Unsympathetic Magic (11 page)

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Authors: Laura Resnick

BOOK: Unsympathetic Magic
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“Excuse me,” he said, his gaze on my cleavage as he moved to step between us and enter the doorway.
“Oh, sorry. I’m in the way, aren’t I? Max, we should move.”
The man glanced sharply at me as I spoke, which made me look at him in return. He was about thirty, nice-looking, clean-shaven, and . . .
“Oh, my God,” I said slowly. The cue- ball head had made him look like a stranger at first glance. He’d had close-cropped hair back when I knew him. “Jeff?”
He frowned, then looked thunderstruck as he recognized me.
“Esther?”
“Yes.” I smiled. “Jeff!”
“Holy shit! Esther Diamond!” He grinned and embraced me. “
Man,
it’s been a long time!”
When he released me, I said, “I haven’t seen you since you went on the road with that show. That was—what? Three years ago?”
“Four.”
I said to Max, “It was a musical version of Idi Amin’s life.” Then to Jeff: “How did that go?”
“It died on the road.”
“Go figure.”
“But that was a long time ago. How about you? How’ve you been?” His gaze moved over me and his expression froze in an awkward smile. “This is . . . a new look for you.”
“It’s a costume,” I said wearily. “I was working last night, and I haven’t been able to get my own clothes back or go home yet. Long story.” I gestured to his bald head. “This is a new look for you, too.”
He ran a hand over his shiny bald pate. “What do you think?”
Rather than answer that, since I saw no reason to mar this unexpected reunion with an honest opinion, I asked, “Is it for summer? Or a job?”
“A job. They wanted a certain look. I’m playing an athlete.” He flexed his shoulders. “I’ve been working out for it, too.”
“You look fit.” And that was true. Jeff was slim and long-limbed, not bulky or muscular. He wore a tank top and shorts in this heat, so it was easy to see that he was well-toned, his skin stretched smoothly over taut muscles and glowing with good health. “What’s the job?”
Jeff didn’t answer. Examining my outfit, which was looking the worse for wear by now, he asked, “So where were you working last night?”
“On location here in Harlem. A nighttime shoot for
The Dirty Thirty
.”
“Whoa!” His eyes widened. “I love that show.”
“Thank you,”
I said with feeling. “Er, I mean, I’m glad to hear that.”
“
The Dirty Thirty,
huh? Well. Hmm.” He smiled again. “Hey, good for you!” His gaze moved to Max and he introduced himself. “Hi. I’m Jeffrey Clark.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” I said belatedly. “Jeff, this is Dr. Maximillian Zadok, who’s a good friend of mine. Max, Jeff is an actor and . . . an old friend.”
Actually, Jeff was a former boyfriend. But that’s a phrase which implies old complications, and it seemed like too much information in the current circumstances.
“I’m delighted to meet you,” Max said, shaking Jeff’s hand. “Were you on your way into this establishment?”
“Yeah. I work here.”
“Oh, of course!” I slapped my forehead, then looked at Max. “
That’s
why it sounded familiar to me.” I said to Jeff, “Now I remember! You used to teach workshops here.”
“I
still
teach workshops here,” he said.
“The Livingston Foundation.” I nodded. “I knew I recognized the name from somewhere.” I had never been here, but I now recalled that, staying true to the Harlem roots he had always wanted to have (in fact, he came from a middle-class suburb of Columbus, Ohio), Jeff took pride in teaching acting workshops to young people at the Livingston Foundation.
“Since you’re employed here, then perhaps you knew Darius Phelps?” Max asked, leaping right into the breach.
“Darius?” Jeff shrugged. “Sure. He worked here.” He looked at me. “Is that why you’re here? You knew Darius?”
“Not exactly,” I said.
“We have some questions about him,” Max said. “Perhaps you can help us?”
“I didn’t know him that well, but, sure, I can try.”
“First of all—”
“Not right now, though.” Jeff glanced at his wrist-watch. “I’ve got a meeting, and . . . and . . .” His gaze was fixed on me, and he started smiling. “Oh,
man
. This is lucky.”
“What?” I said.
Then his smile faded and he looked uncertain. “Actually, maybe you won’t . . .”
“What?”
I prodded.
“Do you want some work?”
He was speaking my language. I asked, “What kind of work?”
“I know you’ve got this
D-Thirty
gig and all, and this wouldn’t pay much compared to that. But it also doesn’t take up that much time, and it’s a way to—you know—give something back,” he said in a rush. “Plus, you’d really be helping me out.”
“What kind of work?” I repeated.
“You’d take over some of the workshops I’m teaching here. This job I got—the athlete role—has some scheduling conflicts with my work here. I thought I had it covered, but I got an angry call from the boss this morning. The guy who was substituting for me here turned out to be a flake and hasn’t shown up for a couple of days. I’m on my way into the boss’ office to do a mea culpa and promise to clean up my mess.” He let out his breath. “She was really pissed off, Esther. So it sure would help, when I go in there now, if I could introduce her to my new replacement.”
Actually, I thought I might enjoy teaching some acting workshops. Meanwhile, my working in Darius Phelps’ place of employment might be a fruitful avenue for investigating his fate, if he was indeed the individual whom I’d seen last night.
However, I was a little concerned about my outfit. “I’m definitely interested, Jeff. But do I really have to meet your boss?
Now,
I mean?”
“Since my previous replacement has crapped out on her, yeah, I think she’s going to insist on meeting you. And then you and I can teach a class together today, so the kids can get to know you.”
“Like
this?
But—”
“Come on.” He gestured to the front door. “It’ll be fine. I’ll explain to her about the outfit.”
I glanced at Max. He was frowning. But when I lifted my brows in silent query, he gave a little shake of his head, indicating that he didn’t want to discuss whatever was troubling him. Not in front of Jeff, anyhow.
“Okay, let’s go meet your boss,” I said to Jeff. “Oh! Wait!”
“What’s wrong?” Jeff said.
“Before we do anything else, I have to make a call. Can I borrow your cell? Mine was stolen last night.”
“Stolen?” Jeff reached into his pocket.
“Yes. I’ll explain later. But this call is important. I should do it right now. Thanks.” I accepted the phone from him . . . and then realized I didn’t actually know the
D30
production office’s number. I’d have to phone directory assistance first. “This will just take a few minutes.”
As I walked a little distance away from the two men to make my calls, I heard Max say, “So you are a fellow thespian. Is that how you and Esther met?”
“Yeah. We did
Othello
together,” Jeff said. “She was Ophelia. I got to strangle her.”
And on many occasions after we started dating, I wished it had been the reverse.
Max was a Shakespeare fan, so he plied Jeff with questions about that long-ago production while I got directory assistance to connect me to
D30
. The production office’s phone rang a few times, and then someone answered it just long enough to put me on hold.
Jeff had always been his own best publicist, and from the bits of his conversation with Max that I overheard while on hold with
D30
, I could tell that this hadn’t changed.
That production of
Othello
had been a non-Equity cooperative showcase, meaning we all did it for free so we could list another role on our résumés, and so we could try to attract some attention (from talent agents, for example). The income from ticket sales barely covered the cost of the small, shabby performance space that we rented above a bar in the East Village. But based on what Jeff was saying about that production now, Max was probably getting the impression that we had performed the play at Lincoln Center and that Jeff had only narrowly missed being nominated for a Tony Award.
Playing Ophelia opposite Jeff had been my first good role after coming to New York. After graduating from Northwestern University, I had moved here with two other classmates, and we had gotten lucky and secured the rent-controlled apartment that I still lived in. We mostly paid our bills by waiting tables, telemarketing, and doing office temping. My first “acting” job in New York had involved dressing up as a bear and wandering the streets, handing out leaflets for a toy store at Christmas. I was subsequently cast as a singing rutabaga in a one-act play that toured local schools to teach children about nutrition. (The rutabaga, an unjustly neglected root vegetable, contains vitamins A and C.)
After that, I was determined to play an actual human being, even if I wasn’t paid for it. So I went to the audition when I heard about the
Othello
showcase. The project was being coproduced by the director and the lead actor—Jeffrey Clark. Jeff had been in New York longer than I had, he knew the ropes better than I did, and he was tremendously talented. He was also very attractive, and he thought
I
was tremendously talented. Before long, our flirtation turned into a serious relationship.
We were together for almost a year, and we had some good times. Jeff was a decent man, as well as one who shared and understood my vocation.
On the other hand, he was also the reason that I had decided never again to date an actor.
Now, while I waited for
D30
’s production office to speak to me, I could hear Jeff telling Max about some of the other roles he had played since the Moor of Venice.
Moving a little farther away from them, I muttered, “But enough about me. What do
you
think about me?”
Then, finally, someone picked up the phone at
D30
and spoke to me. As soon as I gave my name, the woman at the other end of the line cried, “Oh, my God!
There
you are! I’ve phoned your apartment
and
your cell. Twice!
Each
. Where have you
been?
”
I took a deep breath. “I’m really sor—”
“We’ve been
frantic
to get a hold of you.”
“I can imagine. And I want to start by say—”
“We were getting so worried!”
“I know,” I said. “And I—”
“We are all
so
sorry about this, Esther!”
I blinked. “Pardon?”
“Have you seen the papers?”
“Uh, no, but—”
“Never mind. That’s okay.”
“Thank you. I mean—”
“As you may have heard—or maybe you didn’t—Mike’s gastric episode last night turned out to be a heart attack. A heart attack! So suddenly there were medics and doctors and ambulances and cops and hospitals and chaos and panic and—and—
and!
You know?”
“Um. Uh-huh.”
“So we were at the hospital all night. All night! We left a skeleton crew to pack up the location shoot. And we totally forgot—I mean
forgot
until, like, this morning—that some of the actors had gone off to get something to eat!”
“Oh?”
“But now I know what happened to you, Esther!”
That seemed unlikely. “You do?”
“You poor thing! We had no idea until this morning that the actors were wandering around Harlem in the middle of the night wondering where the show had gone, and that the few crew members who were still there weren’t very helpful. I can only imagine how
scary
that was for you!”
“I was pretty scared last night,” I said truthfully.
“I’m
so
sorry,” she said. “We’re
all
so sorry.”
“Oh, these things happen,” I said kindly. “And I’m fine. So don’t give it another thought. Really.”
“You’re
such
a pro.”
I was very glad that someone on the staff of a successful television show thought so. “So tell me how Nolan is. Uh, Mike, I mean.”
“He’s, er, not very happy. But, well, I guess that’s to be expected.”
Based on my limited exposure to him, I doubted that he was
ever
happy.
She added, “He’d like it if you visited him. He’s at North General in Harlem. He wanted to go to Mount Sinai, but—”
“I can’t visit him,” I said. “I hardly know him.” Yes, we had simulated the act of sexual intercourse together in front of a TV camera, but we were scant acquaintances, at best.

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