Angel Face.
Paul Lewellan

Hinkley Border entered the Situation Room. Like most employees of Dumas Pharmaceuticals, he had dismissed the rumors about the Situation Room’s existence. Why does a global drug company with a revenue stream larger than Guatemala’s GNP need a Situation Room? But then, what did he know? Hinkley worked in marketing.

 

In the corner of the room, wearing Ray-Ban shades and softly chanting the rosary, was Angelica’s agent, The Nun. She wore the full habit–scapular, white coif, black veil, and large silver cross–but her tunic ended six inches above her knees and exposed killer legs encased in black rose-patterned hose.

​

What’s she doing here? Except for the fact she’d introduced him to Angelica, The Nun had meant nothing but trouble.

​

He’d arrived at work promptly at 8 a.m., but before he’d finished the Milky Way latte he’d purchased in the executive dining room, Hinkley was ushered by two black-suited androgynous figures in berets and high-gloss Florsheims through a maze of corridors and elevators hidden behind phony office doors into the bowels of the Dumas Pharmaceuticals North Tower. 

​

At the metal detector and security station they confiscated the key fob to his classic Nissan 370Z Turbo, his small change and iPhone, three foil wrapped condoms, his Dartmouth class ring, a dental appliance, and the latte. “Pick these up on the way out.”

​

The 40-by-16 Situation Room housed a giant table, straight-backed chairs, and an oyster bar. Burled black walnut covered everything from the floorboards to the ceiling. Winston Dunlap, the CEO and founder’s grandson, sat in front. Hinkley recognized him from the cover of the Annual Report. What the hell am I doing here?

​

Hinkley’s boss’s boss–the VP of North American Sales and former Miss Universe contestant Joan Von Blatten–grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him into a chair. Von Blatten wore a beige Armani suit and Christian Louboutin knotted suede pumps with 5¼ inch heels. “Speak only when you’re spoken to. You’ve done enough damage.” 

​

Hinkley watched Winston Dunlap sip soberly on an iced caramel-pecan Fat Blaster Shake as the last of the executives filled the chairs. No one acknowledged The Nun. The large steel door closed. 

“It’s so quiet,” Hinkley whispered. 

​

“Great hydraulics,” Von Blatten whispered back.

​

A small spotlight illuminated Dunlap when he rose to speak. Because he was barely five-feet tall, the corporate photographer always captured him seated behind his Frank Lloyd Wright desk or standing next to little people. 

​

“You all know why we’re here.” 

​

Hinkley started to raise his hand. 

​

“Don’t be an idiot,” Von Blatten whispered. 

​

The west wall of the Situation Room glowed. The face of Angelica, The Angel Face Girl, faded in. She was the latest in a string of successes for Hinkley’s marketing team. “One look in her angel face,” the ad copy read, “and you’ll be instantly aroused.” Hinkley was aroused right now.

​

I can’t help myself. One look at her…

​

 Angelica turned slightly onscreen as if someone had entered the room. She smiled and fluttered the small, feathered wings on her back. “But you’ll have a devil of a time pleasing her without….”—the music swelled—“Potent C. Now the nation’s number one choice for men with erectile dysfunction.” Angelica made an inviting gesture. 

​

Hinkley glanced nervously at The Nun. He adjusted himself under the table, as did the other men. “One look into her angel face and you’ll know why men with erectile dysfunction prefer Potent C to Viagra, two to one.” 

​

On screen Angelica smiled as the scene faded and the music lingered. Advertising Weekly called the commercial “The best 30 seconds on television.” He’d framed the column and hung it in his office.

“Lights!” Dunlap shouted. As they came up, he scanned the room. “Gentlemen and ladies, what are we going to do about that?”

​

“What do you mean ‘do about that’?” Hinkley asked before Von Blatten could slap him down. “That’s the most watched ad in history.”

​

Dunlap squinted in Hinkley’s direction. “Yes, and that’s why it’s destroying us, Mr. Border.”

Silence.

​

Dunlap knows my name! He preferred to live under the corporate radar, ironic for a marketing man.

People moved their chairs away from him. Joan Von Blatten vanished. Hinkley could see her crouched beneath the table. The Nun raced through her rosary. He stood alone against Dunlap. “I don’t understand.”

​

“Obviously.” More silence. Dunlap pointed to the bulge in Hinkley’s pants. “I can’t help but notice,” he said, “your erection.” 

​

Hinkley nodded. People chortled.

​

Dunlap picked up the November issue of Esquire and opened it to the Potent C ad page 3. He raised the copy above his head. “Before anyone laughs too loudly, could I see the hand of every male in the room with a Class A, rock hard, morning wood erection right now?” They all raised their hands including Dunlap whose pants were absurdly tented despite his anger. “Tell me why that is, Mr. Border.”

​

Is that a trick question? Duh!

​

He pointed to the ad. “Because of her, The Angel Face girl.” People nodded. “That’s why we picked her. Every male working on the campaign had a perpetual hard-on.”

​

Dunlap stepped forward. The spotlight trained on the CEO followed him until it spilled over onto Hinkley. “You didn’t see any problem with that?”

​

“It was distracting, but....”

​

“You idiot!”  Dunlap slapped the magazine on the walnut table. “We sell a pill to cure erectile dysfunction. The spokes-angel-person you selected gives every male who looks at her a hard-on.” Hinkley still didn’t understand. “Mr. Border, men who haven’t had an erection in decades get boners like granite looking at your ads.”

​

Hinkley sensed a trap. “Well, that’s great, isn’t it?”

​

“Not if 25% of your company’s gross income comes from selling a pill that now no one needs, thanks to your ad.”

​

“Oh….” Three more ads were in the pipeline, more than Hinkley needed, but photo shoots allowed him to spend time with Angelica. Angelica couldn’t go anywhere except photo shoots without The Nun.

Joan Von Blatten called out from beneath the table. “What if we took off her wings?”  

​

“No!” Hinkley and The Nun said in unison. 

​

 “Why not?”

​

Hinkley turned to The Nun. “You’re her agent. Earn your commission and handle that question?” 

 

The Nun put down her rosary and stood to face Dunlap. Dunlap’s eyes drifted to The Nun’s shoes, patent leather Jimmy Choo peep-toe pumps with 4 inch wooden stacked heels and 2 inch platforms. “It’s written into her contract. Angelica can only appear with wings.”

​

“Did we do a market test without the wings?” Dunlap asked. “Aren’t wings passé?  Victoria’s Secret has been doing wings for years.”

​

“These wings are not passé,” Hinkley insisted.

​

“And why is that?”

​

“Because,” The Nun said, “they’re real.” 

​

“What?”

​

“Angelina’s wings are real. She was born with them. That’s why her mother brought her to the convent as a baby. ‘An angel should be with people of God,’ her mother said.” The Nun pulled out her rosary again. “Her mother was on Crank.”

​

“And you, a nun, are her agent?”

​

“Agent. Guardian. Mother Superior. Spiritual Guide.”

​

“And you get 10% of whatever she makes.”

​

“Actually I receive 5%, and another 10% goes to the Convent of the Sisters of the Immaculate Conception. Much of that money is eaten up by the cost of security.” The Nun looked over to Hinkley. “Security became a problem after the first Angel Face ad aired Super Bowl weekend.”

​

Dunlap sat down. “Let me get this straight. You are telling me that our model, Angelica, is a cloistered nun. And she has real wings.”

​

“Yes and no,” The Nun said. “Yes, her wings are real. I’ve preened them since she was a baby. And no, she is not a cloistered nun. She is a guest at our convent.”

​

“So,” Dunlap said, looking over to Joan Von Blatten for advice, “maybe we should send Angelica back to the convent.”

​

“You could try,” the nun affirmed. “Until recently, she has shown no desire to leave.”

​

“What happened recently?”

​

Hinkley’s first impulse was to join his boss under the table. 

​

The Nun’s rosary beads were flying through her fingers. “Complications.”

​

Is that what I am? A complication?

​

Hinkley stepped forward. “Mr. Dunlap?” His mouth felt dry. He wanted his latte back. “There may be a solution.”

​

“I’m listening.”

​

“We have only aired two commercials: the original Super Bowl ad, and the new one that debuted Sunday night, during the opening episode of Desperate Housewives of Cleveland.” 

​

“Yes, but your team has prepared an avalanche of Angel Face ads: print, packaging, posters, billboards, brochures, bottle openers, cozies, key chains, and Frisbees. Am I correct?” Hinkley nodded. “And do these images produce the same effect as the commercials?” Hinkley nodded again. “So we could put ourselves out of business with beer can cozies?” He nodded like a bobble-head doll.

 

He may have a point.

​

“I’ll have my people pull in everything and destroy it.”

​

Dunlap smirked. “I’ve already done that.”

​

The Nun dropped her rosary. “When?”  

​

“While Mr. Border ordered his Milky Way Latte, and you played with your beads. By tonight, all that marketing crap will be in ashes.”

​

“But my work…!”Hinkley slumped into his chair. Looked up at the large screen, but Angelica’s image had faded. “Angelica…!” He turned to The Nun for aid.

​

“That will be insufficient,” she said firmly. 

​

“We’ll kill the television spots....”

​

“And buy out her modeling contract,” Joan Von Blatten said hopefully, rising from beneath the table.

​

“Yes. I think our Director of North American Sales is right. We’ll pay the little angel off.”

​

“And she’ll never work for us again.” Von Blatten seemed pleased with herself. That’s when The Nun started laughing. 

​

Why is she laughing? Hinkley was clueless. 

​

Angelica’s contract with Dunlap Pharmaceuticals had been a cash cow for the convent. Without her income from Dunlap, how would the sisters pay for the new bowling alley and indoor pickleball courts they were building?  How would the Mother Superior pay for her designer shoes? Hinkley noticed the cruel smile on The Nun’s lips. Better than anyone, he knew what she was capable of doing. “Oh!”

​

“Oh!” Hickley rose from his chair and faced the CEO. Suddenly he had a spine again. “We need to put Angelica under exclusive contract immediately.” 

​

“It will cost you $200 million,” The Nun smirked.

​

“The company has no choice but to pay,” Hickley said.

​

Dunlap exploded. “Why the hell would we pay her?  We don’t want her to model for us anymore.” 

​

“We won’t pay her to model for us,” Hinkley chortled. “We will pay her not to model for everyone else.” 

​

The room fell silent.

​

“Angelica has the same effect on men whether her image is on our product or on a shampoo or a tube of hemorrhoid cream.” Hinkley moved to the front of the room. “We can capitalize on that.” The spotlight moved from Dunlap to the marketing man. “First, we pull the magazine ads and replace them with a black page with pale pink lettering. ‘Buy the new Potent C with our Angelica, now in 3-D.’ Then we make billboards, online, and TV ads the same way. We remind every male in America of Angelica, but we don’t show them her image.”

​

“And how will that work?” Von Blatten asked.

​

“The only place they can see Angelica is on the Potent C box itself. We wrap the boxes in black to hide the image on store shelves. When the customer opens the package, there is an image of Angelica in 3-D, specially printed to prevent photocopying.”

​

“You idiot. They still won’t need to buy the product. All they’ll need is the box. Men will hang on to the packaging for years.”

​

“That’s the beauty of it. We make the ink light sensitive, so it fades within a month of being unwrapped.”

​

 The Nun nodded appreciatively. “Even if they don’t take the Potent C pills, they’ll need to get a refill every month, to get a fresh photo and a guaranteed hard-on.”

​

“Interesting.” Dunlap hesitated. “Will men pay $100 a month for a 3-D photo on the box of a prescription drug they don’t need?”  

​

“Of course, they will, for a guaranteed hard-on,” The Nun chortled. “They’d probably pay double that.”

​

“Why?”

​

“First, your product will be superior to the competition. Every male unwrapping the package will get an immediate erection. Viagra, Cialis, and all the other pharmaceuticals for erectile dysfunction have side effects. Yours won’t.”

​

“Every medication has side effects,” Dunlap interjected. “Even ours.”

​

“Not necessarily.” Von Blatten settled into her place at the table. “Imagine our typical consumer, a patient with this terrible disorder, erectile dysfunction. He opens the box of Potent C. He is immediately aroused by Angelica’s photo. Why would he ever take the pill?” 

​

“But this is going to cost you,” The Nun added. She sat down again, crossing her legs, and glancing over to Dunlap from behind her Ray-Bans.

​

Dunlap scanned the room. “Reactions?”  Silence. 

​

“What if something were to ‘happen’ to Angelica?” In the dim light, Hinkley couldn’t identify the woman speaking. She articulated what Dunlap was certainly thinking.

​

“If something were to happen to Angelica,” The Nun said, “the sisters and I would be forced to release hundreds of images she has entrusted to us. We would be loath to  it since many of them are of her in various stages of undress. These photos would be spread worldwide, free, via the Internet within minutes, making your pill worthless.”

​

Dunlap cleared his throat. “Nothing of the sort would ever....”

​

“There is another problem,” The Nun said firmly. She gently mopped her brow on her sleeve. “A man I trusted has wormed his way into Angelica’s affections. He is the reason she has resisted taking her vows, and I believe he’s a danger to your company.”

​

“Is he that clever?  That insidious?”

​

“On the contrary, he is a danger because he is so dreadfully stupid.”

​

“But how did he ever work his way into her affections?  She may not have been a nun, but she was cloistered.”

​

“True. But this man had unusual access. He is my brother and....”

​

Alarms next to the massive stainless steel doors. Hinkley Border grasped the handle. “I was looking for my latte.”

​

“Border. You’re fired.”

​

“That’s a bad idea. If you hope to control Angelica, you will need him. My brother is the only one Angelica will listen to. Plus, there may be other pictures.”

​

“Border is your brother?”

​

“Yes.”

​

“There are more pictures?”

​

“Probably.”

​

Dunlap was displeased. “Border, I always wondered if your success came from brilliance or dumb luck....”

​

“Dumb luck,” he admitted. “Dumb luck has been good to me.”

​

“Angelica is in love with you?”

​

“So it seems.”

​

“And you love her.”

​

“She’s an angel.” 

​

Dunlap surveyed the room. “Thank you everyone for coming.” The massive doors eased open. The lights came up. People filed out. “Not you, Border.” Von Blatten hesitated at the door. “Joan, you’re done for the day,” Dunlap told her. “We’ll talk later.” 

​

He turned to The Nun. “I’m sorry, Sister, but do you have a name?”

​

“Sister Mary Immaculate.” 

​

“I see.” Dunlap found himself strangely aroused by her. Power was the aphrodisiac. “I would prefer to keep this to ourselves. How do we keep this from blowing up?”  

​

“First, my idiot brother should propose to Angelica.” The Nun sat down at the table. “She’s still a virgin, but we can’t press our luck. Second, we send the happy couple on a honeymoon to Guatemala. There’s a convent in Panachel on Lake Attilan. It has a gardener’s cottage, and it is removed from photographers. There’s an Internet café at the Sunset Bar. Hinkley can send a new photo every month for the packaging, in exchange for Angela’s charge minus my fee.”   

  

“Will Border be her agent?”

​

“Dear God no!”  She crossed herself. “Angelica is smarter than that.”

​

“And what will you do?”

​

“I might retire from the convent. Go into business.”

​

“Yes. I could see that.” He turned to Hinkley. “Go get yourself another latte.”

​

“But….”

​

“You’re marrying an angel. Don’t push your luck. Now get out of here. Sister and I have things to discuss.”