There were a couple of calls from the
D30
production office. One had been made before I’d called them from Jeff’s cell phone. The other call reminded me that I was scheduled to visit Nolan that afternoon.
“Whatever,” I muttered.
There was also a call from Thack, my agent, who’d heard about the confusion on the location shoot last night and wanted to make sure I was okay.
And then there was one from Lopez. My heart gave a little skip. Maybe seeing me last night had made him reconsider . . . Maybe calling him for help hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all.
He had made the call shortly before I arrived home. I smiled when I heard his familiar voice say, “It’s me.”
Then I stopped smiling.
“The Two-Five called me. They just found your purse. Nothing seems to be missing. I don’t know where you are, so I’ll pick it up tonight and hold onto it until I hear from you.” A pause. “I know about the Livingston Center, Esther. You and I need to talk.”
13
T
he following morning, feeling much more human now that I was clean and rested, I called my bank and reported that my credit card was missing. I doubted that the drooling gargoyles who had taken my purse had used its contents for a spending spree, but better safe than sorry. Apart from that, since Lopez’s message said that nothing seemed to be missing, I decided not to worry about the rest of the bag’s contents until I got it back and could check for myself. Meanwhile, at least I knew it was in safe hands.
I phoned Thack, my agent, to let him know I was all right and to nag him about getting me some auditions. Once I finished the
D30
shoot, my professional life would consist entirely of waiting tables and teaching some summer acting workshops until the kids went back to school.
Perhaps this was a petty personal concern, what with zombies rising from the grave and Max predicting that some sort of apocalyptic event was imminent. But I had bills to pay and a struggling career to think about, and these problems weren’t going to go away just because a bokor was on the loose.
Thack answered my call with exclamations of surprise and concern. “Esther! A whole day without answering your cell! My God, I thought you must by lying dead or unconscious somewhere in Harlem!”
“No, I just misplaced the phone.” Given Thack’s tendency to react dramatically to things, I decided to leave it at that.
He asked, “Did you get lost wandering in the dark after the crew packed up the set without waiting for the actors to return from their break? And how
dare
they do that! It’s lucky you weren’t all murdered!”
“Oh, no, we were in a nice neighborhood.” Well, except for the supernatural creatures that were running around at night. “Anyhow, I have the impression that things on the set just descended into panic and confusion when they realized the show’s star was having a heart attack right there and then.”
“Well, I’ve met Mike Nolan,” Thack said. “And, frankly, it couldn’t happen to a more deserving actor.”
“I can’t argue with that,” I said. “He expects to be back on set in a few days, but that seems a little unrealistic to me.”
“Either way, the
D-Thirty
team are saying they want
you
back to finish the episode,” Thack said. “You’ve made a good impression there. Congratulations!”
“Thanks. But it’ll probably only be another day or two of work. So is there anything else going on?”
“Not really. You know what the business is like in August. Quiet as a graveyard!”
I wished he hadn’t phrased it quite that way. “Uhhuh.”
He continued, “But I’ll call you as soon as anything turns up.”
I kept my tone professional as I said good-bye and hung up. Then I sighed and fought off a feeling of gloom, trying to look on the bright side. At least I was teaching some of Jeff’s workshops this month; practicing my craft—whether I was taking some classes or, on this occasion, teaching them—was always a good way to hone my skills, stay sharp, and keep improving.
The phone rang, and I answered it. As if summoned by my thoughts, the caller was Jeff, checking in from his day job as a gladiator. He wanted to make sure I knew what time I needed to be at the foundation today. I assured him I did, and we discussed what sort of exercises I would work on with the students.
Then he said, “And you’re not going to talk to them about . . . other stuff, are you?”
“Other stuff?” I poured myself another cup of coffee. “Are you saying I
shouldn’t
tell the kids that the foundation’s administrator has become a reanimated corpse and that I saw him being attacked by evil monsters the other night, right before I was arrested for prostitution? Do you mean
that
kind of ‘other stuff,’ Jeff?”
“Are you still sleep-deprived?”
“No.”
“Then knock off the sarcasm,” he said irritably. “I don’t want you getting
either
of us in trouble with Catherine or with parents by telling those kids about the crazy stuff that you were talking about yesterday. Is that so unreasonable?”
Actually, it wasn’t. So I said, “Okay. Got it. I know where the line should be drawn, and I’m not going to freak out—or amuse—a bunch of teens by talking about things that, believe it or not, I know better than to discuss in public.”
“Okay. Good. That’s settled, then.” It was clear from his tone that he still favored any theory
except
the one that the rest of us had agreed upon yesterday.
Nonetheless, I asked, “Have you talked to Frank Johnson yet?”
“He hasn’t called me back.”
“Call him again,” I said.
“Esther—”
“
Please
, Jeff. It’s important.”
“Fine. I’ll call him on my next break. Satisfied?” He sighed. “Now if we can move on to saner subjects before I have to get back to work, I’m also calling to thank you. I owe you.”
“For what?”
“For introducing me to Mike!” he said, as if that should be obvious. “What a great guy!”
“You like him?” I said doubtfully.
“He’s going to talk to the show’s casting director about me.”
Ah. In that case, yes, Jeff liked him. Jeff could bring himself to like Simon Legree, if the cruel slave master helped him get an acting job.
“He’s going to do that for you?” I asked.
“Yeah!”
“Great! I’m glad to hear it, Jeff.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I would bet real money against Nolan doing anything of the sort. For one thing, I knew from past experience that Jeff was perfectly capable of believing he had heard a verbal promise when, in reality, there had merely been a reluctant nod or noncommittal shrug in response to his asking someone for a professional favor. I also thought that baka would fly through midtown before Nolan would trouble himself to do something generous for another actor, let alone an obscure one who had nothing to offer in return except gratitude and loyalty.
“So who knows?” Jeff said with a smile in his voice. “Maybe you and I will wind up working together on
The Dirty Thirty
sometime.”
“I’d like that.” I was being honest about that, at least. Jeff was very talented, and he was great to work with. This was, in fact, the reason I had fallen for him five years ago. And being dazzled back then by my own exciting new experiences as an actress in the Big Apple, it had taken me a while to realize that working with Jeff was the
only
time I was in love with him. The rest of the time I was just rather fond of him in an exasperated way. And I still was now, I realized. “But I don’t think we’re likely to meet on the show, Jeff. I’m just doing a guest spot and have only one more scene to film.”
“Really? From the way Mike talked about you, I thought—”
“He
talked
about me?” I said with reflexive revulsion.
“Yeah. I got the impression from him that there was a rapport between you two.”
“What?”
I believed in zombies and dark magic, but I found it hard to believe that Michael Nolan had hinted that he liked me.
“Or, uh, maybe he meant more that it was a rapport between your characters,” Jeff said uncertainly. “It sounded to me as if he was pleased with the scenes you two have done. He seems to think that you and he—or, I guess, your characters—are interesting together.”
“Oh. Well. That’s good to know.” It had never occurred to me that Nolan had noticed me
or
my character. I supposed I should feel flattered that he felt some professional respect for me. But I was skeptical that he did. The notion was probably just Jeff’s imagination at work again. “In any case, I’m not scheduled to do any more work on the show after this episode.”
“Oh,” he said. “That’s too bad. But, hey, you got a guest spot on a hot TV show. Here’s hoping I get one, too.”
“Is that what you were doing out in LA?” I asked. “Trying to get into TV?”
“Yeah. Nothing was really happening for me here, so I moved out there when I got cast in a TV pilot, but the show didn’t get picked up. I wound up doing three more pilots that year, but nothing panned out.” He sighed. “The second year, I couldn’t even get auditions anymore. So a few months ago, I decided it was time to come back to New York.”
Falling right into my old habit of trying to encourage Jeff about his career, I said, “And you got work almost as soon as you came back. So returning to New York was a good decision.”
He gave a morose little grunt of assent.
I urged, “So tell me about this gladiator role.”
“You don’t think the shaved head looks good on me, do you?”
“Are you working in a play?” I asked.
“
Other
people think this is a good look for me. What don’t you like about it?”
“This conversation is starting to feel all too familiar,” I said wearily.
“Is it the shape of my head?” he asked. “Do you think my skull is bulbous?”
I made a heroic effort to be patient with him. “Tell me about the job. Does it involve combat scenes?”
“I’ve been thinking about getting some head shots this way, to show more casting directors that I can do this look.” He asked anxiously, “Do you think that’s a bad idea?”
I gave up and snapped, “You know,
you’re
the reason I decided not to date any more actors! Are you aware that men in other professions don’t do this to women? I mean, do you think Lopez has ever dragged me through a marathon of talking about his voice or his appearance, the way you used to do? Do you think he frets to me about—”
“Who’s Lopez?” Jeff asked.
I realized what I’d said. “No one. Never mind.”
“Why does that name sound—Oh! Do you mean
Connor
Lopez? The
really good-looking
cop?”
“My point is—”
“The guy who sprung you from the slammer, right?”
Eager to distract him, I said, “I don’t like the bald head. It doesn’t suit you at all.”
“So
that’s
why the guy got out of bed in the middle of the night to get you out of jail. I thought it sounded a little above and beyond the call of duty,” Jeff said. “You’re dating him?”
“No.”
“Does Max know you’re dating him?”
“I’m not dating him,” I said.
“Are you going to tell Biko and Puma you’re involved with this cop?”
“I’m not involved with him!” Since the silence that met my emphatic statement was fraught with skepticism, I added, “I went out with him a few times. In the spring. That’s all.”
“Well, he sure must have been pissed off the other night, then.”
“No, he was very nice to me, actually.” All things considered.
“Ah.”
There was a wealth of understanding in that monosyllable. “I get it.”
“You get
what?
”
“He dumped you.”
“It was, er . . . a mutual decision,” I lied. Yes, Jeff was right; but his assumption stung my pride.
“Come on, Esther. The guy goes to a precinct house at some ungodly hour, after months of not seeing you, to ask other cops for a favor that
had
to be a little embarrassing for him.”
“Well . . . yeah.” I shifted uncomfortably on my chair.
“And he wasn’t chewing iron and spitting nails?” Jeff snorted. “Obviously, he feels guilty about dumping you. Why else would he help you out
and
be nice about it?”
“Maybe he likes me,” I said defensively.
“Then why did he dump you?”
My shoulders slumped. “He thinks I’m deranged.”
“Really? Wow. Who can plumb the depths of
that
mystery?”
“Is there any other reason you called?” I said. “Or are we done now?”