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Hit Bruce McAllister “If life is a ‘divine comedy,’ as many insist it is, who has the last laugh?” I ‘M GIVEN THE ASSIGNMENT by an angel—I mean that, an angel—one wearing a high-end Armani suit with an Ermenegildo Zegna tie. A loud red one. Why red? To project confidence? Hell, I don’t know. I’m having lunch at Parlami’s, a mediocre bistro on Melrose where I met my first ex, when in he walks with what looks like a musical instrument case—French horn or tiny tuba, I’m thinking—and sits down. We do the usual disbelief dialogue from the movies: He announces he’s an angel. I say, “You’re kidding.” He says, “No. Really.” I ask for proof. He says, “Look at my eyes,” and I do. His pupils are missing. “So?” I say. “That’s easy with contacts.” So he makes the butter melt on the plate just by looking at it, and I say, “Any demon could do that.” He says, “Sure, but let’s cut the bullshit, Anthony. God’s got something He wants you to do, and |
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