The Angels and the Burglar

A Charlie's Angels fanfiction by Edward Genereux

Chapter I: Scared Sigil

As dawn broke in Anaheim, California on 14 April 1979, Robert Floyd, manager of the Anaheim Stadium McDonald's (so called on account of its proximity to the titular sports venue), parked his car in an employee space. He had his own space, to be sure, but also a custom of letting one of his workers have the space. Usually, it was a longtime employee of the joint or one who had done an exceptional job over time, among other considerations. It was a way to incentivize quality work among Mr Floyd's staff.

In this case, Mr Floyd had awarded the spot to cook Sam Majerus. Sam was a graduating senior from Anaheim Central High School, where he captained the Pioneer baseball team. He had just been granted a baseball scholarship to play at Fullerton State University for coach Augie Garrido while majoring in Spanish. Staying home meant he could continue to work at McDonald's to help offset the cost of his gear and travel, although he would have to reduce hours during the school year, especially if the Titans were playing far from home.

It was a mostly hopeful spring in Orange County, especially in terms of local sports. Over the offseason, the California Angels had made some critical signings, most notably acquiring Rod Carew from the Minnesota Twins, and would eventually contend for a playoff spot. Moreover, there was construction going on beyond the outfield wall on some new seats. It was not primarily for the Angels, of course, but for the Los Angeles Rams. Rams owner Carroll Rosenbloom had announced last July that starting next year, his team would move in to the "Big A" (as the stadium was called due to its prominent scoreboard) due to poor attendance at the L.A. Memorial Coliseum. Tragically, Rosenbloom had drowned twelve days ago, casting a pall over the transition. Even so, the Rams, who were already enjoying some success on the gridiron, would keep their fallen owner's pioneering legacy in their hearts and reach their first-ever Super Bowl. Finally, just a stone's throw away, coach Garrido would help lead the aforementioned Titans to their first national title in N.C.A.A. Division I baseball in less than two months' time.

Not that their success was the only factor in Sam Majerus' decision to stay home, for this was an age of fuel shortages. Else he might have opted to go to school in another part of the state, if not out of state. But with Iran convulsed by revolution, oil supplies from the Persian Gulf had been greatly disrupted. Accordingly, Sacramento had authorized odd-even rationing. This meant the ability to fill up was tied to the day-numeral of the month and whether one's licence plate ended with an odd or even digit. Since Sam's plate ended in the digit "1," he had been forced to buy gas last night. He had blown half his meagre savings. (Tomorrow was Easter, which meant most stations would be closed.)

This errand had caused him to miss out on his usual Friday night leisure, though. Often, he would head to the local arcade with friends. Other times, they would gather to play Advanced Dungeons and Dragons, which had come out the year before and caught on among them. Even in the absence of errands, leisure time obviously depended on Sam's availability. After all, he must show what he could do to impress coach Garrido to improve his chances of playing time sooner rather than later. For all he knew, the coach could be in the stands, scouting a rival for the same!

But for this morning, Sam had work. As he was about to turn off the ignition on his family's 1975 Toyota Corolla upon parking in his normal spot, he noticed the writing in the blank space on the RESERVED sign. It said "Sam Majerus, Cook." He smiled, backed his vehicle up and shifted into the reserved spot before emerging from the car. One would have beheld a gangly, six-foot-tall blonde centre fielder with his hair in a toupee. He wore horn-rimmed glasses (as he often would when not playing) to see things up close. His work shirt's top two buttons were open in the style of the time, and he wore a plain wooden cross with rounded extremities on his chest. He had stuffed his cook's cap into his trouser pocket, for he had been out late last night as I have told, so he hadn't as much time to get ready for work today. He put the cap on just before entering the staff lounge in the back to clock in.

Sam found Mr Floyd sitting in a corner, reading the Orange County Register and sipping coffee. The staff lounge was but a table and a kitchenette. It smelt of cigarette smoke, for in those days, few batted an eye about people smoking indoors, even if they themselves refrained. There was a coffeepot and donuts from yesterday—or was it the other day? None too scrupulous, Sam poured himself a cup of coffee and grabbed a donut. But before consuming either, he said: "Good morning, Mr Floyd."

Mr Floyd stood up and set the paper aside. He was a swarthy, average-height man with combed-back black hair and a matching porno mustache like a raven-haired Captain Kangaroo. "It's a bit early for your shift, isn't it?" he remarked. "You aren't supposed to start 'til 7, and it's only 5:45. Even our team meeting isn't for another half hour!"

"Well, I am playing for Central against University High, and it's at U.H.S. at 2. I believe we talked back in February as soon as our A.D. had issued our schedule."

Mr Floyd hurtled over to his filing cabinet and pulled out his correspondence folder. Sure enough, he found the schedule for Anaheim Central baseball. He perused it and found the appropriate fixture, and then put back the folder where he'd found it. Then he said: "Sorry, I must have forgotten our discussion then. I do recall you're the school's baseball captain and on a scholarship to Fullerton State. Why not U.S.C., though? Or U.C.L.A.? Or even Arizona State?"

"Gas prices," Sam sighed. "Some things are nonnegotiable. I won't even try to reinstate the Shah. Besides, it's not like the Titans are slouches. They were in the College World Series just four years ago, and Coach Garrido knows what he's doing."

"Indeed. I do hope you can keep up your grades, both in high school and after you get to college. The N.C.A.A. Clearinghouse will be watching to ensure you meet their academic requirements for scholarship funding."

"I also noticed my name on the designated parking spot today. What did I do to deserve it?"

"Well, you've managed to keep your grades up despite multiple advanced courses, playing sports and, of course, working here to save for college. And after all that, you still squeeze in a little fun from time to time! That's what I call a man with a plan. In fact, I don't normally grant this privilege this way, but you can have the manager's space until you start college or stop working here, whichever comes first."

Sam blushed, but in a countenance of acceptance and gratitude. "Thanks. I trust you don't mind if I inspect the indoor PlayPlace for anything it might need, do you?" he asked.

"Sorry," Mr Floyd replied, "but I normally don't like even my most diligent employees toiling before their shift. If you wish once your shift starts, feel free. Why not enjoy what's in your hands? Surely the joe must be getting cold by now."

"Alright, but I want to be the one cleaning the PlayPlace."

"Understood. Also, why don't you relax with the paper?" Sam accepted. But as he perused the articles, a strange feeling danced before his eyes. Each instance of the words town and send seemed to alight in red, even though the Orange County Register in those days had no colour like most U.S. dailies then. He couldn't believe his eyes, and he shook his head side-to-side almost cartoonishly.

"Something wrong?" Mr Floyd asked.

"I must be seeing things," Sam responded as he rubbed his eyes. "The words town and send, as well as those letters within bigger words, seem to be lighting up before me!"

"It could just be a relatively potent coffee batch. Let it fade or have some water, and maybe you'll stop seeing that. Caffeine is a hell of a drug, you know."

Sam nodded and studied the latest baseball box scores for local teams. But something in his gut told him the words that had appeared to him in red would mean something more than the context wherein they would normally appear.

The other employees arrived in due course, and the team meeting began at 6:15am. Mr Floyd gathered everyone in a semicircle. He began: "Good morning, team! How about those Angels?" Cheers filled the lounge before Mr Floyd raised his hand to quiet the din.

"It is my pleasure to announce our franchise's new top employee. He has managed to balance school, sports, work and life in a way few peers of his ever could. As he prepares to graduate from Anaheim Central next month and continue his journey to the Class of 1983 at Fullerton State University, put your hands together for Sam Majerus!" A rush for Sam ensued amid the plaudits as Mr Floyd turned to him. "What advice do you wish to give your coworkers?"

Sam stood nervously. He drew a heavy sigh and said: "Be aware of the crap that is going on out there, but don't let it bring despair and inaction. Do your work as you're able, and all will work together for good in the end." All gathered beheld his simple yet sincere message, and more applause followed before the usual team-meeting business was dispensed.

At 6:30, it was time to set up for the day. Having forgotten his earlier pledge to inspect the PlayPlace, Sam went to prepare breakfast as usual. But upon seeing Mr Floyd through the corner of his eye, he remembered. He checked the shoe rack, and there were no forgotten shoes. He looked at the tables, and there were no morsels of food left. The ball pit had been disinfected the night before, and the playground equipment was mostly spick and span.

It was when Sam got to the foot of the slide that something seemed amiss. There was a faint glow atop the slide, but it appeared obscured under an object or two. Sam removed his shoes and placed them in the shoe rack, as though he were the small child himself. Making sure nobody would see, he climbed awkwardly up the equipment (his height and build made it difficult) before coming to the source of the glow. Whatever the source, someone had hastily covered it up with some antiquated tome. Sam slowly removed the tome, which bore no cover or spine inscriptions, but then dropped it and screamed. On the spot where it had been laid shone a decent-sized redlit sigil.

The scream alerted his coworker, Jim Santos, who tended the register. "What's wrong, Sam?" Jim shouted, running into the PlayPlace. He looked up. "What the hell are you doing up there? You're way too big for that!"

Sam regained his composure as he descended, tome in hand. By now, the whole team had gathered, curious as to what had gone down. Sam answered: "Guys, by God I think I've found a sigil, and this tome"—which he held up— "was covering it. I experienced a bad memory I had suppressed for a good decade. Now will someone give me my shoes?" His coworkers stood slack-jawed in disbelief.

Author's note: The reader will note a lack of normal Charlie's Angels characters in this chapter. Assuredly, these will start to appear in Chapter II and in fuller measure in Chapter III.