Lopez ended the call and pocketed his phone. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” I made a sympathetic face. “Parents.”
“Exactly,” he said wearily.
I decided not to mention the Spanish thing. He might not even realize that I hadn’t known he spoke the language, and I was seriously concerned that I’d turn into some sort of gushing nudnik as soon as I opened my mouth on the subject.
“My dad can be a little . . . old-fashioned about certain things,” Lopez said as he walked over to my daypack and scooped it up. “My mom complains about it, but I swear to God she encourages it.”
“Is there something wrong at home?” I asked carefully, not wanting to pry, but nonetheless curious.
“No, no. Nothing like that.” As we approached the uneven, rocky stairs, he said, “Here, you’d better take my arm.” We began descending the steps together. “When something’s actually
wrong,
my parents go to church. Or they retreat to their bedroom to discuss it quietly behind a closed door. Long dramatic arguments occur in our family strictly over stupid stuff.” He paused. “We have a lot of long dramatic arguments.”
Making my way carefully over a broken step with Lopez’s help, I asked, “What was
this
stupid stuff?”
“My mom wants to go to some fancy new store on the Upper West Side tomorrow, and my dad can’t take her, so he wants me to take her. Even though, between my
actual
job and the other cases I’m helping out on, whether my help is wanted or not—such as the Twenty-Fifth Precinct’s lonesome severed hand . . . I’ll probably be working fourteen hours tomorrow and don’t have time for this. But I’m the son who lives in the city, so I’m the one who has to do it.”
Wondering if I was missing something, I asked, “Is there some reason your mom can’t shop on the Upper West Side in broad daylight without an escort?”
“That’s where we get to the part about my dad being old-fashioned. There are naked men in this store, so he doesn’t want my mom going there without a husband or son at her side.”
“Naked men?” I repeated. “In a store?”
“They’re not
naked
naked,” Lopez said. “Watch your step.” He helped me over a rocky patch. “The men are wearing—I don’t know—thongs or loincloths or something.”
“What sort of store
is
this?”
“Would you believe it’s a gourmet grocery store? And it’s all the rage.”
“Well, with naked employees, I guess it would be.”
“I doubt my dad ever even removed his shirt in front of my mom before their wedding night,” Lopez said. “So the idea of her nibbling samples of gourmet delicacies served by mostly naked men at some Upper West Side food emporium is
way
outside his comfort zone.”
“Maybe she just shouldn’t have told him she was going.”
“Oh, are you
kidding?
” he said in disgust. “That would take all the fun out of it for her.”
“Ah. I get it”
Now I understood why steam was practically coming out of Lopez’s ears. His mother enjoyed this little game with his father, which was perhaps the sort of thing that helped keep the sparks alive in their (I gathered) contented long-term marriage. But tomorrow, their game was going to cost their youngest son at least a couple of hours of valuable work time. And so—especially since he was overloaded this week—he felt like throttling them both for it.
When we reached the bottom of the steps and were once again back in the busy, bustling park, I said, “And now I really do have to leave for my shift at Bella Stella.”
“I’ll walk you partway to the subway,” he said. “I’ve got a few more questions for Dr. Livingston if she’s still at work, and then I want to stop in at the Twenty- Fifth Precinct, where I’m getting more and more popular every day, of course.”
His mentioning the precinct reminded me that Lopez had resources that Max and I didn’t.
“I just thought of another favor I need to ask,” I said.
“If it involves another steep climb, the answer is no.”
“A man who was teaching workshops at the foundation is missing. His name is Frank Johnson, and no one has seen or heard from him since Monday night.” Since Lopez was already concerned about my presence at the foundation, I didn’t mention that Frank was my direct predecessor. “He’s not answering his phone or returning messages. Can you find out where he lives? Or find out if he’s . . . all right?”
“Missing since Monday night?”
I nodded. “He might be going about his daily life and just ignoring calls from the foundation. I mean, I hope he is. But just in case . . .” Seeing Lopez’s intent expression, I asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“No reason.”
“No,
tell
me,” I insisted.
“I’m thinking,” he said with some reluctance, “that the hand we found lying in the street could belong to someone who was last seen alive on Monday night.”
“Oh.” I feigned distress, which wasn’t hard to do at this point, and nodded.
As we exited the park, Lopez told me that as long as I was working at the foundation, and until we really knew what was going on, he wanted me to keep his cell phone number on speed dial.
I agreed, and I accepted my daypack from him as he returned it to me. We stood together awkwardly for a moment, and then I said good-bye and turned to go.
“Oh, hell,” he muttered.
Lopez reached for me, pulled me into his arms, and kissed me. He was a little rough, and then very gentle.
And I could swear I tasted Spanish words on his lips.
Then he rested his forehead against mine. “You’d better go.”
“Right,” I murmured. “After all, you know what time my shift starts.”
“I do.” He kissed me softly again, then let me go.
I practically floated all the way to the subway station. When I got there, luck was with me. I caught a downtown train immediately. Only as I was standing in the crowded moving train, aware of the silly expression that was probably still on my face, did reality start to set in again.
I was sure the severed hand belonged to Darius Phelps. However, unless I personally introduced Lopez to Darius’ zombie, I knew there was no way I could convince him of my theory. Meanwhile, I felt very worried about Frank Johnson, and Max really wanted to talk with the man.
So if Lopez’s theory—that the hand might belong to Frank—motivated him to find out what had happened to the missing instructor, well, I supposed that worked out well for everyone.
After a few stops, I changed trains and caught one that would take me to Little Italy. There was an empty seat on this train, and as soon as I sat in it, I saw that my shoes and ankles were still covered in Nelli’s blood, now dried to a rusty brown color. I realized some of her blood was on my left hand and both of my knees, too. I’d need to clean up when I got to the restaurant.
I was already in danger of being late, and washing off the blood would take some time. So I decided to tidy my hair and start putting on my makeup while I was still on the subway train. Since my mind was on other things—including the memory of Lopez’s lips pressed again mine, moving seductively as his breath caressed my cheek—I did quite a bit of rummaging around in my purse before I realized my hairbrush wasn’t in there. Nor was my makeup.
I sat staring into the depths of my handbag with bemusement. The baka had not stolen or destroyed any of the items that I had worried about: money, phone, ID, keys. So why had they taken my hairbrush and my . . .
Cold fear exploded inside my torso and rapidly spread outward to engulf my limbs.
The baka who had stolen my purse served the bokor. So if personal items of mine were missing from its contents, then the bokor must have those. And some of my hair could certainly be extracted from my brush.
The mysterious dark sorcerer now had the ingredients needed to make a voodoo doll whose fate I would share.
17
O
n Sunday afternoon, as bad weather was moving into the area, Jamal was waiting for me outside the Livingston Foundation. He was wearing yet another baggy outfit, so I supposed Shondolyn had been too preoccupied to convey fashion advice to him the other day. As the boy approached me, I saw that his forehead was shiny with sweat from standing around on the sidewalk waiting for me to arrive.
The sky was overcast today and the air felt heavy with tension. I thought the suffocating temperature ought to break, given that the sun wasn’t out and there was a fair bit of wind today; but, no, it was still unbearably hot outside. I wore a sleeveless cotton dress and sandals, and my hair was in a topknot, but I was still sticky and wilting.
“I heard there was gonna be a big ceremony here today,” Jamal said to me. “So I thought you might show up, since you’re into this voodoo shit.”
I was about to protest that I wasn’t even remotely into “this voodoo shit,” but I decided to hold my silence when I realized how unconvincing that would sound. Not only had I sent Shondolyn to Puma’s Vodou Emporium for help, as Jamal well knew, but I was also currently wearing a rather large, unattractive, and somewhat smelly gris-gris bag around my neck.
After receiving my frantic phone call on Friday, Max and Puma had worked together to concoct this protective charm for me. Max and Biko had brought it to me at the restaurant later that same night. Since then, I had only taken it off to shower.
Its comforting presence around my neck, however, did not keep me from worrying that every little itch, twinge, or twitch that I felt was terrifying evidence that the bokor had made a poppet in my image, using my hair and makeup, and was now tormenting it—and me—with lethal intent.
Jamal said to me, his expression a mixture of concern and accusation, “Dr. Livingston says Shondolyn is gone.”
“Gone away to stay with relatives,” I said with a nod. I had talked to Max at length yesterday, and he said that Puma had received a call from the girl saying she was leaving for Maryland that same day and would probably stay there until she had to return to New York to start school in a few weeks. Her mother had informed the Livingston Foundation that she was withdrawing from the summer sessions due to health issues.
Being targeted by the bokor was certainly a threat to health, I thought. Also to longevity.
Jamal asked me, “Is Shondolyn going to be all right?”
“I think she’ll be fine, now that she’s gone away for a while,” I said. “This . . . atmosphere wasn’t good for her.”
“You mean the weird shit that’s going on.”
“That depends on what weird shit you’re talking about.”
“There is
strange
shit wandering around this neighborhood at night,” Jamal said earnestly. “Those crazy people in that shop that you sent Shondolyn to—they seemed to know about it.”
“Do you know about it, too?”
“I’ve seen some things,” he said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I know this, ma’am. You shouldn’t be around here after dark. Especially not alone. You feel me?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And I guess you’re right, it’s probably better for Shondolyn to be outta here.”
“For the time being,” I said. “But this weird shit will get its ass kicked, and then Shondolyn will be back, when it’s safe for her to come home.”
“Well, I guess that’s okay, then.” He looked at some of the local Vodou worshippers who were entering the foundation now. “I ain’t gonna stay for this voodoo thing.”
“Okay.”
“See you in class.” He raised his fist in a little farewell gesture. “Keep it real.”
“Er, Jamal,” I said. “Just a tip about the kind of guy Shondolyn likes.”
He eyed me suspiciously but didn’t refuse to listen.
“Different clothes,” I said. “Get some tight jeans, some button-down shirts in your proper size, and some boring shoes.”
“What? No way!”
“If you want her to look at you and see a guy she might be interested in,” I said, “that’s what it’s going to take.”
“Shit.”
He looked like he was seriously rethinking his interest in the girl. Shaking his head, he walked away.
Behind me, Biko said, “Hi, Esther. Making friends and influencing people?”
I turned to face him and saw that Max was with him. My greeting to them both disappeared in a sneeze. I waved a hand in front of my face, and my eyes watered. “Are you okay?” Biko asked.
I coughed a little and gestured to the lumpy brown leather pouch that hung from my neck. It was the size of a baby’s fist. “Whenever I move suddenly, something escapes this gris-gris bag that irritates my system. I think it must be the cayenne pepper.”
“Hmm, we may have used a little too much of that,” Max said with concern. “Still, better safe than sorry.”
I saw Puma about half a block away, coming from the direction of her shop. She was wearing a white skirt and blouse, and she had a white bandana tied around her head. She waved when she saw us, and picked up her pace.