She toed in tentatively, almost tiptoeing—I figured her way of balancing on those silvery stilt heels.“I’m seeking Mister Angel.” The voice came through a long nose with a brazen Romanesque jut that gave her mug a severe expression. That nose was what made her quite ugly—a Cessna could have landed on it—and taken off again—without turning around.
I confessed to being the name on the door, but resisted telling her she was only client number four who’d found my office in six years. My business mostly came on referrals from attorneys or insurance companies. I stared while pulling out the chair next to my desk because she was a real puzzle to look at.
She didn’t seem old or young; her face as timeless as a mantel clock’s. It was stretched tight around a bony skull and buried under smears of pancake mess and powder that crowded her hairline and crooked eyebrows. I guessed what was under all that stuff couldn’t be any worse.
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