Falling Angel (19 page)

“She was no Cat’lic,” Sterne said. “Heathen is more like it.”

I munched my toast. “What’s all this got to do with the price of salami? I thought you were investigating the death of Toots Sweet?”

Sterne’s dead eyes met my gaze. “That’s right, Angel. It just so happens the M.O. in both killings is very similar.”

“You think they’re connected?”

“Maybe I should ask you that.”

The coffee started perking, and I lowered the flame. “What good would that do? You might as well ask the guy at the desk downstairs.”

“Don’t get smart, Angel. The nigger piano player was mixed up in voodoo. This Krusemark broad was a star-gazer, and from the looks of things dabbled in a little black magic on the side. They both get bumped off the same week, one day apart, under extremely similar circumstances, by a person or persons unknown.”

“In what way were the circumstances similar?”

“That comes under the heading of police business.”

“So how can I help if I don’t know what you want?” I got three mugs out of the cupboard and lined them on the counter.

“You’re holding out on us, Angel?”

“Why shouldn’t I hold out on you?” I turned off the flame and poured the coffee. “I don’t work for the city.”

“Lissen, wise ass: I called your fancy mouthpiece downtown. It looks like you’ve got us over a barrel. You can clam up, and we gotta keep hands off. But if I find out you’ve broken so much as a parking regulation, I’m gonna come down on you like a piledriver. You won’t be able to get a license to sell peanuts in this town.”

I sipped my coffee, breathing the fragrant steam. “I always obey the law, Lieutenant,” I said.

“Bullshit! Guys like you play jumprope with the law. Someday real soon you’re gonna slip, and I’ll be there waiting with open arms.”

“Your coffee’s getting cold.”

“Fuck the coffee!” Sterne snarled. His lip curled over his crooked, yellow teeth, and he backhanded the mugs off the counter. They crashed against the opposite wall and bounced along the floor. Sterne regarded the splattered brown stain thoughtfully, like a 57th Street gallery-goer studying an action painting. “Looks like I made a mess,” he said. “No problem. The nigger can mop up when I’m gone.”

“And when might that be?” I asked.

“When I damn well please.”

“Suits me.” I carried my cup back into the living room and sat on the couch. Sterne stared at me as if I was something unpleasant he’d just stepped in. Deimos looked at the ceiling.

I held the cup in both hands and ignored them. Deimos started to whistle but quit after four tuneless notes. I always keep a couple pet cops around the place was what I’d say when friends came over. They’re better company than parakeets and no trouble if housebroken.

“Awright. Let’s breeze,” Sterne barked. Deimos sauntered past as if it was his idea.

“Hurry back,” I said.

Sterne pulled his hat brim down. “I’ll be waiting for you to step outta line, ass-wipe.” He slammed the door hard enough to dislodge a Currier & Ives lithograph from the foyer wall.

THIRTY-FIVE

The glass was cracked in the frame, a frozen lightning bolt zigzagging between the bare-knuckled fists of the Great John L. and Jake Kilrain. I hung it back on the wall and heard a soft tapping at the front door. “Come on in, Ethel. It’s open.”

Epiphany peered inside, still wearing her rag bandanna. “Are they gone for good?”

“Probably not. But they won’t bother us any more today.”

She carried the bucket and mop into the foyer and closed the door. Leaning back, she started to giggle. There was an edge of hysteria in her laughter, and when I took her in my arms, I felt her body tremble under the thin cotton smock. “You were terrific,” I told her.

“Wait’ll you see how clean I got the toilet.”

“Where’d you go?”

“I hid on the fire stairs until I heard them leave.”

“Hungry? There’s a pot of coffee made and eggs in the fridge.”

We fixed breakfast, a meal I usually skip, and carried our plates into the living room. Epiphany dipped her toast in egg yolk. “Did they find anything of mine?”

“They weren’t looking, really. One of them poked around my attaché case. He found something I took from the Krusemark apartment but didn’t know what it was. Hell, I don’t even know what it is.”

“Can I see?”

“Why not?” I got up and showed her the card.

“MISSA NIGER,” she read. “
Invito te venire ad dandestinum ritum
…”

She held the card like it was the ace of spades. “This is an announcement of a Black Mass.”

“A what?”

“Black Mass. It’s some kind of magical ceremony, devil worship. I don’t know too much about it.”

“How do you know for sure, then?”

“Because that’s what it says.
Missa niger
is the Latin for black mass.”

“You read Latin?”

Epiphany grinned with pleasure. “What else do you learn after ten years in parochial school.”

“Parochial school?”

“Sure. I went to Sacred Heart. My mama didn’t think much of the public school system. She believed in discipline. ‘Those nuns sure will whip some sense in your thick head,’ she used to say.”

I laughed. “The voodoo princess at Sacred Heart. I’d love to see your yearbook pictures.”

“I’ll show you sometime. I was class president.”

“I’ll bet you were. Can you translate the whole thing?”

“Easy,” Epiphany smiled. “It says: ‘You are invited to attend a secret ceremony to the glory of Lord Satan and his power.’ That’s all. Then there’s the date, March 22nd, and the time, 9:00 P.M. And down here it says, ‘Eastside Interborough Rapid Transit, 18th Street Station.’ “

“What about the letterhead? That upside-down star with the goat head? Have any idea what it means?”

“Stars are an important symbol in every religion I know anything about, the Islamic star, the star of Bethlehem, star of David. The talisman of Agove Royo has stars in it.”

“Agove Royo?”

“Obeah.”

“That invitation have anything to do with voodoo?”

“No, no. This is devil worship.” Epiphany was pained by my ignorance. “The ram is a sign of the devil. An inverted star means bad luck. Probably also a satanic symbol.”

I grabbed Epiphany and wrapped her in my arms. “You are worth your weight in gold, babe. Does Obeah have a devil?”

“Many devils.”

She smiled at me, and I patted her bottom. Nice bottom. “It’s time to brush up on my black magic. We’ll get dressed and go to the library. You can help me with my homework.”

It was a beautiful morning, warm enough to go without a coat. Bright sunshine dazzled on the mica specks in the sidewalk. Spring was officially one day off, but we might not see weather this good again until May. Epiphany wore her plaid skirt and sweater and looked invitingly like a schoolgirl. Driving up Fifth where the little golden statuettes of Mercury gleamed atop the traffic lights, I asked how old she was.

“Seventeen, last January sixth.”

“Christ, you’re not old enough to buy a drink.”

“Not true. When I’m dressed up I get served without any problems. They never asked for my I.D. at the Plaza.”

I believed her. In her plum-colored suit she looked five years older. “Aren’t you a little young to be running the store?”

Epiphany’s amused look contained a trace of scorn. “I’ve been in charge of accounting and inventory since my mama took ill,” she said. “I only tend the counter at night. In the daytime I have a staff of two.”

“And what do you do in the daytime?”

“Study mostly. Go to class. I’m a freshman at City.”

“Good. You should be an old hand in the library. I’ll leave the research to you.”

I waited in the main reading room while Epiphany sorted through file cards. Scholars of all ages sat in silent rows between the long wooden tables where precisely arranged lampshades wore numbers like convicts on parade. The room had ceilings as high as a train station with huge chandeliers like inverted wedding cakes hanging in the Beaux Arts vastness. Only occasional muffled coughing disturbed the cathedral hush.

I found a vacant seat at the far end of a reading table. The number on the lampshade corresponded to the number engraved on a brass oval countersunk into the tabletop in front of me: 666. I remembered the snotty maître d’ at the Top of the Six’s and changed my seat; 724 felt a lot more comfortable.

“Wait’ll you see what I’ve found.” Epiphany dropped an armload of books with a dusty thump. Heads turned halfway down the table. “Some of it is trash, but there’s an edition of the
Grimoire of Pope Honorius
privately printed in Paris in 1754.”

“I don’t read French.”

“It’s in Latin. I’ll translate. Here’s a new one that’s mostly pictures.”

I reached for the oversized coffee-table volume and opened it at random to a full-page medieval painting of a horned monster with lizard scales and talons in place of feet. Flames issued from his ears and between the stalactite rows of tusks accentuating his gaping mouth. It bore the caption: SATAN, PRINCE OF HELL.

I thumbed several pages. An Elizabethan woodcut showed a woman in a farthingale kneeling behind a naked devil with the build of a lifeguard. He had wings, a goat’s head, and fingernails like Slovenly Peter. The woman hugged his legs, her nose nestled directly beneath his uplifted tail. She was smiling.

“The abominable kiss,” Epiphany said, looking over my shoulder. “That’s how a witch traditionally sealed her allegiance to the devil.”

“I guess they didn’t have notary publics in those days.” I turned a few more pages, flipping through a succession of demons and familiars. There were many inverted five-pointed stars in the section on talismans. I came across one with the figure 666 printed at the center and pointed it out to Epiphany. “My least favorite number.”

“It’s from the Book of Revelations.”

“The what?”

“The Bible: ‘Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast; for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred threescore and six.’ “

“Is that a fact?”

Epiphany frowned at me over the tops of her reading glasses. “Don’t you know anything?”

“Not a whole lot, but I’m learning fast. Here’s a woman named for the restaurant where I ate yesterday.” I showed Epiphany the engraving of a plump matron wearing a peasant’s cowled hood.

“
Voisin
is French for ‘neighbor,’ ” she said.

“Those nuns did drum some book learning into you at that. Here, read the caption.”

Epiphany took the book and read the small print beneath the engraving in a whisper: “Catherine Deshayes, called La Voisin, a society fortuneteller and sorceress. Arranged Black Masses for the Marquise de Montespan, mistress of King Louis XIV, as well as for other notables. Arrested, tortured, tried and executed in 1680.”

“Just the book we need.”

“It’s entertaining, but the meat and potatoes are in these:
Malleus Maleficarum
, and Reginald Scott’s
The Discoverie of Witchcraft
, and Aleister Crowley’s
Magick
, and the
Secrets of Albertus Magnus
, and —”

“Okay, terrific. I want you to go home and curl up on the couch with a good book. Mark any passages you think I should read, especially stuff dealing with the Black Mass.”

Epiphany gave me the sort of look a teacher reserves for the class dunce. “This is a reference library. You can’t check out any of the books in here.”

“Well, I can’t stick around. I’ve got work to do.”

“There’s a branch library downstairs.” Epiphany began piling the books. “I’ll check and see how many of these are in general circulation.”

“Perfect. You’re a champ. Here’s the key to my place.” I opened my wallet and slipped her a twenty. “That’s for cab fare and anything else you think you’ll need.”

“I’ve got money of my own.”

“Hang on to it. I might have to borrow some.”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“Keep the chain on the door. You’ll be fine.”

Epiphany walked me downstairs through the imposing white marble entrance hall and out onto the broad steps leading to Fifth Avenue. She was afraid, and it made her look like a little girl. Our searing, snake-tongued kiss earned contemptuous stares from two passing businessmen and much applause and whistling from a hookey-playing urchin bootblack sitting on the base of the uptown lion.

THIRTY-SIX

I dropped the Chevy off at the garage and walked back to Broadway on the sunny side of 44th. I was taking my time, enjoying the weather, when I spotted Louis Cyphre coming out of the main entrance to the Astor. He wore a tan beret, tweed Norfolk coat, twill breeches, and tall, polished riding boots. In a gloved hand he carried a scuffed leather travel bag.

I watched him wave off a doorman’s offer of a cab. He started downtown past the Paramount Building at a brisk pace. I considered catching up with him but figured he was heading for the Crossroads office and decided to save my breath. I didn’t think of it as tailing him; I was much too close. But when he reached the entrance to my building and continued on without a pause, I instinctively fell back and lingered by a shop window, curiosity at full throttle. He crossed 42nd Street and turned west. I watched from the corner, then kept pace with him, following along the opposite side of the street.

Cyphre stood out in the crowd. Not hard to do among the pimps, hustlers, drug addicts, and runaways crowding 42nd Street when you’re dressed as if you were going to the Horse Show at the Garden. I guessed his eventual destination to be Port Authority. He surprised me mid-block and ducked into Hubert’s Museum and Flea Circus.

I dodged four lanes of two-way traffic like “Crazy Legs” Hirsch evading defensive linemen only to be brought up short by a signboard at the entrance. Glitter-edged letters announced: THE AMAZING DR. CIPHER. Eight-by-ten glossies showed my client wearing a top hat and tails like Mandrake the Magician. LIMITED ENGAGEMENT, it said.

The main floor of Hubert’s was a penny arcade; the stage was downstairs. I went in, bought a ticket and found a place in the dark along the chest-high plywood barrier that discouraged audience participation. On the small, brightly lit stage, a buxom belly dancer gyrated to a quavering Arabic lament. I counted five other shadowy spectators besides myself.