PsyCop Briefs: Volume 1

by Jordan Castillo Price

  Jacob put on his best reasonable authority-voice and said, “Everything’s okay, we’ll work it out, just stay calm.”

  “He’s plenty calm,” I said.

  “And if there’s something you need to say, now’s the time. We’re listening—and we’ll do what we can to help.”

  Jacob was making an awful lot of promises he had no way of knowing we could keep. Or was he? He’s notoriously slick about doling out no more of the truth than is absolutely necessary, and I supposed “do what we can” is all anyone ever really does.

  “I knew you fellas were good eggs when you told off that creep in the office.” The ghost took a couple steps forward in his oversized shoes and I motioned for Jacob to back up toward the door. Sure, the ghost wasn’t wailing or rattling chains or blasting us with cold spots. He wasn’t chanting a phrase over and over or regaling me with the details of his death. But he was still a ghost. And mediums can get bumped right out of their own driver’s seat if they get careless around the dead. “But there ain’t nothing you can do for this old place, not unless you know the Mayor. You don’t, do you?”

  I didn’t. Jacob might have shaken his hand a time or two, but that probably didn’t matter. The Mayor would be less likely to invest his influence in protecting a single building nowadays than he would have in vaudeville times—back when a cup of coffee cost a nickel and nobody had yet uttered the words Wikipedia or Facebook. Things were complicated in this brave new millennium. Sure, PsyCops were elite. Yet we were so specialized, I doubted we even had enough influence to shut down a bunch of blowhards like Men 4 Men.

  “Sorry, no. Real estate’s completely out of my league. Maybe you should just go toward the light.”

  The spirit glanced up at the cruddy light fixture.

  “Not that. The white light.” While I had no personal experience with whatever lay beyond the veil, I’ve seen my share of ghosts cross over. Stuck spirits tended to cheer up once they took the leap. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot of good memories invested here, but it’s not the end of the road.”

  “The good old days? Maybe. Once. Hard to say. All’s I can think about is what a knucklehead I was. My pal Bernie owned the joint, and these wiseguys would come by three, four times a week and shake him down for protection money. And finally I says to him, Bernie, you gotta go to the cops with this. If you don’t, I will.”

  “And whoever was shaking him down, they found out you reported them?”

  “And how.” The ghost crammed his hands in his pockets and schlepped toward the basins. I put an arm across Jacob’s midriff—just short of touching—and backed us both out of its way. “After that, the payments doubled. One for the wiseguys, another one for the cops in their pockets.”

  Ouch.

  “So Bernie started putting in more hours, booking racier burlesque acts. I doubled up on my shows for the same pay. It didn’t help. We were working ourselves into the ground and the only ones to benefit were the dirty cops and the mob. I was on my way to try and convince Bernie to sell, get out while he still could, when all them bouts of angina finally caught up with me.” His eyebrows twisted together and his hand fluttered across his chest. “The long hours. The drinking. The wondering about who would come sniffing around next, looking for another handout.”

  “Do you know what happened to Bernie?”

  “He sold. Without me helping him book the acts and keep all them crazy actors in line, he barely rode out the final month. Last I heard, he’d made tracks for Florida, scoping out some properties in the Everglades.”

  Damn. I was hoping maybe this Bernie guy was still lurking around so I could dig him up, negotiate some kind of reconciliation between the two of them and herd them along to their afterlives. But Bernie was long gone, and the thing that tied the hobo to this godforsaken theater was his own regret.

  “Hanging around here, thinking about what you could’ve done different…it’s not gonna change the past. It’s time to move on.”

  “I’ll go find some salt,” Jacob said. But I caught him by the sleeve and gave my head a subtle shake. Laying a mindless repeater to rest was one thing. But a ghost with free will—one who wasn’t doing anything worse than moping around and second-guessing a decision he couldn’t unmake? I’d feel like a grade-A jerk if I tried to force it to cross over before it was ready.

  “Cops aren’t as crooked nowadays,” I offered. Maybe that would make him feel better.

  “Yeah? Then how is it the numbskulls in the back office get away with charging ten smackeroos for a traipse through the balcony?”

  “Well…I didn’t say the police were perfect. Just that they’re not all on the take.” I thought about how different the theater was from the movie house of my teens. Then I imagined how much it must have changed since the time of snappy hats and unfiltered cigarettes. “Things change. No amount of regret’s gonna make a bit of difference. What good does it do for you to watch the place backslide?”

  Before the hobo could answer, I realized maybe it wasn’t random bad luck that this prime piece of real estate was being used for open mics and carpeting storage. I said, “Ever stop to think that maybe the savvy type of developer—a prospective buyer who’d really spruce up the place—decides to take a pass ’cos the theater gives him the willies?”

  “What’re you getting at? Other people besides you can see me?”

  See would be an awfully strong word. But sense? On some level, some deep and subtle level, absolutely. “It’s notoriously difficult to sell a haunted property,” I told him. “Even if most folks’ll tell you they don’t really believe in ghosts.”

  “I never thought of this place as…haunted.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was give the poor guy more regret to wallow in. “Look, I’m not big on making promises, but one thing I’m sure of is that the next step, whatever it is—it’s good. Maybe you can resolve things there, or heck, maybe it’ll be enough to get the long view and see how it all works out. But first you’ve got to let go.”

  Did he shimmer? Or was that just my own wishful thinking? I cranked up my internal faucet and flooded myself with white light. If he’d been a mindless repeater, I would’ve strengthened my light armor and given him a good hard shove. But since his personality was intact, it just didn’t feel right. He’d need to cross over himself.

  Though that didn’t mean I couldn’t help.

  I glanced at the door and lit up the whole thing in my mind’s eye. The room around me, the row of basins, the spotty mirrors, all of it went a bit dimmer. And although that doorway led to nothing more than a dingy little hall that smelled like a thrift store, it glowed. “It’s easy,” I said quietly. “Just as easy as walking out that door.”

  He gazed at the exit. It was difficult, but I did my best not to oversell it. And just as I wondered if maybe I really should send Jacob to find some salt—after all, there’d be plenty in the cafe—I saw the ghost was most definitely shimmering. He took one step, then another. Reached for the knob…then glanced back over his shoulder, at me. “If you think of anyone looking for an investment—artist, architect, I’m sure a guy like you knows plenty of them types. Put in a good word for this place, okay?”

  A guy like me. Huh. “Okay.”

  With a shrug and a wistful smile, the hobo ghost turned, and in his oversized shoes, walked through the glowing door, and was gone.

  My shoulders relaxed. Jacob, as tuned in to me as ever, widened his eyes. He was dying to start asking questions, but he contained himself and waited for me to speak.

  “We did it,” I said. I didn’t need to open the door and make sure the ghost wasn’t lurking out there in the hall. I’d felt the shift when he crossed, like a change in the barometer. Given the way Jacob started fidgeting around, like he was trying to resettle himself in his own skin, he’d felt it too—or maybe he was just trying to will away some goosebumps.

  We headed out to the car in silence, part companionable, part stunned. Connecting with a supernatural entity i
s a game changer in itself. Add to that the glimpse of another era that feels nearly as visceral as time-travel, and you’ve got yourself one hell of an experience. I slumped in the passenger seat, slightly buzzed, but mostly worn out, and wished we could skip the party. What I really wanted was to go back home, kick off my shoes, order a pizza, and process everything that had happened. Just Jacob and me.

  He may be no telepath. But he can read me like an open book.

  At first I worried it was wishful thinking when the route Jacob chose didn’t lead toward the party, but pretty soon it became clear it wasn’t just some shortcut, and I’d successfully dodged an awkward night of social niceties and small talk. All it took was a trip through a truly horrifying haunted house and an exorcism. He pulled up in front of our place. My hand dropped to his knee, and a shiver coursed through me and into him as my surplus white light redistributed itself between us. Carrying around too much mojo is a strain. It felt great to finally allow myself to relax.

  He covered my hand with his. I tactfully ignored the bright scuffmarks on his knuckles. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “What did he look like?”

  “The ghost? Caucasian. Fiftyish, maybe. Hard to tell—he was in a clown costume.”

  “We were talking to a clown ghost?”

  “Or a hobo. More like a hobo.”

  Jacob shuddered. “You’re fearless. You acted like it was nothing.”

  “It wasn’t nothing. I was watching to make sure he didn’t try anything…funny.”

  “See? You can even joke about it. If I didn’t know you better, I’d worry.”

  But he did know me. And he knew that I was plenty cautious. I wasn’t exactly fearless, either. A good part of my current state of relief came not from laying a ghost to rest, but knowing I wouldn’t be expected to fumble through a bunch of awkward chitchat.

  He gave my hand a squeeze. “So…was the clown ghost confined to the bathroom, or could it see what else was going on in the theater?”

  What was he talking about—the balcony atrocities, or the hummer? I gave him a sidelong glance. “We’re totally busted.”

  Jacob quelled a smirk.

  “Don’t even think about developing any new kinks, mister,” I warned him. “Ghost exhibitionism is not a thing.”

  He quelled harder. And didn’t quite succeed. “You’re sure? That he saw us, I mean.”

  “He mentioned something about me probably knowing artist-types, so yeah. I’m sure.”

  Jacob sighed. “I wish I could’ve heard both sides of the conversation.”

  Maybe someday he could. Back when I’d first glimpsed that ghost in the last row of the theater, most people thought psychics were doing some kind of act—Mesmerists and table rappers. And only a few years later, science gave its blessing and put us psychs under the microscope. They’ve already developed drugs that can dampen or boost psychic talent. Unpleasant, sure. But they exist. Maybe someday those pills will be as safe and common as penicillin and aspirin. I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened in our lifetimes.

  We unbuckled our seat belts and leaned in for a kiss. Who’s to say which of us initiated it? As different as the two of us are, more often than not, we’re in synch.

  We even flinched in unison when we glimpsed something leering at us from the backseat. I cut my eyes to the floor.

  Fucking pumpkin.

  I fixed my attention on Jacob, brushed my lips across his, and murmured, “I’ll get it.” I’d only held the damn thing for a few seconds, but I knew it was heavy. It would feel phenomenally satisfying to haul it to the alley and pitch it in the trash—plus it would be a great way for me to show my appreciation for skipping the party without coming right out and saying it.

  Besides, it wasn’t as if it could do me much more damage.

  I was already covered in glitter.

  Waiting Game

  “If you’d just sign here, ma’am, we should have the car ready by tomorrow afternoon.”

  No, you won’t. And that’s miss, not ma’am.

  Lisa scrawled LM Gutierrez across the line at the bottom of the form without reading it. While she wasn’t keen on being car-less for—two?—no, three days, there really was no better option. Victor would probably—yes—let her borrow his if she drove him to work in the morning. So the only problem that remained was getting herself home. Was anyone at the cannery now? No. A text to Vic, then.

  can u pick me up at jeffers brake & lube - car dead

  Once she sent the text, she wandered into the waiting room. She plugged a coffee pod into the machine and emptied her mind as the hot water surged through the grounds with a satisfying hiss, and a stream of rich, dark coffee shot into her travel mug. Good stuff. Even the fourth cup out. A quick glance at the magazines told her there was nothing in any of them worth reading. No worries. She blew on the coffee and inhaled the aroma, lingering, then took a tentative sip. The stuff at home was so gritty and sour, she’d never dare drink it black. Vic seemed oddly attached to his coffeemaker, though, and Lisa was just a guest. She could get her own…those pod-things were pretty neat. No. It would be perceived as a threat, somehow. Even the best damn cup of coffee in the world wasn’t worth undermining a relationship. Anyway, with enough cream and sugar, anything was drinkable.

  Lisa glanced at her phone. Text notifications were on. A text to Victor would either get a reply seconds later, or hours, depending on what he was doing. Paperwork, seconds. Scouring a crime scene…maybe you’d hear back from him that day. Maybe not. Kind of like car repair.

  Although…it was late enough in the afternoon that he might even be done for the day. Yes. But had he seen her text? No.

  Jacob, then. She sent the same text to him. Sipped her coffee. No reply.

  Are they together? Yes. At home? No. Good—because then she could ease her mind away from the obvious reason they’d be together and not responding to her texts. She wasn’t a prude. It was a matter of respect, of personal privacy. Plus, she preferred to be the one running her own mind, not the sí-no. Though the talent did have a way of insinuating itself…basically everywhere.

  She sipped her black coffee. Beyond the plate glass, traffic streamed by. Cars, SUVs. A bus. Maybe that bus would take her close enough to…no, not really. Another sip. Another glance at her phone. No reply. Fine. Another opportunity to put the details of her current situation aside, sit her butt in a chair, and practice being present while everything else—the situation, the repair shop, the car—faded into the background. She sat. The vinyl seat squawked loudly, and a bickering couple entered the repair shop, both of them nasal and shrill, growing louder and louder, like they were trying to out-whine each other. Living in the now wasn’t always as great as it was cracked up to be.

  Time for a cab. She pulled up the keypad to dial information when her phone chimed an incoming text. Before the sender’s name appeared on the screen, she already knew. Victor? Yes.

  On our way 5 min.

  Good thing. The whiny couple was now launching into a loud accounting of who did the dishes more often.

  Lisa drained her coffee and went outside, and a few minutes later the black Crown Victoria eased into the lot. She would’ve been happy enough to hop into the back seat, but Jacob climbed out before she could avoid the awkward door-holding moment. “How long are they keeping it?” he asked.

  “They said the end of the day, but….”

  “How long, really?”

  “Two, maybe three.”

  “Are they waiting on a part, or is it a matter of scheduling?”

  Scheduling? Yes. “They’ve got the part.”

  “I can talk to them,” Jacob said. “See what they can do to move it up.”

  It was sweet, the way he enjoyed playing the knight in shining armor for her, but it wasn’t necessary. Being without her car was an inconvenience, but fair is fair, and she was willing to wait her turn. She glanced through the shop window and saw the whiny couple gesticulating at each other. Just so long as those two did
n’t get shuffled ahead of her by virtue of being annoying….

  Yes. Yes, they did.

  “Ask them,” Lisa said. A look of satisfaction crossed Jacob’s face before he even charged into battle, then he thumbed something from the corner of his mouth as he turned toward the door. He and Vic had probably been out grabbing dinner somewhere—no.

  Not surprising. It was just past five, and they usually settled down to eat closer to eight or nine. She climbed into the back seat and Victor turned and said, “Hey.”

  “Hey.” She was about to ask him if they could stop at the store on the way home when she realized he was blushing.

  “So that sucks. Cars. Is it the muffler? Because last time, my muffler fell off when I was on a hill. Then I ended up chasing it down the street so it didn’t cause an accident. And then this other time, it was the belt.”

  She’d wanted to drop it, this matter of what they were doing when she sent the text, honestly she had. But now Victor was blushing and babbling. His shirt was bunched funny around his holster, too. And, now that she thought about it, Jacob had been looking particularly self-satisfied.

  She didn’t picture it, exactly—in fact, she didn’t even really ask. Nonetheless, her precognitive talent supplied her with the scenario as a string of narrative with only the barest hint of sís and nos in between the lines: flirting, escalating. Jacob pulling over and shoving Victor against the passenger door so he could go downtown. Victor would be anxious, yes. Excited, too. Jacob’s head bobbing. Victor grabbing hold of it, doing his best not to attract attention from people on the street.

  She looked at the ceiling. Now she was blushing, too. “We’re out of detergent,” she said, to save him from dredging up more embarrassing car stories and hopefully allow them both to stop out-blushing each other.

  “Oh. Okay. We’ll make a pit stop.”

  They watched the shop door in silence for just a moment, and then Jacob came striding out. He looked especially well-pleased with himself. “They’ll take care of it first thing tomorrow morning,” he said as he climbed into the car.