“Heading out?” Monica peeked into his office, her friendly smile brightening his day, as unrelentingly gray as most of the rest of his life.

“Yes. Just wrapped up the thorny affair with the tax man for the Bunker-Flints.” The retired couple had found themselves in a situation, after the agency had declared one of them dead out of the blue. It had taken two months to unravel the mess that had caused.

She shook her head, her beaded locks clinking. “Had one of those last year. Took ten forms of ID, seventeen weeks, and the intervention of Congressman Carty to get the client resurrected.”

Chester sighed. “Didn’t this job use to be easier?” Now the only thing he looked forward to was Miz Fortune on Friday nights.

“You’re telling me.” Monica rolled her eyes. “They say we’re in the midst of a great retirement… a lot of the old guard accountants just hanging it up and slipping away into the night.”

He snorted. “I wish some of my clients would follow them. Everyone wants to pay less for more.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Preachin’ to the choir. Hey, Max and I are going out for drinks at the Torch Club. Wanna tag along?”

He was tempted, but he had other business to attend to. “Wish I could, but my sister is in town,” he lied.

“Mariam? Say hi to her for me. And Ches…?”

“Yeah?”

“Take care of yourself. Things are going to change soon.” She wrinkled her nose. “Get better, I mean. I can feel it.” Then she was gone.

He sank back into his chair, hands at the back of his neck. Get better? Not likely. He was a fifty-six-year-old gay accountant in a dead-end job, alone for almost a decade since Andrew had passed. This was as good as it was likely to get. At least I still have my health, as they say.

He peeked at his reflection in the glass on the picture he and Andy had taken at City Hall down in San Francisco, when they had gotten married in 2008, and then straightened his red bowtie. Then he grabbed his brown leather briefcase and left the office.

###

Two hours later, after a peanut-butter and tuna sandwich and a quick shower, he found himself clambering down the old cement stairs on the side of a Victorian building in Mansion Flats, half a mile from his own house.

He glanced at his phone. Seven PM. He had about an hour to get ready.

He unlocked the basic wooden door—painted red for luck—with a key that looked like it dated back to Victorian age as well. A flick of the switch, and the room lit up with a golden glow which would have befitted the era’s gas lanterns, though it was achieved entirely through electrical means.

He locked the door behind him—it wasn’t a particularly dangerous neighborhood, but you could never be too safe—and set down his duffel bag on the round, gilded table which dominated the room. He looked around in satisfaction.

The whole place practically glittered in gold and red hues, from the heavily beaded scarlet curtains with golden tassels that decorated every wall to one of two Tiffany lamps with gold trim and small, fake ruby dangles.

There were three chairs. His was as large as a throne and nearly as gaudy, covered in gold leaf with burgundy velour cushions. The table featured a crystal ball—an Amazon special—and a neatly stacked Art Nouveau tarot card deck he’d found at a yard sale. All above a hand-woven rug that had always reminded him of the Eye of Sauron.

The room divider along the back wall was a shoji screen, stained red, that he’d picked up at an old antique store on the edge of town.

He grinned. This was her place, and it was exactly the way she wanted it.

He set about unpacking his things: a long, flowing red dress trimmed with golden embroidery—if he sat still enough in his little salon, would it render him invisible to the casual glance?

His red wig, full of lustrous curls that would have looked extravagant on anyone.

And his makeup kit.

He moved the divider aside to reveal a small desk and mirror with the second Tiffany lamp, twin to the first. This was where he would transform himself for the evening. He put each of his things in its place on the narrow pressboard desk—sturdy and efficient but out of place amongst the glamor that surrounded it—and flicked on the lamp.

After stripping down to his underwear, he pulled on a chest plate and the red dress—no need for tucking in this particular environment, and besides, the dress would forgive a multitude of sins. Then he sat in the folding chair, which squeaked in protest, and trimmed his eyebrows.

After this fine-tuning, foundation went on next, thick enough to mask some of the wrinkles that insisted on creeping onto his face with every additional year he passed under the harsh Sacramento sun. That was followed by a bit of contouring to make his face slightly less… manly, and then some fine powder makeup, which always made him sneeze.

He knew he’d never achieve Meryl Streep, but he hoped to at least approximate Bette Midler, or perhaps Endorain her prime.

As the layers went on, Chester slowly slid into the background, taking along with him the constant parade of numbers and figures that danced through his head. Forgotten were the Bunker-Flints and their IRS kerfuffle.

Miz Fortune slowly emerged, all chiffon and lace and woman-of-mystery, a matchmaker who held the cards of fate in her hands. Literally.

This was his favorite part of the night, when he shed his timid accountant personality to be someone strong and in control, something like the man he’d been before, with Andrew. Confident. Certain. Spontaneous.

He sighed, closing his eyes with their false eyelashes and clutching his tube of slut-red lipstick in his sweaty hands. If only you could see me now, babe.

His strange visions had started after Andrew’s death. Little flashes over other people’s heads that made him think—at first—that he was having a stroke.

Put on the lipstick with practiced ease, puckering his lips to spread it evenly.

At first, he’d thought he was losing his mind—the result of the twin stresses of a job he hated and a life that had suddenly gone empty of all color and meaning.

Slip on the wig and fasten it into place, then drape the curls around to frame his face in the most flattering way possible.

Then he’d seen one of his visions come true—Max from work had met the girl of his dreams, and when Chester met her, her face sent chills down his spine. He’d seen that visage dancing over Max’s head a month before.

Acrylic nails, blood-red, pressed against each of his own, rounded and sharp, like talons.

It was a sign. Maybe from Andrew himself. He, Chester Carlson, was meant to help others in ways that went far beyond taxes and accounting.

A ruby-red ring and some brass bangles on his right arm to complete the effect.

He sat back to admire the results of his labors, spreading his fingers and waving his hand in the air to admire the glitter of jewelry. He’d created Faye as a way to escape the pain, and she had taken on a life of her own. Her lips spread wide in thrilled anticipation.

 “Miz Fortune has arrived.”