“He wants visitors,” she said firmly.
“It’s probably not a good idea to tire him out with visits from casual acquain—”
“There’s a sign-up sheet. When shall I put you down for?”
I supposed that if the star of a successful television show told the producer that he wanted visitors, then he got visitors. Even if we had to be bullied into it.
Since I was in Harlem anyhow, I said with resignation, “I’ll go today.”
“Afternoon or evening?”
“I don’t know. I’m a little bus—”
“Pick one,” she snapped.
“Afternoon.”
She was in good cheer again. “He’ll be delighted to see you!”
That seemed doubtful. But I wanted to stay on good terms with
D30,
so I would do my duty and go visit their star. “How are his nurses coping?”
“Mike wants to get out of the hospital as soon as possible,” she said. “And the nurses are, uh, trying to help him with that.”
I’ll bet they are,
I thought. “But he’s going to be all right?”
“We sure hope so. He’s been ignoring the warning symptoms for months, ignoring his doctor’s advice, and refusing to modify his lifestyle or change his habits. Personally, I think what happened was inevitable, and he’s lucky it wasn’t worse. So let’s all hope this incident is a wake-up call, and that he listens to it. Or we’re going to lose a fine actor and special human being.”
Whatever.
“So what are they going to do about this episode of the show?” I asked. My unfinished scene wasn’t the only one that Nolan was scheduled to film.
“They’re talking about doing some rewrites that will eliminate him from the rest of this episode and account for his absence from the show for the next few episodes, too.”
“That makes sense.”
“But Mike is furious about that and refusing to agree to it.”
It came as no surprise to me that even a heart attack didn’t make Nolan willing to surrender the spotlight for a few weeks.
She added, “He says he can be back at work in a few days and continue shooting the show the way it’s been written. But the doctors are advising against it.” She sighed, slowing down now and starting to sound like someone who had indeed spent all night at the hospital. “We’re shooting around his scenes for the time being, but we’ll have to make a decision soon. So if you can just stand by, Esther? One way or the other, we’ll need to reschedule you, either to shoot the unfinished scene with Mike, or else to do a new scene the writers will draft—probably one where Jilly C- Note gives that same plot information to someone else in the Three-Oh.”
“Of course I can stand by,” I said. Because I am
such
a pro. “I’ve still got the costume, after all.”
“Oh, that’s right! The wardrobe mistress was asking a little while ago what to do about the missing costumes from last night.”
“I’ll get it cleaned.” Possibly fumigated. “And I’ll bring it with me to the next shoot.”
“Great. I will make a note of that.”
“Oh, and I’ve lost my cell phone,” I said. “Until I replace it, use my home number.”
As we ended the call, I realized that I had a lot of additional practical matters I needed to take care of, with regard to my stolen purse.
Meanwhile, it sounded as if I’d probably get at least one more day’s work on
D30,
which was good news, and it might be without Nolan, which was even better news.
When I returned to the entrance of the Livingston Foundation, I found Max alone.
He asked me, “Is all well?”
“Yes, no problems with the job. It’s all sorted out. But we’re going to have to go to the hospital later.” I explained the situation while lifting my hair off my damp neck for a few moments, in the doomed hope of catching a breeze. Then I asked, “Where’s Jeff?”
“He was concerned about being late for his meeting,” Max said, “so he went inside and left me with instructions. We are to ascend to the second floor and seek the office of Dr. Catherine Livingston.”
“Catherine Livingston?” I repeated, pulling the sweat-dampened Lycra away from my chest for a moment as a trickle of perspiration ran down between my breasts. Jilly C- Note’s push-up bra was starting to feel like a form of torture: ordeal by undergarment.
“Dr. Livingston is the founder’s widow, according to Jeffrey,” Max said. “Shall we go inside?”
“Wait. First tell me what’s bothering you about this.”
“Oh. Well, it may be nothing . . . but I’m wondering why the substitute teacher has ceased to come to work.”
That hadn’t even occurred to me. “It probably
is
nothing, Max. At almost every job I’ve ever worked, there’s a problem with employee attendance. A lot of people are flaky and unreliable; and actors are flakier than most. Like Jeff, the replacement might have gotten an acting job that conflicted with his teaching schedule. Or maybe he just didn’t like this job and, instead of quitting, he simply stopped showing up. People do that sort of thing all the time.”
“You are no doubt correct. Nonetheless, without further information, I am somewhat troubled by the fact that an employee has stopped coming to work, without explanation, precisely when—we currently suspect—another employee is roaming Harlem after dying and being reanimated.” He concluded, “It’s troubling.”
“Well, put like
that,
it’s certainly troubling,” I said.
“If you become an employee here,” he said, “you should maintain an alert attitude and take no risks. And I, of course, will be vigilant on your behalf.”
“Agreed.” I turned to enter the building. “Now let’s go inside.”
After my initial surge of relief at feeling the artificially cool air of the interior on my hot, damp skin, I noticed that the inside of the Livingston Foundation was a pleasant surprise after the impression created by its generic exterior. The halls were painted in bright colors, African batiks and Caribbean art decorated the walls, there were beautiful mobile sculptures hanging overhead, and the furnishings were eclectic and interesting, rather than institutional. An elderly African-American man at the reception desk in the lobby greeted us with a friendly smile and, at our request, directed us to Dr. Catherine Livingston’s office, saying that Jeff had told him to expect us.
We ascended to the second floor by way of a stairwell, then turned left, as directed. We entered a narrow hallway where the walls were painted a soft apricot color. One wall was decorated with vibrant textile artwork, each piece depicting figures and symbols in bright patterns.
“These are very pretty,” I said, looking at one that portrayed a big red heart which contained smaller hearts created out of silver and gold sequins. It was set against a field of tropical foliage, also studded with sequins, and surrounded by multicolored abstract symbols.
The cloth hanging next to it, created out of shiny fabrics quilted together, was divided into four panels, each containing a large geometric symbol depicted in contrasting colors. One of the symbols appeared to be a cross decorated with flourishes and abstract motifs; next to it were the letters LEG B A. Another of the symbols was a triangle with curly lines sprouting out of it. The letters next to this one were O G O U N.
Max was studying these hangings with intent interest, a dawning expression of . . .
something
on his face. I wasn’t sure what.
“Max?” I prodded.
“They’re drapeaux,” he murmured, his tone implying that this was significant.
“What are drapeaux?”
“Flags,” he said, still staring at the artwork. “Ceremonial flags. They’re carried at the beginning of a ritual to salute the spirits and start the ceremony.”
I frowned. “What sort of spirits? What kind of ceremony?”
“Vodou,” he said, nodding slowly.
“Vodou?” I shrugged, still frowning. “What is Vod—Oh! You mean voodoo?”
He nodded. “These look like traditional Haitian Vodou drapeaux.”
I thought they looked like art projects made by talented young people taking classes at the foundation, but I took Max’s word for it. I moved on to the next one. “Yikes!” I definitely hoped this one was
not
the work of a kid: It depicted a heart with a dagger thrust through it.
“Ah! Erzulie Dantor,” Max said, as if encountering an old acquaintance.
“Who?”
“Erzulie is the goddess of love, beauty, and sensuality.”
I looked again at the stabbed heart. “No way.”
“Erzulie Dantor, however, is the Petro aspect of Erzulie. Her dark side, you might say. Vodou has a complex and practical view of the world and of human nature.” He gestured to the dark goddess’ symbol. “She represents the feelings of jealousy, heartbreak, and vengeance that can be wrought by love.”
“Wow, and I thought Yahweh was a vengeful god,” I said, looking again at the cruel image.
I wasn’t surprised that Max knew something about voodoo. After three hundred fifty years of travel and study, he knew about a lot of things—particularly mystical, magical, and spiritual things.
I turned away from the exotic voodoo art to look at the opposite wall, which was lined with photographs. There were pictures of Martin Livingston, several of which were already familiar to me, since they had been reproduced on the foundation’s Web site. There were also pictures of the foundation’s board of directors, its most important donors, and it employees. I noticed that there was a photo of Jeff in which he still had hair.
And there was a photo of Darius Phelps.
“Max,” I said, trying to drag his attention away from the drapeaux.
“Max.”
“Hmm?”
I pointed to Darius’ picture.
“We’re in the right place.” I felt a chill creep over my damp skin as I stared at the familiar face in the photograph. “No doubt about it. This is the man I saw last night.”
7
I
flinched in surprise when a nearby door was flung open.
“There you are!” said Jeff with false brightness. I could tell he was annoyed that I had spent so long on the phone. He’d probably been stalling, trying to convince his boss I was reliable while simultaneously wondering why I hadn’t come upstairs yet. “Did you get lost?”
Max said quietly to me, “I’ll wait here.”
I took one more look at Darius Phelps’ photograph, noting that he had been a handsome man in life—something that hadn’t been so readily apparent last night, when he was three weeks dead and physically maimed.
Then I turned and walked through the door that Jeff was holding open for me. Using my ace- in-the-hole immediately, in hopes of compensating for my tardiness, I said in a clear voice as I entered his boss’ office, “I’m sorry that call took so long. I was talking to the production office of
The Dirty Thirty
. Michael Nolan, the show’s star, has had a heart attack, and they’ve got to reschedule the filming of my scenes.” I handed Jeff his cell phone. “Thanks for letting me borrow this.”
“No problem.” Jeff closed the door and turned to the woman who was rising from her chair behind her desk and extending her hand to greet me. “Catherine, this is Esther Diamond.”
My first surprise was that she was white. I had just sort of assumed that Jeff’s boss at this important African-American institution in Harlem would be black.
She was also younger than I expected, given that her husband would be about sixty- five now, if he had lived. She was a very well-groomed woman, which made her age hard to guess accurately, but I thought she was probably in her early forties.
I reached across the desk to shake her hand and smiled. “Dr. Livingston, I presume?”
“How witty,” she said, stone- faced. “I never hear that.”
I glanced at Jeff. He gave me a pained look.
“Do call me Catherine,” she said in a cool voice as she withdrew her hand. “I insist.” She looked down at her well-manicured fingers with a barely perceptible expression of distaste, then reached for a tissue.
“It’s very hot outside,” I said by way of apology as she wiped my sweat from her hand. “And I’m not dressed for the weather, I’m afraid.”
Jeff said quickly, “I explained to Catherine that you came straight here after an all-night location shoot after I called you earlier today, and you haven’t had time to change out of your costume for the hit television show that you’re working in.”
A few moments ago, I thought that
I
might have spread it on a little too thick. Now I stopped worrying.
Catherine gestured gracefully to a couple of chairs in front of her desk. “Please have a seat.”
Since I had spent too much time in these high- heeled boots in the past twenty- four hours, I accepted the offer gratefully. Jeff sat down next to me.
Catherine’s spacious office was lined with bookcases that were filled with well-ordered volumes, top to bottom, without a speck of dust in sight. There were wonderful African masks and batiks on the remaining wall space. My sweeping glance around the room briefly revealed all sorts of interesting objects decorating the shelves of the bookcases. Her desk was piled high with books and papers in neat stacks, as was a nearby coffee table that sat in front of a small couch. A long piece of colorful, geometrically patterned cloth was spread across the back of the couch.