Divine Evil

of it, every ounce of grief she had felt since her father died. Channeling it out through her art.
    And what was wrong with that? She started to stuff her hands into the pockets of her robe when she discovered she wasn't wearing it. A woman had to be crazy to stand in an open window in SoHo wearing nothing but a flimsy Bill the Cat T-shirt. The hell with it, she thought and leaned out farther. Maybe she was crazy.
    She stood, her bright red hair disheveled from restless sleep, her face pale and tired, watching the light grow and listening to the noise begin as the city woke.
    Then she turned away, ready for work.
    * * *
    It was after two when Clare heard the buzzer. It sounded like an annoying bee over the hiss of the torch in her hand and the crash of Mozart booming from the stereo. She considered ignoring it, but the new piece wasn't going very well, and the interruption was a good excuse to stop. She turned off her torch. As she crossed her studio, she pulled off her safety gloves. Still wearing her goggles, skullcap, and apron, she flicked on the intercom. “Yes?”
    “Clare? Angie.”
    “Come on up.” Clare punched in the security code and released the elevator. After pulling off her cap and goggles, she walked back to circle the half-formed sculpture.
    It stood on her welding table in the rear of the loft, surrounded by tools-pliers, hammers, chisels, extra torch tips. Her tanks of acetylene and oxygen rested in their sturdy steel cart. Beneath it all was a twenty-foot square of sheet metal, to keep sparks and hot drippings off the floor.
    Most of the loft space was taken over by Clare's work-chunks of granite, slabs of cherrywood and ash, hunks and tubes of steel. Tools for hacking, prying, sanding, welding. She'd always enjoyed living with her work.
    Now she approached her current project, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. It was holding out on her, she thought, and she didn't bother to look around when the doors of the elevator slid open.
    “I should have known.” Angie LeBeau tossed back her mane of black, corkscrew curls and tapped one scarlet Italian pump on the hardwood floor. “I've been calling you for over an hour.”
    “I turned off the bell. Machine's picking it up. What do you get from this, Angie?”
    Blowing out a long breath, Angie studied the sculpture on the worktable. “Chaos.”
    “Yeah.” With a nod, Clare stooped lower. “Yeah, you're right. I've been going at this the wrong way.”
    “Don't you dare pick up that torch.” Tired of shouting, she stomped across the floor and switched off the stereo. “Damn it, Clare, we had a date for lunch at the Russian Tea Room at twelve-thirty.”
    Clare straightened and focused on her friend for the first time. Angie was, as always, the picture of elegance. Her toffee-colored skin and exotic features were set off to perfection by the navy Adolfo suit and oversize pearls.
    Her handbag and shoes were identical shades of scarlet leather. Angie liked everything to match, everything to be in its place. In her closet, her shoes were neatly stacked in clear plastic boxes. Her blouses were arranged by color and fabric. Her handbags-a legendary collection-were tucked into individual slots on custom-built shelves.
    As for herself, Clare was lucky if she could find both shoes of a pair in the black hole of her closet. Her handbag collection consisted of one good black evening bag and a huge canvas tote. More than once Clare had wondered how she and Angie had ever become, and remained, friends.
    Right at the moment, that friendship seemed to be on the line, she noted. Angie's dark eyes were hot, and her long scarlet fingernails were tapping on her bag in time with her foot.
    “Stand just like that.” Clare bounded across the room to search through the confusion on the sofa for a sketch pad. She tossed aside a sweatshirt, a silk blouse, unopened mail, an empty bag of Fritos, a couple of paperback novels, and a plastic water pistol.
    “Damn it, Clare-”
    “No, don't move.” Pad in hand, she heaved a cushion aside and found a chalk pencil. “You're beautiful when you're angry.” Clare grinned.
    “Bitch,” Angie said and struggled with a laugh.
    “That's it, that's it.” Clare's pencil flew across the pad. “Christ, what cheekbones! Who would have thought if you mixed Cherokee, African, and French, you'd get such bone structure? Snarl a little bit, would you?”
    “Put that stupid thing down. You're not going to flatter your way out of this. I