“And I will pursue inquiries about Mr. Capuzzo,” said Max.
“Where will you start?” Nathan asked—a little anxiously, I thought.
“The widow,” Max replied. “I shall visit her under the guise of discussing the details of her late husband’s upcoming wake.”
“Oh.” Nathan looked sad for a moment. I supposed he was thinking wistfully about the large Capuzzo family who had some money and were easy to work with. And also thinking about how they might abandon their sentimental attachment to this funeral home after meeting Max.
“I’ll go with you, Doc,” said Lucky.
“Oh?” Now Nathan looked alarmed. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Alberto? The Capuzzos might recognize your name.”
“Hmm. Good point.” Lucky nodded. But Nathan’s relief was short-lived. “I’ll use a fake name. Do you think I should wear a disguise?”
“No,” I said quickly, recalling Lucky’s brief masquerade as Sugarplum, one of Santa’s elves, when we were investigating the mystical mayhem at Fenster & Co. during the holidays. I had seldom seen anything more tragic than Lucky in that disguise, and I shunned anything that might keep the memory alive—such as another disguise.
“Yeah, you’re right, kid,” he said. “My face ain’t famous.”
“Actually, it is,” I said, “but only in very specific venues.”
Nathan cleared his throat. John looked at Nelli, who lay snoozing quietly on the floor at Max’s feet.
Lucky said, “So a phony name is all I need to go undercover with the doc.”
“Oh, good,” Nathan said in a thin voice, his expression strained.
Well, he had wanted our help. He had no one to blame but himself.
“So we’re goin’ to pump the widow for info about Capuzzo, while posing as associates of Antonelli’s Funeral Home.”
“It’s a fine plan,” Nathan said wanly.
Lucky looked at me. “And you’ll pump Lopez about Quinn.”
I nodded, feeling a little wan myself.
Max said to the Chens, “Be sure to notify us if anything else alarming occurs.”
“We will,” said John. “I have to admit, I’m looking forward to getting Mr. Capuzzo out of here.”
I rose to my feet. “Well, it’s been a long day for all of us.”
“It’s a New Year I’ll certainly never forget,” said Nathan, also rising.
As we all left the office and headed toward the building exit, John took my elbow and guided me out of earshot of the three older men, who were chatting about the fire at Yee & Sons, Max’s sooty appearance, and the fact that Nelli was probably hungry by now.
“It has been a long day,” John said to me in a low voice, “but I’m kind of keyed up. I don’t suppose you’d like to go somewhere and . . . just talk for a while? We could get a drink or something to eat . . .”
Since I had a shrewd suspicion that he wanted to talk about me and Lopez—or maybe about me and him—I was relieved to have a good excuse for declining. “I’m sorry, John, I can’t. Max has had an exhausting day, including being caught in that fire at the Yees’ store. He’s older than he looks, and I think he’s running on fumes by now. I want to get him home, get a hot meal into him, and take Nelli for her late walk so that he doesn’t have to.”
“Right. Of course.” John nodded, obviously understanding my concern. “He does look pretty worn out. Okay, well, maybe next time?”
“Sure.” I pulled out my phone as I said over my shoulder, “Max? What’s the name of that pet transport service you use? I really don’t think we’ll get a taxi.”
Looking at the face of my phone, I realized I hadn’t checked my messages yet.
“Oh, don’t call a service,” said Nathan. “John will give you a lift in the hearse.”
“Absolutely,” said John.
“How thoughtful,” Max said with a tired smile.
“Oh.” I put my phone back in my pocket. “Thanks.”
• • •
Max lived in a roomy but spartan apartment above his perfectly legitimate business interest, Zadok’s Rare & Used Books, which was in an old townhouse on a narrow street in the West Village.
The bookstore had a small, fiercely loyal customer base, and it got some foot traffic from curious passersby. But the shop was primarily an inconspicuous home base for Max’s demanding role as the Magnum Collegium’s local representative, responsible for protecting New York and its inhabitants from Evil.
His laboratory, where strange and magical things happened, was in the cellar below the store. Among other things, it was down there that he had conjured Nelli last year. Max’s mystical familiar had entered this dimension as a large, furry, enthusiastic champion in the perpetual confrontation against Evil—and had scared me to death at the time, before I realized she wasn’t some voracious hellhound intent on ripping out our throats.
Looking at her now, I reflected—not for the first time—that she’d be a more convenient comrade if she could speak, or write, or at least mime. If only she could tell us why she had reacted so hysterically to encountering Quinn. Was it something about the way he smelled? Or the way he moved? Was there an evil light glowing in his eyes that the rest of us couldn’t see? Did other dogs react negatively to him, or was the triggering factor something that only a mystical being could sense? I suspected it was the latter, since Quinn’s life would be awfully inconvenient if every canine who saw him went as crazy as Nelli did today.
I had initially hoped Nelli had made a mistake—perhaps confused Quinn with someone or something else and was reacting on the basis of misidentification. But after what had happened at the funeral home as soon as Quinn visited the place . . . No, it was no mistake. I felt certain of that. Nelli had definitely sensed something dangerous about him.
But what?
“I wish Nelli could talk,” I said to Max in frustration.
“If she could talk, then she might not be able to detect dangerous entities or contribute powers to our work which I lack,” he said placidly. “A mystical familiar possesses gifts which are not available to other types of beings. Just as you and I possess the gift of speech, which is not available to an individual of Nelli’s nature.”
“Hmph.”
“This soup is delicious,” said Max. “Exactly what I needed.”
“It is good,” I agreed, and I ate some more of mine.
John had dropped us off here a little while ago, along with Nelli (who fit comfortably in the roomy back of the hearse), and was now on his way to Queens to drop off Lucky. A widower with a daughter who lived out of state, Lucky had sold the family home and bought a small condo in Forest Hills, not far from where Victor Gambello, the Shy Don, had an impressive house with a large, well-manicured yard. (I had seen it a couple of times on TV, in the background behind journalists reporting on Gambello indictments or deaths.)
I had gone to the local deli to pick up some hot soup and sandwiches while Max showered and changed, and then he joined me in the bookstore for this quiet, companionable meal. The night was bitterly cold, but we were cozy and warm now, relaxing in a pair of comfortable old easy chairs next to the bookstore’s little gas fireplace.
The shop had well-worn hardwood floors, a broad-beamed ceiling, and dusky rose walls. It contained a rabbit warren of tall bookcases stuffed with a wide variety of books about the occult printed in more than a dozen languages. The stock ranged from recent paperbacks to old, rare, and very expensive leather-bound tomes. There was also a small refreshments station which Max kept stocked with coffee, tea, and cookies for his customers, and a large, attractive old walnut table with books, papers, and various paraphernalia on it. Along the far wall of the shop there was an extremely large wooden cupboard that happened to be possessed; although the cupboard was prone to alarming displays of smoke, noise, shrieks, and agitated rattling, it had been silent and dorma
nt lately—which was a relief, since Nelli barked furiously when it acted up. I’d had enough drama for one day.
There was a stairwell at the back of the shop. One staircase descended to the laboratory. The other led up to Max’s apartment on the second floor—and to Hieronymus’s rooms on the third floor. The evil apprentice was long gone, but I still thought of those rooms as his—and not in a happy way.
I didn’t regret what we had done to that homicidally maniacal creep, not for a moment; but it nonetheless haunted me at times. Dissolution, which was his fate, was not the same thing as death, but it was a lot like it—so much like it that the difference seemed pretty trifling to me. I hadn’t dissolved him, so to speak, but I had certainly helped. And I’d do it again, too . . . But that didn’t mean it was something I could ever tell Lopez about.
They say that secrets are bad for a relationship. While I stared into the glowing flames of the gas fire, feeling pleasantly full, I reflected that the truth could be bad for it, too. I wished Lopez hadn’t found out that I was the one who smashed in his car window and stole his fortune cookie. At the time, I had felt too panic-stricken by the sight of that deadly confection to realize—or care—how conspicuous my behavior was.
Oh, well. It couldn’t be helped. He knew, and I’d just have to deal with that. Given the same set of circumstances, after all, I’d do exactly the same thing again. The cookie had to be removed and neutralized—and immediately, too. Lopez would have died very soon (perhaps only moments) after that fragile, murderous thing sustained any damage—such as being broken open, as fortune cookies usually were.
When Max finished eating, I insisted he go straight up to bed while I took Nelli for her walk. It was a bitterly cold night and the sidewalks were a mess—slushy, icy, and filthy. While Nelli, now dressed in a mauve vest lined with faux fur, took her time about sniffing every revolting object lying on the street, I decided I might as well take advantage of the relative privacy out here to phone Lopez and get our argument over with. Then I’d ask him about Quinn.
I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or disappointed when all I got was his voicemail. I left a message asking him to call me back. “I really want to talk to you,” I said. “So call even if it’s late, okay?”
After I got back to the store, I removed Nelli’s vest and sent her upstairs to bed, too, in Max’s apartment. Remembering that I still hadn’t checked my messages—and there had been a call while I was at the funeral home—I decided to warm up for a few minutes before going home. I turned on the electric kettle to make myself a cup of hot tea, then I sat down and looked at my phone.
There was only one message, and it was from Thack, my agent. I supposed he’d found out ABC had been shut down and called to discuss it with me. I hoped he could make sure I at least got paid through the end of the week. I wondered briefly when Ted had found time today to contact Thack, but I was suddenly so depressed by the thought of the lost income that I didn’t follow that train of thought.
It had been a bad winter for me, and I had no financial cushion. I was going to have to start looking for work first thing tomorrow, something that would keep money coming in until I got another acting job. Waitress, retail clerk, office temp . . . I’d have to find something, and soon, or I wouldn’t be able to get through the coming month.
To my surprise, though, Thack’s message was not a condolence call about ABC. He obviously didn’t even know the project had closed down. His message said he needed my filming schedule right away, because D30 wanted me back on set for an unspecified number of days, to reprise my role as Jilly C-Note.
I was so happy, I jumped out of my chair and cheered. Then I looked guiltily at the ceiling for a moment, but I didn’t really think I’d been loud enough to disturb Max.
The Dirty Thirty, known affectionately to fans as D30, was a cult hit on cable television and the most controversial show in a group of prestigious New York-based police dramas all produced by the same company. Their flagship program was Crime and Punishment (aka C&P), and their other big successes were Criminal Motive (the “brainiest” of their shows) and Street Unit (aimed at “the young, hip, now generation,” yet somehow not a disaster).
I had done a couple of bit parts for C&P, and then last summer, I got cast in a juicy role on The Dirty Thirty, playing Jilly C-Note (not her real name), a homeless bisexual junkie prostitute suspected of killing her pimp. (The violent death of her pimp was why Jilly was now homeless.)
D30 scripts were dark, gritty morality plays in which flawed characters had to decide between various bad alternatives and always seemed to wind up making the worst possible choice—even on those rare occasions when they had good intentions. In my episode, the morally bankrupt cops of the corrupt Thirtieth Precinct pressured my character over the murder of her pimp, even though they had no solid evidence against her, in order to pump her for information about other criminal activity in their precinct. They knew but didn’t care (well, not enough to mend their ways) that forcing Jilly to inform on her acquaintances was likely to get her killed. One of the detectives, Jimmy Conway, also used Jilly for sex.
(Most cops, including Lopez, hated D30 with a deep, bitter, and unbridled loathing.)
Detective Jimmy Conway, a lead character in the ensemble cast, was an edgy, tightly wound, emotionally decaying cop struggling with alcoholism and (since getting shot in the first year’s season finale) post-traumatic stress disorder.
I wondered what sort of a basket case Conway would be now that he had been shot again.
Michael Nolan, the actor who played Conway, had suffered two heart attacks before we finished filming my episode. Doing some fast rewrites to explain Nolan’s sudden absence from the show, the writers had pumped two more bullets into Conway and hospitalized him indefinitely.
Most of my scenes had been with him, so as a result of the rewrites to eliminate Nolan from the rest of that ill-fated episode, much of my role had been cut, too. Though I still received full pay, I was very disappointed, since it was a juicy script and an interesting character. The people at C&P Productions kept saying that I had been a pleasure to work with and they felt bad about cutting down my part so much as a result of circumstances. They told Thack they’d find something for me on one of their shows, to make it up to me, and they had auditioned me a couple of times since then, but nothing had come of it.
I had by now assumed I wouldn’t be working for C&P in the foreseeable future. And I certainly hadn’t expected to reprise my role as Jilly C-Note.
I wondered if this meant Michael Nolan was ready to go back to work. Although I hadn’t seen the show (my budget didn’t stretch to a cable TV subscription), I’d heard that since his heart attacks, Nolan had only appeared two or three times as Conway, always lying in a hospital bed, weak and barely verbal. But it had been more than five months since the actor was hospitalized, so he might be in much better shape by now than his character was.
Thrilled at the prospect of doing some well-written and well-paid TV work, and trying not to get my hopes too high (“an unspecified number of days” could mean as little as a half day of work), I started to return Thack’s call—but then I looked at the time and decided to wait until tomorrow.
The best plan now, I realized, would be to head home before it got any later or colder, get a good night’s sleep, and then call Thack first thing tomorrow. I turned off the kettle, turned out the lights, and closed up Max’s shop. I walked toward the subway, floating on the hope that the lousy luck which had plagued me for the past couple of months was finally changing.
On the way home, I tried Lopez one more time. He still wasn’t answering.
6
Thackeray Shackleton had reinvented himself upon moving to New York ten years ago by shedding his past as a Lithuanian-American vampire from Wisconsin, changing his name in tribute to two of his heroes (William Makepeace Thackeray and Sir Ernest Shackleton), and fully embracing his current
incarnation as a cultured man-about-town and reputable theatrical agent. He was also a foodie who somehow managed to stay slim—which was just as well, because he had a fortune invested in his exquisitely tailored suits and casual wear.
As you’d expect of a well-dressed man who loved theater and watched his weight, Thack was gay. He was also a mostly non-practicing Catholic, an avid supporter of the New York Public Library, and a wine snob. None of which had anything to do with his being a hereditary vampire from a long line that extended (at least in theory) all the way back to the Lithuanian medieval warrior king, Gediminas.
I only learned about the vampirism a few months ago. It was, understandably, something that Thack kept very private. For one thing, publicizing his origins would attract precisely the sort of goth guys and vampire groupies whom Thack loathed, while simultaneously repelling the sort of erudite, socially conventional people he identified with. For another, claiming vampirism could easily call his credibility (and sanity) into question in our mundane and judgmental world. Finally, he was, by emphatic choice, largely disengaged from his vampire roots. Thack only drank a little blood during ritual ceremonies on the rare occasions when he visited his very traditional family back in Oshkosh.
Thack seemed a little defensive about turning his back on his heritage, but I understood. After all, I almost never attend synagogue unless I’m visiting my parents back in Madison.
The fact that Thack and I were both from Wisconsin was just coincidence. But it meant we had things in common—a strong work ethic, good manners . . . and a fervent desire not to go back to the region where we had learned those sterling values. Although we were both transplants, we had each sunk our roots deep in New York City and considered it our permanent home. Despite what it cost to live here.
Abracadaver (Esther Diamond Novel) Page 7
