Angels of Detroit

by Christopher Hebert

  In the backseat, Myles sat silently.

  “It’s complicated,” Fitch said. “There’s too much shit to keep track of.”

  “Especially if you’re asleep.” Holmes looked to Myles for agreement, but he was looking out the window, not even paying attention.

  “I’ve got a lot going on,” Fitch said. “That new demo …”

  “Have you even started recording?”

  Fitch glared back. “I don’t remember you leaping to volunteer for Myles’s little … Shakespeare-in-the-park.”

  Myles turned his head briefly at the sound of his name, then drifted back to wherever he’d been.

  “I still did it,” Holmes said.

  “So did I.”

  “Yeah,” Holmes said, “but yours isn’t going on your criminal record.”

  “Stop!” Myles shot forward, hovering over the center console.

  “I spent the night in jail,” Holmes said. “I’m not done complaining.”

  “Stop the car.” Myles was pointing to a store at the corner. “I want to get some cookies.”

  Fitch elbowed Myles softly in the head, nudging him back into his seat. “Grown men in a van don’t stop for cookies.”

  “For McGee,” Myles said. “They sell her favorite kind.”

  “Jail’s not enough?” Holmes said. “We have to buy her cookies?”

  “For the party.”

  “Should we get balloons, too?” Fitch said. “Is someone turning seven?”

  “Don’t be a dick,” Myles said. “Pull over.”

  The next logical stop after cookies was the liquor store. Fitch’s supply had run out.

  The bottle he picked was squatting alone and dusty in the bottom corner of a buckled aluminum shelf, no brand name, just the word VODKA printed in bold block type across a coat of arms dominated by an eagle wearing a sarcastic smirk. The bottle was the size of a bullhorn. Holmes didn’t drink and never had, but as they drove the rest of the way to McGee and Myles’s loft, he started to feel attached to the weight of the brown paper bag in his lap, and he could imagine clinging to the bottle for the rest of the night.

  But he never got the chance. The moment they arrived, Fitch ripped the vodka from Holmes’s hands. The paper bag fell to the floor, and that was where Fitch left it. Still standing in the doorway, Holmes stared at the crumpled sack, debating whether to pick it up, feeling his mood grow even darker.

  “We brought you something,” Myles said, handing McGee his latest offering.

  She took the package, looked at it sideways. “Cookies?”

  “Lemon!” Stepping over the dropped bag, Myles put his arm around her shoulders, and she turned her cheek into his kiss.

  No How was jail. No You must be tired. Not to mention hungry. McGee just walked toward the kitchen, and everyone followed. April was already inside.

  Holmes had always hated coming here. Two steps past the threshold was all it took to remind him. The place, when McGee and Myles found it, had been an industrial graveyard haunted by the ghosts of sad machines. It had fallen to Holmes to try to make the space livable. His reputation as a handyman had been built around a very limited repertoire, but it was more than any of the rest of them had. He’d never understood how Myles and McGee could possess so much energy and so few actual skills.

  Holmes had picked up what little he knew from his father, a locksmith and drunk and general tinkerer. And his uncle, a halfhearted slumlord. Also a drunk. But their work was and had been mostly just fixing whatever was broken. They’d never built entire new rooms or routed new plumbing. So Holmes hadn’t either. He’d tried to tell Myles and McGee that he knew exactly as little about that stuff as they did, but McGee had said, “I have faith in you,” as if that and a tool belt were all he needed.

  They got what they paid for: a shower stall squatting awkwardly almost in the middle of the room, surrounded by crooked walls. It looked like an outhouse. Every time Holmes walked in the front door, this depressing sight was waiting to greet him.

  It wasn’t as if the city had run out of vacancies. McGee and Myles could have bought a whole house with the change in Fitch’s ashtray, but they enjoyed living like this. Or they wanted to enjoy living like this. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. Holmes sensed they liked imagining themselves storm chasers dashing into the eye of a tornado everyone else was fleeing. That Holmes himself had fled two years ago, when Fitch offered to let him freeload. Fitch’s parents had bought him a condo in Grosse Pointe Woods, and Holmes had packed up his stuff and moved into the spare bedroom, not giving a shit if anyone called him a sellout. If he wanted to, Holmes had a whole childhood full of shitty, derelict apartments in the city to feel nostalgic about. But why the hell would he? Of course, Myles did, too. They’d grown up down the street from each other. But Myles had McGee, and they seemed to feel some imperative to stay. So did April and Inez, though at least they had an actual apartment, with actual rooms and actual doors.

  In the kitchen Holmes poured himself a coffee cup full of cranberry juice. Above his head, the fluorescent lights hummed.

  “The men’s room was empty,” Fitch was saying, as Holmes took a seat next to him on the sofa.

  April sat on the opposite couch.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Holmes said.

  “Empty,” Fitch repeated as Myles came over to join them, “except for this one guy standing in front of the urinal on the tips of his toes.”

  “Why are we talking about urinals?” Holmes said.

  Fitch gave him a peeved look. But before he could answer, there was a jostling at the other end of the sofa; Myles seemed to be struggling to pull himself out of a pit.

  “What are you doing?” Fitch said.

  Myles was holding on to the arm of the sofa as if it were a life vest. “Broken spring.”

  “It’s your own couch,” Holmes said.

  Myles shrugged. “I forgot.”

  “Why don’t you sit on the other couch?” Fitch said, interrupting his own story. He pointed to the cushion next to April, who sat all alone, her legs crossed like a swami’s. Between them was a steamer trunk they were using as a coffee table.

  Myles scratched at his stocking cap. “It’s a love seat, not a couch.”

  “I don’t care if it’s a fucking pumpkin,” Fitch said. “We were here first, and now you’re squeezing us out.”

  Myles rocked forward and back, like a cork stuck in a bottle, and Fitch tried to help his vodka ride out the commotion by holding his mug directly above Holmes’s lap.

  Once Myles was finally resettled, Fitch elbowed Holmes to move aside, and a few drops of vodka bloomed on Holmes’s thigh.

  “He’s standing there on the tips of his toes—” Fitch said, drifting back into his story.

  Holmes was chagrined to glance up from his juice and discover Fitch looking directly at him, as if this were all somehow for his benefit.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “He’s standing there at the urinal, on the tips of his toes,” Fitch said, even more dramatically now that he was sure he had everyone’s attention. “And he’s totally stiff—”

  At the sound of the word, something caught deep down in Holmes’s chest, and the next thing he knew, he was doubling over, a mouthful of cranberry juice spraying out between his teeth in a fine purple mist.

  April, sitting directly across from him, let out a shriek and shot into the air, but it was too late. The juice was splattered across the front of her white sweatshirt.

  “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” she said, flapping the fabric away from her skin, as if it were on fire.

  Holmes waved his arms in surrender, feeling as though he’d swallowed gravel, and everyone—even Fitch—turned wincingly toward McGee, expecting the worst. She was in the kitchen, leaning over the table, making sandwiches, and when she saw what had happened, she turned away without a word, thrusting her hand into a bag of sandwich bread.

  By now, April had wrestled th
e sweatshirt over her head, rushing toward the sink, whimpering, “Shit, shit, shit.”

  “It’s just a crappy sweatshirt,” Fitch said. “What’s the big deal?”

  April grabbed a balled-up towel from the sink and began dabbing at the purple spots. Even from across the room, Holmes could see it wouldn’t do any good.

  “I borrowed it from Inez,” April said.

  “So it’s Inez’s crappy sweatshirt,” Fitch said. “Who cares?”

  April rolled her eyes. There was no need to answer. Everyone knew it was Inez who cared. Even Fitch knew, though he pretended not to.

  “She’s going to kill me,” April said.

  Holmes rasped, “Don’t tell her it was me.”

  “It’s a fucking hoodie,” Fitch said. “She probably got it at the thrift store,” which everyone knew to be both perfectly true and completely irrelevant.

  “And who the fuck buys a white sweatshirt,” Fitch said, glancing from one to the next, waiting for someone to echo his indignation.

  Holmes rushed to the outhouse and returned with a wad of toilet paper. As soon as it touched the stain on the love seat, the tissue turned pink and began to stick to his hand.

  “Maybe you can flip the cushion over,” Myles said, not bothering to get up from his seat.

  “The thing was hideous anyway,” Fitch said as he made his way toward the bullhorn of vodka in the kitchen.

  “Do you have any dish soap?” April said. The sweatshirt had turned into a fetal pink blob in the sink.

  Fitch came up behind her, peering over her shoulder. “Seriously?”

  “Laundry detergent, dish detergent,” April said. “It’s all the same, isn’t it?”

  No matter how much Holmes dabbed at the cushion, it didn’t seem to make any difference. “Maybe it won’t look as bad when it dries,” he said with a sigh.

  “She’ll still see it,” April said, not realizing Holmes wasn’t talking to her. She turned off the faucet and let the soggy hoodie flop into the sink.

  “I’m sorry,” Holmes said.

  Over in the kitchen, McGee was slapping slices of soy cheese onto the bread with far more force than necessary.

  “Anyway,” Fitch said, more loudly now, as he and his cup swerved back to the sofa, “I meant his body was stiff.”

  “Why are we still talking about this?” Holmes said.

  “Because it’s interesting,” Fitch said.

  “The only one who’s interested,” Holmes said, “is you.”

  Fitch shrugged and turned toward Myles, who seemed to be staring at the wall. He’d been out of it all day, ever since they got bailed out, as if his head were still back in that jail cell.

  “The guy looked like a mannequin,” Fitch said. “He was standing on his toes, ramrod straight, his ass cheeks tight as fucking walnuts.” He stood to demonstrate.

  Holmes muttered, “Jesus.”

  “There was a stream coming out of him like a fire hose,” Fitch said, tapping Myles on the knee, trying to get his attention. “It’s like the guy was drilling a hole in the back of the fucking urinal. It was like a fucking laser beam. And he had this serene look on his face, like he was channeling the energy of the entire galaxy into his cock.”

  McGee, who’d been knocking a knife around inside a jar of mustard, paused to listen, but Myles still looked as if he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open.

  “This is the last time we let you stop at a liquor store,” Holmes said.

  Fitch sat down at the edge of the sofa. “I was at the sink washing my hands when the guy finally ran out,” he said. “Behind me I could hear him moaning.”

  “Jesus,” Holmes said again, and Fitch’s eyes flashed toward him.

  “Why don’t you just let me tell the story?” Fitch’s gaze was clear and steady. Maybe he wasn’t drunk at all. Maybe it was just this loft that made people crazy.

  “When he came over to the sink,” Fitch said, more measured now, “there was sweat along his hairline.”

  “Maybe he had kidney stones,” April said weakly. She was sitting on the arm of the love seat in only her T-shirt, rubbing her arms for warmth.

  “The guy splashed a couple handfuls of water on his face,” Fitch said, “and then he told me I should try it.”

  “It?” Holmes asked, already wishing he’d kept his mouth shut.

  “It?” April repeated.

  “What?” asked Myles, his eyes suddenly coming into focus.

  Fitch raised his cup to his lips, savoring the anticipation. “The secret Taoist method of urination.”

  Holmes fell back with a groan.

  “He says it strengthens the kidneys,” Fitch said with a grin.

  “Great,” Holmes said. “Can we talk about something else now?”

  Fitch said, “It’s like a fire hose.”

  “And why,” McGee said, rising now from the table with a stack of sandwiches on a plate, “would you want to pee like a fire hose?”

  Fitch stood there openmouthed, seemingly stunned by the question.

  “I mean,” McGee said, “is it really necessary to turn even something like peeing into a competition?”

  “The fire hose,” Fitch said, “is just an added benefit. The real point is your kidneys. When your kidneys are strong, you function better—sexually.” And Fitch patted his stomach, as if trying to figure out where his kidneys were.

  “You talk about your dick like it’s a sports car,” McGee said.

  Holmes was relieved he was no longer fighting this battle alone. “He’d put mag wheels and a spoiler on it if he could.”

  Fitch flashed his famous smile, the long, glinting eyeteeth. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Flames and racing stripes too,” Holmes said. “You’ve got me all figured out.”

  Fitch tugged gently on one of his sideburns, and his eyes moistened with laughter. “You’re such a weepy drunk.”

  “I’m drinking cranberry juice,” Holmes said. “You’re the one that’s drunk.”

  Fitch raised his empty glass. “That’s even worse.”

  April went back to the kitchen table and returned with the vodka bottle.

  “Don’t,” Holmes said. “He’s had enough.”

  April poured.

  Fitch said, “What are you, my mother?”

  “How can you drink that?” Holmes said. “It smells like it was distilled in a rain barrel.”

  Fitch sprang up from the sofa and pirouetted around the steamer trunk. He grabbed April by the hand, and she let out a shriek.

  “ ‘Save your sobs for thunderstorms,’ ” Fitch sang out in his raspy voice, “ ‘and your tears for when it rains.’ ”

  “It’s been raining all day, you idiot,” Holmes said.

  “It’s stopped now.” April had wriggled free of Fitch, escaping to the wall of windows at the back of the apartment. “Why does it only rain when I’m outside?”

  With a glance in her direction, Holmes saw it had grown dark. But inside the apartment, under the fluorescent lights, nothing had changed. He wondered sometimes if it ever would. It was possible, wasn’t it, to love one’s friends and be driven crazy by them, too? People couldn’t spend this much time together without occasionally dreaming of murder.

  McGee had taken the empty spot on the love seat next to Myles, ignoring the wet cushion. The two of them looked like an old couple on a park bench, lost in thought and memory as the world went by. For all their differences lately, it was one thing they still had in common, the ability to be absent even in the midst of a crowd.

  On the wall above McGee and Myles’s heads hung a painting, one of the ugliest things Holmes had ever seen. The canvas looked like a lunch tray on which the remains of a thousand meals had permanently congealed. Over the top someone had smeared a layer of something thick and shiny, the texture of fossilized gravy. Everything about the piece was revolting, and yet it demanded to be touched. The painting called out to Holmes every time he was here, and the only way to resist was to ave
rt his eyes, to turn away, even if that meant having to look at the crooked outhouse he’d built. But for once Holmes couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the canvas.

  “Where did this come from?” he said.

  “She used to have a studio here,” McGee said, “the woman who painted it. She left it behind.”

  “I can see why,” Fitch mumbled into his cup.

  “It’s supposed to be this building,” Holmes said. “I just realized that. After all this time.”

  Fitch said. “I thought it was meatloaf.”

  “It looks like trash,” April said, not judgmentally.

  “Those are wrappers,” McGee said. “Bits of newspaper and parts of containers and packages and advertisements. It’s made of stuff she found on the street outside. Then she put paint on top.”

  The whole time she was talking, Myles was shaking his head.

  “What?” McGee said, glancing at him sideways.

  “It’s just, I mean”—Myles looked at her helplessly—“of all the things to use to describe the place you live,” he said. “Trash.”

  “You think she should lie?” McGee said. “Sugarcoat it?”

  “It’s like giving up,” Myles said. “Accepting the worst.”

  “I think it’s more of a reminder,” McGee said. “To keep you going.”

  Fitch broke out in a fit of laughter.

  April looked up. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” Fitch said. “Nothing at all. It’s all so deadly fucking serious.”

  Fitch fell down onto the sofa with all his weight, and Holmes, as if on the other end of a teeter-totter, immediately sprang to his feet. He didn’t know why at first, other than that he’d been sitting there too long, and suddenly the space seemed so small, the high ceiling pressing down on his head. And also, he realized now, he needed to take a piss, but he didn’t want to go in that outhouse. He’d rather go outside in the alley. He’d rather go out the window. He’d rather go anywhere but there.

  “That reminds me,” McGee said, and her voice was supposed to sound offhand, casual, as if she’d just managed to retrieve something before it slipped away from her memory. She stretched out her legs and reached deep into the back pocket of her jeans, pulling out a piece of paper, a crumpled printout, which she unfolded on the steamer trunk. Holmes leaned forward to look. The words were upside down, but even so they were immediately clear: HELP WANTED. The address, he couldn’t help noticing, was the HSI Building. What, exactly, had reminded her of this?