Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [103]
“And?”
“He was home, but he wouldn’t open the door. I wound up getting the superintendent to let me into his apartment.” Lopez looked puzzled. “He was the same man depicted on his driver’s license, and he confirmed that he was Frank Johnson. He was also scared out of his wits.”
Max and I exchanged a glance. Lopez noticed.
“What frightened him?” Max asked.
“I have no idea,” Lopez said. “I couldn’t get anything that made sense out of him.”
Thinking we should go talk to him, I asked Lopez for his address.
“Sorry, Esther. He’s unlisted. I’m not supposed to give out that information. And based on the way he was behaving today, I think he’d sue the department if I did.”
“We understand, detective.” Max sighed in disappointment. “But I do wish Mr. Johnson would at least answer his phone.”
“Why do you want to talk to him?” Lopez asked Max.
“The ceremony is about to start,” I said quickly. “Shall we go downstairs?”
Lopez eyed me. “Fine.”
We began descending the stairs to the hounfour. Lopez put his hand on my arm so that we slowed down and wound up following Max.
“What’s going on?” he asked in a low voice.
“Frank Johnson was behaving strangely the last time anyone saw him,” I said carefully. “Max is concerned about his well-being and wants to help him.”
“Max should stay away from him.”
“Since we don’t know how to find him and he won’t answer his phone, Max probably will stay away from him.”
Going down the stairs jostled my gris-gris charm, which made me sneeze again.
Seeing red dust floating out of the pouch, Lopez asked, “No, really. What are you wearing?”
“Fine,” I said. “Fine. Have it your way. This is a gris-gris bag made to protect me from a voodoo curse by an evil bokor. It contains about thirty ingredients. After cayenne pepper, dried lizard gizzard, tobacco, chicken feathers, and frog’s toes, I asked Max to stop listing the ingredients for me. Happy now?”
“Okay, you were right the first time,” he said. “Now my head hurts.”
We walked the rest of the way in silence.
I had never been to the basement before. It was more attractive than I had pictured it. The hounfour was a large open space. The walls were painted a soothing blue and decorated with murals of the Virgin Mary and various Vodou loa.
The only feature marring the scene was Napoleon in his cage. Lopez was right; the snake’s cage was nicer than many people’s apartments. There was a big tree branch, which the boa was currently coiled around. Beneath the branch, there was a grassy area, some pebbles, and a boulder with a big indentation for a private little pond. Napoleon’s head was moving restlessly, and his tongued flicked repeatedly in and out of his mouth.
I looked away, determined to focus on anything but the mambo’s pet.
The ritual already seemed to be under way, though this was evidently more organic than organized. There were some people drumming, a few other people were singing and dancing, and there was an open brazier in the center of the space full of glowing coals.
“That can’t be legal,” Lopez muttered. “We’re in a basement.”
“You’re just here to observe and prevent trouble,” I reminded him.
There was long iron rod stuck into the brazier, its tip glowing red hot in the burning coals.
I looked at the big altar along the far wall. It was crowded with ritual objects: bottles, candles, dolls representing the loa, spirit masks, a statue of the Virgin, a coffin with a cross on it, a skull, seashells, feathers, flowers, silk scarves, and pictures of Catholic saints. There were dishes of food on the altar, as well as what appeared to be an ample supply of tobacco.
There were a lot of people present in the hounfour, and more were still arriving. Max, Lopez, and I seemed to be the only attendees who weren’t African- American. This probably made it easy for Jeff to spot us, despite how crowded the space was by now. He made his way over to us.
“Where’s Biko?” I asked him.
“I don’t know.