Unsympathetic Magic

by Laura Resnick

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Glossary

  Raves for the Esther Diamond series:

  “Sexy interludes raise the tension between Lopez and Esther as she juggles magical assailants, her perennially distracted agent, her meddling mother, and wiseguys both friendly and threatening in a well-crafted, rollicking mystery.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Fans of Charlaine Harris’s Sookie Stackhouse series will appreciate this series’ lively heroine and the appealing combination of humor, mystery, and romance.”

  —Library Journal

  “Seasoned by a good measure of humor, this fantasy mystery is a genuine treat for readers of any genre.”

  —SF Chronicle

  “With a wry, tongue-in-cheek style reminiscent of Janet Evanovich, this entertaining tale pokes fun at the deadly serious urban fantasy subgenre while drawing the reader into a fairly well-plotted mystery. The larger-than-life characters are apropos to the theatrical setting, and Esther’s charming, self-deprecating voice makes her an appealingly quirky heroine. The chemistry between Esther and Lopez sizzles, while scenes of slapstick comedy will have will have the reader laughing out loud and eager for further tales of Esther’s adventures.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A delightful mélange of amateur sleuth mystery, romance, and urban fantasy.”

  —The Barnes and Noble Review

  “A paranormal screwball comedy adventure. Light, happy, fantastically funny!”

  —Jennifer Crusie,

  New York Times bestselling author

  The Esther Diamond Series:

  DOPPELGANGSTER

  UNSYMPATHETIC MAGIC

  VAMPARAZZI *

  *Coming soon from DAW Books

  Copyright © 2010 by Laura Resnick

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18916-0

  All rights reserved.

  DAW Books Collectors No. 1518.

  DAW Books are distributed by the Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the authorís rights is appreciated.

  Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.

  First Paperback Printing, August 2010.

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  S.A.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For my cousin,

  Mildred Diamond Mailick—

  whom I call Poppy

  Author’s Note:

  The Mount Morris Park watchtower and its setting in Harlem are very similar to what is described in this novel, though I have taken a few liberties with it. And I sincerely hope that the inhabitants of several high-rise buildings that are near the park would, oh, notice and call the police if the events depicted in this novel actually took place there! The park itself was renamed Marcus Garvey Park in 1973, though some current maps still label it as Mount Morris Park, which is also the name of the historic neighborhood surrounding it.

  Just as Vodou is an oral tradition, Creole, the language of the faith, is primarily an oral language. Consequently, I found up to ten different accepted ways to spell some of the names and terms used in this novel. So the spellings I chose to use in Unsympathetic Magic are not “correct” or definitive, they’re just . . . what I chose.

  The syncretic religions of the New World, including Vodou, developed among Africans preserving and adapting their spiritual beliefs under the yoke of slavery while also gradually absorbing (often under duress) the European religions of their captors. This humorous fantasy novel cannot (and does not attempt to) convey the history and complexity of these religions. For a short list of further reading, please visit the Research Library page of my Web site at www.LauraResnick.com.

  Finally, I wish to convey my thanks and gratitude to the following people: the heroic team at DAW Books, and particularly my editor, Betsy Wollheim; Daniel Dos Santos, the artist who created the wonderful cover for this novel; April Kihlstrom, whose advice I sought in the nick of time; and many friends who offered practical and/or moral support while I was wrestling this book to the ground, including (but not limited to) Mary Jo Putney, Zell Schulman, Jerry Spradlin, Cindy Person, and Toni Blake.

  Esther Diamond, her friends, and her nemeses will all return soon for their next misadventure in Vamparazzi, wherein will we finally learn what Max’s issue with Lithuanians is.

  1

  As summer in New York City ripened into a swel-A tering stench of suffocating heat and humidity, I found myself arrested for prostitution, menaced by zombies (yes, zombies), and staked out as a human sacrifice. I also nearly got Lopez killed—again.

  Although I realize this isn’t exactly the sort of stuff that happens to everyone on a bad hair day, I nonetheless maintain that these events were not my fault.

  Well, not entirely my fault. I do feel responsible for what happened to Lopez. Cause and effect. If I hadn’t gotten him involved in my problem, then he wouldn’t have come so close to meeting the Lord of Death.

  And I got him involved because I didn’t want a prostitution arrest on my police record. Indeed, I didn’t want a police record at all.

  Getting picked up for prostitution, though . . . now that was not my fault. That, obviously, would have happened to anyone who happened to lose her cell phone in a struggle with deranged gargoyles (yes, gargoyles) and trip over a living corpse in Harlem at midnight while dressed like a hooker.

  Oh, if only I were making this up.

  I was in Harlem in the middle of a muggy midsummer night because I was working. I’d been cast in a guest role on The Dirty Thirty, the latest success in the Crime and Punishment franchise of prestigious police television dramas. Affectionately known to fans as D30, this was the C&P empire’s most controversial spin-off to date, a gritty, morally ambivalent show about rampant police corruption in the Thirtieth Precinct a.k.a. “the dirty Thirty.”

  After being rejected by C&P’s regular network because of its raw subject matter and antihero protagonists, D30 had premiered on cable TV the previous summer, and it had soon become a critically acclaimed cult hit with a steadily growing audience. Some New York City cops condemned and boycotted the program, while others reputedly provided much of the show’s material from their own experiences on the force.

  The show’s second season had begun airing this summer, when the competition mostly consisted of reruns, and ratings and reviews were good this year, too. So getting a guest role on D30 was
a good opportunity for me. Especially since I had no other real work (i.e. acting work) lined up and had been “resting” (i.e. waiting tables fifty hours per week) for the past couple of months.

  It was also a terrific role. Granted, my mother wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of my appearing on national television as a homeless bisexual junkie prostitute—but my mother is seldom thrilled about anything I do, so I let her oh-so-subtle comments about this job roll off my back. My father had declined to offer an opinion—though whether that was to avoid an argument with me or with my mother, I have no idea.

  My parents live in Wisconsin and rarely visit New York—a city which, besides being an international epicenter for my profession, has the advantage of being eight hundred miles away from them.

  However, parental dismay notwithstanding, Jilly C-Note (not her real name), was a challenging and satisfying character to play: tough, bold, ignorant but shrewd, impulsive, completely amoral, sometimes cruel, and prone to occasional moments of twisted compassion. The script for the episode was smart, tight, and full of well-crafted surprises. My costume was uncomfortable and a little embarrassing, but this wasn’t the first time I’d worked for long hours in tight clothes that left a lot of my character’s skin exposed (and thinking of my body as belonging to my character rather than to me is one of the ways I get comfortable in the strange array of costumes that I wear in the course of my profession).

  This was a terrific job, and I was delighted to have it. Even though I couldn’t stand the regular cast member with whom Jilly had most of her scenes.

  After five days on the same set with actor Michael Nolan, who played one of the dirtiest detectives in the Thirtieth Precinct, I’d already fantasized multiple times about stomping on his genitals with one of Jilly C-Note’s high-heeled boots.

  Dating actors is an exercise in masochism, which is why I don’t do it. That’s a long-standing personal rule. But I normally like working with actors—indeed, I normally like it so much that it’s among the many reasons that I am one. Whatever their personal twitches and foibles, many actors, in the practice of their craft, are generous, engaging, and cooperative, and they care about doing what’s best for the overall production.

  Michael Nolan, however, was the other kind of actor. He was temperamental, narcissistic, rude, and primarily concerned with doing what was best for himself, and the rest of the production be damned. On the other hand, though it galled me to admit it, he was also talented, and the same qualities that made him so difficult to work with actually translated well to his D30 role as Detective Jimmy Conway, an edgy, tightly wound, morally decayed cop struggling with alcoholism and (since getting shot in the first year’s season finale) post-traumatic stress disorder.

  In this episode, Detective Conway was shaking down Jilly for sex and information in exchange for not arresting her on suspicion of murdering her pimp. The script didn’t reveal whether or not Jilly was actually the killer. Sticking with the dark tone that was typical of the show, the cops of the dirty Thirty didn’t care that a pimp had been murdered; they were just looking for ways to benefit from the killing—such as blackmailing the chief suspect, Jilly, for information about other criminals in the precinct. This might well get Jilly killed, and the cops didn’t particularly care about that, either.

  Tonight was my final night of work on the episode, and despite how much I had enjoyed the script, the role, and the rest of the cast and crew, it was a relief to know I wouldn’t have to deal with Michael Nolan again after this.

  We were preparing to shoot the most awkward scene in the script—for me, at least. I didn’t know if this scene’s shoot had been scheduled last as a courtesy to me or for other reasons entirely, but I was glad either way.

  In this scene, Detective Conway was questioning Jilly about an illegal weapons deal while making her perform oral sex on him. The physical aspects of the scene would stay (just barely) within the boundaries of what could be shown on a commercial cable network, but it was the sort of scene that’s uncomfortable for two actors to perform the very first time they work together. By now, however, my fifth day of shooting, Nolan and I had already done a number of dialogue scenes together, as well as a grimly post-coital scene in a filthy outdoor stairwell. So, although I didn’t like him, I was accustomed to working with him and no longer anxious about kneeling before him with my face in his groin for a couple of hours.

  Heigh-ho, the glamorous life of an actress.

  To his credit, Nolan was very professional about this sort of thing—as I knew from the thirty minutes (on-and-off) that he’d spent pumping his hips against mine in a dank stairwell the night before. (Scenes that look embarrassingly intimate onscreen are usually technical and choreographed, and so it was in this case.) When the cameras were rolling, what Nolan wanted most was to be admired for his work, and that meant that he focused on doing it well; this, in turn, allowed me to focus on doing my work well, too.

  We were shooting in the East 120s tonight. Although that’s in Harlem, like the Thirtieth Precinct, the neighborhood is not actually part of the Three-Oh. In fact, although I’d spent four of my five D30 working days on location (since the death of her pimp, Jilly was homeless, and most of my scenes were filmed outdoors), we hadn’t gone anywhere near the Thirtieth. I gathered from the crew that this was because the cops of the Thirtieth unanimously hated the show. During its first season, they had tried (unsuccessfully) to prevent D30 from getting any permits to film on location in their precinct, and there’d been some unpleasant incidents on the few occasions that the show had done location work there. So the producers decided it just best to film elsewhere thereafter. Since then, every episode contained some establishing shots filmed in the Thirtieth (which reputedly galled the real-life cops there), but no actual scenes were filmed in the precinct.

  The night before, we had filmed in another part of town, where the location scouts had found a filthy, urine-scented basement stairwell that they liked. In that scene, a quick bout of impersonal, fully-clothed coitus between Detective Conway and Jilly came to a sudden halt when Conway had a debilitating flashback to being shot the previous season. He then exchanged some confessional dialogue with Jilly in which he came close to treating her like a person. Jilly, slightly mellowed by sharing Conway’s flask of scotch, experienced an unexpected moment of compassion for the corrupt cop who was victimizing her. It was a great scene, and I had really enjoyed doing it despite the humid heat, Jilly’s uncomfortable clothes, the overwhelming odor of urine, and Nolan’s tantrum about the lighting.

  Tonight’s scene contained more strong writing. Having opened up to Jilly (ever so slightly) in the previous scene, Conway now resented her for glimpsing his vulnerability. So in this scene, he would make her get on her knees before him in a darkened street; it was an attempt to put her back in her place as a hooker, a junkie, and his stooge. And while forcing her to pleasure him sexually, he would stay focused on asking questions about criminal business—in particular, questions that could get Jilly killed.

  The characters’ previous scene had been a personal, even slightly touching encounter, in a grim, dreary setting. In tonight’s scene, by contrast, Conway’s deliberate attempt to demean Jilly would occur in attractive, romantically lighted surroundings. And in the final moments of the scene, Jilly would give as good as she got, humiliating Conway, in turn, with a few well chosen words, now that their previous encounter had given away his weakness.

  Last night’s scene had probably been the most challenging one for me and Nolan, since it required us—two actors who didn’t like each other—to find an emotional connection between our characters, however brief and subtle it was. Tonight’s scene, by contrast, was ideally suited to the adversarial energy that existed between us as people (and that seemed to exist between Nolan and most people). While waiting for the crew to finish their lighting and sound checks, we were running lines together, and it was going well.

  The makeup artist touched up my face while I recited some dialog
ue about a pending sale of automatic weapons and cop killer bullets that was due to occur somewhere in the precinct. I looked in the mirror that the makeup artist handed me, then nodded to show that I was satisfied if she was. The pale skin, shoulder-length brown hair, brown eyes, and good cheekbones were my own. The heavy, smudged eye makeup, the ill-advised lipstick color, and the stringy, unkempt hairdo were Jilly’s.

  Then the makeup artist tried to touch up Nolan’s face. With an irritable scowl, he shoved her hand away and finished saying his line. Without glancing at her, he then grabbed the mirror from her and looked into it.

  “Christ, I look so red,” he said. “What the fuck did you put on me?”

  “Actually, I’ve been trying to tone down the red ever since you got on set,” she said patiently. “Your color is really heightened tonight.”

  She was right. It was. I realized I had unconsciously assumed they’d rouged him heavily for this scene—maybe to emphasize Conway’s emotional conflict.

  “Of course, it’s heightened,” Nolan snapped. “It’s so goddamn hot out here tonight.” He said absently to me, “Aren’t you hot?”

  “Uh-huh.” It was early August, so it had been hot every night of the shoot. These were the dog days of summer.

  Nolan dragged his forearm across his forehead, smudging his makeup. I saw that they had indeed powdered him quite a bit tonight in an attempt to tone down his heightened color.

  “Jesus, I’m really sweating,” he said. “It’s like a steam bath out here. There’s no damn air.”

  Actually, here in East Harlem, we were close enough to the river that a slight breeze was coming down the street to us from the water. And since we weren’t surrounded by the stench of urine tonight, I thought this was a distinct improvement over our previous night’s location.