Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [55]
“Okay, I see why this is something you can’t go into a shop and buy,” said Jeff.
Max added, “Through the ritual, the physical detritus that has been collected, and the power of the sorcerer, the poppet develops an affinity with the victim. In a mystical sense, it becomes that person. Thus, whatever happens to the doll also happens to the victim.”
Jeff said to me, “Hey, wouldn’t it be great if we could get a voodoo queen to make poppets of casting directors and then charm them into giving us work? Or curse the poppets of critics who gave us bad reviews?”
“Do the two of you work together?” Puma asked us.
I saw her glance at the clock on the wall. Like me, she was probably wondering what was taking Biko so long.
“Not really.” Jeff explained that we had done Othello together about five years ago and told her that I would be teaching some of his workshops at the foundation for a while because of his current scheduling conflict. He added, “I’ve been teaching there, on and off, for years.”
“I’ve been involved there for years, too,” said Puma. “It’s funny that you and I have never met before. But then, the foundation has so much going on, both on site and elsewhere.”
“And I haven’t actually been around for a while,” Jeff said. “I’ve been living in Los Angeles for the past couple of years and only came back at the start of this summer.”
I was a little surprised by that. When Jeff had mentioned LA earlier, while we were in Catherine’s office, I assumed it was a short trip, not a long stay. However, I really had no idea what he’d been doing since leaving New York four years earlier with the short-lived road company of Inferno: The Idi Amin Musical.
Studying his face now, Puma said, “Actually, I thought you looked sort of familiar when you came into the shop. I think I saw you at Mr. Livingston’s funeral.”
“I was there,” he said with a nod. “I left for Los Angeles pretty soon after he died.”
“How did Martin Livingston die?” I asked, recalling that the foundation’s Web site hadn’t given any details.
“Massive stroke,” said Jeff.
Puma added, “It was very sudden.”
“And unexpected?” Max asked.
My gaze met his as I recalled that Darius Phelps’ death three weeks ago had also been unexpected.
“It took everyone by surprise,” Jeff said. “Martin wasn’t a health fiend, but he kept in shape and took good care of himself.”
“But a stroke can happen to anyone, can’t it?” I said, glancing at Max. “Even people who seem to be in good health? And he wasn’t a young man anymore.”
“Here today, gone tomorrow,” Jeff said, looking morose. “One night he was at an awards dinner. Just another celebrity-filled occasion in a billionaire philanthropist’s daily life.”
I wished Jeff hadn’t used the word “dinner.” It reminded me again of how hungry I was.
He continued, “According to people who were there, Martin looked fine. But then suddenly he collapsed in the middle of the festivities. And three days later, he was dead.”
I frowned. “It took him three days to die?” I had assumed that his death by sudden, massive stroke meant he had died instantly.
“Yes,” Puma said. “He passed away at Harlem Hospital. My mother was still alive then—she died last year of cancer—and she was one of the nurses taking care of him there. She said he was out of his mind during the three days he spent dying in the hospital. Ranting and raving. Seeing things. Saying crazy stuff. And strong, too—much stronger than you’d expect a man in his condition to be. Even with sedation, they had to keep him in restraints. But they couldn’t stop the internal bleeding. Finally, he went into cardiac arrest.”
“A grim way to go,” Jeff said.