Christopher Hebert - Angels of Detroit

“Did you know it?” he said. “Had you been there?”

Constance gazed at the photo. “Maybe once,” she said. “It doesn’t matter.”

Dobbs picked up a piece of bread, crammed it in his mouth. He stuffed two more in his pocket. “I’ve got to go.”

It had started to rain while he was at Constance’s, but the day — the entire week, really — had been oddly hot and humid, unlike any Midwestern fall he’d ever known. He would’ve liked to lie down among the weeds, spread out like an angel, letting the rain wash over him.

He found the place easily. From a block away, he could see the limp yellow police tape bouncing as it caught the falling drops. Drawing closer, he could make out the scorched grass and muddy rivulets studded with boot prints, where the fire hoses had run off. The club was nothing more now than a cordoned-off heap. The remaining boarded-up buildings on either side of the street looked like a Potemkin town turned around — the braces that kept everything standing rotting in the rain.

The city was silent as a fallow field.

“I know you.”

Dobbs spun around on the wet concrete. McGee stood on the opposite sidewalk, directly behind him. She’d dyed her hair blond, but there was no mistaking her eyes.

“It was raining last time I saw you, too,” she said. “You had a newspaper over your head.”

How could he tell her that lately he’d been seeing her constantly, that he was with her almost every time he couldn’t keep himself from falling asleep?

In the rain, her oversize clothing hung off of her like a wet tarp. “Sightseeing?” she said.

He turned back toward the rubble. “I keep trying to figure out what it all means.” The street lay between them, and Dobbs wondered if he should cross, or if she would.

“I think they’re trying to help,” she said. Her hands were in her pockets, her eyes fixed on the ruins. “They’re trying to do the right thing.”

Dobbs put his hand in his own pocket, felt around for the bread. Aside from the crust, it had turned to mush. “Is this the right thing?”

She shrugged. “Maybe it feels like the only thing left.”

And then she was walking away from him.

“See you later,” Dobbs shouted. But the words came out sounding hollow, as if he already knew they might not be true.

* * *

The rain had slowed to little more than a drizzle by the time he reached the house. He left a trail of shoe prints across the cracked, weathered porch.

The first things he saw, when he opened the door, were Mike and Tim standing side by side, perfectly still at the far end of the living room. Their jumpsuits were dry. They’d been waiting a long time.

The two men broke toward him in the same instant. The door was still open behind him, but Dobbs didn’t bother trying to run.

“You brought this on yourself,” Mike said as the flames on his forearms danced in Dobbs’s eyes.

And then Dobbs was on the ground, and there was a stampede on his ribs and spine.

Tim, standing by the door watching, said, “This won’t end well for you.”

But then again, Dobbs thought, maybe the end had already come.

Even in the poor light just before dawn, Darius could tell how clean the alley was, the crumbling pavement looking as though it had just been swept. From the steel door at the far end, someone had hung a holly wreath. But it was only September; the perfect little berries had to be plastic.

Michael Boni knocked, and a few moments passed before Darius heard feet shuffling somewhere within. As the door swung open, the alley was bathed in music, playful notes dancing across a piano keyboard, accompanied by the resonant thumps of an upright bass. And then the trumpet entered, the player unmistakable. As Darius and Michael Boni passed through, Satchmo broke out scatting. For a moment, Darius felt as though he were stepping back in time. On the other side of the door, he half-expected to see a room full of closely shaven men gnawing on cigars as they stacked poker chips into miniature battlements.

But the room was almost entirely empty. The air smelled warm and yeasty. An elderly black woman stood with her hand on the knob. “Welcome,” she said.

The place was a restaurant, but Darius couldn’t begin to guess what kind. An assortment of mismatched booths lined the dining room, the walls decorated with landscapes from several different continents. Just inside the door, a marble-topped table that at one time must have belonged to a sidewalk café propped up a sign reading PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED.

Michael Boni nodded casually to the old woman. “How’s business?”

“Suddenly picking up.”

Constance led Darius and Michael Boni across the room to the farthest booth from the door. Leaning over the table, she tipped a lighter in the mason jar candle.

“We’re not on a date,” Michael Boni said, and the old woman frowned as he blew out the flame. Darius might have apologized for his rudeness, but by now Constance must have understood who she was dealing with.

As usual, Michael Boni hadn’t bothered to explain their destination. It wasn’t so much that he enjoyed surprises. It was just that — as best Darius could figure — Michael Boni preferred to be the only one who ever knew what was going on. But Darius had heard so much about Constance that this, whatever this was, hardly felt like a secret. He was just pleased to see the woman in person. But now that he was here, he realized she was nothing like he’d imagined, older and frailer. The way Michael Boni had talked about her, Darius had expected some sort of sage, not an elderly waitress who looked more than a little like his own grandmother.

“Well?” Constance said.

Michael Boni shrugged. “What do you have?”

“What do you think?”

“Stew?” Michael Boni didn’t bother to hide his grimace. “Meat?”

“Not unless you brought one of your birds.”

Michael Boni’s eyes narrowed in on her, and she stared right straight back.

Darius wondered if Michael Boni had any relationships that weren’t entirely antagonistic.

When she was gone, Michael Boni thumped his elbows onto the table. “What do you think?”

Darius paused to take another look around. He’d never seen anything like it: the ill-assorted furniture, the plastic plants, the crooked fixtures, the randomly assembled parts and pieces. “Did she do all this herself?”

“I helped.” Michael Boni seemed so pleased with everything he saw, Darius couldn’t help wondering if the restaurant was supposed to be like the lettuce, another of Michael Boni’s symbols.

Constance returned with a tarnished silver tray, which she set down before them on the table. On the tray was a wooden cutting board, and on the board a bent and knobby baguette that looked like the branch of some ancient tree. The bread was ugly, but it smelled incredible. And there was a small pot of coffee and several cups. Constance may not have been a sage, but she could read Darius’s mind.

“Would you do the honors?” She slid the board in front of him.

The teeth of the knife sawed in. Shards of crust, thick as bark, shot across the tabletop. And then, almost instantly, there was no more resistance. A puff of steam swirled out of the cut, and the flesh fell away from the knife as if it were no more than air.

“Try it,” she said.

Darius put down the knife and picked up a slice. Together that golden shell and the fragile web in the middle melted into a cloud of warmth and nothingness.

The bread was one of the most delicious things he’d ever put in his mouth. Maybe Constance was a sage after all. Maybe, Darius thought, a second bite would answer the question once and for all. But just as he was reaching out for another piece, the door to the alley swung open.