Falling Angel

by William Hjortsberg

  “I’ll take you there now,” I said.

  THIRTY-TWO

  I parked the Chevy close to the corner of Eighth Avenue and 23rd Street, in front of the old Grand Opera House, once the headquarters of the Erie Railroad. A citadel where “Jubilee” Jim Fisk barricaded himself from his irate stockholders and where his body lay in state after Ned Stokes gunned him down on the back stairs of the Grand Central Hotel, it was presently the home of a neighborhood R.K.O.

  “Where’s the Grand Central Hotel?” Epiphany asked as I locked the car.

  “Down on lower Broadway above Bleecker Street. It’s called the Broadway Central now. Once upon a time, it was the La Farge House.”

  “You sure know a lot about the city,” she said, taking my arm as we crossed the avenue.

  “Detectives are like cab drivers; they pick up the geography on the job.” I subjected Epiphany to a running line of tour-bus patter all the way downtown. She seemed to enjoy playing the part of a sightseer and encouraged my pendantry with occasional questions.

  The cast-iron façade of an old commercial building on 23rd Street caught her fancy. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in this part of town before.”

  We passed Cavanaugh’s Restaurant. “Diamond Jim Brady used to court Lillian Russell in there. Back in the nineties the district was very fashionable. Madison Square was the center of town, and over on Sixth were all the swank department stores, Stern Brothers, Altman’s, Siegel-Cooper, Hugh O’Neill’s. The old buildings are used as lofts now, but they still look the same. Here’s where I live.”

  Epiphany craned her neck and stared up at the redbrick Victorian extravagance of the Chelsea. Her smile told me she was charmed by the delicate iron balconies embellishing every floor. “Which one is yours?”

  I pointed. “Sixth floor. Under the arch.”

  “Let’s go in,” she said.

  Aside from the fireplace with its carved black griffins, the lobby was unprepossessing. Epiphany paid no more attention to it than she had to the bronze plaques outside. She did manage a double-take when a white-haired woman walking a leashed leopard strode off the self-service elevator.

  I had two rooms and a kitchenette with a small balcony overlooking the street. Not very grand by New York standards, but it might have been J. P. Morgan’s mansion from the look on Epiphany’s face when I unlocked the door.

  “I love high ceilings,” she said, draping her coat over the back of the couch. “They make you feel important.”

  I took her coat and hung it with mine in the closet. “These higher than the Plaza?”

  “About the same. Your rooms are bigger.”

  “But no Palm Court downstairs. Can I get you a drink?”

  She thought that would be nice, so I went back to the kitchenette and mixed us both a highball. When I returned, carrying the glasses, she was leaning against the door jamb, staring in at the double bed in the other room.

  “Those are the accommodations,” I said, handing her a drink. “We’ll work out some kind of arrangement.”

  “I’m sure we will,” she said, her voice husky with innuendo. She took a sip, proclaimed it just right, and sat down on the couch by the fireplace. “Does this work?”

  “It does when I remember to buy wood.”

  “I’ll remind you. It’s a sin not to use it.”

  I opened my attaché case and showed her the el Çifr poster. “Know anything about this character?”

  “El Çifr? He’s some kind of swami. Been around Harlem for years, since I was a little girl anyway. He has his own small sect but preaches anywhere he’s invited, for Daddy Grace, Father Divine, the Muslims, you name it. Even from the pulpit of the Abyssinian Baptist once. I get his posters in the mail a couple times a year and stick them in the window of the shop same as I do for the Red Cross and Sister Kenny. You know, public service.”

  “Have you ever seen him in person?”

  “Never. What do you want to know about Çifr for? He have something to do with Johnny Favorite?”

  “Maybe. I can’t say for sure.”

  “Meaning you don’t want to.”

  I said: “Let’s get something settled right at the start. Don’t pump me for information.”

  “Sorry. Just curious. I figure I’ve got a stake in this, too.”

  “You’re in over your head. That’s why certain things you’re better off not knowing.”

  “Afraid I’ll tell someone else?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m afraid someone else will think you’ve got something to tell.”

  The ice rattled against the sides of Epiphany’s empty glass. I made her a fresh drink and another for myself and sat next to her on the couch. “Cheers,” she said as we clinked glasses.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Epiphany,” I said. “I’m no closer to finding Johnny Favorite than I was the first night we met. He was your father. Your mother must have talked about him. Try and remember anything she might have told you, however insignificant it may seem.”

  “She hardly mentioned him.”

  “She must have told you something.”

  Epiphany toyed with an earring, a small cameo edged in gold. “Mama said he was a person of strength and power. She called him a magician. Obeah was only one of many avenues he explored. Mama said he taught her a lot about the black arts, more than she wanted to know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Play with fire and you’re liable to get burned.”

  “Your mother wasn’t interested in black magic?”

  “Mama was a good woman; her spirit was pure. She once told me that Johnny Favorite was as close to true evil as she ever wanted to come.”

  “That must have been his attraction,” I said.

  “Maybe. It’s usually some badass makes a young girl’s heart beat faster.”

  Is yours beating faster now, I wondered. “Can you think of anything else your mother told you?”

  Epiphany smiled, her gaze as unwavering as a cat’s. “Well, there is one thing more. She said he was a fabulous lover.”

  I cleared my throat. She leaned back against the couch cushions, waiting for me to make my move. I excused myself and went into the bathroom. The maid had left her mop and bucket leaning against the full-length mirror, saving herself a trip to the utility dosed at quitting time. Her limp grey smock hung over the mop handle like a misplaced shadow.

  Zipping my trousers, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I told myself I was a fool to be messing around with a suspect. Unwise and unethical, also dangerous. Tend to business and sleep on the couch. My reflection leered back in a totally brainless manner.

  Epiphany smiled when I returned to the room. She had removed her shoes and suit jacket. Her slender neck flowed into the open collar of her blouse with a grace that reminded me of hawks in flight. “Care for a refill?” I reached for her empty glass.

  “Why not?”

  I made them stiff, killing the bottle, and when I handed one to Epiphany I noticed the top two buttons on her blouse were undone. I hung my jacket over the back of a chair and loosened my necktie. Epiphany’s topaz eyes followed every move. Silence enclosed us like a bell jar.

  My pulse hammered at my temples as I dropped to one knee on the couch beside her. I took her unfinished drink and placed it next to mine on the coffee table. Epiphany’s lips parted slightly. I heard a sharp intake of breath when I reached behind the nape of her neck and drew her to me.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The first time on the couch was a frenzied tangle of clothing and limbs. Three celibate weeks did little to enhance my lovemaking skills. I promised a better performance if given a second chance.

  “Has nothing to do with chance.” Epiphany slipped her unbuttoned blouse off her shoulders. “Sex is how we speak to the gods.”

  “Let’s continue the conversation in the bedroom?” I kicked free of my tangled trousers and shorts.

  “I’m serious.” She spoke in a whisper as she removed my necktie and slowly
unbuttoned my shirt. “There is a story older than Adam and Eve. That the world began with the copulation of the gods. Us being together is like a mirror of Creation.”

  “Don’t get too serious.”

  “It’s not serious, it’s joyful.” She dropped her brassiere to the floor and unzippered her wrinkled skirt. “The female is the rainbow; the male, lightning and thunder. Here. Like this.”

  Wearing only nylons and her garter belt, Epiphany arched into a supple backbend with the ease of a yoga master. Her body was lithe and strong. Delicate muscles rippled beneath her fawn-colored flesh. She was fluid as a flight of birds.

  Or a rainbow, for that matter; her hands touched the floor behind her, back bent in a perfect arc. Her slow, easy movement was like all natural wonders, a glimpse at perfection. She lowered herself until she was supported only by her shoulders, elbows and the soles of her feet. It was the most carnal position I had ever seen a woman assume. “I am the rainbow,” she murmured.

  “Lightning strikes twice.” I knelt before her, a fervent acolyte, and gripped the altar of her open thighs, but the mood was broken when she closed the distance like a limbo dancer and swallowed me up. The rainbow turned into a tigress. Her taut belly throbbed against me. “Don’t move,” she whispered, contracting hidden muscles with a rhythmic pulse. It was hard to keep from yelling when I came.

  Epiphany settled against my chest. I brushed my lips across her damp forehead. “It’s better with drums,” she said.

  “You do this in public?”

  “There are times when spirits possess you. Banda or at a bambouché, times when you can dance and drink all night, yes, and fuck till dawn.”

  “What’s banda and bambouché?”

  Epiphany smiled and toyed with my nipples. “Banda’s a dance in honor of Guédé. Very savage and wild and sacred, and always done in the hounfort of the société. What you would call the voodoo temple.”

  “Toots said ‘humfo.’”

  “Different dialect; same word.”

  “And bambouché?”

  “Bambouché’s just a party. Habitants of the société letting off a little steam.”

  “Something like a church social?”

  “Uh-huh, but a whole lot more fun.”

  We spent the afternoon like naked children, laughing, taking showers, raiding the icebox, conversing with the gods. Epiphany found a Puerto Rican station on the radio, and we danced until our bodies ran with sweat. When I suggested going out for dinner, my giggling mambo led me to the kitchenette and lathered our privates with whipped cream. It was a sweeter feast than Cavanaugh’s ever served Diamond Jim and his buxom Lil.

  And as it grew dark, we picked our clothes off the floor and retired to the bedroom, lighting several plumber’s candles discovered in the utility drawer. In the pale light her body glowed like tree-ripened fruit. You wanted to taste her all over.

  Between tastes, we talked. I asked Epiphany where she was born.

  “The Woman’s Hospital on 110th Street. But I was raised by my grandmother until I was six in Bridgetown, Barbados. What about you?”

  “A little place in Wisconsin you’ve never heard of. Just outside Madison. By now it’s probably part of the city.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you go back much.”

  “I haven’t been back since I went in the army. That was the week after Pearl Harbor.”

  “Why not? Can’t be that bad.”

  “There was nothing there for me anymore. My parents were both killed when I was in an army hospital. I might have gone home for the funeral but was in no condition to travel. After my discharge it was just a bunch of fading memories.”

  “Were you the only child?”

  I nodded. “Adopted. But that made them love me all the more.” I said this like a Boy Scout pledging allegiance. Belief in their love was what I had in place of patriotism. It endured the years that have eroded even their features. Try as I might, I remembered only blurred snapshots from the past.

  “Wisconsin,” Epiphany said. “No wonder you know ‘ about church socials.”

  “Also square dancing, hotrods, bake sales, Four-H, and keggers.”

  “Keggers?”

  “Kind of a high school bambouché.”

  She fell asleep in my arms, and I lay awake for a long time afterward watching her. Her teacup breasts rose and fell with the gentle movement of her breathing, nipples like chocolate candy kisses in the candlelight. Her eyelids fluttered as dream shadows passed behind them. She looked like a little girl. Her innocent expression bore no resemblance to the ecstatic grimace masking her features when she arched howling beneath me like a tigress.

  It was madness to have gotten involved with her. Those slender fingers knew how to grip a knife. She sacrificed animals without a qualm. If she killed Toots and Margaret Krusemark, I was in big trouble.

  I can’t remember falling asleep. I drifted off trying to contain my feelings of tenderness for a girl whom I had every reason to believe was extremely dangerous. Just like it said on the “Wanted” circulars.

  My dreams were a succession of nightmares. Violent, distorted images alternated with scenes of utter desolation. I was lost in a city whose name I did not know. The streets were empty, and when I came to an intersection, the signposts were all blank. None of the buildings seemed familiar. They were windowless and very tall.

  I saw a figure in the distance posting a billboard against a blank wall. As he glued the random strips, an image began to form. I walked closer. The face of Louis Cyphre leered down from the billboard, his joker’s smile three yards wide like the grinning Mr. Tilyou at Steeplechase Park. I called to the workman and he turned, gripping his long-handled brush. It was Cyphre. He was laughing.

  The billboard parted and opened like a theatre curtain, revealing an unending expanse of rolling wooded hills. Cyphre dropped his brush and gluepot and ran inside. I was close behind, dodging through the underbrush like a panther. Somehow, I lost him and with that came the revelation that I was lost as well.

  The game trail I followed meandered past parks and meadows. I stopped to drink from a brook and found a heelprint in the moss along the bank. Moments later, a shrill cry pierced the tranquility.

  I heard it a second time and hurried in that direction. A third scream brought me to the edge of a small clearing. At the far side a bear mauled a woman. I ran toward them. The huge carnivore shook his limp victim like a rag doll. I saw the girl’s bleeding face. It was Epiphany.

  I hurled myself at the bear without thinking. The beast reared and swatted me head over heels. There was no mistaking those ursine features. In spite of fangs and dripping muzzle, the bear looked exactly like Cyphre.

  When I looked again, sprawled yards away, it was Cyphre. He was naked in the tall grass and instead of mauling Epiphany he was making love to her. I lunged forward and caught him by the throat, pulling him off the moaning girl. We wrestled beside her in the grass. Although he was stronger, I had him by the throat. I squeezed until his face darkened with blood. Epiphany screamed behind me. Her screams woke me up.

  I was sitting in bed, sheets wound about me like a shroud. My legs straddled Epiphany’s waist. Her eyes were wide with terror and pain. I had her around the throat, my hands locked in a death grip. She was no longer screaming.

  “Oh, my God! Are you all right?”

  Epiphany gasped for breath, scuttling to a safe corner of the bed when I took my weight off her. “You must be crazy,” she coughed.

  “Sometimes I’m afraid I am.”

  “What got into you?” Epiphany rubbed her neck where the dark imprints of my fingers marred her flawless complexion.

  “I don’t know. Would you like some water?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I went out to the kitchenette and returned with a cold glass of ice water. “Thanks.” She smiled as I handed it to her. “You treat all your girlfriends like that?”

  “Not as a rule. I was having a dream.”

  “What kind o
f dream?”

  “Someone was hurting you.”

  “Someone you know?”

  “Yes. I’ve been dreaming about him every night. Crazy, violent dreams. Nightmares. And the same man keeps turning up, mocking me. Causing pain. Tonight I dreamt he was hurting you.”

  Epiphany put down the glass and took my hand. “Sounds like some boko’s put a powerful wanga on you.”

  “Speak English, doll.”

  Epiphany laughed. “I better educate you fast. A boko is a hungan who is evil. Who deals only in black magic.”

  “A hungan?”

  “A priest of Obeah. Same as a mambo, like me, only a man. Wanga’s what you’d call an evil curse or charm. You know, a hex, a spell. What you say about your dreams makes me think some sorcerer’s got you in his power.”

  I felt my heart beat faster. “Someone’s working magic on me?”

  “That’s how it looks.”

  “Would the man in my dreams be the one?”

  “Most likely. You know him?”

  “Sort of. Let’s say I’ve gotten involved with him recently.”

  “Is it Johnny Favorite?”

  “No, but you’re getting warm.”

  Epiphany gripped my arm. “That’s the sort of bad business my father was into. He was a devil worshiper.”

  “Aren’t you?” I stroked her hair.

  Epiphany pulled away, offended. “Is that what you think?”

  “I know you’re a voodoo mambo.”

  “I am a high-type mambo. I work for good, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know about evil. When your adversary is potent, it’s best to stay on guard.”

  I put my arm around her. “Think you could make a charm that would protect me in my dreams?”

  “If you were a believer, I could.”

  “I’m gaining faith by the minute. Sorry if I hurt you.”

  “That’s all right.” She kissed my ear. “I know a way to make all the pain go away.”

  And she did.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I opened my eyes to dust motes dancing in a narrow slice of early-morning sunlight. Epiphany lay beside me, the covers thrown back over her slender arm and cinnamon shoulder. I sat up and reached for a cigarette, settling against my pillow. The line of sunlight bisected the bed, traveling the topography of our bodies like a thin, golden highway.