"NURSE!"
"You're not making this any easier on yourself."
"And I'm not going to, you son of a bitch. You bastards aren't content to let me go out on my own terms?" Joe points the buzzer at his guest and presses the button.
"Knock yourself out." The guy straightens out his coat and sits in the hard plastic chair next to the bed. Casually, he pulls out a gold cigarette case.
Joe hears the squeaking of the nurse's shoes on the linoleum down the hallway. He laughs dryly. "You missed your chance, buddy. When that nurse gets here, she's gonna call the cops. You got about five seconds to get the fuck gone."
Slowly, the guy shakes his head. "I'm not going anywhere, Joe."
The nurse bursts through the door, flipping on the too-bright fluorescents. Joe is momentarily blinded. The nurse also blinks rapidly in the sudden harshness. As far as he can tell, the visitor doesn't react at all-either to the light or to the nurse's presence.
The night nurse is slightly out of breath. She's a sweet, pudgy little thing wearing a cheap engagement ring and a perpetually forced smile. Through the smile, she says, "What's wrong, Mr. Shannon? Why are you yelling?"
Her eyes never so much as glance over to the dapper stranger, who smiles at Joe and shrugs, cigarette dangling. He sparks a lighter and touches the flame to the tip of the cigarette. "She can't see me, Joe."
"I…I want that man out of the hospital. Call the police."
The nurse looks around the room. Her smile doesn't falter, but the strain of maintaining it clearly increases. "I'm sorry?"
"She can't hear me either."
Joe sits up, pointing at the man clearly sitting next to his bed. "Him! This greaseball bastard is here to kill me!"
The nurse's smile wavers a bit and her eyebrows knit up in sympathy. "There's nobody here, Mr. Shannon."
The visitor smiles and blows a perfect smoke ring. "Told ya."
"What?"
Simultaneously, the nurse and the visitor repeat themselves.
"I said, I told ya."
"I said, there's nobody here. You were just having a nightmare, Mr. Shannon. I've been at the desk all night and nobody has come by."
"But…but…" Despite himself, Joe feels a hot humiliation spreading through his chest. The finger he's pointing at the stranger shakes a little.
"And please don't yell any more. The other patients are trying to sleep. You should too." With that, the constant smile is planted back firmly where it belongs. The room plunges into semi-darkness again as she turns the light off and leaves the room.
The only sounds in the room…
hissssss-click
hissssss-click
Joe stares at the stranger. He closes his eyes and rubs at them. When he opens them again, the man is still there, calmly smoking.
"I'm still here, Joe," he says gently.
"Goddamn meds. Got me so looped up…" He hadn't had one yet, but Dr. Singh had told him that mild hallucinations were a possibility. There was nothing mild about his hallucination, Joe thought. He could see the type of knot the guy wore on his tie (Windsor). He could smell the cigarette smoke.
As if reading his thoughts, the man says, "I'm not a hallucination."
Joe chuffs. "Well, if you're the tooth fairy, you're a couple decades too late. My dentures are in the glass by the nightstand."
The man laughs warmly. "Not quite. I'll give you another guess, though."
Joe slumps his head back onto the stiff hospital pillow. "I'm outta guesses, buddy. So why don't you just tell me who you are?"
He takes one last drag off the filter and drops the butt into the miniature ginger ale can with a sizzle. "I'm the Angel of Death, Joe."
hissssss-click
hissssss-click
hissssss-click
"You gotta be kidding me."
"I'm afraid not. It's your time, my friend."
"Really? Where's your black robe? That sickle thing?" Joe is laughing hard now. It hurts, but it feels good, too. "Why do you look like every wop button man I ever met in my life?"
Death smiles at him. "Did you imagine that I would come to you in a black robe? Carrying a… I believe it's called a scythe."
"To be honest with you, I never imagined it at all. I dunno, I just always imagined it was…I dunno. Lights out and that was it."
"That's not entirely true. There were many times when you thought that someone-someone who looks like me-was going to end your life."
"What are you talking about?"
"1974?"
Joe narrows his eyes. "How do you know about that?"
"I know all about you, Joe. You and Sal Bustimante had quite the dispute about who was supposed to be paying who?"
Joe is silent. In shock.
"You thought that he might send some, excuse me, 'wop' to take care of you." Death makes a pistol from his thumb and forefinger and fires it, making a pop with his lips.
"Yeah. I was real scared."
"And there was Nino Valleta in '81"
"Hey, Mr. Death Big Shot. I didn't have anything to do with Nino disappearing. You know so much, why don't you know that, huh?"
Death smiled. "I do know that, Joe. I also know that you were terrified that Mr. Bustimante would hold you responsible-and again, that someone like me would come sneaking up behind you on Boylston. Your strongest visions of your own death have always been someone like me, Joe. That's why I'm here like this." He splays his hands wide, presenting himself.
"So you-"
"I appear in whatever form of death the near-deceased have always feared."
"You gotta be kidding me."
"You already said that, Joe"
"Sorry. But I can't be the first man on earth to call bullshit on you."
Death smiles. "Not everybody knows who I am, what I am when they see me. I don't often have to explain myself."
"What do you mean?"
I've been a lot of things over the years. I've been jealous husbands. Drug dealers selling the last hits. I've been dogs-hell, once I was a Buick Electra."
Joe can't help but laugh, doubling over when he does. Half from the humor he now sees in it all and half from the pain that the laughter generates in his ruined stomach. But he doesn't care. One way or the other, he knows it will all be over soon.
"What's so funny?"
"I…I'm kinda mad at myself for never imagining that I would get banged to death by Charlie's Angels. Instead I get you-freakin' Angelo Death." Joe wipes away the tears that are streaming from his eyes.
Death laughs again. "That's a good one. Don't know how much I would have enjoyed that scenario."
Despite the broken glass roiling in his stomach, Joe can't suppress his whoops of laughter. "Stop it, you're killing me."
Death's laughter subsides. He clears his throat and smiles wanly, sadly. "Yeah, that's what I'm doing, Joe." Death taps a finger to his nose.
"Little on the mark there, huh?" Joe finally gets his giggles under control, but the tears won't stop rolling down his face. It feels like the force of his laughter has chipped something else loose.
Quietly, Death says, "What's the matter, Joe?"
"I dunno. It's…I never got to make right." Joe points up towards the heavens. "Y'know? I never…I never got to make Confession or nothing."
"Are you sorry for the things you've done? Are you truly sorry for the life you've led?"
Joe thinks about it, trying to associate the acts most vivid in his memory to an emotional response within himself. He's a little surprised at what he finds. "Y'know what? I am."
Death stands up and opens his suit jacket. With one hand, he reaches in. With the other, he points upward and smiles. "Then He knows, too."
Joe turns his head into the antiseptic smelling pillow and closes his eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't want to see."
"You don't have to. Goodbye, Joe."
"Goodbye."
hissssss-click