far below gave him 
a surge of fear before twisting his head sideways and reaching out, 
fingers closing inches from where she stood and only briefly brushing 
the woman's garment. 

It did give the detective a different angle to see other fingers closing
around both her ankles. That and a questing hand reaching to grasp a 
white plastic belt at her waist. 

Parker's upper body turned ninety degrees as it dropped downward, the
side of his face briefly scraping a brick wall, “whooshing” as his 
chest hit a ledge. At the same time, he could hear the bed scraping 
toward his window, ankles lifting precariously. 

His legs held. That and wildly grasping disembodied hands on an ankle,
keeping him from plunging fifteen stories to hard concrete. 

Damn, but it was close, he thought, thankfully being pull back inside.
He stood, shakily gasping to replace air forced from struggling lungs. 
Too damned close, he thought. 

Looking back outside, he was in time to see something shiny bouncing
across the ground far below. Unconsciously, Parker felt his jacket, 
noticing the badge and case gone. It could have been her ... or him. 

Parker had to sit for a moment to calm his nerves. And so he missed the
girl being hurried downstairs, having to wait for another elevator for 
himself. Patrolman Transki waited at the elevator, to fill him in on 
the rescue. 

“Wha' took alla' at time was lookin' fer'a glass cutter thingy,
‘tective,” he told Sam. “Finaly' we foun' one on'a Samuel's keychain. 
He had it alla' time an fergot'. We hadda' be quiet an'a coul'na open 
the winder.” 

*** 

When they exited in the lobby, most of the cops were gone and it was
business as usual for the apartment house, as though nothing had 
happened. The lieutenant was still there, talking to the desk clerk. 
Sergeant Jamison sat in a corner, pencil stub in hand, cigarette 
thrusting from a corner of his mouth as he laboriously filled out a 
report form. 

“Sam, come over here,” the lieutenant called. 

Parker went over to see what his boss wanted, and was handed his
badge-case. 

“Good work, detective. And, guess what? We have another jumper. It's
close by. Since you're the closest negotiator, why don't you get over 
to Eighth and Halsted and see what you can do? I'll be there as soon as 
I finish my coffee.” 

The End.


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