Disappearing Nightly

by Laura Resnick

  She shrieked at me while I disconnected the call. I lay back in my rumpled pillows and cradled the phone against my chest, seeking comfort from its solid, prosaic familiarity. I felt a sudden fondness for it because it was one of the few things in my world that hadn’t changed unrecognizably since, oh, yesterday.

  Two days ago, I’d arrived at the theater eager to step into the lead role of an off-Broadway musical. Now, instead, I was alienating my producer, letting down the cast, and afraid Evil would get me if I went on with the show.

  I groaned and hugged the phone. Could things possibly get any worse?

  The phone rang, startling me. I answered it reflexively. The new caller was my mother.

  “Of course,” I muttered. “Things can always get worse.”

  “What?”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Esther, your Uncle Ben and Aunt Rachel are visiting New York next month. I told them you’d get them tickets for your new show.”

  “Oh, Mom,” I groaned. “No. Please, no…”

  “They’ll take you to dinner,” she said coaxingly. “Some place you can’t afford.”

  I sighed. “I can’t talk about this right now.”

  “Why not now?” My mother’s voice is well-educated and vivacious. And sometimes it’s shadowed by her lifelong suspicion that the hospital switched babies on her when I was born. “I’m giving you plenty of notice.”

  “This isn’t a good time to talk about the show.”

  “Why?” she said. “What did you do?”

  This is my mother’s gift: an uncanny ability to make me feel even worse than I already do.

  “It’s a long story,” I said. “And I don’t have time for a long call this morning.”

  “Morning? It’s after eleven.” After a pause, she said, “Esther, are you still in bed?”

  How does she always know? I sat up quickly, as if she could see me all the way from our family home in Madison, Wisconsin. “I was up very late,” I said defensively.

  “Oh, were you on a date? Someone nice, maybe?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm. So you’re still not seeing anyone?”

  “No, Mom.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be so picky. Do you want to wind up old and alone?”

  “I’m only twenty-seven,” I said wearily. “But I’ll be old real soon if you nag.”

  “I’m just saying…”

  “Mom, I have to be somewhere soon. I don’t have time to talk right now.”

  “Well, if you’d get up earlier—”

  “Agggh!” I said.

  “What?”

  “We’ll talk next week. About the tickets. I have to go now.”

  “All right,” she said with exaggerated patience. “Oh, and sweetheart? Your father says to send him any reviews of the show. Especially if they mention you.”

  “Reviewers don’t single out chorus nymphs, Mom.”

  “Well, your father would still like to see the reviews.”

  “He can’t just look online?”

  “It would be nice if you would send them, dear.” Her tone reminded me not to be a bad daughter.

  “Okay, fine,” I said. “I’ll send some reviews.”

  My father and I mostly communicate via my mother. He likes me fine, he just has no idea what to say to me. He’s a history professor. My mother manages a youth employment center. Neither of them is sure how they managed to raise an actress. But to give them credit, they love me, so they try to be supportive of my choices without understanding them at all.

  “I have to go, Mom,” I said again.

  “By the way, have you heard from your sister?”

  “No.” Ending a conversation with my mother is a multi-phase process.

  “Neither have I,” she said gloomily.

  As family tradition demanded, I briefly reminded my mother that my older sister was always very busy and pressed for time. Ruth was a hospital administrator and the mother of two. She lived in Chicago, and most of her conversation (on the rare occasions when we talked) was about how overwhelmed and exhausted she was. Talking to Ruthie always made me incredibly glad I was a struggling actress instead of a respectable professional and family woman.

  “I really have to go, Mom.”

  “I meant to ask—”

  “We’ll talk next week. Bye, Mom.”

  I hung up and got out of bed, intent on leaving the apartment before anyone else could phone me.

  As I thought over Max’s life story, it occurred to me that accepting liquid refreshment from an alchemist was not without risks. So I brought my own coffee to the bookshop that day. Due to our very late night, followed by a restless post-dawn sleep that left me looking more like a troll than a nymph from Sorcerer!, it was after noon by the time I arrived.

  Max and I had stayed late at the Pony Expressive, examining Darling Delilah’s tiny Philistine temple and further discussing the disappearances. After that, I shared a cab with Khyber Pass and Whoopsy Daisy, who didn’t think a lady should risk going home unescorted at that time of night—and who insisted on paying the cab fare, even though my place in the West Thirties was out of their way. (Not for the first time, I wished that straight men could all be as gentlemanly as my gay friends.) They insisted that paying for the taxi was the least they could do in exchange for all my help. I didn’t really see how I was helping them so far, but I hoped that I would be able to. Although Delilah was the most upset of the bunch, they were obviously a close-knit group of friends, all deeply worried about Sexy Samson’s fate.

  And it was clear by now that my help was indeed needed. Although I had no doubt after last night that Max, with his special knowledge and abilities, was essential to solving our strange problem, I’d already noticed that organization wasn’t his strong suit.

  “We need to approach this methodically,” I said to him when I arrived at the bookshop. I walked over to the large walnut table, set down a box containing half a dozen cups of carry-out coffee and dropped my daypack on the floor.

  “Methodically?” Max repeated.

  I nodded a greeting at Saturated Fats, Khyber Pass and Whoopsy Daisy, who had agreed to join us here for further consultation. Darling Delilah was in New Jersey today, explaining things as best she could to Sexy Samson’s mother. “Help yourselves to the coffee,” I said.

  “I would have made coffee,” Max said, looking hurt that I might have entertained doubts about his hospitality.

  “It’s better if I bring it.”

  “But—”

  “Let’s focus, Max. Sit.” We all took our seats around the table, whose surface was overflowing with books, notes, bills, receipts, maps, writing tools, the abacus, and…“Feathers?”

  “It’s a long story,” Max said wearily.

  “We don’t have time for it, then,” I said.

  “Let’s get down, girlfriend,” said Satsy.

  “Right.” Khyber, dressed in jeans and a peach shirt with an embroidered collar, made a gesture like a boxer ready to fight. “What’s the plan?”

  I pulled out a list, having penned some thoughts while hunched groggily over my first cup of coffee after my mother’s phone call this morning. “First item—Hieronymus is researching disappearances.”

  “Who’s Hieronymus?” Whoopsy asked.

  “My assistant,” said Max.

  “We need to help him,” I said. “Several of us researching similar phenomena and coordinating our efforts are a lot more likely to find an answer than one person working alone.”

  “Check,” said Whoopsy. “If Hieronymus hasn’t gone to the New York Public Library yet, I’ll do that. There’s some whacky stuff down in the research stacks that most people don’t know about.” When we looked at him, he added, “I worked there for two years, before I became a performance artiste.”

  “Right, then,” I said, “Whoopsy’s got the public library covered.”

  “I’ll get Delilah to help me after she gets back from Jersey,” Whoopsy added. “There’s a lot
of legwork involved at the main branch, so it’ll go faster if there are two of us on the job. Plus, one of us may need to detour to a collection at another library.”

  “Good thinking,” I said.

  “And naturally,” said Max, “the bookshop is at our disposal, as is my private collection, which I keep downstairs in the laboratory.”

  “Check,” I said. “We should also look online.”

  “Online?” Max repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “With a computer?” he asked.

  “That is the usual way.”

  “I don’t have a computer anymore. It blew up months ago.”

  “Blew up?” I repeated.

  “A victim of Evil. Or possibly faulty wiring,” he added. “To be honest, I never liked it.”

  Khyber said, “No problem. I do some part-time bookkeeping, so I’ve got a good setup at home. I’ll work from there and stay in touch by phone.”

  “And I’ll work here in the shop with Esther,” said Satsy.

  “Right,” I said. “I made some calls before I came. Dixie Dempsey says that finding Dolly and the other victims is more important than her acting and dance classes. So she’s on her way over here to help out. And Barclay Preston-Cole will be here as soon as he can get away from the office.” I consulted my list. “Next item—Max, you need to examine Barclay’s prop box.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “Um, right. Er, check.”

  “And you should interview him when he comes here later.”

  “Oh, yes! Er, right. I think I should also interview Mr. Herlihy,” he said.

  “The magician who made Golly Gee disappear, right?” Satsy asked.

  “Right,” Max said, clipped and confident with the vernacular this time. “Check.”

  Satsy asked, “So Herlihy’s coming here, too?”

  “Negative,” I said. “I haven’t spoken to him. He and I need to be kept apart.”

  “Why?” Satsy perked up. “Is there a cosmic wobble in the dimensional fabric when you two meet?”

  I recalled that Satsy was a regular customer here. Dressed in a flowing white smock shirt and trousers today, without wig or makeup, he looked so different from last night’s purple diva that I was no longer surprised Max hadn’t recognized him—as a “her”—at the Pony Expressive.

  “No,” I said. “But his wife is my producer, and I’m supposedly too ill to work. Joe was so scared of performing the act last night that I doubt he’ll intentionally expose my good health to Matilda if he finds out about it. But he’s so nervous, I think the truth could easily slip out by accident, and I’m already having more problems with his wife than I want.”

  “Check,” said Max.

  “So you’ll need to interview Joe without involving me,” I said to Max.

  “Right.”

  “But he’s so high-strung, I think there’s a good chance you’ll scare him out of his wits if you meet with him alone.” Max would prattle about Evil among us, Joe would gibber with fear and guilt, and nothing would be accomplished. “Besides, Matilda is protective of him. So a certain boldness may be needed just to get in the door of their apartment. That’s why you’re taking Cowboy Duke with you.” I counted on Duke’s charm, common sense and brashness to conquer the obstacles I foresaw.

  Max made the boxer-ready-to-fight gesture. “Check.”

  “Next item—compare and contrast. I’ve ordered a display board to be delivered here from an office supply shop. We’ve got to start assembling all the facts we can gather together about the disappearees and the magicians. What’s the unifying factor here? What do they have in common aside from, well, doing disappearing acts? And what about the prop boxes—what, if anything, do they have in common?”

  “Check!” they all said in unison, their simultaneous boxing gesture making them look a little like a cheerleading squad.

  I went into the home stretch of my presentation. “Make no mistake about this, my friends. Our goal is not to learn enough to help the next victim.”

  “It’s not?” Max asked.

  “No. We’ve got to do better than that. Our goal is to learn enough to prevent the next disappearance.”

  “Oh, of course! Right. Check!”

  “So come on, troops!” I said. “Let’s get out there and kick Evil’s butt!”

  “Yes!” Whoopsy jumped up to punch the air. “Go, go, go!”

  “Team Pony Expressive is on the job, girlfriend!” Satsy pounded on the table.

  Khyber leaped to his feet. “Let’s do it!”

  “No prisoners!” cried Max.

  We looked at him.

  “You’re sure I can’t make you some coffee?” he said.

  “So here’s a question, Max,” I said.

  “Hmm?”

  “Where is Hieronymus?”

  “Oh!” He blinked. “Downstairs, probably.”

  “In your laboratory?”

  “Yes.”

  “We should have asked him to sit in on the meeting. Let’s go talk to him now.”

  Whoopsy and Khyber had left the shop, bound for their respective duties. Satsy was browsing the store in search of books that might prove useful in our research. I had accepted delivery of a huge display board and had neatly written on its surface, in various colors of Magic Marker, the few facts I knew about the victims. Now I followed Max to the back of his shop in search of Hieronymus. A little cul-de-sac there contained some storage shelves, a utilities closet, a bathroom and a door marked “PRIVATE.” Max opened that door onto a narrow, creaky stairway that led both up and down from where we stood. There was an overhead light bulb, but Max didn’t bother to switch it on; the stairway was illuminated by a burning torch stuck in a wall sconce.

  “I thought fire was your weakest element,” I said.

  “It is. That was left there by my predecessor and I can’t figure out how to put it out.”

  “Your predecessor? The one who had to flee the IRS?”

  “Yes.”

  “He inhabited this building, too?”

  “It belongs to the Collegium.” He led the way down the narrow staircase. “Be sure to hold on to the railing, Esther. These stairs are a little uneven.”

  “You don’t say?” Descending carefully, I asked, “So what was on the main floor before it was a bookshop?”

  “His laboratory. That enormous cupboard, which houses some of his, er, leftovers, is still up there because it contains elements that do not respond well to involuntary relocation.”

  “I see.” No, I didn’t, but I suspected that asking for details would lead us well off track, and we had work to do.

  Max continued. “I gather that having the laboratory at street level caused some problems with the neighbors.”

  Upon hearing a muffled explosion below us, I said, “Go figure.”

  “I thought it best to be more discreet, so I installed my laboratory in the basement. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that this would occasionally lead to widespread plumbing mishaps, so there is still some discord with the neigh—Ah, here’s Hieronymus.”

  We entered the laboratory, which was cavernous, windowless and shadowy. The walls were decorated with charts covered in strange symbols and maps of places I didn’t recognize. Bottles of powders and potions, dried plants and what appeared to be dried animal parts jostled for space. Beakers, implements and tools lay tumbled and jumbled on the heavy, dark furniture.

  Dusty shelves and cabinets were densely packed with jars of herbs, spices, minerals, amulets and neatly sorted claws and teeth. There were a few pieces of medieval-looking weaponry, some urns and boxes and vases, a tarot deck spread across a table in mid-reading, a pile of runes lying next to it, two gargoyles squatting in a corner, icons and idols, and a scattering of old bones. An enormous bookcase was packed to overflowing with many leather-bound volumes, as well as unbound manuscripts, scrolls and even a few clay tablets.

  All over the lab, there were also little piles of…

  “Feathers?” I said
.

  Max shook his head. “It’s so discouraging.”

  A young man stood at the massive workbench. He had a rather slight build, fair skin, innocent features and cropped, mousy brown hair. The source of the explosion I’d heard was presumably the experiment he’d been working on. A charred beaker sat cracked and smoking atop a little flame, looking like a high school chemistry assignment gone wrong. The young man—Hieronymus—was wiping orange liquid off his face, his clothes and the workbench.

  He glanced up at Max, then noticed me. He looked momentarily startled, then wiped off something in his hand—his glasses, I realized, as he put them on. His brown eyes, which gazed directly at me, were magnified by the thick lenses. He wore black trousers, a shirt that had obviously been white before the explosion and a blank facial expression.

  “Difficulties?” Max asked with concern.

  The young man shrugged, looking a tad sullen.

  “Well, then…Hieronymus,” Max said, “please allow me to introduce my new friend, Miss Esther Diamond. This is the brave young lady I mentioned to you this morning. She’ll be helping us from now on, and she’s doing a wonderful job of organizing the rest of our new acquaintances into productive tasks, too.”

  Feeling moved by this little speech, I smiled warmly at Hieronymus. “How do you do? I gather you’re Max’s apprentice?”

  A frown of irritation transformed his blank expression. “Athithtant,” he said.

  “Pardon?” I said.

  “Not appwentith. Athithtant.”

  “What?” I said, thinking his accent was much stronger than Max’s.

  “I’m hith athithtant.”

  Max said, “He was promoted before coming to New York. Assistant is one level above apprentice.”

  “Oh!” That was no accent, I realized, mortified at my clumsiness. It was a speech impediment. A pronounced one. “Assistant! Of course! My mistake!” I heard the exaggerated cheeriness in my voice and tried to modify it. “Assistant. Yes, that was what Max told me, I just got confused. How are you? I mean, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” I was conscious of every S and R in my jabbered comments.

  Hieronymus gave me a curt nod.