Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [13]
“Where were you filming?”
“East of Mount Morris Park.”
“Did you tell the cops this?”
“I tried, when they were booking me.” I shrugged and admitted, “But by then, they seemed so convinced I was crazy, I gave up before long and just asked for my phone call.”
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate you thinking of me when you’re locked up for being a demented hooker,” he said, “but I’m wondering why you didn’t just call the set and ask them to come confirm that you are who you say you are.”
“All the phone numbers I need are in my purse, which was stolen before I was arrested. And I’m just a guest performer, so I don’t even know most of the people’s full names. When the cops let me have a phone book, the only number I could find was the show’s regular production office. And when I called it, all I got was an answering machine. The office staff isn’t there at two o’clock in the morning. Go figure.” I sighed. “Next, I called my agent’s cell, thinking he could come here and straighten this out. But he didn’t answer, either.”
I rested my head against the bars for a moment, feeling depressed. “I was supposed to be back on the set hours ago. They’ve got no idea where I am. I’m in so much trouble.” I would be very lucky if the producers didn’t fire me.
After a moment of silence, Lopez put his hand on mine and squeezed sympathetically. He knew how important my work was to me.
“What’s the show?” he asked, trying to be nice.
“The Dirty Thirty.”
He flinched and removed his hand. “I hate that show.”
“It’s a really good script,” I said morosely, still thinking about how I was bound to be fired. And probably banned from all Crime and Punishment sets. “I play a homeless bisexual junkie prostitute being blackmailed for sex and information by a corrupt cop.”
“Whatever,” Lopez said sourly.
“I mean, that’s what I’m playing if I’ve still got a job now.”
“So some actor on a totally fabricated, insulting, bullshit TV show,” he said, “got sick on your location shoot. They sent for a doctor, and filming came to a halt. What happened then?”
“Oh. Well . . .” I continued my story, explaining how I had wound up walking through the neighborhood alone in the dark in my costume, and what had happened next.
Lopez said, “And this guy had a sword?”
“Specifically, a rapier.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’m an actress. The rapier was a common weapon in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and it’s used in the plays of that period.”
“Did he threaten you with it?”
“Not really,” I said.
“What does ‘not really’ mean?”
I explained that I had startled the young man, who lowered his sword as soon as he recovered from his surprise. I recounted our conversation, his departure, and what happened next.
“And this is when you saw the gargoyles?”
“Could we not focus on that?” I said irritably. “The important point is that I saw this man being attacked. And maimed.” I continued my story.
Lopez soon interrupted to say, “The man was wearing a tuxedo?”
“Yes.” Seeing that he was looking at me as if this required an explanation, I said, “What’s so strange about that?”
He shrugged. “It just seems a little odd. Never mind. So this man . . .” Lopez’s tone concealed something. I wasn’t sure what. “He told you his name was . . .”
“Darius,” I said. “Darius Phelps.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” Since he just kept looking at me, I asked, “Why?”
“Besides the tux, what did he look like?”
I described Darius.
Lopez lowered black lashes over blue eyes and stood there silently for a few moments. He seemed to be thinking.
Finally, he said, “So you saw him being attacked. Go on.”
I described the scene that ensued. And since Lopez already knew I thought the attacking creatures looked like gargoyles, I decided not to waste any time or energy prevaricating about that.
“Wait, you did what?” he said.
Caught up in my description of the struggle with the growling, befanged thing that had stolen my purse, by the way—“And is anyone here doing anything about that? Hah!”—I was taken