Polterheist: An Esther Diamond Novel

by Laura Resnick

  Things had happened in this bed in the dark that would make it hard to meet his eyes the next time I saw him . . . and, at the same time, I couldn’t wait to see him again. To look into his eyes. To see the way he looked at me. And to . . . Well, yes, to do the same things all over again that were making me blush now as I got out of bed and contemplated going to Max’s place for Saturnalia.

  I glanced at the clock and discovered I was late for the feast.

  I called Max to let him know I’d overslept and would be on my way soon. Then I checked my voicemail, in case I had slept through the phone ringing; but Lopez hadn’t called yet. He probably didn’t want to wake me. I checked for a text message, but he hadn’t sent one.

  With no more time for dawdling, I took a quick shower, then dressed in a festively bright sweater, wool trousers, and warm boots. I put on my coat, scooped up my purse, and left the apartment.

  The streets were eerily quiet and somber, almost funereal. The sky was overcast, dull, and drab, and the city looked dreary and tired in this pale gray light. A cold wind whipped down the street, brutally sharp as it cut through my coat and stung my cheeks. I slipped on some ice and narrowly missed falling. I was shivering by the time I reached the subway; and as I descended the steps, this grimy underground world looked particularly bleak today.

  But none of this could even touch the buoyant happiness that filled me. Only fear of breaking my neck on the ice had kept me from skipping and dancing down the street like the heroine of an old MGM musical. I restrained myself from bursting into song in the subway car, since I didn’t want to frighten the handful of other people who were there; but I kept dissolving into giggles for no reason. It felt as if there was too much effervescence inside me to be contained, and so it kept bubbling out.

  I wondered if he felt this giddy today, too.

  Then I remembered that he’d gotten out of bed about five hours before I did. Bubbling happiness might have faded into bone-deep exhaustion and sleep-deprived irritability by now.

  I should call and cheer him up.

  As soon as I emerged from the subway near Max’s place, I checked my phone for messages (none), then dialed Lopez’s cell. After a few rings, to my disappointment, I got his voicemail.

  “Hey, it’s me,” I said. “I’m awake. I’m on my way to . . . um, an ecumenical meal with friends.” If Lopez was feeling irritable, or wrestling with his report about last night, I didn’t want to wave Max’s name in front of him like a red flag. “I hope you’re not feeling too dead on your feet.” I smiled in silence for a moment, thinking of him listening to this message later. Then I said, my voice a little breathy with emotion, “I’ve been thinking about you ever since I woke up.” I wanted him to know that. I smiled again. “Well . . . call me when you can. I’ll leave my cell on.”

  I put the phone in my pocket, where I’d be able to reach it easily when it rang. Then, stepping gingerly to avoid ice, I made my way to Max’s.

  The celebration was already underway in the bookstore. The big walnut table groaned beneath a buffet of carry-out Chinese food which Max was unpacking, Christmas carols were playing on the sound system, and Lucky and Nelli were playing tug-of-war with her new toy, a stuffed pink mastodon. I had a feeling the toy might not be long for this world.

  Satsy was also there, having decided that a trip to Connecticut today to see his family was a little too much to pile on top of nearly being eaten by a solstice demon last night. Whoopsy Daisy had decided to join us, too. Whoopsy said he usually observed December 25th with a marathon DVD festival of his favorite movies (which included, to my surprise, The Guns of Navarone and True Grit, as well as more predictable fare); but he’d decided that a Saturnalia feast with friends sounded like a more alluring proposition. I was happy to see Whoopsy, and we enjoyed a good old chin-wagging reunion as we caught up on each other’s news.

  I left out that I had spent half the night having hot, passionate sex with a man of his acquaintance—one who had once arrested him, come to think of it; but that was before my time. Whoopsy kept commenting on how good I was looking, how my eyes were sparkling and my cheeks glowed. Feeling like I might dissolve into idiotic giggling, I got up to play with Nelli and her mastodon for a while, rather than keep chatting with a friend who was starting to eye me with speculative curiosity. This thing between me and Lopez was too new and too private to talk about yet—even to friends, even in a vague way.

  At Max’s urging, I picked up a plate and started piling Chinese food on it. That was when I realized I was famished. I ate a small mountain of food, then went back for seconds.

  Some time after we finished eating, Whoopsy and Satsy invited us all to join them in going to a gathering of Pony Expressive employees and patrons at a Soho loft; but we declined, too tired for a big party. So we wished them happy holidays and waved them off.

  “By the way,” Satsy said to me, “I invited Lou to this party. I’ll let you know if he shows up.”

  I wished Satsy lucky with his heartthrob from Fenster’s receiving docks.

  A little later, as I sat in one of the comfortable chairs by the gas fire, feeling full, warm, and content, a phone rang. My heart leaped with excitement for a moment, until I realized with disappointment that it was Lucky’s phone, not mine.

  He checked the screen and said, “It’s the boss.”

  “The Don?” I asked.

  Lucky nodded as he put the phone to his ear. “Yo, boss. Buon Natale! Come va?” They exchanged some family news, and then Lucky said to us, “The Don sends you both his best wishes. He says, ‘May your Christmas be merry, and may the coming year be sweet and prosperous for you both!’ He wants you to know how much he appreciates your help in clearing up this unfortunate matter and removing the suspicion that was so unfairly and unjustly placed on his family. The Gambellos are now twice indebted to you both, and the family doesn’t forget who its friends are.”

  I felt a little ambivalent about being so warmly regarded by a notorious mob boss. But I smiled without reserve, so as not to offend Lucky.

  “Please share our warmest solstice and Saturnalia greetings with Mr. Gambello, and our wishes for his good health and happiness in the year to come,” said Max.

  “Send him our Hanukkah greetings, too,” I said. “Shalom.”

  Their conversation turned to business matters after that, and Max and I chatted casually as we started clearing up the food and plates. We packed away the leftovers in the little fridge, then sat down again with a glass of well-spiked holiday punch, the recipe for which, Max said, was older than he was. I took one sip and promptly started coughing as my eyes watered.

  “They liked their punch strong back in the day, didn’t they?” I said hoarsely.

  Max smiled and admitted, “It’s a bit of an acquired taste.”

  Lucky finished his call and came back to join us. “The boss talked to his lawyer today.”

  “Today?” I repeated. “It’s Christmas Day.”

  “When you’re Victor Gambello’s lawyer,” said Lucky, “you expect to work all kinds of hours.”

  “Ah. Yes, I guess so.”

  “Same for cops, though they don’t get nearly the same paycheck,” said Lucky. “Guess who Mr. Gambello’s lawyer has talked to today?” When my eyes widened, Lucky said, “Yep, your boyfriend. And also an assistant district attorney who wasn’t too crazy about being called in on Christmas Day.”

  “What did they talk about?” I asked.

  “Mr. Gambello wants to make sure that justice will be done, the guilty punished, and the innocent left free to return to their perfectly legitimate business interests.”

  “I see.”

  “The Fensters had some lawyers working today, too,” Lucky added.

  So much for the quiet day Lopez had probably been hoping for.

  Lucky continued, “And their lawyers agreed to an honest and open exchange of information with Mr. Gambello’s lawyer.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “The Fenster law
yers became convinced that cooperating with Mr. Gambello’s lawyer in this matter would be in their own best interest.”

  “Ah.”

  Max asked, “So do we have reliable news about the current disposition of the devious villains we assisted in apprehending last night?”

  “We do,” said Lucky. “Sad to say, things really are different for the rich.”

  “You mean they’re going to get off?” I demanded in outrage.

  “No, they ain’t that different. But while the Powell kid will get what he deserves, since his family’s all outta dough, the Fenster girl will get off easier than she deserves. But that don’t mean she’s in for a picnic.”

  “What will happen to Rick?”

  “Prison,” Lucky said. “For a long time. He’s being advised to skip a trial and plead guilty if he ever wants to see the outside again. They got him dead to rights on too many juicy charges. Conspiracy, assault with a deadly weapon, grand larceny, armed robbery, attempted murder . . . And they’re just getting warmed up. Plus, the kid pointed a gun at cops. How dumb can you get?” Lucky shook his head in disgust. “And him such an educated boy, too.”

  “What about Elspeth?” I asked.

  Max added with concern, “She is a dangerous person. A mystical talent coupled with an amoral and unstable mind.”

  “Very unstable,” said Lucky. “They’re saying the girl had a nervous breakdown overnight and is catalytic today.”

  “I think you mean catatonic,” I said.

  “The Fensters will negotiate to have the girl committed to some luxury funny farm for rich people who have an unfortunate tendency to commit felonies.”

  “Do you think that’s sufficient, Max?”

  “One can always hope for rehabilitation,” he said kindly. “Treatment is more enlightened than punishment, and it may make her less of a danger to herself and others in the long run.”

  “Either way,” Lucky said, “it’s what’s gonna happen. The Fensters may not stay rich for long, now that old Connie is dead . . . but they’re rich now, while that girl’s fate is being decided. And the rich usually get their way in these things.”

  “Elspeth may be a lot less dangerous with Rick out of her life, anyhow,” I reflected. “Without his influence and manipulation, I think Elspeth probably would have remained inert and introverted, unlikely to experiment with the things she fantasized about doing. A lot of factors have contributed to her breakdown. But, above all, I suspect that she shattered upon confronting her own evil works; I think she was only cut out to imagine herself confronting them.”

  “I think you’re right about that, my dear,” Max mused. “Miss Fenster was a troubled person whose fate was inevitably decided not by herself, but by whether or not she met someone like Rick.”

  “That rotten family she came from didn’t do her no good, either,” said Lucky. “Some people just shouldn’t be allowed to raise kids.”

  “Speaking of the family, what’s going to happen to Freddie Junior?” I asked.

  “Well, he’s definitely gonna get off for shooting that driver. ‘Not responsible for his own actions at the time,’ blah blah blah.”

  “That has the merit of actually being true,” I pointed out.

  “He’s being released, charges dropped.” Lucky added, “He might have bigger problems than this, though. It turns out Freddie’s in debt to the Russian mob, and that’s just never a good position to be in.”

  “Indeed not,” said Max, his brows raised in alarm. “In general, one should always take care to avoid angering Russians. I speak from bitter experience on this subject—but that’s another story entirely.”

  “So the big question now,” Lucky said to me, “is what your boyfriend is going to put in his report.”

  “Mr. Gambello’s lawyer doesn’t have that information?” I asked dryly.

  “An honest cop is such a nuisance to deal with,” Lucky said. “Much trickier to frisk for information than expensive uptown shysters.”

  “I gather that means Lopez wouldn’t discuss it with him?”

  “Yep.”

  Seeing Lucky’s inquisitive expression, I shrugged. “I don’t know what he’s going to do.”

  I knew that, to protect me, Lopez had fudged reports in the past to keep my name out of things. I also knew that he got angry at himself for doing it, felt it was wrong, and struggled hard with his conscience over it. So I couldn’t ask him to do it. I wouldn’t ask.

  “Relax, Lucky,” I said. “We just did a little breaking and entering . . . and, uh, maybe destruction of property—”

  “You’re not making me feel better,” the old gangster said.

  “But,” I said, rallying, “we did it in a good cause, and the police know that. So even if we do wind up in Lopez’s report, we have nothing to worry about.”

  “Hmph,” he said, unconvinced. “You don’t know cops like I do.”

  “Detective Lopez is an honorable young man,” Max insisted. “He will do the right thing. And in complicated circumstances, he will struggle arduously with his options to determine what the right thing is. I feel confident in his integrity.”

  “Yeah,” Lucky said sadly. “It would be so much easier if that wasn’t the problem with him.”

  “Oh, cheer up, Lucky,” I chided. “You have more to celebrate than to worry about. The Gambellos are off the hook for the hijackings.”

  “Yeah, we’re off that hook,” he said gloomily. “But thanks to those two wacky kids screwing around with armed robbery, instead of just being satisfied with raising a demon, OCCB has been all up in our thing lately, tearing our lives apart. I know it’s business, not personal. With the media and the Commissioner breathing down their necks, they had to show juice. But it’s not good for us to be raked over the coals like this. Not good at all.”

  In an effort to cheer him, Nelli picked up her pink mastodon and started nudging him with it, giving fiercely playful growls. He smiled and tugged on her ears.

  Then, changing the subject, he said to me, “So I guess you’re out of work now, huh?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll be back at Bella Stella after New Year’s. And I’m going to light a fire under Thack then, too. I need some auditions!”

  Meanwhile, it was easy to imagine how I could fill the time between now and then. I felt my cheeks burning as I thought of him again.

  “You’re looking very flushed, Esther,” Max noted. “I’ll turn down the fire.”

  “Uh-huh.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked it, wondering if the ringer was working.

  “You expecting a call?” Lucky asked.

  “Not really,” I lied. “Just checking.”

  I glanced at the time. It was almost five o’clock. He was supposed to get off work within an hour. He’d probably call me then. Maybe when he was on his way to Nyack.

  This being the darkest time of the year, when barriers between dimensions crumble, night fell soon after that. Nelli got restless after a while, so Max fastened her into her Christmas jacket and attached her jingling red leash to her collar.

  “I believe the wind has died down,” he said. “Why don’t we all take Nelli for an evening stroll and observe the holiday lights of Greenwich Village? There are some lovely displays this year.”

  “I’m in,” said Lucky. “Esther?”

  “Um . . .” It was almost six o’clock now. I was thinking I might want a little privacy when he called.

  “Aw, come on,” Lucky urged. “Get in the Saturnalia spirit!”

  That made me smile. “I’ll get my coat.”

  The holiday lights of the Village were indeed lovely this year, and the air tonight was crisp and energizing despite the gray, unpromising start of the day. I linked arms with both of my escorts, walking between them, glad of their company. Nelli pranced cheerfully in her festive coat, evidently pleased to have confronted Evil and acquitted herself well. She greeted other dogs we met on our walk, and we greeted their people, all wishing each other Merry Christmas, Seas
ons Greetings, and Happy Saturnalia.

  It was a magical night to be a New Yorker, strolling the streets of our city on a rare occasion when the pace was slow, traffic was light, and few people were crowding the sidewalks. It was a good night to commune with friends and loved ones. A good night, I thought, to be a Jewish elf in the Big Apple.

  But in my coat pocket, I felt the weight of my silent phone, and wondered why he didn’t call . . .

  Author’s Note

  The question people always ask a writer is: “Where do you get your ideas?”

  I’m very tempted to claim that I get mine by venturing boldly into the lawless underground world of black market story ideas, where a well-honed plot is worth more than a man’s life and novelists will kill for a good concept.

  But, alas, the mundane truth is that writers get ideas all of the time, from everywhere. We experience the world as a nonstop supply-chain of story ideas. That’s just how our minds work—otherwise we probably wouldn’t be writers.

  Precisely because I see story ideas everywhere I look, I often don’t even really know how I got the idea for a particular story. But in the case of Polterheist, I do remember the book’s genesis—though it took many twists and turns after that.

  Back around the time I was finishing Disappearing Nightly, the first Esther Diamond novel, I was on a long drive during the holidays, and National Public Radio saved my sanity on that lonely rural highway by playing David Sedaris narrating his Santaland Diaries, a darkly funny account of the author’s experiences working as a department store elf one Christmas season.

  While listening to Sedaris’ essay as I drove on that icy, empty road under a darkening winter sky, I remember thinking that his workplace sounded like the anteroom to hell . . . And since I’m a fantasy writer, that started me wondering: What if struggling actress Esther Diamond discovered her humiliating seasonal job actually was the anteroom to hell? Or a gateway through which something from hell intended to enter this dimension? So then I did some research and soon discovered that various cultures over the millennia have worried about precisely this sort of thing happening right around that time of year, when night is longer than day and darkness is overwhelming . . .