Christopher Hebert - Angels of Detroit

Okay, fine. It didn’t matter. She would use her own.

At first Fitch didn’t see them. He’d been watching for flashing lights and listening for sirens. Four sedans appeared, headlights turned off. The cars were black, sweeping into the alley as ominously as storm clouds. The men who stepped out were invisible in their dark suits. Fitch could see them only as dull blotches against the cars’ shiny finish.

One at a time the men hoisted themselves up to the dock. Fitch could hear them talking quietly to one another. One of them crushed out a cigarette. Another laughed, and then another, and the sound was so unexpected that Fitch found himself nearly laughing, too. And then the men disappeared inside, and Fitch steadied his hands just long enough to send McGee a text to let her know someone was coming.

The trip to New Orleans was now two years in the past, but Tiphany had relived it in her mind so often that it was less like a memory than like an obsession. She’d been twenty-two and fresh out of college when Mrs. Freeman hired her as her administrative assistant. It was Tiphany’s first full-time job, and her very first task on her first day in the office had been to make the travel arrangements for the convention. This she had done without help from anyone, and because of that, there was no question about whom to blame when they arrived at the hotel in New Orleans a month later to find only one room reserved.

“I don’t suppose you’ve another?” Mrs. Freeman inquired. But before the pockmarked young man at the desk could confirm what all three of them already knew — that with such a large convention, the hotel was booked beyond capacity — the old woman drifted off toward the elevator, leaving Tiphany to get the key.

Not wanting to embarrass Mrs. Freeman in front of the bellhop, Tiphany kept her apologies to herself. The upward movement of the elevator went straight to her stomach, and she was unable to avoid her own pale reflection in the mirrored walls.

Even after she stepped out of the elevator, Tiphany couldn’t seem to get away from herself. There were mirrors along the corridor and mirrors in the suite. Never had she seen such a hotel room. Actually it was several rooms: bedroom, living room, kitchenette, and even a small dining room. Most incredible, however, were the two bathrooms. Seeing them gave her hope. Maybe there was another bedroom behind one of the closed doors. But the doors led to closets. There was only one bed. One bed, two women.

In the mirror above the bureau, Tiphany caught another glimpse of her own face, blue veins throbbing through translucent skin. Oh well, she tried to tell herself, it’s only a job — a job you never really liked anyway.

Remaining always a step ahead of Mrs. Freeman, the bellhop ripped open the blinds with such drama, it was as though he were revealing a fabulous prize. And it was a prize of sorts — a view of the lazy river dozens of stories below. Then he showed them the bar with its selection of fine liquors, and he commenced a tutorial on operating the air conditioner. Mrs. Freeman teetered into a wing chair. Tiphany supposed it would fall to her to offer the man a tip, and preferably soon, before he moved on to the rudiments of the television remote control. She had no idea what was appropriate.

The bellhop accepted the ten dollars she offered with neither open gratitude nor scorn. But perhaps it was in a mild gesture of appreciation that he returned to the living room, where Mrs. Freeman sat with her eyes closed, and removed the cushions from the sofa, exposing the bed folded up underneath. Tiphany was so relieved, she would have given him another ten, but her wallet was empty. She hoped she’d be reimbursed before Mrs. Freeman fired her.

As soon as the bellhop was out the door, Tiphany began preparing her apology, assembling ideas for possible acts of penitence. But then again, she wondered if it wouldn’t be best to say nothing at all — to avoid annoying the old woman any further.

“The room’s big enough for three anyway,” Mrs. Freeman said, as if reading her assistant’s mind. Tiphany knew better than to believe she meant it, but she took it as a hopeful sign that Mrs. Freeman also wished to put these unpleasantries behind them.

“Yes,” Tiphany said, stalling as she tried to think of something witty and self-deprecating to say. “Yes.”

Mrs. Freeman got up to mix herself a cocktail. “Have I ever mentioned how much I hate coming to these things?”

The question was clearly meant to sound rhetorical, but to Tiphany it was like something from one of those personality tests she’d taken when applying for retail jobs in high school. One of the questions was always something like “There are occasions when an employee might be justified in taking something without paying for it.” The answer was always strongly disagree .

“I’m looking forward to it,” Tiphany said.

“You’ll see soon enough.” Mrs. Freeman swung her feet onto the ottoman and kicked off her shoes. “It’s like walking into a crowded men’s room.”

“Oh,” Tiphany said, as if she understood.

No one had ever made her as nervous as Mrs. Freeman. Tiphany was pretty sure she’d done the right thing saying she was happy to be here, but she also knew one right answer wouldn’t be enough to make her boss forget whose fault it was that she now had an unwanted roommate.

In the morning, while Mrs. Freeman ate breakfast, Tiphany read and reread the schedule of the day’s events. She felt nauseated, watching the old woman chew her eighteen-dollar over-easys and toast. She supposed her nerves were to blame. Her nerves and her boss’s silence. All night, and so far this morning, Mrs. Freeman had persisted in hiding her anger. Tiphany was beginning to think she might prefer the old woman simply yell at her and get it over with.

The morning’s meetings were closed to all but the most senior members and officeholders. Even among them, Tiphany had observed, Mrs. Freeman enjoyed a position of doting reverence. After breakfast, Tiphany led the old woman downstairs to the hotel lobby and from there down a twisting corridor to a darkly furnished room polka-dotted with bald and gray heads. There Mrs. Freeman assumed the burden of her briefcase, telling Tiphany to return for her at two o’clock.

“Call me if you need anything,” Tiphany said as Mrs. Freeman walked away. She could only hope the old woman wouldn’t take her up on the offer.

Once outside, Tiphany felt her nerves finally settling. They seemed to settle all the more the farther she got from the revolving door and the taxi stand and the luggage trolleys. Soon her pace had increased so much, it must have seemed she was fleeing some kind of conflagration.

Several blocks from the hotel, she came across a square bordered by cafés and small shops. It was early, but the place was already choked with tourists. In the center of the square was a small elevated park enclosed by a wrought-iron fence, upon which hung row after row of paintings, most of them streetscapes. The artists themselves — there were perhaps a half dozen — sat languidly in the shade.

One artist in particular caught her attention. Maybe he looked a bit like Sasha, with his wavy brown hair and several days’ worth of stubble. He wore tight, paint-spotted jeans and a thin, almost pulpy shirt. His fingernails were dirty, his forearms blue with ink. His display consisted entirely of representations of the portion of wrought-iron fence and the foliage behind it that passersby saw when they looked at the display of paintings on the wrought-iron fence with the foliage behind it or, more precisely, that they would have seen had the paintings on the wrought-iron fence not been obstructing the view of the foliage.