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but at least he looked good. He could finally net the tall, handsome guys, or at least the ones who either didn’t ask or didn’t mind what he did for a living.
    Throughout the past several weeks, however, the tall, handsome guys hadn’t wanted anything to do with him, and any mention of his career only sealed their aversion. If they were seeing what Todd saw in the mirror every day, he could hardly blame them.
    Toad had returned, and with a vengeance.
    He started cleaning up his work area and cleaning up Mrs. Morgan—suturing her incisions, washing her down with a solution of cool water, antibacterial soap, and bleach, applying solvents to remove any scaling. Gabe would take care of her hair and nails as well as her makeup. He called himself a “restorationist.” And he fully deserved that title.
    Todd had never been all that good at applying mortuary makeup, but it was an integral part of preparation. The lack of circulating blood in a body didn’t just pale the skin. It deprived the face of depth and dimension. Visitors at a viewing certainly wouldn’t appreciate an overly expressive face on the guest of honor—nobody wanted to look into a casket and see a Halloween mask leering back at them—but that peacefully-sleeping look required far more skill than most ordinary cosmeticians possessed.
    Gabriel had a gift, no doubt about it. Even without a photo to go by, he could color and shade a cold face into a lovely semblance of warmth. His hair styling added a hint of personality. So let him call himself a restorationist. Let him dream up whatever job title he chose.
    After washing up, Todd buzzed Larry Bischoff, the funeral director, in the upstairs office. Although a licensed mortician, Larry didn’t have much to do with bodies anymore. He avoided fetching them as well as embalming them. He didn’t mind assisting with preparation work, but he only did so when a complicated case came in or a number of decedents were lined up for treatment. Larry preferred being the public face of Sudbury-Bischoff.
    “Mrs. Morgan’s ready,” Todd told him. “Gabe just has to do the cosmetizing.”
    “Tell him not to putz with her too much, would you?” said Larry in his put-upon voice. “The visitation’s only for four hours and it should be a small one.”
    “I can tell him, but that doesn’t mean he’ll listen.”
    Larry sighed. “Oh Christ. I appreciate the kid’s talent, but he’s really gotta learn how to pick up the pace. He’s working on dead people, for shit’s sake, not the Sistine Chapel ceiling.”
    Todd smiled. Gabriel was a kind of mortuary Michelangelo. “Don’t worry about it.

    He always manages to get his work done on time.”
    “Barely,” Larry said. “Okay, let me know when the artiste is finished, and I’ll help with the dressing and casketing.”
    They talked a bit more about how Mrs. Morgan should be lit, since the right lighting did play a role in presentation. Then Todd went to get his perfectionist coworker.
    The basement break-room was a simple space with a couch and coffee table, a recliner and end table, an apartment-size refrigerator, and a side table on which a coffee maker and microwave sat. Lamps took the place of fluorescent ceiling lights. Whoever had designed the space had had enough sense to realize the funeral home’s employees needed their own sanctuary, one that was a world apart from the gleaming sterility of the storage and prep rooms as well as the strenuous serenity of the public areas, where Elysian Fields pictures murmured of peace everlasting from cloud-pink walls. The break room was beige and unadorned, clean of false promises, clean of chemicals and the cloying scent of flowers, clean of the accoutrements of mortality.
    Gabriel lay on the couch, reading and listening to music on his iPod. “Time for the pretties?” he asked, pulling out his earbuds and sitting up. Then his brow dipped, and he peered at Todd.
    “What’s wrong?” Todd backed away a