Manhattan Grimoire

by Sandy DeLuca

  I stare into his eyes, but have no answer for him.

  Rico wipes his nose with the sleeve of his coat. I fish a Kleenex out of my purse and hand it to him. He takes it and blows his nose loudly.

  The cab slows down, pulls over to the curb. The old church leers down at us.

  I pay the driver and we step out of the cab. Standing on the sidewalk like two lost children trying to figure out our next move, we watch the church as the cab pulls away, leaving us alone in a desolate part of the city.

  For a moment, the beautiful woman from my dreams waves at us from the church doorway, but then she’s gone and only a splintered, weather-beaten door remains.

  “I’m losing my fucking mind,” I mumble.

  “No,” Rico tells me softly. “I saw her too.”

  I nearly cry. We can’t both be insane. “Really?”

  “I told you I see her just like you,” he says. “She’s trying to tell us something. I think she might have gotten caught up in all this somehow.”

  “Just like us,” I say.

  Rico nods and offers his hand. I take it, and together, we slowly climb the church steps.

  15

  Rico pushes open the church door, moves ahead of me then motions with his hand for me to stand back as he looks around. He turns to look at me and smiles weakly. “Seems ok,” he says. “Out here anyway.”

  I follow him into a crowded entranceway and smell dampness, wax and incense. There are plaster saints lining the walls: Saint Joan of Arc in her armor, Mary holding an infant wearing a golden crown, Saint Christopher carrying a beautiful child on his back, and others I recognize from religious study. But there are also African warrior Gods here I don’t recognize. They tower above us and seem to mock us with cold painted eyes. “Isn’t this an old Baptist church? Catholic Saints mixed with African Gods seem inappropriate.”

  Rico’s eyes are filled with amusement now. “You read any of those books back at your apartment?”

  “I’ll get around to it.”

  “Well, when you do you’ll learn that lots of people that came from the islands—from Africa too—combined different beliefs, blended the old beliefs with Christianity.” He looks around. “Seems like they just collected shit from everywhere, must have been one of the churches that honored Christ on Sundays and did Voodoo or Santeria at other times.” He focuses on a strange black figure wearing a triple crown. It rests against a wooden carving of a Goddess with three heads. “I’ve been here before, but never noticed,” he says as he turns next to the massive statue of Joan of Arc.

  I’m afraid to look at any of them, afraid that when I turn away I’ll see statues moving out of the corner of my eye. At any moment they’ll leap from their pedestals and attack us. It reminds me of a nightmare I had as a child about statues coming alive and chasing me into a dark forest. Those memories combined with my nervousness over being in the church in the first place leave me spooked, and I decide to keep a safe distance between the statues and myself just to play it safe.

  Rico is bolder than I. He touches the foot of Saint Joan and studies her armor. “Tough chick, but she’s creepy, gotta admit that. Lots of this religious shit is.” He laughs and points to the sword at her side. “She might get me with that thing. Reminds me of something I heard when I was a kid—just a story about witches—was up in Canada somewhere. They all used to get together on Halloween and shit. They made little saints out of clay and then put the heebie-jeebie on them, did all these curses, you know. Then they turned around and sold them at country fairs, at church bazaars. Mothers used to buy them for kid’s rooms and put them on bureaus and tables by their beds. At night the things started haunting them with bad dreams, scaring the shit out of them when they woke up.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Hey, it’s just a story.”

  “Not now, OK?”

  He nods, looks into Saint Joan’s eyes and turns away. I swear her lips move. I swear I hear her mumbling something incoherent.

  We move deeper inside the church. Once again Rico takes the lead, checking things out before motioning me to his side. “Check this out,” he says. A woman’s black cape is draped on a folding chair in a corner, and a man’s top hat rests on it. Hymnbooks lie on dusty sills. It all looks as if it’s been here for decades, exactly as people left them. But next to the items several tapered candles burn on a wrought iron holder. “Ain’t seen that before. Somebody’s been here,” Rico says. He points to several silver coins scattered on the floor.

  “Maybe someone was lost or caught in the storm,” I suggest, “looking for shelter and for strength from prayer?”

  Snow falls across a broken skylight above us, the flakes shimmering as they catch candlelight and blend with smoke and dust. A huge wooden cross is propped against the altar, and crime scene tape lies in ribbons throughout the church. There are chalk markings on walls and on the floor, and deep vermillion stains streak wooden planks and spatter walls. A figure of Christ seems to look right through me with soulful eyes. Blood trickles from His nail wounds and a crown of thorns pierces His forehead and skull. Plaster angels flank the altar; eyes turned upward, hands clasped in perpetual prayer.

  Rico and I move down the center aisle. Dead flowers are strewn in pews, stained glass windows are cracked and faded, and clay bowls and used candles lay in a pile on a smaller altar by the church’s rear exit. There are fresh flowers inside a crystal vase and herbs before a strange wooden carving. “African God,” Rico says. He picks up the object and turns it over in his hands. “I think it’s evil, bad news.”

  Something familiar catches my eye, a tin of coffee next to the carving. Island Blend From Jamaica. It’s decorated with yellow parrots and colored chameleons. My sister gave me several cans months ago. I drink it all the time. She told me a friend brought back suitcases of it after a trip to Jamaica. I’ve never seen it anywhere else. “Look familiar?” I ask Rico.

  He nods. “Allie’s blend. I had some at my place too. Police took it, I guess. Good stuff though.” He looks around. “We’re not alone. This place is haunted, don’t you feel it?”

  Floorboards creak and the church seems to get darker as if in answer. Shadows that weren’t at the altar moments ago are moving in the candlelight now. As Rico and I stand there mesmerized, trying to understand what’s happening all around us, the shadowy images become more concrete and begin to take shape. A couple appears before my eyes. I recognize the beautiful woman as the same person from my dreams. Wearing the black cape I’d seen draped over the folding chair, she kneels at the altar, a songbook clutched in her hands as a ghostly voice erupts, bringing forth music both somber and eerie. A man wearing a black top hat stands beside her. He touches her shoulder, and she turns and looks our way. Her lips move slowly, her words drifting into this world like the falling snow. “Nothing is as it seems. Leave this street in Harlem before the Mojo Man takes your soul like he took mine.” The vision dissipates and it is replaced by swirling snow.

  “Did you see her?” I ask. “Who’s Mojo Man? Did you hear her?”

  I can’t be sure he has, but there is a level of fear in Rico’s eyes that wasn’t there before. His hand shakes when he touches mine. “Mojo Man, I think that’s what your sister called that guy, can’t remember for sure—”

  I hear movement in the entranceway. It sounds as though someone has jumped onto the cement floor. Snow falling from the broken skylight intensifies and one of the stone angels shifts on her pedestal, stretches long fingers and begins to stroke her harp. Blood drops fall from the strings and she weeps like a lost child. “Rico, do you…”

  He stares at the wooden crucifix, as if in a trance now, and I can only wonder what he sees. I hear a strange sound in the distance, an odd wailing noise that gets louder and louder until it sounds as if it’s right on top of us. Rico jumps and blinks his eyes. “Sirens,” he says dully. “Fucking sirens.”

  Suddenly people are talking, there are voices everywhere and someone seems to be giving orders. Fist
s bang on wood and the door springs open. We both turn quickly to see Daniel standing in the doorway. Snow swirls behind him as several of New York’s finest scatter about the church. Two officers remain at Daniel’s side. Red and blue lights reflect from the street behind them. “Rico, step away from the girl.” Daniel’s face is stoic as he draws his weapon, assumes a shooting stance and moves slowly down the aisle. His semi-automatic is aimed directly at Rico’s head. “Make me tell you again and I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

  Rico confusedly steps aside and raises his hands. “Whoa, man, take it easy. I ain’t done nothing.”

  Daniel’s stride quickens, and when he reaches Rico he turns him and pushes him against the wall.

  “What the fuck?” Rico snaps. “This ain’t breaking and entering, it’s a church. Sanctuary and all that shit, man, what’s wrong with you?”

  “It’s a crime scene, and the only kind of sanctuary you’ll be getting is at Rikers. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” Rico obeys and Daniel handcuffs him. “Rico Patterson, you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain—”

  “Fuck, man, I couldn’t kill a canary. You got no evidence against me.”

  Daniel reaches inside Rico’s jacket then inside his shirt and pulls out the turquoise necklace. “This belonged to a woman named Lucia Martineau. We found her dead in this church.”

  “No, it belonged to Allie. She gave it to me. You’re wrong.”

  “It was handmade for Lucia. Her father gave it to her when she graduated from high school. He said she never took it off. Wanted to know if we’d found it when he viewed the body at the morgue. There’s only one like it. We found more evidence at your office, other trophies. We busted open walls, tore up the floors. You’re fucked.”

  “Man, I’ve been set up.” Rico turns to me. “Gina, you gotta tell him Allie was fucking evil. She did this to me, gave me all kinds of shit, set me up. Gotta be. Gina, no matter what, don’t lose touch with me, come see me in that hellhole they’re bringing me to. You gotta help me.”

  “I will,” I say as Daniel pushes Rico again. “Stop it, you don’t have to be so rough with him, he’s not resisting.”

  “We’ve been watching you,” Daniel says to Rico, as if he didn’t hear me. “Followed you here, just like we do every day. Usually we’d let you light your candles and do your thing but we couldn’t take any chances today, not with the girl, not with the new evidence.” He spins Rico away from the wall and into the hands of two waiting officers. “Get this scum out of here.”

  “Man, I haven’t been here, haven’t lit any candles. I was with Gina, sleeping at her place last night. You fucking know that.”

  “You were here the other night, the night before, and the night before that. Kids from the projects wandered in earlier then ran out of here like banshees according to the plainclothes guys watching this place. They must’ve rekindled the candles before they ran.”

  “Bull-fucking-shit!” Rico’s eyes fill with tears. “I’m innocent!”

  “You’re a killer and a liar.” Daniel nods to one of the officers. “Franco, get him out of my face.”

  The two policemen escort Rico from the church none too gently as he continues to call my name and protest his innocence.

  Daniel takes my arm and guides me outside. I’m so pissed off I can’t even look at him. We watch as they push Rico into a squad car. “Gina!” he yells, “Don’t forget about me, don’t lose touch! Don’t leave me in there! Don’t leave me!”

  And then he’s in the car, the doors slam shut and the cruiser drives away.

  “I’m sick to my stomach,” I tell Daniel. “Rico’s no killer. This is all a mistake.”

  “He’s doomed,” Daniel says. “He’s getting the needle.” He looks back at the church. “Place gives me the creeps. Are you OK?”

  “He’s not a killer. You treated him with no respect. He didn’t deserve that.”

  Daniel turns to me. There’s anger in his face, but his voice softens when he speaks to me. “All the evidence points to him, Gina.”

  “I don’t give a shit what points to him, Rico’s innocent.”

  “That’s for a jury to decide, my job’s just to get him off the street. Don’t sweat it. You’re safe now.”

  “I was always safe with him. He wouldn’t hurt me, he wouldn’t hurt anyone. Look, I know Rico. I think maybe my sister did set him up. She may have even set me and a lot of other people up too. That necklace, I saw it at my sister’s place. Rico was telling the truth, she gave it to him.”

  “There’s lots of jewelry that looks similar to it. You can buy it on Broadway for two bucks. This chick’s got racks of it, all different color stones. The one Rico was wearing had a real gold chain, real turquoise. Couldn’t have been the same one your sister had.”

  “I saw it, and I’ll swear to that,” I insist, but I begin to doubt myself. Did Allie’s necklace have a gold chain? Were the stones real?

  Daniel looks straight ahead, ignoring me. “Are you hungry? My shift’s up, can I buy you lunch? Bet you haven’t even had breakfast yet today. You look like you haven’t eaten or slept in days.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you. Just get me a cab, or take me to a bus stop. And don’t fucking drive by my apartment again. I don’t need your protection.”

  “Gina, cool off. At least let me take you home.”

  He tries to take my arm but I yank it away. “Fine.” The storm has gotten worse. I’ll take his ride back downtown, but that’s it. “Take me home then.”

  He opens the car door and I get in. Neither of us speaks as he pulls away from the church.

  When we reach 125th Street he says, “That whole street back there, there’s lots of stories about it. It’s a perfect place for murder, perfect place to feed a lunatic’s sick longings.”

  “Rico’s no lunatic, he’s good people.” After a moment I ask, “What kind of stories?”

  “Turn of the century a family from Jamaica came to New York. They had money and they bought up all the houses on that street. Rumor has it a man named Mojo DeCanne made his money back on the islands illegally—some say dope, others say bootlegging—who the hell knows what’s true and what isn’t? He practiced Voodoo. The whole family did.” A traffic light turns red and we come to a stop. “From everything I’ve always read about it, Voodoo is a healing religion that’s been unfairly stigmatized by Hollywood and old novels. Most people think it’s evil, but far as I know it’s not any better or worse than any other religion. Still, some people twist it and use its power for all the wrong things. Supposedly some groups get involved in human sacrifice. DeCanne was guilty of that. He’d hold ceremonies in that church, killing for the blood. He said it gave him power. Guy killed hundreds of people, mostly poor immigrants lured to their deaths with promises of food and money. It went on for years.”

  “How’d he get away with murdering people like that?”

  “Church got raided for something or other one night, gambling, prostitution, DeCanne ran all his business from that church. Sick, really sick. Anyway the cops got more than they bargained for during that raid. They found bones and decomposing bodies in the basement. They were stacked one on top of the other. It was a slaughterhouse. DeCanne got sent upstate, died in the electric chair, but he told people all the blood, all the killings, gave him power to overcome death as we know it and how it would allow him to come back, would allow him to bring other dead, demons and maybe the Devil himself back with him. That, my girl, is fucking perversion.”

  “And you think Rico did shit like that? He wouldn’t step on a bug. Are you out of your mind?”

  Daniel gives me an annoyed sideways glance. “I think he got wrapped up in the stories, in the legends that DeCanne could raise the dead, could have power over others. Evidence says Rico killed a lot of people, Gina.”

  “You’re wrong. He’s a sweet guy down on his luck, that’s all. He’s an easy mark for somebody like you.”

  “Somebody like me,
huh?” He seems amused by this. The light turns red and Daniel lifts his hands off the steering wheel then slams them back down so violently it startles me. He pulls into traffic, almost hitting a yellow cab before he fishtails down Fifth. “Look, you think you’re the only one who ever lost a sister? I lost my kid sister to a maniac like Rico. Whole family thought he was a nice guy, always coming to the house to pick up my sister, always getting her home by the time my father wanted, even told us he moved here from Philly, was going to Parsons to be a designer. My mother loved the sonofabitch, and she of all people normally knows when something isn’t right, she can pick out a loser a mile away. One night this guy didn’t take my sister home, and two days later they found her dead in an empty house in Queens. This fucking creep lived there, was sleeping in that house and eating his meals there with my sister’s body propped up on his living room couch. Three other bodies were found buried in the back yard. Yeah, he was a real fucking sweet guy down on his luck too.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I truly am, Daniel, but I’m telling you as someone who knows him, Rico isn’t capable of such things.”

  “Look, get it through your head that he’s a con, a master at pulling the wool over people’s eyes, OK? I deal with scum like him all the time, I know how they work. They get people to trust them and then they move in and steal and exploit and sometimes even murder if it suits their purposes. And they’re almost always aligned with an innocent like you. They’ll mutilate and torture your sister, your kids and your mother, because they’re brains are wired by the fucking Devil himself.”

  “Not Rico. I’ve known him a long time. I’ve—”

  “Wake up. Stop being such a pushover.”

  “I’m not a pushover. You don’t know me.”

  “I know a million girls like you. White, pretty, from nice middle class families. You were raised with blinders on. You don’t see the real world like I do every single day.”

  “Oh, give me a break.”