Abracadaver (Esther Diamond Novel) (6 page)

“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 dormant 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.

T
hackeray 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.

The prospect of actually being able to afford that cost of living was among the reasons I was so happy about what Thack told me the following morning.

“I’m sorry to hear about
ABC.
And Ted Yee should have told
me
, not you—that bum!” Thack said over the phone. “It’s my job to break news like that to you. I suppose he was utterly tactless?”

“Well, he’d had a run of bad lu—”

“Well, don’t worry, Esther. His choosing not to finish the film has nothing to do with his obligations to you. I saw to that in your contract. If he’s got any of his backer’s money left, I’ll squeeze it out of him.”

That was a conversation I would leave to Thack and Ted, though I suspected there wouldn’t be as much money left as Thack hoped.

“Anyhow, this turn of events works out well, in its way,” he said, “because it would have been a shame if your contract for a low-budget, low-quality indie film that didn’t pay well wound up interfering with a juicy guest spot on an award-winning television show with an obscenely elastic budget.” He paused, then said, “Unless Ted Yee’s facile, inarticulate persona was just a façade, and he was actually a brilliant writer and director? Oh, dear,
please
don’t tell me
ABC
would have been the sleeper hit of the year or a standout sensation on the film festival circuit.”

“No, it was pretty lame,” I assured him.

“Just as well it folded, then,” Thack said ruthlessly. “I’ve had an availability check.
D-Thirty
would like to get you back on set in your previous role as Jenny Diver.”

“Jilly C-Note.”

“Close enough. You’ll be scheduled for scattered days over a period of about three weeks, doing both studio and location shoots. It’s a little vague at the moment because the scripts aren’t finalized yet.”

“Starting when?” I asked.

“Next week.”

“And the scripts aren’t final?” I asked in surprise. Sure, things changed at the last minute all the time with TV and film, but shooting schedules, sets, and locations were usually determined in advance, not at the last minute.

“Between you and me,” said Thack, “I gather this is Michael Nolan’s doing. He says he’s ready to go back to work now. He doesn’t want to wait until the new season starts filming.”

“It sounds like Jimmy Conway is about to experience a miraculous recovery.”

“Well, you know how competitive this business is,” said Thack. “Nolan has been out for months. Other actors saw their chance. So did writers who don’t like Nolan.”

Nolan was not a likable guy. He was, however, a charismatic actor whose compelling performance as Jimmy Conway had done a lot to generate the fascination people had with this acclaimed show, which had not initially been expected to succeed (network television, the usual stomping ground of C&P programs, had refused to touch it because of the dark tone and raw subject matter).

Thack continued, “So other actors stepped into the spotlight, and their characters have flowed in to fill the void left by Jimmy Conway when he got shot—
again.
That guy must be the unluckiest cop in the whole city.”

“But Michael Nolan still has clout,” I guessed, “so when he recognized the danger, he decided he couldn’t afford to wait until next season to reclaim the focus.”

“That would be my guess,” said Thack, “based on the tidbits my C&P contact has let drop.”

It didn’t surprise me. In addition to being rude, arrogant, and narcissistic, Nolan was also a workaholic. He had risked his health to keep working, and he’d paid a steep price for that. He had his first heart attack on the
D30
set while we were filming on location at night. The second heart attack a few days later—a day on which he tried to return to work—was so severe it nearly killed him. He’d been recuperating since then. Nolan no doubt
hated
being sidelined and would do whatever was necessary—after months of absence, during which time other actors’ characters had been fascinating his fans—to rise again to the top of the talented
D30
heap.

“So,” said Thack, “now there’s a frantic last-minute push to restructure the final episodes of the season in a way that inserts Detective Jimmy Conway back into the story arc. And that’s where your character comes in.”

“How?”

“I have no idea. And I don’t think the producers have a very
clear
idea, since they didn’t even know if you were available when I was contacted yesterday. In any case, they’re not going to tell me anything about the script. And you’ll have to sign a confidentiality agreement.” He added with amusement, “They seem to be treating their unwritten season finale as a bigger secret than the location of the Holy Grail.”

“I suppose it’s a question of ratings.”

“If anyone asks you, you are not to tell them your Chinatown film was canceled,” Thack instructed. “Because when I call C&P, right after I get off the phone with you, I shall negotiate a fee commensurate with the stress and inconvenience of your having to rearrange your schedule on a cutting-edge, award-quality indie film in order to accommodate
D-Thirty.
”

“Ah. This is an example of why you’re the agent and I’m just the thespian.”

“Another reason is that I get terrible stage fright.” He added, “Keep your schedule open for the next few days. If you’re filming next week, their wardrobe department will need to see you right away.”

After we ended the call, I felt a burst of optimism and energy. My luck was finally turning around! The fee for this job would cover my bills for a while, I’d get to work on something a lot better than Ted’s film (let alone waiting tables or doing filing and typing), and I’d get exposure on a respected national TV show.

It was all good.

Until Lopez called.

“Sorry I didn’t call you back last night,” he said. “I just got your message a few minutes ago. My phone died yesterday.”

“When?” I wondered. It had been working fine before the shooting when I called him for help, and then I had seen him using it in the aftermath.

“A little while after my
car
died,” he said wearily. “When Quinn and I were ready to leave the scene of the shooting, we found out we couldn’t. The car wouldn’t start.”

“Oh.” Car and phone dying on the same day. No wonder he didn’t sound perky. “This was a police car?”

“Yeah—and it’s the third one in a row we’ve had problems with.” He added bitterly, “So much for providing the police force with reliable equipment so that we can protect and serve.”

“Three cars in a row?” I could see how that would get wearing. Trying to see the bright side, I said, “But at least you don’t have to pay for repairs, right? The cars belong to the department.”

“And considering what we use them for—going to crime scenes, investigating murder and armed robbery, responding to emergency calls—you’d think the department would maintain the damn things. It’s not as if I’m relying on their cars to cruise for chicks or go on a beer run.”

“Did you just say ‘cruise for chicks’?”

“But
no,
making sure we don’t freeze to death in the middle of winter because the heater keeps breaking down, or installing a police radio that actually
works
so that we know what’s going on in the city we’re paid to protect . . .
That
is apparently too much to ask of NYPD support services in the twenty-first century.”

“You’ve made this speech before, haven’t you?” I guessed.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to . . .” Over the phone, I heard his long sigh. “But this has been going on for weeks. I’m getting really fed up.”

“And yet you conceal it so well.”

Now I heard his soft snort of laughter. “Yeah, well . . . I guess yesterday was the straw that broke my back. I waited
forever
in the freezing cold for the tow truck—which I think set out for the Bowery by taking a shortcut through Patagonia or something. I was there for so long, in temperatures that could kill a Yeti, I thought I’d start collecting my pension before the truck finally arrived.”

“The car was parked on the Bowery?” In the whirling collage of my memories of the shooting, I vaguely recalled that was the direction I saw Lopez coming from, though he was on foot when he appeared on Doyers Street to help prevent Susan from killing John.

“Well, not
parked
so much as just left sitting there,” he said. “As you may remember, we arrived in kind of a rush. Which reminds me . . . Susan Yee intended to kill this guy John Chen because . . . she didn’t want him to help her brother make the movie?”

“Yeah. Where’d you hear that?” I wondered if Quinn had known when he’d questioned John about it yesterday.

“Cops tell each other things.”

“Oh, of course. You got it from the Fifth Precinct.”

“I’ve heard a lot of really dumb, pointless, inane motives for murder,” he said. “But I think Susan probably wins the grand prize with that one. I mean, why not just sabotage the financing or vandalize the equipment? She’s a straight-A grad student, for God’s sake. You’d think she could come up with a better plan than one that’ll get her sent to prison for a long, long time.”

“I think she had already tried sabotage and vandalism,” I said carefully. “But Ted was more perseverant than she expected.”

“So she decided to make the leap to murder,” he said in disgust. “Jesus.”

“Actually . . .” This might be the moment to raise the subject of the deadly fortune cookies.

He continued, “And trying to kill Chen in the middle of that crowd was even crazier. Come to think of it, I’ll bet her lawyer has a good shot at an insanity defense.”

I chickened out. Instead, I tried to direct the conversation to a different problem. “What does Detective Quinn think about it?”

“Andy? I think he said, ‘Crazy murdering bitch.’ Which seems to be the majority view at the Fifth, too.” He paused, then said in a different tone of voice, “I’m really glad you didn’t get hurt. And I’m sorry that Ted’s not finishing the film. I know you were glad to have the work.”

“You talked to Ted?” I asked in surprise.

“No, that info came from my buddy in the department’s film unit who was helping me get those location permits for Ted. He called Ted to get some details he needed, and Ted told him it was over, no permits needed.” Lopez added, “Ted also told him about the fire. Did you know the Yees’ whole store burned down yesterday?”

“Yes, I saw it,” I said. “I was, uh, walking that way at the time.”

“Fortunately, no one was hurt,” he said. “It’s too bad about the movie, though. From what Susan told the cops about her reasons for trying to kill John Chen, it sounds like there was a new plan to get more backers.”

“Well, a
tentative
new plan.” Trying to move the conversation back to Quinn, I said, “I stopped by the funeral home to see how John was after the shooting. He said Detective Quinn—um, Andy—had just been there.”

“Yeah, he went there to get some details from the intended victim.”

“But isn’t the Fifth Precinct in charge of the case?”

“They are, but I thought we should follow up, too, since we’d been at the scene. And since Joe Ning’s wake will be at Chen’s, it also seemed like a chance to see if they know anything useful about his final days.”

“But you didn’t go?”

“Someone had to stay with the car,” said Lopez. “I lost the coin toss.”

“Ah.”

“And then I wasn’t able to reconnect with Andy until hours later, when I got to a landline.” He started to sound exasperated again. “That cell was the second phone that’s died on me this month!”

“You
are
having a run of bad luck.” Not as bad as mine, but I could understand why he was aggravated.

“Don’t even get me started,” he muttered. “Now my computer at work has gone haywire, and IT can’t figure out what’s wrong with it. I think Andy screwed up something when he used it, but he claims I’ve got gremlins.”

“Anyhow,”
I said, “you found out your phone wasn’t working while you were freezing to death in Chinatown, waiting eternally for a tow truck?”