Unsympathetic Magic

by Laura Resnick

  “Man, you need to learn to lie better,” Jeff said critically.

  “No, we must not blame young Biko if Detective Lopez was unconvinced by his answers,” said Max. “He is not an easy man to dissuade. And although he is pursuing an erroneous theory, I do not for a moment suppose he will cease to pursue it until he is satisfied that the matter is resolved.”

  “What theory? What pursuit?” Jeff said. “How do you and Esther know this guy?”

  “I propose,” said Max, “that we proceed with an orderly narrative of last night’s events, then move on to discussing relevant theories, avenues of attack, and possible solutions.”

  “Good idea,” said Puma. “And since I guess I’m closed now, why don’t we go sit in the storage room in back? There’s a table and some chairs in there.”

  “Esther and I can’t stay, Puma.” Jeff looked at the clock on the wall. “We have to go visit someone in the hospital.”

  “That’ll have to wait,” I said.

  “But we’re already late,” he pointed out.

  “For God’s sake, Jeff,” I snapped. “Sucking up to Mike Nolan for ten minutes is not as important as figuring out what to do about the strange things that Biko and I have seen!” I added to the others, “But before we do anything else, we need to order some food.”

  Biko gave me an incredulous look. “I’ve just found out—from a cop, no less—that no one knows where Mr. Phelps’ three-week-old corpse is. And you saw him walking around Harlem last night. Do you really want to eat now?”

  “I also saw him get maimed by the baka,” I pointed out crankily. “And, yes, I want to eat now.”

  “Do I have to stay for this conversation?” Jeff asked me. “I can already tell I’m going to hate every part of it.”

  “You can leave whenever you like,” I said, knowing he wasn’t going anywhere. As long as the prospect of meeting D30’s lead actor loomed on the horizon, nothing short of an attack by crazed gargoyles would get rid of Jeff—the thought of which reminded me of the attack that Biko had witnessed. I said to the young fencer, “Can you describe the victim you rescued Monday night?”

  “The man that I found the baka attacking? Sure. He was, uh . . . Well, for one thing, I’d swear he was alive, Esther.”

  “Yes, I thought about that,” I said. “Tears, sweat, urine.”

  “Very good,” Max said to me, nodding with approval.

  “Actually,” said Biko, “I was going to say that he was breathing and his skin was warm.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I guess that works, too.”

  Jeff said wearily, “What did he look like, Biko? Max and Esther have got this theory that . . . Never mind. Just tell us.”

  “He was about thirty years old, I guess. No more than five foot eight, I’d say. Skinny.”

  Jeff sat up straighter and stared at Biko.

  The young athlete continued, “He had a voice sort of like a public radio announcer, and he wore his hair in twists.”

  Jeff’s shoulders slumped suddenly and he lowered his head.

  “Jeff?” I said.

  He didn’t answer, just reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and called someone. A moment later, holding the phone to his ear, he said, “Frank, call me. I mean it. We have to talk about Monday night.” He closed his phone and put it back in his pocket.

  “One mystery solved.” I explained to Biko whom he had seen being attacked. “You didn’t recognize him from the foundation?”

  “No. I mostly stick to the training room. And it sounds like this guy Frank Johnson was brand new and just teaching one class a day on the other side of the building from me. So it’s not really surprising that I hadn’t seen him before.” Biko asked Jeff, “Does your friend live near the foundation?”

  “I’m not sure where he lives,” Jeff said morosely. “He’s more of an acquaintance than a friend. Especially after this week.”

  “He may live in Hamilton Heights,” I said to Biko.

  “In that case, since the classes he teaches are all in the daytime,” said Biko, “what was he doing right outside the foundation late at night?”

  “Good question,” I said. “One that we can discuss while I’m eating.”

  “How can you think of food at a time like this?” Jeff demanded. “I’m missing my meeting with Michael Nolan!”

  Puma looked puzzled by this non sequitur. But I knew that if Jeff asked her out, she would learn. Indeed, she would learn that and, oh, so much more.

  Feeling my stomach rumble, I said tersely, “Except for one mini-bagel this morning, I haven’t had anything to eat in almost twenty-four hours, and it’s been a hell of a marathon. If I get any hungrier, I’ll start eating these dolls!” I picked up the one that looked like Max and tossed it at Jeff. It bounced off his shoulder, and Biko caught it. The kid had good reflexes. “I want carry-out. I don’t care what. I just want food.”

  Jeff sighed. “Okay. Fine.” He added to Biko, “Don’t even try to argue with her when she’s like this. Take my word for it and just do what she wants.”

  “Shall we all have dinner?” Max suggested cheerfully. “My treat.”

  “All right,” said Jeff, turning on a dime. “I’m in.” Actors rarely turn down a free meal.

  “Oh, but first I should ask,” Max said. “Are any of you Lithuanian?”

  They all looked at him blankly.

  Shrewdly sensing the consternation that his question had caused, Max said, “I assure you that I have no hostility whatsoever toward Lithuanians. But it’s wisest to ask the question before we break bread or attempt to work together.”

  Jeff asked me, “What is he talking about?”

  “No one really knows.” I had meant to ask Max about this odd foible before, but the few times the subject had come up, we were always too busy fighting Evil to discuss it.

  “Dr. Zadok,” Biko said, “do we look Lithuanian?”

  “Here in the New World,” Max said, “where the admirable values of your society so often lead to replacing the walls of the Old World with sturdy bridges built between people of different backgrounds, that is not a question that I would venture to answer.”

  Jeff said to me, “No, really. What is he talking about?”

  “As far as you guys know, do you have any Lithuanian ancestors?” I prodded.

  They all shook their heads.

  “Then it doesn’t matter what he’s talking about,” I said.

  “Excellent!” Max beamed at them. “Let’s get dinner!”

  “But you and Esther are our guests, Dr. Zadok,” said Puma. “Biko and I will buy dinner.”

  Max argued graciously, pressed his point, and won. Biko phoned in a food order to Miss Maude’s Spoon-bread Too and asked them to deliver it. Puma insisted on providing our beverages out of her little refrigerator.

  While we waited for the food, Biko recounted his most recent evening of hunting the baka. “I think I found signs of them—the half-eaten remains of a couple of pigeons, and some really big claw marks nearby—but I didn’t see them.” And then he’d met a hooker who turned out to be an actress looking for her colleagues.

  “You might have been a little more detailed in your warning to me,” I pointed out.

  “You’d have thought I was crazy,” he said dismissively. “Or playing a twisted joke on you.”

  “Fair point.”

  “Anyhow, I didn’t see anything after I met Esther,” Biko said. “I guess she got all the action last night.”

  I took up the story and gave them a full account of my night. Trying to get over rough ground as lightly as possible, I portrayed Lopez simply as a police officer who knew my true identity and could therefore help me in my time of need.

  “Now that you’ve involved the cops,” Jeff said, “I don’t suppose there’s any chance that you’ll just let them handle this?”

  Max and I were about to remonstrate, but we didn’t need to. Biko said irritably, “Are you deaf, man? Esther told everything to the cops, and
they laughed at her. The only one who even took her seriously is the one who thinks she fell for a practical joke!”

  “He might being taking her more seriously today,” Jeff shot back, “now that he knows Darius’ body is missing.”

  “The cop thinks he’s dealing with body snatchers,” Biko argued. “Not a zombie!”

  There was a sharp knock at the front door, making us all jump. Happily, it was just the delivery man from Miss Maude’s.

  “Thank God,” I said. “Food!”

  Biko looked at me. “We’re taking about body snatching and zombies, and you—”

  “Get the door,” I said. “I’m hungry.”

  Max paid for the food while Puma and I took the carry-out bags back to the stockroom and laid the food and beverages out on the table in there. Too tired and hungry to wait for anyone else, I helped myself and was already eating when the others sat down with me.

  With multiple establishments each boasting they had the best friend chicken in Harlem, I had no idea if Miss Maude’s claim was any more or less true than the others, but it sure was darn good chicken in any case. I also ate mashed potatoes, string beans, collard greens, and corn-bread stuffing. I ignored the feel of Jilly C- Note’s tight skirt cutting into my waist, reminding me that I would again have to appear on camera in this revealing outfit. I had earned a hearty meal.

  And despite Biko’s earlier criticism, I noticed that he, too, ate plenty. He smiled sheepishly when I pointed this out.

  Puma said, “This boy has a hollow leg. Especially after he’s been training.”

  “If I may raise the pressing subject of Darius Phelps without ruining anyone’s meal?” Max asked tentatively.

  “Well, you obviously won’t ruin Esther’s meal,” said Jeff, eyeing the way I was packing it away.

  “Go ahead, Dr. Zadok,” said Puma.

  “All things considered,” Max said, “I believe we should work from the hypothesis that there is a bokor among us who has summoned baka and who has raised Darius Phelps from the dead. All for some as yet unknown purpose or goal.”

  “I agree,” said Puma.

  Jeff’s expression suggested he was rethinking his interest in her. “Are you people even going to consider another theory?”

  “Like what?” Biko said.

  “How about whatever theory Esther’s cop friend is working on?” Jeff suggested.

  We all looked at him.

  His gaze swept our unresponsive faces, and he sighed. “Okay. Never mind. Forget I spoke.”

  “You’re not a believer,” Puma said kindly. “That’s all right. You don’t need to feel bad about it.”

  “I don’t feel bad about it!”

  “You haven’t seen the things that Esther and I have seen,” said Biko.

  “Fine. Let’s run with that. Great. A bokor has raised Darius from the dead,” Jeff said in exasperation. “Why would anyone do that? And why Darius, of all people? Max, if you had ever met him, youd’d know there couldn’t be a less likely candidate for . . . for whatever you’re talking about.”

  “What sort of man was he?” Max asked curiously.

  “He was not a guy to dance half-naked around a voodoo altar with a bottle of rum,” Jeff said.

  “Please don’t be condescending about our rituals,” Puma said coolly.

  “Hey, I’m that sort of guy,” Jeff assured her. “Well, if the music’s good. I mean, I’m game for anything. Within reason.”

  “Yes,” I said between bites of chicken, “but if we could depart from the fascinating subject of yourself and return to what Darius was like?”

  “He wore suits with vests. He overarticulated his consonants. He kept hand sanitizer on his desk. Darius was a guy,” Jeff continued, “who listened to Mahler, went to poetry readings, and talked about the ‘nose’ on his cabernet.”

  “Yeah,” Biko said absently. “I was kind of surprised to find out he was straight.”

  “I don’t know much about zombies,” I said, “but I’m going to guess that being erudite—or gay—doesn’t automatically disqualify someone from becoming one.”

  “No, indeed,” said Max. “In fact—”

  “What makes you so sure he was straight?” Jeff asked Biko. “Don’t tell me you asked him?”

  “No, I walked in on him and Dr. Livingston one night at the foundation.”

  “Walked in on them?” Jeff’s eyes bulged. “As in . . .?”

  Biko nodded. “They were, uh, giving her couch a workout.”

  “What two consenting adults do in private is none of our business,” Puma said firmly.

  “They weren’t in private,” Jeff pointed out. “They were at the foundation.”

  “Their mistake.” I urged Biko, “Go on.”

  The lad helped himself to more fried chicken. “It was late at night; I’d been training alone, and I was just leaving the building. I thought I heard Dr. Livingston upstairs in her office, and it sounded like she was in pain or calling for help.”

  “Oops,” said Jeff.

  “So I go running up there, expecting to find her bleeding to death or something . . .”

  “Oh, no,” I said.

  “And there she was with Darius. Both of them . . . well, not expecting company, obviously. It was pretty embarrassing.”

  “When was this?” I asked curiously.

  “About a year ago.”

  “So she was a widow at the time,” Puma said, “and perfectly entitled to have a boyfriend.”

  “Were she and Darius still involved when he died?” I felt rather sorry for the blond anthropologist who’d lost two men in the space of two years. Even if one of them was a notorious womanizer and the other was a wine snob.

  “I don’t know.” Biko shrugged. “I don’t even know if they were involved back when I walked in on them. Maybe it was a one-time thing.”

  “Well, were there rumors about them?” I asked.

  “I don’t pay attention to gossip,” said Biko.

  “That’s a family failing,” I noted.

  “I pay attention,” said Jeff. “Darius died a few weeks after I got back from LA, and everyone at the foundation was talking about him then—the way you do when someone’s kicked the bucket unexpectedly like that. No one mentioned anything about him and Catherine having an affair.”

  “So maybe what Biko saw,” I mused, “was indeed a one-time incident.”

  “Or maybe they had a thing going,” said Biko, “but they kept it quiet.”

  “And you can see why they might do that,” said Jeff. “There are internal politics at the foundation, like any other organization. So if Catherine and Darius were together, maybe the two of them made a point of keeping that off the radar. They both seemed like pretty private people, anyhow.” He thought about it and added, “In fact, except for what I’ve already told you, I don’t really know anything else about Darius.”

  “Me, neither,” said Biko. “And he’s been at the foundation for about four years.”

  “Did he have any family?” Max asked.

  “There was a sister at the funeral,” Puma said. “From Chicago. I got the impression they weren’t close. Otherwise, the attendees were mostly people from the foundation and from his golf league.”

  “He played golf.” There was contemptuous dismissal in Biko’s tone.

  “We can’t all carry a sword, D’Artagnan,” I said. “Did Catherine seem very upset at the funeral?”

  “That’s hard to say,” said Jeff. “Well, you’ve met her, you saw what she’s like. She plays her cards pretty close to her chest.”

  “Cold, is more like it,” said Biko. “Mr. Phelps was kind of a cold fish, too.”

  “Biko.” His sister’s tone warned him not to speak ill of the dead.

  “Being deceased doesn’t make someone more likeable, Puma,” he said with some exasperation. “And the dead can feel free to listen to me say so, if they want.”

  “Honestly, I always thought Darius was a pompous ass. And I’m not surprised
to learn he was also an opportunist.” Seeing my inquisitive look, as I shoveled potatoes into my mouth, Jeff said, “Sleeping with the boss, I mean.”

  I swallowed my mouthful and said, “Come on, it could have been plain old attraction. Lots of romances start in the workplace, and she’s a good-looking woman.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Biko. “She’s all . . . stiff and chilly.”

  “Oh, color me shocked that an eighteen- year-old boy doesn’t see what’s attractive about an intellectual woman in her forties,” I said. “But Darius might have.”

  Biko shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Anyhow, even though I’d much rather not have met Darius’ zombie,” I said, “better me than her, I guess.”

  Puma gasped. “Oh, yes! I mean, can you imagine? Having relations with a man . . . and then meeting his walking corpse? How awful!”

  “Which brings me back to my original question,” Jeff said. “Why raise the dead? And why Darius? If, for a minute, we go with this crazy theory that you’re all stuck on, and say that Darius is a zombie now . . . Why him?”

  “Excellent question.” Max patted his mouth with a paper napkin. “Why Darius, indeed?”

  “Opportunity?” Puma suggested. “He had a nondenominational funeral.”

  “Does that make a difference?” I asked.

  Max nodded. “Without the inclusion of Vodou rituals, his corpse presumably was not prepared with any of the usual precautions against zombiism.”

  Jeff froze in the middle of reaching for more green vegetables. I noticed that he was eating grilled salmon and avoiding the fried food and starches that I was gobbling. It occurred to me that his gladiator outfit was probably skimpy.

  “There are usual precautions against zombiism?” he asked.

  “Oh, indeed!” Max said with enthusiasm. “Traditionally, for example, the family of the deceased often kills the corpse a second time, in order to protect it from being raised by a bokor and enslaved as a zombie.”

  “How do you kill a corpse?” Jeff asked in appalled fascination.

  “Oh, usually you would plunge a knife into the heart of the cadaver,” Max said. “Alternately, you might behead the corpse in its coffin.”

  Puma made a sound of assent and nodded.