Falling Angel by William Hjortsberg Page A

park. She was alone.
    I suppressed an urge to second-guess and ran for the Chevy. The streets were nearly empty, and I sped uptown on St. Nicholas, crossing Seventh and Eighth without missing a light. After turning onto Edgecomb, I followed Broadhurst along the edge of colonial Park up to 151st Street.
    I parked near the corner of Macomb’s Place and walked the rest of the way through the Harlem River Houses development. These were attractive four-story buildings arranged around open courts and malls. A Depression-era project, it was a far more civilized approach to public housing than the inhuman monoliths currently in municipal favor. I found the entrance to Toots’ building on 152nd and looked for his apartment number on the row of brass mailboxes set into the brick wall.
    The front door was no problem. I got it open with my penknife blade in less than a minute. Toots lived on the third floor. I climbed the stairs and checked out his lock. There was nothing I could do without my attaché case, so I sat on the steps leading up and waited.

SEVENTEEN
    I didn’t have to wait long. I heard him puffing up the stairs and stubbed out my butt against the bottom of my shoe. He didn’t see me and set his bowling-ball bag down on the floor as he dug for his keys. When he had the door open, I made my move.
    He was reaching for the plaid bag as I caught him from behind, grabbing his coat collar with one hand and shoving him forward into the apartment with the other. He stumbled to his knees, the bag flung rattling into the darkness like a sackful of snakes. I switched on the ceiling light and closed the door behind me.
    Toots huffed to his feet, panting like an animal at bay. His right hand plunged into his coat pocket and came out holding a straight razor. I shifted my weight. “I don’t want to hurt you, old man.”
    He muttered something I didn’t make out and lumbered forward, waving the razor. I caught his arm with my left hand and stepped in close, bringing my knee up hard, where it did the most good. Toots sagged and sat down with a soft grunt. I twisted his wrist a little and he dropped the razor on the carpet. I kicked it against the wall.
    “Dumb, Toots.” I picked up the razor, folded it, and put it in my pocket.
    Toots sat, holding his belly with both hands as if something might come loose if he let go. “What you want with me?” he moaned. “You’re no writer.”
    “Getting smarter. So save the bullshit and tell me what you know about Johnny Favorite.”
    “I’m hurt. I feel all busted up inside.”
    “You’ll recover. Want something to sit on?”
    He nodded. I dragged a red and black Moroccan leather ottoman over behind him and helped ease his bulk up off the floor. He groaned and clutched his middle.
    “Listen, Toots,” I said. “I saw your little shindig in the park. Epiphany Proudfoot’s number with the chicken. What was going on?”
    “Obeah,” he groaned. “Voodoo. Not every black man is a Baptist.”
    “What about the Proudfoot girl? How does she fit in?”
    “She’s a mambo, like her mother was before her. Powerful spirits speak through that child. She been comin’ to humfo meetin’s since she was ten. Took over as priestess at thirteen.”
    “That when Evangeline Proudfoot got sick?”
    “Yeah. Somethin’ like that.”
    I offered Toots a smoke but he shook his head. I lit one myself and asked: “Was Johnny Favorite into voodoo?”
    “He was runnin’ ‘round with the mambo, wasn’t he?”
    “Did he go to meetings?”
    ” ‘Course he did. Lots of ‘em. He was a hunsi-bosal.”
    “A what?”
    “He’d been initiated, but not baptized.”
    “What do they call you when you’re baptized?”
    “Hunsi-kanzo.”
    “That what you are, a hunsi-kanzo?”
    Toots nodded. “I been baptized a long time.”
    “When was the last time you saw Johnny Favorite at one of your chicken-snuffings?”
    “I tol’ you, I ain’t seen him since fo’ the war.”
    “What about the chicken