Angels in Heaven

stationer’s, we passed over
our second list to an assistant, who began rounding up the stuff: Pencil
sharpener—1. Paper, assorted. Pencils and pens, assorted. Globe. Desktop
diaries—3. White-out. Glue. Large corkboard. Thumbtacks. Rotary file. Cardboard
folders. Assorted hardware and junk to dress the set, as Strolling Players put
it. As before, we settled on a price and a time that night for the delivery.
Then Benjamin and I went our separate ways, me to the sign store and then to
the printer, the locations of which Benny had already marked on my map, while
he took himself back to our new office premises to forewarn Frederico so he
would be on hand when the deliveries arrived, after which Benny planned on
dropping in at the nearest branch of the Mexican telephone company to rent or
lease or buy or do whatever you had to do down there to snag a couple of
phones. Not that I didn’t already have a pretty good idea.
    And what did I do at the sign store?
I ordered three signs, if that’s what those wooden things are that sit on desks
and tell you what people’s names and sometimes their company positions are.
Then I ordered a discreet sign for the door. At a small, backstreet printer I
placed an order for various business cards and equally various headed
notepapers, a large order, unfortunately, as I thought it might look a mite
suspicious if, as a new businessman just setting up in town, which I was
purporting to be, I ordered only four of each item. (“Various business cards”
... “various headed notepapers” ... the suspense mounts...)
    We all joined forces later back at
the hotel, where Sara condescended to join us for a late lunch in the dining
room on the ground floor around to the right of the check-in area. While I
tried to find something that looked edible on the menu, Benny filled her in on
what we had been up to so far that day.
    “Flowers,” she said, looking over the
lists we’d made, absolutely determined to find something we’d left out. “On my
desk, as I presume I’m going to be the secretary, not that anyone’s told me
yet.”
    So I told her. I also gave her and
Benny an inkle of why we needed an office and what said office should roughly
look like when fully furnished and decorated. I also let slip the intriguing
hint that the office had to have the capability of being transformed rapidly
into a different office.
    “Ah so,” said she.
    “Ah so indeed,” said he.
    “A coffee cup,” said she. “And a few,
you know, personal touches. Don’t you guys know anything about secretaries?”
    “Are you kidding?” I said. “I’ve only
got one crazy in love with me. But OK, if you want it that way. Benny, take a
list. In secretary’s desk, upper left drawer: cookie package with one cookie
left. Nail polish remover. Nail polish. Fake nails and glue to cover up broken
nails. Nail file. Copy of Screen Gems. Copy of Hollywood Enquirer. Copy of Valley Studs, or whatever the name of Jackie
Collins’ latest foray into literature is.”
    “Ha-ha,” said Doris. “I don’t think.”
    “Top right drawer,” I continued. “Set
of ruined nylons. Box of Kleenex. Box of Whitman’s Sampler chocolates, with
only the Turkish Delight ones left. Nineteen eighty-two diary. Walkman with
Barry Manilow tapes. Well-thumbed copy of The Beverly Hills Grapefruit Diet. Six empty lipstick containers. Empty birth control pill thing. Hair spray for
difficult hair. Cocktail stirrer from Top o’ the Mark. Furry animal. Another
furry animal. Broken key chain.”
    “Check,” said Benny, pretending to
write it all down.
    “I thought we were here to eat, not
to listen to you trying to be funny,” said Doris.
    “Funny?” I said in a surprised tone.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny, Doris. I was just trying to give your desk that
personal touch you mentioned.”
    “Sure, sure,” said Doris. “How about
giving your desk the personal touch, Prof? Take a list, Benny. Hair guck. More
hair guck. Spare glasses. Unopened box of rubbers, small size.”
    “No need to get that personal,” I
said. “Anyway, all men know it’s the technique that counts, not the size.”
    “No woman does,” said the twerp
unkindly and obviously inaccurately. “Well-thumbed copy of Fiona Richmond’s
latest foray into literature. Diary from nineteen forty-four. Well-thumbed copy
of The Drinking Man’s Diet. Empty bottle of Four Roses. Toy airplane.
Jungle Woman comic.”
    I winced, then looked around for