Conspiracy of Angels Read Online Free Page B

that box. I’m buying the box, too.”
    Looking at me like I was the one with the mental deficiency, she took her little gun and ran the laser scanner over the bar codes. I shoved money at her before she finished ringing up the total, which made her pause again and almost lose track of what she was doing. With agonizing care she slipped both the empty shoebox and the opened package of socks into a thin plastic bag. Only then did she take my money and cash me out.
    I fought the urge to grab the package and bolt from the store, instead forcing myself to walk slowly back to the entrance. I thought a series of very unkind things about her parents as I pulled the socks from the bag on my way out of the store. I tossed the bag into a nearby trash bin, stuffing the two extra pairs of socks into an inner pocket of my jacket.
    The Harley still rested next to the bedraggled mums, its engine humming softly.
    “Thank goodness for small favors,” I muttered, then swung back onto the motorcycle and resumed my trip toward Cleveland, now about 35 miles away. Then all I had to do was find a club I didn’t remember in a city whose streets were forgotten to me, as well.

7
    O nce I got onto I-90, it took me straight into the city. As I drove through the eastern suburbs, the highway split off into a bewildering number of alternate freeways. I followed my instincts, surrendering to the feel of what seemed right, and by eleven-thirty I was within sight of the Cleveland skyline.
    The skyscrapers were lit from below with candy-colored floods of red, blue, and gold. Gleaming lights illuminated the downtown bridges as well, making the art deco giants flanking their arches come ominously to life.
    A wealth of apparently random facts spun through my brain—the foibles of the Van Sweringen brothers, pride in native son Bob Hope, and rueful memories of J.D. Rockefeller’s cutthroat tactics. I found myself wondering about my curiously selective amnesia. Everything was poignantly familiar. I knew the shape of the Terminal Tower, the tales of the Detroit Avenue Bridge, the fervor sports-minded locals held for the stadium that was home of the Cleveland Tribe.
    As long I didn’t think too hard about it, I knew where every street led. I took the exit that funneled me down a winding path from the overpass to the Flats. I found myself on River Road, got routed around a drawbridge that was undergoing repairs, passed the Nautica stage, then drew up short at a sleek black sign with familiar silver letters.
    H EAVEN
    Parking was ten dollars in the attached lot. All too conscious of my dwindling funds, I decided to take my chances and leave the Harley on the street. That proved to be an adventure. Although no special event seemed to be going on at the Nautica or anywhere else in the Flats, cars crowded nose-to-bumper, tires half up on the worn and shallow curbs. Listing pylons twined with thick, weathered chains blocked access to one side street after another, till I found myself again at the bank of the river.
    A great, rusting monolith rose to one side, its purpose lost to the city’s industrial past. The broad, oily expanse of the Cuyahoga drank the light from the crumbling bridges arching above it, their reflections dragged mercilessly into its muddy depths.
    There was a parking space right near the river’s edge, but I wanted no part of those still, brooding waters. Choking on shapeless memories I could neither ignore nor divine, I guided the old Harley deeper into the tangle of one-way streets and back alleys, dodging potholes big enough to swallow the front tire. I finally found a space a good several blocks from Heaven. The lone streetlight at the corner had been shot out. At that point, I didn’t care.
    Setting the kickstand I reluctantly cut the engine. If I was lucky, Club Heaven would give up the answers that I needed, and I’d be able to make a discreet call pointing the authorities to Biker Santa’s cherished ride.
    I oriented myself in the