Unsympathetic Magic

by Laura Resnick

  Then I stopped smiling.

  “The Two-Five called me. They just found your purse. Nothing seems to be missing. I don’t know where you are, so I’ll pick it up tonight and hold onto it until I hear from you.” A pause. “I know about the Livingston Center, Esther. You and I need to talk.”

  13

  The following morning, feeling much more human now that I was clean and rested, I called my bank and reported that my credit card was missing. I doubted that the drooling gargoyles who had taken my purse had used its contents for a spending spree, but better safe than sorry. Apart from that, since Lopez’s message said that nothing seemed to be missing, I decided not to worry about the rest of the bag’s contents until I got it back and could check for myself. Meanwhile, at least I knew it was in safe hands.

  I phoned Thack, my agent, to let him know I was all right and to nag him about getting me some auditions. Once I finished the D30 shoot, my professional life would consist entirely of waiting tables and teaching some summer acting workshops until the kids went back to school.

  Perhaps this was a petty personal concern, what with zombies rising from the grave and Max predicting that some sort of apocalyptic event was imminent. But I had bills to pay and a struggling career to think about, and these problems weren’t going to go away just because a bokor was on the loose.

  Thack answered my call with exclamations of surprise and concern. “Esther! A whole day without answering your cell! My God, I thought you must by lying dead or unconscious somewhere in Harlem!”

  “No, I just misplaced the phone.” Given Thack’s tendency to react dramatically to things, I decided to leave it at that.

  He asked, “Did you get lost wandering in the dark after the crew packed up the set without waiting for the actors to return from their break? And how dare they do that! It’s lucky you weren’t all murdered!”

  “Oh, no, we were in a nice neighborhood.” Well, except for the supernatural creatures that were running around at night. “Anyhow, I have the impression that things on the set just descended into panic and confusion when they realized the show’s star was having a heart attack right there and then.”

  “Well, I’ve met Mike Nolan,” Thack said. “And, frankly, it couldn’t happen to a more deserving actor.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” I said. “He expects to be back on set in a few days, but that seems a little unrealistic to me.”

  “Either way, the D-Thirty team are saying they want you back to finish the episode,” Thack said. “You’ve made a good impression there. Congratulations!”

  “Thanks. But it’ll probably only be another day or two of work. So is there anything else going on?”

  “Not really. You know what the business is like in August. Quiet as a graveyard!”

  I wished he hadn’t phrased it quite that way. “Uhhuh.”

  He continued, “But I’ll call you as soon as anything turns up.”

  I kept my tone professional as I said good-bye and hung up. Then I sighed and fought off a feeling of gloom, trying to look on the bright side. At least I was teaching some of Jeff’s workshops this month; practicing my craft—whether I was taking some classes or, on this occasion, teaching them—was always a good way to hone my skills, stay sharp, and keep improving.

  The phone rang, and I answered it. As if summoned by my thoughts, the caller was Jeff, checking in from his day job as a gladiator. He wanted to make sure I knew what time I needed to be at the foundation today. I assured him I did, and we discussed what sort of exercises I would work on with the students.

  Then he said, “And you’re not going to talk to them about . . . other stuff, are you?”

  “Other stuff?” I poured myself another cup of coffee. “Are you saying I shouldn’t tell the kids that the foundation’s administrator has become a reanimated corpse and that I saw him being attacked by evil monsters the other night, right before I was arrested for prostitution? Do you mean that kind of ‘other stuff,’ Jeff?”

  “Are you still sleep-deprived?”

  “No.”

  “Then knock off the sarcasm,” he said irritably. “I don’t want you getting either of us in trouble with Catherine or with parents by telling those kids about the crazy stuff that you were talking about yesterday. Is that so unreasonable?”

  Actually, it wasn’t. So I said, “Okay. Got it. I know where the line should be drawn, and I’m not going to freak out—or amuse—a bunch of teens by talking about things that, believe it or not, I know better than to discuss in public.”

  “Okay. Good. That’s settled, then.” It was clear from his tone that he still favored any theory except the one that the rest of us had agreed upon yesterday.

  Nonetheless, I asked, “Have you talked to Frank Johnson yet?”

  “He hasn’t called me back.”

  “Call him again,” I said.

  “Esther—”

  “Please, Jeff. It’s important.”

  “Fine. I’ll call him on my next break. Satisfied?” He sighed. “Now if we can move on to saner subjects before I have to get back to work, I’m also calling to thank you. I owe you.”

  “For what?”

  “For introducing me to Mike!” he said, as if that should be obvious. “What a great guy!”

  “You like him?” I said doubtfully.

  “He’s going to talk to the show’s casting director about me.”

  Ah. In that case, yes, Jeff liked him. Jeff could bring himself to like Simon Legree, if the cruel slave master helped him get an acting job.

  “He’s going to do that for you?” I asked.

  “Yeah!”

  “Great! I’m glad to hear it, Jeff.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I would bet real money against Nolan doing anything of the sort. For one thing, I knew from past experience that Jeff was perfectly capable of believing he had heard a verbal promise when, in reality, there had merely been a reluctant nod or noncommittal shrug in response to his asking someone for a professional favor. I also thought that baka would fly through midtown before Nolan would trouble himself to do something generous for another actor, let alone an obscure one who had nothing to offer in return except gratitude and loyalty.

  “So who knows?” Jeff said with a smile in his voice. “Maybe you and I will wind up working together on The Dirty Thirty sometime.”

  “I’d like that.” I was being honest about that, at least. Jeff was very talented, and he was great to work with. This was, in fact, the reason I had fallen for him five years ago. And being dazzled back then by my own exciting new experiences as an actress in the Big Apple, it had taken me a while to realize that working with Jeff was the only time I was in love with him. The rest of the time I was just rather fond of him in an exasperated way. And I still was now, I realized. “But I don’t think we’re likely to meet on the show, Jeff. I’m just doing a guest spot and have only one more scene to film.”

  “Really? From the way Mike talked about you, I thought—”

  “He talked about me?” I said with reflexive revulsion.

  “Yeah. I got the impression from him that there was a rapport between you two.”

  “What?” I believed in zombies and dark magic, but I found it hard to believe that Michael Nolan had hinted that he liked me.

  “Or, uh, maybe he meant more that it was a rapport between your characters,” Jeff said uncertainly. “It sounded to me as if he was pleased with the scenes you two have done. He seems to think that you and he—or, I guess, your characters—are interesting together.”

  “Oh. Well. That’s good to know.” It had never occurred to me that Nolan had noticed me or my character. I supposed I should feel flattered that he felt some professional respect for me. But I was skeptical that he did. The notion was probably just Jeff’s imagination at work again. “In any case, I’m not scheduled to do any more work on the show after this episode.”

  “Oh,” he said. “That’s too bad. But, hey, you got a guest spot on
a hot TV show. Here’s hoping I get one, too.”

  “Is that what you were doing out in LA?” I asked. “Trying to get into TV?”

  “Yeah. Nothing was really happening for me here, so I moved out there when I got cast in a TV pilot, but the show didn’t get picked up. I wound up doing three more pilots that year, but nothing panned out.” He sighed. “The second year, I couldn’t even get auditions anymore. So a few months ago, I decided it was time to come back to New York.”

  Falling right into my old habit of trying to encourage Jeff about his career, I said, “And you got work almost as soon as you came back. So returning to New York was a good decision.”

  He gave a morose little grunt of assent.

  I urged, “So tell me about this gladiator role.”

  “You don’t think the shaved head looks good on me, do you?”

  “Are you working in a play?” I asked.

  “Other people think this is a good look for me. What don’t you like about it?”

  “This conversation is starting to feel all too familiar,” I said wearily.

  “Is it the shape of my head?” he asked. “Do you think my skull is bulbous?”

  I made a heroic effort to be patient with him. “Tell me about the job. Does it involve combat scenes?”

  “I’ve been thinking about getting some head shots this way, to show more casting directors that I can do this look.” He asked anxiously, “Do you think that’s a bad idea?”

  I gave up and snapped, “You know, you’re the reason I decided not to date any more actors! Are you aware that men in other professions don’t do this to women? I mean, do you think Lopez has ever dragged me through a marathon of talking about his voice or his appearance, the way you used to do? Do you think he frets to me about—”

  “Who’s Lopez?” Jeff asked.

  I realized what I’d said. “No one. Never mind.”

  “Why does that name sound—Oh! Do you mean Connor Lopez? The really good-looking cop?”

  “My point is—”

  “The guy who sprung you from the slammer, right?”

  Eager to distract him, I said, “I don’t like the bald head. It doesn’t suit you at all.”

  “So that’s why the guy got out of bed in the middle of the night to get you out of jail. I thought it sounded a little above and beyond the call of duty,” Jeff said. “You’re dating him?”

  “No.”

  “Does Max know you’re dating him?”

  “I’m not dating him,” I said.

  “Are you going to tell Biko and Puma you’re involved with this cop?”

  “I’m not involved with him!” Since the silence that met my emphatic statement was fraught with skepticism, I added, “I went out with him a few times. In the spring. That’s all.”

  “Well, he sure must have been pissed off the other night, then.”

  “No, he was very nice to me, actually.” All things considered.

  “Ah.” There was a wealth of understanding in that monosyllable. “I get it.”

  “You get what?”

  “He dumped you.”

  “It was, er . . . a mutual decision,” I lied. Yes, Jeff was right; but his assumption stung my pride.

  “Come on, Esther. The guy goes to a precinct house at some ungodly hour, after months of not seeing you, to ask other cops for a favor that had to be a little embarrassing for him.”

  “Well . . . yeah.” I shifted uncomfortably on my chair.

  “And he wasn’t chewing iron and spitting nails?” Jeff snorted. “Obviously, he feels guilty about dumping you. Why else would he help you out and be nice about it?”

  “Maybe he likes me,” I said defensively.

  “Then why did he dump you?”

  My shoulders slumped. “He thinks I’m deranged.”

  “Really? Wow. Who can plumb the depths of that mystery?”

  “Is there any other reason you called?” I said. “Or are we done now?”

  “One other thing. Do you know if Puma’s dating anyone?”

  I sighed. “I met her for the first time when you did, Jeff. How would I know?”

  “I’m thinking of asking her out.”

  “Whatever.”

  “The voodoo stuff’s a little strange, I admit. But I’m pretty open-minded about religion.” He added slyly, “I used to be involved with a Jewish girl, you know.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anyhow, I like Puma. She’s got something. You know what I mean?”

  I did, but his comments about Lopez had annoyed me. So all I said was, “Can I hang up now?”

  “You’re not jealous are you?”

  “Jealous? I dumped you,” I reminded him.

  “No regrets?”

  “Certainly not since you shaved your head,” I said.

  “That’s harsh.”

  “I have to go now. I’ve got calls to return. There are other people besides you who want to belittle and abuse me today, Jeff.”

  “Hey, how is your mom?”

  “Good-bye.”

  Jeff had guessed right again. As soon as I ended my call with him, I phoned my mother. I told her I was fine, and that I hadn’t returned her (as she told me) cell phone messages because I’d lost the phone. Then I said that I was on my way out the door and couldn’t talk now. Naturally, this didn’t work.

  “How on earth did you manage to lose your cell phone?” Her tone implied it must be my fault.

  “I had a fight with a gargoyle,” I said wearily.

  “I don’t like ethnic slurs, dear.”

  “Did you call for any particular reason, Mom?”

  She wanted to know when my episode of D30 would air. “Although I’ve recommended that they not let their children watch it, based on what you’ve told me about your role, some of our friends and relatives would like to see it.”

  I explained, as briefly as possible, why the episode was in limbo at the moment. “So I don’t know when it’s going to be on television.”

  “Ah! Well, perhaps it’s all working out for the best,” she said.

  It was so unlike my mother to see the bright side of a bad situation, I asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Presumably you’ll get paid for your work, even though the episode hasn’t been completed?”

  “Yes.”

  “But since it’s incomplete, maybe it won’t be aired.” Her tone was bright with relief and satisfaction as she concluded, “So you’ll earn a nice paycheck, but you won’t actually appear on TV as a homeless bisexual junkie prostitute.”

  “My episode might never air. Gee, I hadn’t thought of that, Mom.” I felt like going back to bed and pulling the covers over my head. “I’m so glad you called.”

  “So am I, dear.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Have you met any nice young men lately?”

  “Bye, Mom.”

  Next, figuring I might as well get it over with, I called Lopez. To my relief, I got his voice mail. I left a message thanking him for retrieving my purse and asking him, whenever it was convenient for him, to leave it with the receptionist at the Livingston Foundation.

  Since I really didn’t want to discuss the foundation, Darius Phelps, Biko, or anything related to these subjects with Lopez, I was hoping I could get my purse back without actually having to talk to him. After all, this was already turning into a trying day for me, and I hadn’t even left my apartment yet.

  Jilly C-Note’s costume was still lying on the floor where I had dropped it last night. I picked up the purple fishnet stockings and the push-up brassiere, and I put them into a bucket with cold water and a generous dollop of soap for hand laundry. I would let the items soak until late tonight, and then rinse them when I returned from my shift at Bella Stella, which is where I would go directly from the Livingston Foundation later today.

  I sniffed Jilly’s boots, inside of which my abused feet had been sweating too much lately. I made a face as I discovered that the boots needed a serious remedy.
Using a trick I had learned from another actress, I put a solid air freshener inside each boot to absorb the unpleasant odor. The boots should smell fine by the time I had to put them on again.

  Then I put the leopard-print shirt and red vinyl skirt into a bag. I would drop them off at a dry cleaner while doing my errands today, and I’d request twenty-four-hour service. That cost more, but I wanted to be sure of having the outfit in hand by the time I got rescheduled for filming.

  I had a spare set of keys I could take with me today, and I could use my Equity card as my ID to cash a check at the bank, so that I’d have some cash on me until I got my purse back. I got my daypack out of the closet and packed these things into it, as well as some other supplies I’d need for the day, including bottled water and some healthy snacks. This was cheaper than buying food and beverages while I was out and about. Besides, if I was going to wear Jilly’s outfit on camera again, I shouldn’t indulge in any more fried chicken.

  I decided to wear the same sleeveless white blouse, black capri pants, and sensible shoes to the foundation that I would also wear to work at the restaurant tonight; that way I wouldn’t need to bring a change of clothes with me or need to return to home later.

  Before I finally left the apartment that day, my gaze fell on the two books that Puma had given me. I shrugged and packed them into the daypack, too, figuring I might as well get some reading done on the subway ride to Harlem.

  Today’s acting class at the foundation involved rehearsing two- and three-person scenes from various plays. Some of the kids were ambitious enough to tackle Shakespeare, and we worked on articulating the text and exploring the rhythms, as well as examining some of the more unfamiliar vocabulary. Another of the challenges for an actor doing Shakespeare is figuring out what to do while the other guy in the scene has a speech that lasts for thirty lines—which happens often in Will’s work.

  “You’ve probably already heard Jeff say that acting is reacting?” I said to the kids. “Well, onstage, as in life, you’re not doing nothing when someone is talking. You’re listening. Or refusing to listen. You’re thinking about what the other person is saying. Or trying to ignore it and not let it get to you. Or . . .” I glanced at a girl whose eyes were barely open. I remembered her name from yesterday, since she had given me a couple of painkillers for my aching head. “Or maybe, like Shondolyn, you’re struggling not to fall asleep while someone else is doing all the talking.”