Falling Angel (17 page)

He was toying with me, grinning like the Cheshire cat. I folded my hands in my lap so he wouldn’t see them shaking. “Something I swallowed,” I said. “Got stuck in my throat.”

“You must be more careful. A thing like that can choke a man.”

“I’m fine. No need to worry. Nothing’s going to stop me from getting to the truth.”

Cyphre pushed his plate away, the elaborate
pâté
half-eaten. “The truth, Mr. Angel, is an elusive quarry.”

THIRTY-ONE

We skipped dessert in favor of brandy and cigars. Cyphre’s panatelas were as good as they smelled. No more was said about the case. I held up my end of the conversation as best I could, the feeling of dread gone hard in my gut like a cyst. Had I imagined that mocking wink? Mind reading is the world’s oldest con, but knowing it didn’t keep my fingers from trembling.

We left the restaurant together. A silver-grey Rolls waited at the curb. The uniformed chauffeur opened the rear door for Louis Cyphre. “We’ll be in touch,” he said, gripping my hand before climbing into the spacious car. The interior gleamed with polished wood and leather like an exclusive men’s club. I stood on the sidewalk and watched them glide off around the corner.

The Chevy seemed a touch shabby as I turned on the ignition and started back downtown. It smelled like the interior of a 42nd Street movie house: stale tobacco and forgotten memories. I drove down Fifth, following the green stripe left over from the parade two days ago. On 45th Street I turned west. There was a parking spot mid-block between Sixth and Seventh, and I grabbed it.

In the outer room of my office, I found Epiphany Proudfoot asleep on the tan Naugahyde couch. She was wearing a plum-colored wool suit over a wide-collared grey satin blouse. Her dark blue coat was folded under her head as a pillow. An expensive leather overnight bag rested on the floor. Her body curved in a graceful Z-shape, legs folded beneath her and her arms cradling the blue coat. She looked as lovely as the figurehead of a sailing ship.

I gently touched her shoulder and her eyelashes fluttered.

“Epiphany?”

Her eyes opened wide, glowing like polished amber. She lifted her head. “What time is it?” she asked.

“Almost three.”

“That late? I was so tired.”

“How long have you been waiting here?”

“Since ten. You don’t keep very regular hours.”

“I had a meeting with my client. Where were you yesterday afternoon? I came to the store, but no one was there.”

She sat up, easing her feet to the floor. “I was at a friend’s. I’ve been afraid to stay at home.”

“Why?”

Epiphany looked at me as if I was a stupid child. “Why do you think?” she said. “First Toots got killed. Then I heard on the news that the woman who was engaged to Johnny Favorite was murdered. For all I know, I’m next.”

“Why do you call her the ‘woman who was engaged to Johnny Favorite’? Don’t you know her name?”

“Why should I know her name?”

“Don’t get cute with me, Epiphany. I followed you to Margaret Krusemark’s apartment when you left here yesterday. I overheard the two of you talking. You’re playing me for a sap.”

Her nostrils flared and her eyes caught the light and flashed like gemstones. “I’m trying to save my life!”

“Playing both ends against the middle isn’t the smartest way to go about it. What exactly did you have cooked up with Margaret Krusemark?”

“Nothing. Until yesterday I didn’t even know who she was.”

“You can do better than that, Epiphany.”

“How? By making it up?” Epiphany came around the low table. “After I phoned you yesterday, I got a call from this woman, Margaret Krusemark. She told me she was a friend of my mother’s from long ago. She wanted to come up and see me, but I said I had to go downtown, so she invited me to drop by her place when I had the time. There was no mention of Johnny Favorite until I got there, and that’s the truth.”

“All right,” I said, “I’ll take your word for it. There’s no one to contradict you. Where did you spend last night?”

“The Plaza. I figured some swank hotel’d be the last place anyone would think to look for a black girl from Harlem.”

“Still staying there?”

Epiphany shook her head. “Can’t afford it. Besides, I didn’t really feel safe. I couldn’t sleep a wink.”

“You must feel safe here,” I said. “You were out like a light when I came in.”

She reached up a delicate hand and smoothed the lapel of my overcoat. “I feel a whole lot safer now that you’ve come.”

“Me big brave detective?”

“Don’t put yourself down.” Epiphany took hold of both my lapels and stood very close. Her hair smelled clean and crisp, like sun-dried linen. “You’ve got to help me,” she said.

I lifted her chin until our eyes met and traced my fingertips across her cheek. “You can stay at my place. It’s more comfortable than sleeping in the office.”

She said thank you, very solemnly, as if I were a music teacher and had just praised her for a successful lesson.

“I’ll take you there now,” I said.

THIRTY-TWO

I parked the Chevy close to the corner of Eighth Avenue and 23rd Street, in front of the old Grand Opera House, once the headquarters of the Erie Railroad. A citadel where “Jubilee” Jim Fisk barricaded himself from his irate stockholders and where his body lay in state after Ned Stokes gunned him down on the back stairs of the Grand Central Hotel, it was presently the home of a neighborhood R.K.O.

“Where’s the Grand Central Hotel?” Epiphany asked as I locked the car.

“Down on lower Broadway above Bleecker Street. It’s called the Broadway Central now. Once upon a time, it was the La Farge House.”

“You sure know a lot about the city,” she said, taking my arm as we crossed the avenue.

“Detectives are like cab drivers; they pick up the geography on the job.” I subjected Epiphany to a running line of tour-bus patter all the way downtown. She seemed to enjoy playing the part of a sightseer and encouraged my pendantry with occasional questions.

The cast-iron façade of an old commercial building on 23rd Street caught her fancy. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in this part of town before.”

We passed Cavanaugh’s Restaurant. “Diamond Jim Brady used to court Lillian Russell in there. Back in the nineties the district was very fashionable. Madison Square was the center of town, and over on Sixth were all the swank department stores, Stern Brothers, Altman’s, Siegel-Cooper, Hugh O’Neill’s. The old buildings are used as lofts now, but they still look the same. Here’s where I live.”

Epiphany craned her neck and stared up at the redbrick Victorian extravagance of the Chelsea. Her smile told me she was charmed by the delicate iron balconies embellishing every floor. “Which one is yours?”

I pointed. “Sixth floor. Under the arch.”

“Let’s go in,” she said.

Aside from the fireplace with its carved black griffins, the lobby was unprepossessing. Epiphany paid no more attention to it than she had to the bronze plaques outside. She did manage a double-take when a white-haired woman walking a leashed leopard strode off the self-service elevator.

I had two rooms and a kitchenette with a small balcony overlooking the street. Not very grand by New York standards, but it might have been J. P. Morgan’s mansion from the look on Epiphany’s face when I unlocked the door.

“I love high ceilings,” she said, draping her coat over the back of the couch. “They make you feel important.”

I took her coat and hung it with mine in the closet. “These higher than the Plaza?”

“About the same. Your rooms are bigger.”

“But no Palm Court downstairs. Can I get you a drink?”

She thought that would be nice, so I went back to the kitchenette and mixed us both a highball. When I returned, carrying the glasses, she was leaning against the door jamb, staring in at the double bed in the other room.

“Those are the accommodations,” I said, handing her a drink. “We’ll work out some kind of arrangement.”

“I’m sure we will,” she said, her voice husky with innuendo. She took a sip, proclaimed it just right, and sat down on the couch by the fireplace. “Does this work?”

“It does when I remember to buy wood.”

“I’ll remind you. It’s a sin not to use it.”

I opened my attaché case and showed her the el Çifr poster. “Know anything about this character?”

“El Çifr? He’s some kind of swami. Been around Harlem for years, since I was a little girl anyway. He has his own small sect but preaches anywhere he’s invited, for Daddy Grace, Father Divine, the Muslims, you name it. Even from the pulpit of the Abyssinian Baptist once. I get his posters in the mail a couple times a year and stick them in the window of the shop same as I do for the Red Cross and Sister Kenny. You know, public service.”

“Have you ever seen him in person?”

“Never. What do you want to know about Çifr for? He have something to do with Johnny Favorite?”

“Maybe. I can’t say for sure.”

“Meaning you don’t want to.”

I said: “Let’s get something settled right at the start. Don’t pump me for information.”

“Sorry. Just curious. I figure I’ve got a stake in this, too.”

“You’re in over your head. That’s why certain things you’re better off not knowing.”

“Afraid I’ll tell someone else?”

“No,” I said. “I’m afraid someone else will think you’ve got something to tell.”

The ice rattled against the sides of Epiphany’s empty glass. I made her a fresh drink and another for myself and sat next to her on the couch. “Cheers,” she said as we clinked glasses.

“I’ll be honest with you, Epiphany,” I said. “I’m no closer to finding Johnny Favorite than I was the first night we met. He was your father. Your mother must have talked about him. Try and remember anything she might have told you, however insignificant it may seem.”

“She hardly mentioned him.”

“She must have told you something.”

Epiphany toyed with an earring, a small cameo edged in gold. “Mama said he was a person of strength and power. She called him a magician. Obeah was only one of many avenues he explored. Mama said he taught her a lot about the black arts, more than she wanted to know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Play with fire and you’re liable to get burned.”

“Your mother wasn’t interested in black magic?”

“Mama was a good woman; her spirit was pure. She once told me that Johnny Favorite was as close to true evil as she ever wanted to come.”

“That must have been his attraction,” I said.

“Maybe. It’s usually some badass makes a young girl’s heart beat faster.”

Is yours beating faster now, I wondered. “Can you think of anything else your mother told you?”

Epiphany smiled, her gaze as unwavering as a cat’s. “Well, there is one thing more. She said he was a fabulous lover.”

I cleared my throat. She leaned back against the couch cushions, waiting for me to make my move. I excused myself and went into the bathroom. The maid had left her mop and bucket leaning against the full-length mirror, saving herself a trip to the utility dosed at quitting time. Her limp grey smock hung over the mop handle like a misplaced shadow.

Zipping my trousers, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I told myself I was a fool to be messing around with a suspect. Unwise and unethical, also dangerous. Tend to business and sleep on the couch. My reflection leered back in a totally brainless manner.

Epiphany smiled when I returned to the room. She had removed her shoes and suit jacket. Her slender neck flowed into the open collar of her blouse with a grace that reminded me of hawks in flight. “Care for a refill?” I reached for her empty glass.

“Why not?”

I made them stiff, killing the bottle, and when I handed one to Epiphany I noticed the top two buttons on her blouse were undone. I hung my jacket over the back of a chair and loosened my necktie. Epiphany’s topaz eyes followed every move. Silence enclosed us like a bell jar.

My pulse hammered at my temples as I dropped to one knee on the couch beside her. I took her unfinished drink and placed it next to mine on the coffee table. Epiphany’s lips parted slightly. I heard a sharp intake of breath when I reached behind the nape of her neck and drew her to me.

THIRTY-THREE

The first time on the couch was a frenzied tangle of clothing and limbs. Three celibate weeks did little to enhance my lovemaking skills. I promised a better performance if given a second chance.

“Has nothing to do with chance.” Epiphany slipped her unbuttoned blouse off her shoulders. “Sex is how we speak to the gods.”

“Let’s continue the conversation in the bedroom?” I kicked free of my tangled trousers and shorts.

“I’m serious.” She spoke in a whisper as she removed my necktie and slowly unbuttoned my shirt. “There is a story older than Adam and Eve. That the world began with the copulation of the gods. Us being together is like a mirror of Creation.”

“Don’t get too serious.”

“It’s not serious, it’s joyful.” She dropped her brassiere to the floor and unzippered her wrinkled skirt. “The female is the rainbow; the male, lightning and thunder. Here. Like this.”

Wearing only nylons and her garter belt, Epiphany arched into a supple backbend with the ease of a yoga master. Her body was lithe and strong. Delicate muscles rippled beneath her fawn-colored flesh. She was fluid as a flight of birds.

Or a rainbow, for that matter; her hands touched the floor behind her, back bent in a perfect arc. Her slow, easy movement was like all natural wonders, a glimpse at perfection. She lowered herself until she was supported only by her shoulders, elbows and the soles of her feet. It was the most carnal position I had ever seen a woman assume. “I am the rainbow,” she murmured.

“Lightning strikes twice.” I knelt before her, a fervent acolyte, and gripped the altar of her open thighs, but the mood was broken when she closed the distance like a limbo dancer and swallowed me up. The rainbow turned into a tigress. Her taut belly throbbed against me. “Don’t move,” she whispered, contracting hidden muscles with a rhythmic pulse. It was hard to keep from yelling when I came.