Manhattan Grimoire

by Sandy DeLuca

  “Go back to sleep.”

  Rico’s eyes open and then close. “Night.” he’s snoring within seconds. He probably won’t remember a word I’ve said when he wakes up again.

  I walk to the window. Shadows waver on ice and snow and despite the early hour, despite the cold, people walk the streets. A man dressed in a long wool coat and wide brim hat looks upward, catches my eyes and I swear his eyes turn red. A demon beneath my window or just a trick of the light? I draw the blinds. A howling rises from below. Just my imagination making the wind into something it isn’t, I tell myself. But I still feel the fear coursing through me and wonder if I’ll always feel so scared.

  I go back to my chair, spread my coat over my knees and close my eyes. I think about Heaven and Hell, unsure of where things are going, and if they’ll spiral out of control.

  I welcome sleep, and promise myself that tomorrow I’ll face the world. I’ll deal with it no matter what.

  13

  I must have fallen into a deep sleep, because when I awakened the sun was out. Snow falls lightly again, and the radio weatherman says two storms have already passed over New York. Another is on its way, which explains why snowfall has been so erratic over the past couple of days. Rico stands in the middle of my living room, hair soaking wet, towel wrapped around his waist. He drinks coffee with a faraway look in his eyes, reminds me of a figure in a painting I once saw at the Met. It was at an exhibit of American art from the industrial revolution. Several paintings depicted black people tilling fields and working on the railroad. The men all had sullen dark eyes and large hands. The hardship of their daily lives was etched across their faces, but their strength and dignity was just as evident, in the way their backs arched, in the way they stood proud, yet struggling, always struggling. Poor sweet Rico had that same look, those same kinds of scars oppression and degradation inflict on a person. I wonder if he thinks about it all, or if his literal day-to-day survival requires his total focus.

  ”Morning,” he says when he sees me staring at him. “Man, that shower felt good. Street life makes it hard to stay well-groomed, ya know?”

  I notice a gold chain around his neck. Three turquoise stones encased in gold hang from it. “Did you get that from my sister? It looks like one she had.”

  He touches the stones. “Yeah, called me over one night, said she was cleaning things out.”

  “Looks good on you. Did you save me some coffee?”

  “I’ll get you a cup.” He drops the towel and reaches for the jeans he’d tossed on the floor. Rico is good looking, slender and his skin is smooth and toned. It doesn’t embarrass me seeing him naked. He’s gay and I have an affinity for straight perpetual losers who treat me like shit. I watch him strut into the kitchen. He’s humming. The man has no home, no family, he’s penniless and a murder suspect to boot, but he hums.

  “Sugar?” he yells. “Milk?”

  “Lots of both.”

  “You going to work?” He starts to hum again.

  “Shit, no.” I reach for the phone and dial my supervisor’s number so I can call in sick. It’s seven-thirty and she won’t be in until eight, so if I leave a message I won’t have to answer questions, won’t have to hear her sigh impatiently at the thought of not having a full staff. Her life is consumed by her cubicle and the documents spread across her desk, by the actions of her subordinates. All day long she bows her head over her PC as though she’s praying to God. She gives this God her soul. Her heart beats for Him and she allows Him to cloud her mind, to dull her passions. What a leech the bastard is.

  The phone rings three times. The machine kicks in. “You have reached the office of Rita Somsby. I’m not in the office right now. Please leave a message after the beep.”

  The beep is metallic, harsh. I make my best effort to sound sick. “Rita, it’s Gina. I was up all night, sick to my stomach, must be the flu that’s going round. I won’t be in. Bye.”

  “You sounded like a cat in heat.” Rico is standing in front of me. He’s wearing my red hat and a pair of red angora mittens. “Found these on the kitchen table. I love them.” He looks silly and he tries not to laugh as he bends slightly to serve me a steaming cup of coffee. “Meow,” he whines in a high-pitched voice. “Cat in heat, that’s all I could think of when you were on the phone.”

  “I was trying to sound sick.” I take a sip of coffee. It’s good.

  “You sounded sick, believe me.” He’s got the hat on backwards and the gloves are too tight for his large hands. He’s twirling around the room like a drunken drag queen. I begin to laugh and can’t stop. Tony didn’t have a sense of humor. I couldn’t kid around with him and realize now how much I missed laughing.

  He stops, hands on hips. “I saw Detective Harris cruising back and forth down the street before you woke up.” Rico sits across from me, plucks off the hat then removes the mittens slowly as though he’s doing a striptease act. “That man thinks I’m a natural born killer. He doesn’t know I’m Queen Rico.”

  I wonder if he dresses in drag and goes downtown to hang with the girls by the underpass, dangling fingers decorated with rhinestone rings and waving wrists with bangle bracelets.

  “I can’t shake the dude, ya know.” Rico looks to the window.

  “He’s just looking out for me. That’s all.”

  “Not sure that’s all it is, the way he checks you out.”

  “How’s he check me out?”

  “Like he’s hot for you.”

  “You’re so full of it.” I cradle the coffee cup in my hands. The warmth feels good. “I keep thinking of our conversation before, about the black chick and photographing ghosts and stuff.”

  “I thought that was a dream. I think we both might have had the same dream at the same time.” Rico’s face is serious now. “Ever try photographing your boyfriend Tony?”

  “I tried, but the shots either came out too dark, too blurry, too something. He’s the only significant person in my life that—”

  “I dreamed last night that Harris hauled my ass to Rikers,” Rico interrupts.

  “Just another dream.”

  “Maybe, but my dreams come true sometimes.” He leans back. His eyes are bloodshot, dark circles surround them. The mood has shifted. The snow is falling heavily again.

  “Well, we’re two of a kind then.” I’m glad Rico is here. Last night would have been horrible without him.

  “The church. Ever snoop around inside there?” He’s looking at Allie’s painting, maybe trying to figure out its message.

  I shake my head. “I’ve done a lot of photography there. That’s all. Every time I’ve been close to checking it out, Daniel—I mean detective Harris—shows up.”

  “Daniel, huh?” He chuckles softly. “Let’s grab a train up to Harlem, girl. Maybe what’s ailing both of us is in there.”

  “I’m too tired.”

  “Being tired is bullshit.” He pulls his sweater over his head, grabs his coat and quickly slips it on. He picks my coat off the floor. “Come on, put this on.”

  He throws my coat over my shoulders, slaps my hat on my head, hands me my purse and leads me to the door.

  I wrap a scarf around my neck, button my coat and follow Rico down the stars. “What put a fire up your ass?” I can’t keep up with him. He has long legs and he takes two stairs at a time.

  He turns then stops, allowing me to catch up. “Just a gut feeling I’m having, girl. Humor me.”

  I don’t say another word as we go out the door and onto icy pavement. We walk a block then duck down subway stairs. Trains rumble, the homeless walk like zombies with outstretched hands and dark things slither on the tracks. It’s so cold, but—

  “I dreamed it,” Rico says, breaking my concentration. “Don’t ask too many questions.”

  “What?” An incoming train is rolling to a stop.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  Am I dreaming now?

  Rico grabs my hand. “Come on.”

  The subway stops in
front of us, its doors open and people exit, walking as though they’re half alive—or half dead—carrying brief cases, wearing black coats and hats, staring straight ahead with vacant eyes.

  We climb onboard and take a seat. The lights go out as we begin to move, and I find myself wondering why Rico is suddenly so motivated, what this day will bring, and if we’ll survive it.

  14

  The subway lights flash on then off and we’re submerged in darkness again. Footsteps shuffle across the train, and what sounds like a large package or bag drops to the floor nearby. I hear a familiar female voice across from us. The voice is soft and shaky. “This is scary, we should have taken a bus, or a cab.”

  No one answers the woman.

  As the subway continues on, shaking and rumbling beneath the ground, I imagine the people above us, see them walking in the brilliance of a snowy day, oblivious to what’s happening below them. Maybe Hell is closer than we all realize. Maybe it’s nothing more than an endless subway ride in murky blackness, the passengers trapped within and longing to one day return to a world that revolves around a life-giving sun. Maybe Hell is a planet no one speaks of, a spinning ball of sin and evil existing alongside us just behind the veil of death and inhabited by the vilest creatures in existence. Maybe those creatures are able to move between their world and ours. Or maybe, just maybe, it all belongs to them and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it.

  The lights suddenly come on, revealing two passengers sitting across from us. My sister’s friend, Lisa, and another woman with a ski mask pulled over her face. Lisa’s eyes dart back and forth, and she’s paler than I remember. It looks as though she’s made a pointless attempt to straighten her unruly hair, as several straight and uneven pieces hang around her haggard face. Her bangs are greasy ringlets and the rest of her locks are a thick maze of frizz and clumpy waves. She holds her companion’s hand the way a child hold’s a parent’s. I look closer and notice Lisa wears a black lace jacket that used to be Allie’s. It’s tight around her chest and waist, and her short leather skirt—once Lisa’s as well—is skintight, emphasizing her disproportionate legs even more. She starts to cry, and as the tears streak her face, her thick makeup begins to smudge and run. She doesn’t seem to notice me even though I’m right in front of her. “I don’t like taking the subway,” Lisa says to her companion. “I told you.”

  Her companion turns to her. “Shut the fuck up, you whiney bitch,” she says with a hiss. “You weren’t complaining back in my bed.”

  I wonder why Lisa hasn’t noticed me. Is she so wrapped up in suffering, in self-absorption that she can’t focus on her surroundings? Her companion does notice me, and smiles. Though the ski mask covers her face, the hole where her mouth is reveals a smile and set of teeth that look oddly familiar to me.

  A dozen or more people have moved into the car, apparently having crossed over from another compartment during the blackout.

  Lisa looks around the subway, still not seeing me or Rico but studying the others with intensity now. Like a sacrificial lamb waiting to be slaughtered by witches on a blood moon night, she watches the others with nervous uncertainty.

  I follow her gaze and notice the other passengers more closely myself. They do seem unnatural upon closer inspection. It’s subtle but unmistakable. Abnormal and humped over, with elongated fingers clutching turnstiles and sitting cross-legged on benches, they all seem to be laughing at Lisa, shaking their heads. This is New York. People don’t give a shit about your sexuality or what you’re talking about on the subway, and yet…

  I turn to Rico. “Something’s wrong. This train, it—”

  “We’ve stepped over some fucked up boundary line or something.” He clutches my arm and I can feel the fear in him. “We’re getting off at the next stop. We’ll get a cab. You got money?”

  “Yeah.” I bite my lip in the hopes it might stop my trembling. “Why doesn’t Lisa know me?”

  “She doesn’t know me either. I’ve met her a hundred times.” Rico looks toward the platform as the train slows. “But things are different here.”

  The subway comes to a screeching halt. “We’re at Columbus Circle,” I whisper to him. “There are lots of stops between Canal and here. We should’ve stopped earlier.”

  The movement of passengers distracts me, and I turn to see them crowding around Lisa and her companion. The woman in the ski mask begins rubbing Lisa’s legs, slowly pushing Lisa’s skirt up over her hips to expose a thick patch of pubic hair covering bulbous pink lips. She reaches over and roughly spreads Lisa’s legs.

  “Not here,” Lisa whimpers.

  Her companion slips off the ski mask. Her spiked hair glistens with sweat. Blood drips from a ring in her nose. Though Lisa struggles a bit at first, the bizarre men and women greedily take turns pushing fingers inside her, fondling her, and she eventually begins to move with their thrusts. She moans then screams, and I can’t figure out if Lisa’s slack mouth and upturned eyes imply pleasure, pain or both.

  The train halts and Rico and I flee for the open door. As the train begins to move again blood sprays the windows, spattering them violently.

  “Don’t look,” Rico says, pulling me along with him before I have time to scream. “Come on!”

  We run across the platform, passing people who seemingly walk as though they’re barely alive, past others leaning against benches, skeletal faces still and dead. We climb the stairs and head into light. We breathe deeply as a blast of snow greets us.

  Rico turns to me as we slow to a fast-walk. “Gina, you know, don’t you?”

  “Know what?” I ask, still looking behind us every few seconds to make sure none of those things are following us.

  “Lisa, you know about Lisa, right?”

  “What about her, I—”

  “They found her dead outside a bar on Lex a few months back. Somebody cut her up real bad down there. You know, down there.” He points to his crotch. “That wasn’t Lisa back on that train, just somebody who looked like her. And those people weren’t people at all.”

  “It was like Hell,” I tell him.

  “Lisa’s Hell,” Rico corrects me as he blesses himself, making the sign of the cross. “Your sister, she was like us, she saw things and shit, but she was evil and that evil gave those fucked up things life. She fucked around with shit, with bad people, bad magic.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I want to scream, I want to stop and rest, I want to clear my head and think, but I just keep moving along the street with him. “My sister was weird, eccentric—shit—maybe even crazy at times, but she wasn’t evil.”

  “Girl, you know she was. You know it.”

  And I do. He’s right, I just don’t want to admit it, don’t want to think of my sister in those terms. I feel drained and lightheaded, like I need to sit down and sleep until this all goes away. “You think she’s responsible for what went down back there?” I ask. “You think she’s behind everything that’s been happening?”

  Rico nods.

  “But how?”

  “I don’t know if it was all her,” he says. “We got to go to the church.”

  He steps off the curb and hails a cab. Before I can question him or object, he hustles me inside, joins me in the backseat and gives the driver directions to the old church in Harlem.

  The cab lurches forward, we move through the traffic.

  “Didn’t tell you this before,” Rico explains, staring straight ahead and speaking slowly. “But your sister had lots of lovers, OK? I’ve been thinking about how she acted the last time I saw her, some shit she said. She had a lover, some guy from Harlem. He was special, not some cheap thrill or a one-night stand. I don’t know his real name, never met him, but she told me about him, called him by some weird nickname. I can’t fucking remember what though. She said he was some sort of witch doctor, into voodoo or some shit like that. She said it was cool, that she was learning a whole new religion.” He turns, looks me in the eye. “But maybe it was more
than that.”

  “Probably a bunch of bullshit, that’s all. She made stuff up all the time. The guy was probably a minister or something boring, Allie always exaggerated, you know that.” I think of the wild tales Allie invented when we were kids. She loved horror movies and books. I assure myself she must’ve been jiving Rico.

  “No, listen to me.” Rico shakes his head in frustration. “I knew some old ladies from Spanish Harlem. They did a lot of magic with roots and stones, cured stiff joints and made women fertile—that kind of shit—but they said there’s a dark side to magic, always a dark side. Some people get obsessed, self-absorbed. Things can work out fine if you do it right. You can get you all kinds of stuff—money, nice cars, good sex, power—you name it. But if you don’t do it right then literally—and I mean literally—all fucking Hell can break loose.” Rico looks scared again. “Allie said her man was sacrificing chickens during his ceremonies. Who knows, maybe he started in on people next. Maybe that’s what the mess was they found in the church.”

  “You think things got that fucked up?” I keep picturing Lisa back on that train, living in a hell created just for her. “That Allie got caught up in the shit this guy was doing and—”

  “Last time I saw your sister she was scared, said this warlock—or whatever the fuck he was—went over the edge. Said he was crazy.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me any of this before?”

  Rico shrugs uncomfortably and scratches at himself nervously, reminding me of his addictions, his afflictions. “I forget things sometimes, I—things get cloudy on me. You know how it is. Maybe I brushed it off, I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t want to remember, didn’t think I needed to until now. Whatever, I’m telling you now, OK?” Rico leans back and sighs. “And it fits together like pieces of a puzzle.”

  “So Allie got mixed up with a psycho, some guy she should’ve stayed clear of and—and some people got killed. It doesn’t mean—”

  “If it’s that simple then what’s all this shit we keep seeing?”