Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [6]
“I suppose one piece of chicken won’t show up on camera,” I murmured, trying to suck in my Lycra-clad stomach where it spilled over the waistband of Jilly’s extremely tight skirt. “One small piece.”
I don’t have the svelte or surgically enhanced body of a Hollywood leading lady, but I do watch my weight and try to stay in shape, given my profession. And the camera adds weight and enhances puffiness, so I’d been eating carefully in preparation for this role.
On the other hand, excessive self-denial is just morbid.
And now that I was recovered from the mild revulsion of witnessing Nolan’s gastric episode up close and personal, I was feeling a bit peckish. Especially when I contemplated the prospect of working until dawn, thanks to these delays.
So I called after the departing actors, “I’ll get my purse and catch up to you!”
I went back into the wardrobe trailer, collected my purse, and promised faithfully that I wouldn’t get any stains or splotches on Jilly’s outfit. Then I went back out into the hot, humid night in pursuit of my coworkers and a satisfying piece of fried poultry. I was already more than a block behind the others and didn’t really know where they were going, so I walked at a brisk pace, despite the height of my heels.
Trailing that far behind my colleagues in Harlem around midnight wasn’t as foolhardy as it might sound. We were filming directly east of Mount Morris Park, which is a nice neighborhood, one that reflects the almost-frenzied renovation and rehabilitation projects that have characterized real estate development in Harlem for the past decade or so. In fact, much of Harlem is increasingly inhabited by white yuppies, a somewhat controversial state of affairs in the nation’s most famous black neighborhood.
The main drag that I was headed toward, 125th Street, was at the forefront of this controversy. The famous commercial avenue of Harlem is now home to a large number of national chain stores and corporate-owned businesses. Fewer and fewer black merchants and small Harlem businesses are able to pay the skyrocketing prices for commercial space there these days. Harlem had changed a great deal in recent years; and whether that was ultimately a blessing or a curse, it did at least mean that I didn’t feel anxious about being alone in this area after dark.
A moment later, however, I realized that might be naive of me. As I passed a narrow alley between two apartment buildings, a sudden noise startled me. I jumped and gasped. This, in turn, startled the individual who was poking around the Dumpsters there. The person whirled to face me, moving with noticeable grace in the murky shadows.
At the same moment that I saw he was a young African-American man, I also saw that he was armed! I made a choked noise and staggered backward, my eyes on his—his—his . . .
“Sword?” I choked out, scared and stunned.
He looked down at the long rapier in his hand, as if surprised to find he was pointing it at me.
I backed up a little farther, wondering whether he was an underconfident mugger, an armed robber with equipment problems, or someone attempting an anachronistic gang initiation involving seventeenth-century weaponry.
“I’m not looking for trouble,” I said, taking another step backward.
“Chill,” he said, lowering the sword. Enough light from the streetlamps crept into the alley that I could see his tense posture relax as he released his breath. “This isn’t for you.”
His voice sounded cultured, his consonants well articulated. Now that I felt safe taking my eyes off the sword, I saw that he was probably in his late teens, wearing dark pants and a dark tank top, and had close-cropped hair. He was too far into the shadows for me to see his features very well, but I got the impression of a well-proportioned fellow with good bone structure.
“What are you doing?” I said, now that