23
I
awoke late, feeling groggy and exhausted. I hadn’t gotten to bed until after seven o’clock in the morning; and it had been, after all, a very eventful night.
Moreover, I’d had to sleep on my lumpy couch. The ruined condition of my bed had actually slipped my mind, until I returned home around dawn and entered my bedroom. That was when I remembered exactly what had happened . . . and also realized that I hadn’t seen the flame-ravaged mattress sitting outside the building when I returned home. Someone had taken it during the night. A truly desperate Dumpster diver, apparently. However, even considering the useless condition of the mattress, I wasn’t that surprised. The quickest way to get rid of anything in New York was simply to put it outside on the sidewalk. I half suspected that Mambo Celeste could have disposed of the discarded zombie corpse that way.
So, all things considered, I was cranky and crotchety when I woke up, as well as still sleepy.
However, actors who let grass grow under their feet don’t get to eat or pay their rent. So I telephoned Thack while my coffee was brewing, and I told him about
The Vampyre
.
“You really want to be in a show about vampires?” he asked doubtfully.
“Thack, I’ve played a singing rutabaga, a half- naked forest nymph, and a crack whore. Why would vampires be beneath me?”
“All right, I’ll look into it and get back to you.”
“Don’t ‘look into it,’ ” I said irritably. “Get me the audition.”
“Somebody certainly got up on the wrong side of the coffin this morning,” he said.
After ending the call, I packed up supplies for the day, realizing wearily that I wouldn’t return home until the early hours of the morning—at which time, I’d get to enjoy the luxury of sleeping on my couch once again.
Jilly C-Note’s boots smelled bearable after a couple of days with solid air freshener sitting inside them. The push-up bra and purple fishnet stockings were clean now, and the dry cleaner had done a good job with the sweat-stained Lycra top and unsavory vinyl skirt that I had dropped off on Friday; luckily, the plastic bag covering the clothes ensured they didn’t smell of smoke from last night’s mattress fire. I carefully packed the costume into a small duffle bag, along with two water bottles and some snacks, and I left my apartment.
Outside on the street, though reluctant to do so, I telephoned Lopez. I got his voice mail. I wondered if he wasn’t available . . . or if he had seen who was calling and decided not to answer. I left a message: “I’m on my way to teach class, and I just walked past an empty spot on the sidewalk where my mattress should be. Someone took it last night. So you’d better cancel the visit from the arson investigator, because there’s nothing for him to examine.”
As I was putting my phone away, a cardboard box blew out of a stairwell and hit me. I was startled, rather than hurt. The wind speed had continued increasing while I slept. It was dark and overcast today, the temperature was cooler, and it looked like we were in for a huge storm. I was glad I had included a rain slicker and a small umbrella when packing my duffle.
I called
D30
’s production office to see if the schedule had changed. They said no. Due to the delays caused by Nolan’s heart attack, they couldn’t afford to cancel this evening’s shoot unless it was raining all night and impossible to film, so I should still plan to be there.
I was walking several blocks east so that I could catch a subway train that would let me off close to the foundation. When I got to a major intersection, I saw that a suicidally brave cop was directing traffic there by hand; the power lines had been blown down by high winds, and the streetlights weren’t working. I found a similar situation up at 125th Street in Harlem when I exited the subway some time later.
The sky rumbled menacingly overhead as I walked to the foundation. I thought it was crazy to plan to film outside in this weather; but I also knew there was a lot of money at stake for every day of filming that
D30
lost. So they’d stick to the schedule tonight unless it became physically impossible to do so.
When I arrived at the Livingston Foundation, I was a little surprised at how normal everything looked. You’d never guess that less than twelve hours ago my friends and I had been destroying an evil bokor’s lair in the basement and searching the building for zombies.
I was also surprised that I felt no serious anxiety about entering the building now. Mambo Celeste was still on the loose, after all, and this was where she had conducted her dark rituals. However, her work space was destroyed, and her snake was dead. By day, the building looked prosaic, and there were plenty of other people here. Thinking about safety in numbers, I touched the reassuring gris-gris charm that hung around my neck, then went inside the foundation to teach my class.
Considering the weather, I wasn’t surprised to find my class was almost half empty. If I were a student instead of a teacher, I’d probably have stayed home, too. Still, we had a good session, and I thought the kids who came were probably glad they had braved the elements and attended.
As class ended, one of the students who lived in Brooklyn said that her mother had just phoned to tell her not to take her usual route home. Most of the lower third of Manhattan had lost power a few minutes earlier, and the girl’s parents were worried she’d get stuck somewhere.
“How will you get home?” I asked with concern.
“I’ll take the subway to Queens and transfer there.” The girl blew out her breath on a sigh and summoned her resolve. “It shouldn’t take me
too
much longer to get home than it does by my normal route.”
I was startled to hear that a third of Manhattan was without power now, so I logged on to one of the foundation’s computers to check current local news. Sure enough, high winds had continued causing power failures all over the city while I’d been teaching the acting workshop this afternoon, and many neighborhoods were now without power.
As thunder boomed overhead, I turned off the computer and went to the window. Still no rain, but the sky was dark gray and roiling. I flipped open my phone and called
D30
again. The connection was full of static, and the harassed production assistant’s voice kept fading out while we spoke.
I said, “We’re not still shooting this evening, are we?”
Yes, we were. Given the probability of heavy rain, though, they were looking at the prospect of moving the location indoors. Most of midtown and uptown still had power, and since we’d be working in Harlem, that meant the power outages wouldn’t affect the location crew.
I refrained from pointing out that I was in Harlem right now and had seen power outages just a few blocks away from here. I didn’t think my opinion would count for much when the
C&P
empire was intent on keeping the wheels of production rolling forward. I also didn’t want to get my head bitten off by this stressed-out assistant who, in any case, had no power whatsoever over that decision.
She told me the location crew was currently on their way to the Mount Morris Park neighborhood for tonight’s shoot. I thanked her, apologized for bothering her, and got off the phone.
Then I checked my messages. There was one from Lopez. I dialed my voice mail and listened.
“That mattress is gone? People in this city really
will
take anything that’s left outside, won’t they?” he said. “And there goes my hope of proving to you there’s a rational explanation for what happened last night. To the bed I mean. There’s never a rational explanation for what happens between
us.
”
I smiled wryly, realizing I was forgiving him already for last night’s sour parting. I heard him speaking to someone in the background.
Then he said again into the phone, “Sorry, Esther. Things are hopping here. This storm coming in, power outages, traffic snarls, trains stranded, a shooting, some looting . . . What did I want to ask you? Oh, right! What did you
mean,
you were on your way to teach class? I was serious last night when I told you to stay away from the foundation. Listen to me. Before things got crazy here today, I looked into—What?” He was speaking to someone else now. “Okay. Right now? Yes.” Then he said to my voice mail again, “I’ve got to go. Call me as soon as you get this. If I can’t pick up, leave me a message. And please tell me that you’re not still at that place.”
I called Lopez back. A couple of people who passed me in the hallway glanced at me as I made a sharp sound of frustration when I got his voice mail.
“I
am
at the foundation,” I said. “I work here. I can’t just not show up.” I frowned as I thought about the possible cause for his concern. Maybe, despite our differences of opinion, we had shared some similar suspicions without realizing it. “Listen, Mambo Celeste calls herself a widow, but other people say her husband left her. I’m wondering what really happened to him. I guess this sounds crazy to you, but . . . Is there any chance he was murdered?”
I decided to leave it at that. If there really was something to discuss, we’d talk about it after Lopez had time to get the facts.
I concluded, “Anyhow, I won’t be here much longer. I have to go to the
D-Thirty
set soon. Can you believe they’re still planning to film tonight, despite everything that’s happening out there?” I paused for a moment, then said, “Call me back, if you have time.”
I glanced at the clock. I had about an hour before I had to be on the set. Considering that I’d left carnage and wreckage in her foundation building last night, I thought I should probably go upstairs and speak to Catherine about what had happened. I had sort of assumed Max would speak to her, and I preferred that scenario, since I didn’t like her. But since I seemed to be stuck here for a while longer . . .
I turned and started walking toward Catherine’s office. I reached the double doors leading to the main lobby at the same moment as two teenage boys who were coming in the opposite direction. I was preoccupied, and they were so involved in their conversation that they didn’t see me. One of them was gesticulating enthusiastically with his large beverage cup as he pushed his way through the doors—knocking me off my feet and somehow managing to spill the entire contents of his cup on me. It contained a chocolate milk shake.
I gasped at the ice cold sensation seeping through my clothes to chill my skin as I lay on the floor trying to catch my breath. Cold chocolate muck was all over me.
“Oh, my God, miss! Are you okay?”
The two boys hauled me to my feet. Icy chocolate slid down my stomach to my crotch, and down my neck into my bra. A huge glob of it covered the gris-gris bag, which now looked as if it had been
dipped
in the shake.
I made a shrill sound of discomfort and spread my arms, helplessly watching the shake melt stickily into my clothes.
“Miss?” one of the boys prodded.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine. Just a little . . .
cold.
But the happy part of this accident, of course, is that nothing got on the floor.” Every drop of the shake seemed to be on
me.
Uncomfortable and filthy now, I realized that, although it was far from ideal, I did at least have a change of clothing with me. I’d have to don Jilly’s costume in another couple of hours anyway, if
D30
persisted in its determination to film the rest of my episode tonight. And at least I had a rain slicker and an umbrella to keep the costume dry while I was in transit. So I got my duffle and went into the ladies’ room. I removed my cold, soggy, dirty clothes and put on Jilly’s costume—except for the cruel boots. Though my roped-soled canvas shoes didn’t go with this outfit, they were comfortable and still clean, so I kept them on.
The gris-gris bag was so messy and sticky, I gave up trying to clean it while it hung around my neck. I felt considerable anxiety as I removed it, but nothing burst into flames. I tried wiping it off, but the milk shake had seeped into the bag and soaked all the ingredients. Apparently the thing had not been designed with this sort of mishap in mind. I wondered if it even had mojo anymore. Either way, I couldn’t put it back on, especially not while wearing my
D30
costume. So I wrapped it in some tissues and stuck it in my purse. I still had it with me, I assured myself. And, after all, the mambo’s altar was destroyed, and I had burned the remnants of my poppet before going to bed last night.
Now that I was presentable again, in a manner of speaking, I went to see Catherine.
Her cool gaze assessed my appearance with ironic detachment, and she gave no response at all to my awkward explanation about why I was once again dressed as a prostitute.
Instead, she said, much to my embarrassment, “Goodness, what
are
those marks on your neck?”
I put a hand self-consciously over my throat, realizing I should have used makeup to cover up the marks Lopez had left on me. I had chosen a blouse with a high collar today, so I hadn’t expected my skin to be this exposed before I met with
D3
’s talented makeup artist.
She smiled. “So the detective can lose control, after all? I had wondered.”