Los Angeles -- now

"I could do this," Cordelia Chase said. She walked into Angel's office from his downstairs apartment, waving a glossy magazine in her hand. Angel glanced away from the TV. She seemed to be showing him a society section -- dozens of small photos of L.A.'s social elite were flapping at him.

"I really could," she went on. "I mean, what are the qualifications? To be pretty? Look at me."

Angel did. Even wearing a casual tank top and track pants, the brunette was definitely pretty. Angel thought she had, even in the short time since graduating from high school back in Sunnydale and moving here to L.A., seemed to grow into herself more, becoming more elegant and lovely with each passing week.

"And I guess you have to be able to talk for hours about nothing in particular, but, hello. High school? If they'd scored on meaningless conversation, I wouldn't have that whole grade-point-average thing hanging over my head. And I mean that in the best possible way -- meaningless conversations are so much more interesting, really, than the kind that are about deep psychological issues, aren't they?"

"News is on, Cordy," Doyle announced. A little more brusque than he usually was with her, which Angel figured meant that he was so distracted by the tube he had forgotten he was still hoping to date her someday. Angel thought he sometimes played the Irish brogue up more, too, as if hoping that the Irish side of him would camouflage the demon side. She didn't know yet that Doyle was half-demon, and Doyle hoped she never did.

"See, that's what I mean. What good ever comes from watching the news? I'm talking about more than a career choice here -- becoming a trophy wife is more of a lifestyle choice, with the added bonus that then you don't really need a career."

"Right now," Doyle said, "the good that'll come from it is that I've got some money down on the Padres, and I'm waitin' to see if Tony Gwynn's gonna come through for me again. It's a sure thing, but I wanna see just how sure."

"Quiet a minute, both of you," Angel said. "I want to hear this." Cordelia and Doyle both shushed.

"...another daring overnight bank robbery," the local news blow-dry said, "but this one resulted in the deaths of three innocent bystanders who happened to be on the street in the early hours of the morning, when the heavily armed robbers left the bank. A witness says the alleged robbers came out through the front door, surprising Los Angeles residents Ford Gilmore and Tomm Coker, and a third, unnamed minor. The bystanders were between the bank door and their getaway car, and when the alleged bank robbers left the building, they opened fire with automatic rifles, killing the three instantly...."

"Listen to that," Doyle said. "'Alleged robbers.' Like it ain't pretty clear when they come out of the bank carryin' stolen money, shootin' people, that they really are robbers."

"Kate told me about these guys," Angel said. "They tunnel into banks overnight, load up their bags from the vault, and then go out the front door into waiting cars. She was afraid things might escalate some day, and someone would get hurt."

"Looks like it has," Cordelia said. "Does Police Woman have any clues?"

"She said she thinks so, but wouldn't tell me what they were."

"Guess she don't want you goin' Batman on them," Doyle said.

"Something like that."

"Hey, that reminds me, man. Those guys jumped you, a couple weeks back? I've been asking on the street, see if anyone knows anything. No dice so far."

"Well, thanks for trying, anyway," Angel said. "It's not a big deal."

He'd been out late -- when one is a vampire, it beats being out early -- and four thugs had come out of a car as he walked down the street, not far from his office/apartment. The car had pulled up at the curb, and the passenger door opened -- letting someone out on the sidewalk, Angel assumed. No reason to think differently.

Until the guy spoke to him. "Hey, pal," he said. Angel glanced at him then. The man was dressed all in dark clothes, like Angel himself -- black jeans, a dark long-sleeved tee, and a Dodgers cap pulled low on his brow.

"Hey," Angel replied, not even breaking his stride.

Then the back doors opened and two more guys came out of the rear seat, dressed similarly. Angel saw that they were carrying weapons -- a black police-style billy club in one's hand, and a baseball bat in the other's. He looked back toward the first guy, and saw a knife in his fist now.

"What's going on?" Angel asked.

None of the men said anything. They spread out, surrounding Angel on the sidewalk. Angel heard another car door open -- the driver, he figured, but he didn't lift his gaze from the guys nearest him.

"I think maybe you've got the wrong man," Angel said.

Still no response.

The guy with the baseball bat swung it lazily through the air in Angel's direction. It wasn't a threat, so Angel ignored it. Then the billy club came whipping toward him, fast and hard. Angel dodged the blow, felt it whistle past him.

Knife guy lunged at him then. Angel caught the man's wrist, tucked it up under his own arm, against his ribs, and brought his arm in fast.

There was a snapping sound, and the guy let out a scream. The knife clattered to the walk.

And the baseball bat slammed into his kidney from behind.

He let go of the man with the broken wrist, turned to the bat wielder.

"There's still time for you to get out of this without getting hurt," Angel said.

"Don't think that'll be a problem," said the fourth man, the driver. Angel saw him now. He was huge, six-five easy, and well over two hundred and fifty pounds. A big gut spilled out of his black T-shirt and over his belt buckle. Heavy motorcycle boots peeked from beneath his jeans. He had long dark hair, streaked with gray, and a bushy beard.

In one massive hand he held a ball-peen hammer.

He advanced on Angel. Angel figured this one was the most dangerous, but couldn't turn his attention from the others, either. A bat and a billy club were still in play. He decided that a quick finish to this whole encounter would be for the best.

When the billy club came swinging at him again, he caught it in the palm of his hand. He closed his fist around it and yanked. The wielder lurched toward him, and Angel met him with a sudden kick to the chest. The guy dropped back, winded. With the same motion, Angel spun, dropping beneath the arc of the swinging bat. He came up under the bat guy's hands, driving the billy club into the man's throat. The man dropped the bat and fell to the ground, clutching at his neck.

Now it was just the big guy with the hammer. He looked at Angel with a half-smile on his face, as if looking forward to the matchup with delighted anticipation.

Angel stood in a partial crouch, billy club still in his grip. He watched the hammer guy's eyes, ready for any signal that he was ready to charge.

Instead, he surprised Angel. "Okay," he said. "You win." The other guys piled back into the car, and the driver, gaze locked with Angel's the whole way, went back to the driver's door. He got in, and they drove away.

Angel made no attempt to follow, figuring they were just muggers who had mistaken him for an easy target. They were human, that much was certain. And that fact made it not overly worrisome. He'd practically forgotten the incident by now, but was strangely touched that Doyle hadn't.

Sometimes Doyle acts like the only thing in the world he cares about is himself, Angel thought, but then he surprises you with unexpected depth.

Since moving from Sunnydale -- and away from Buffy -- Angel had found that Doyle had proven to be a big help in his activities. So, oddly, had Cordy, pushing him to "legitimize" his quest to help those in need, in the form of a business that, once in a great while, paid real money.

Angel had been a vampire for a long while. But for the last hundred years or so, he'd been a vampire with a soul, thanks to a Gypsy curse. Having a soul meant having a conscience, and having a conscience was naturally followed by feelings of incredible guilt for the many lives he'd taken during his vampiric days. Now he refused to feed on humans, restricting himself to pig's blood from a butcher shop.

But no longer killing humans wasn't good enough. He had many deaths for which to atone. He remained immortal, which was a good thing, because he figured it would take him that long to make up for all the misery he'd caused. And, if he wanted to get right down to it, he was still trying to make up for not having been such a good guy before he became a vampire.

It took, he thought, Buffy to help him see that. She allowed him to understand that a person got to choose between being good, and being something else. And to value the choice for good.

Unfortunately, some choices were harder to make than others. Such as Buffy. Being with her, and then leaving her behind. Moving to Los Angeles. But they had to be made, and he made them and tried not to look back.

Anyway, his apartment was cool, and had access to underground tunnels, which came in handy for moving about in the daytime. And it came with the upstairs office space, which Angel didn't want to let go to waste. So the detective business seemed like a reasonable compromise.

"Bank robberies, killings, general meanness, that's all the news is ever about," Cordelia said, sinking into Angel's dark blue couch, next to Doyle. "If there's so much bad stuff happening in L.A., what I want to know is, why aren't we profiting from it? I mean, how come business has been so slow lately? You'd think some of these people in trouble would come to Angel Investigations to get help, right?" She looked hard at Doyle, who turned away from the screen when he felt her gaze on him.

"Maybe it's you," she went on. "Maybe that vision radar of yours is out of whack or something. Have you had it tuned up lately?"

"I don't need to--"

"Because if you're supposed to be having visions of people who need help, you're falling way behind," she interrupted.

"The Powers That Be don't exactly explain how they work to the likes of me," Doyle said. "All I know is I get 'em when I get 'em, and if I don't get 'em, then I don't get the excruciatin' headaches that go along with 'em, and that's just fine with me."

"Well, maybe we should think about renting a billboard or something. Or those benches at bus stops. Because if we're relying on your visions to grow a business, and you're not having visions, then we're in trouble."

"Maybe that'll be my next vision," Doyle said. "Angel Investigations in fiscal crisis. But what do you care, Cordy? You'll be on the arm of some ninety-year-old discount store billionaire, escortin' him from the nursing home to the opening of a new location in Wichita Falls."

"Eew," Cordelia replied. "Old guys. I hadn't thought of that. I can get a young, handsome, successful rich husband."

"It seems like the young, handsome, successful ones are seldom in need of trophy wives," Angel pointed out.

"You could be right," Cordelia said, stifling a yawn. "Maybe there's a flaw in my plan after all. This'll require some more thought." With a flutter of pages she tossed the magazine onto a table. "It's too late to think tonight. Try to remind me to do it sometime tomorrow, okay?"

"Quiet," Doyle snapped. "Sports're on."

"I don't know why I'm so sleepy," Cordelia continued. "It isn't that late. Remember when I could stay up until all hours and still look beautiful in school the next day? Well, of course you don't, Doyle, you didn't know us then. And I guess staying up late is not an especially impressive skill, to a vampire. So never mind."

"Cord..."

"Okay, quieting here."

"...Padres were swamped," the sportcaster announced, "twenty to seven by the Kansas City..."

"Sorry, Doyle," Cordelia said.

"No big," Doyle replied. He looked crestfallen. "Just, if the phone rings, I ain't here, all right?"

"You gave our phone number?" Angel asked.

"Hey, these guys aren't the kind I want callin' me at home, if you know what I mean."

"Got it," Angel said. Sometimes he's a help, he told himself. Other times I have to remind myself why I let him stick around.

Then the sports was over and a wrap-up of international news came on. Heartbreak, greed, danger, and violence weren't confined to the L.A. city limits, and Angel found himself wishing he could do more, be more places at once. He had to remind himself that he was only one vampire, and he did what he could.

Sometimes that was all one could ask.