by Tawna Fenske
She frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Your mom. She gave free passes to Butterfly and a whole bunch of her new-agey friends last night. They all came by last night and spent the evening in there, drinking entirely too many greyhounds. I take it you weren’t privy to that plan?”
Violet frowned, trying to figure out what the hell Moonbeam was up to now. “That’s weird.”
“So is your mother, but I choose not to judge. Look, I’ve gotta get back to the… to my… Hell, I don’t have anything going on. I’m just hoping to avoid Frank. Good luck with that, okay?”
“Okay,” Violet said, puzzling over his words as she watched him retreat.
She was still staring at the door after he’d vanished. Why would Moonbeam send her friends to Drew’s bar, especially when she was so opposed to it? That made no sense at all.
She didn’t have long to ponder it, as the front door chimed to announce a visitor. Violet snapped to attention and watched as a middle-aged bald man came marching through the front door. He was tanned, muscular, and so obviously full of himself that Violet half expected him to throw his shoe up on the counter and ask her to shine it.
Instead, he reached up and scratched his neck. Hard. And with all the tact of a highland gorilla. She tried to look away, but couldn’t help but notice the weird growth just below his ear. What the hell?
When he finally stopped scratching, he looked at her without a smile. “You must be Violet,” he grunted.
Violet breathed a sigh of relief that he didn’t seem to want to greet her with a handshake. She took several steps forward to meet him at the center of the room, her hands clasped firmly behind her back.
“I am,” Violet said, hoping her voice wasn’t quivering. “And you must be—”
“Cut the crap, and let’s get down to business. I’m Frank. You know why I’m here.”
“Oh,” Violet said, and resisted the urge to hit him over the head with Moonbeam’s lucky bamboo plant. Instead, she smiled warmly. “In that case, would it be considered crap to ask if you’d like tea?”
He laughed, a completely humorless sound that reminded Violet of the time she got a fork stuck in her garbage disposal.
“A smart-ass,” Frank said, stepping into the seating area and looking around as if he owned the place. Come to think of it, he did. “I like that. Feisty and bitchy, just what I need. Sit down and let’s talk.”
Violet gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to say something snarky. This was the landlord. The very angry landlord. Even if he wasn’t going to be polite, she should at least try to be.
She mustered as much dignity as she could and led the way to Moonbeam’s seating area. Arranging herself regally on the edge of the red velvet chair, she waited for Frank to seat himself opposite her.
Instead, he devoted another two minutes to scratching his neck. This time, Violet had to look away. She developed a sudden, intense interest in the cactus garden arranged in a little clay pot on the edge of the coffee table.
Finally, Frank lowered himself into the chair and sat with his knees wide apart. He stared at her.
“Look,” she began, “Can I just say something first, sir?”
“No.”
“But—”
“I’m a very busy man so—”
“Tough,” Violet said, a little surprised to hear her “corporate bitch” voice emerging in this setting. “I’m busy, too, and I just want to say that while I’m sorry if I caused you any distress with what I told your squash partner, I don’t believe in cheating, and I do think—”
“Oh, cut the bullshit. You’re a liar, and I’m a cheater. The Professional Squash Association canned me two days ago after my so-called partner ratted me out and they caught me on video. Whatever, I was planning to retire next month anyway, and I have better things to do with my time now. That’s where you come in.”
Violet sat back in her chair and tried to mask her shock. This was not how she expected the conversation to go.
“So you… you… You admit you were cheating?”
Frank laughed and Violet thought of the fork in the garbage disposal again. “Of course I was cheating. And the fact that you seem surprised pretty much proves my theory that you know as well as I do that this psychic thing is total bullshit. That’s actually perfect. Just what I need.”
Violet stared at him, trying to follow the conversation. “I don’t understand. And I’m not a liar, so—”
“Can it, babe. Here’s the deal. I own a shit pile of properties around Portland, and this is just one of many. I’ve got an investor lined up to buy one of my places to open some sort of vegan café.”
Violet started to reply, but lost her words as Frank reached up and gave his neck another violent scratch. This one only lasted less than a minute, but seemed to require a bit more digging than the last one had. She tried not to look, but there definitely was some sort of growth there…
“Do you need some ointment or something?”
“Not whatever you’ve got around here. Some new-agey bullshit? No thank you. It’s a fucking allergic reaction or something. Probably the goddamn escargot I ate for lunch.”
“You ate snails?” She remembered the TV special about snail genitals on their necks, and suddenly her brain was veering toward Drew, to the feeling of his mouth on her throat and his hands…
“I’m not here to talk about what I had for lunch, okay?”
Violet frowned and decided to ignore the scratching. “So this investor is looking for property somewhere in the city—”
“Not just any property. My property. He’s narrowed his choices down to two places, both of which I happen to own, and one of which is worth a fuckwad of money.”
“How convenient for you,” she said, looking up at him with a scowl.
“Convenient,” he scoffed. “I’m nailing the guy’s wife on the side. She made sure he only checked out properties I owned.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Of course you don’t,” he interrupted as he rubbed his neck some more. “And you don’t need to know all the details. Here’s what you do need to know. This investor is a total nut job, which explains why he went gaga over this crappy little psychic studio when I showed it to him the other day. Wants to knock out the wall and combine it with that shitty bar next door and turn it into the biggest vegan restaurant in the city.”
Violet felt her temper flare. “You showed him our space without giving us the legally required notice twenty-four hours in advance?”
Frank just snorted. “I gave proper notice. I called your mom at the hospital. What, she doesn’t remember? Must’ve been all those painkillers.” He snorted again. “Sue me.”
“Maybe I will,” Violet snapped.
“You don’t have a leg to stand on and you know it. Shut up and listen a minute. I don’t want to kick you out of this shit hole.”
Violet stared at him. “You don’t?”
“Hell no. I want you to stay here as long as possible.”
“Wow. Thank you. I mean—”
“I’m not being benevolent. I just want this asshole investor to buy another space I’ve got for sale. One right on the waterfront, three times the price.”
Violet frowned. “What does this have to do with me?”
“It’s real simple. You’re going to give him a psychic reading.”
“What?” Violet squeaked.
“He’s going to call you sometime tomorrow to schedule an appointment. The name’s Jed Buckles, and you’re going to book him an appointment within the next week, and you will tell him that bad things will happen if he doesn’t buy that other property. Or good things will happen if he does buy it. Whatever, I’ll leave the details up to you. The important thing is that he buys the other fucking property.”
Violet stared at him. “I’m not going to make up some ridiculous story to tell this guy, just so you can take advantage of him.”
Frank snorted again. “Why? Because you’re so goddamn
ethical? Spare me. Look, lady, you do this or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Or you and your mom and all those crazy-ass strippers next door will find yourselves out on the street.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Hell yes.”
Violet took a breath, then a second one for good measure. “You can’t evict us without cause.”
“I don’t have to have cause. Hell, I don’t even have to evict you. It wouldn’t take much to ruin your reputation, maybe send one of those professional myth-buster guys in here to prove you guys are full of shit. You want that to happen? Huh?”
Violet just glared at him, too angry to speak.
Or maybe it was fear, not anger. He was right, after all. She was a fake.
“Do you fucking want that to happen?” he asked again, this time with obvious fury. “You really want someone in here sniffing around, trying to prove this is a crackpot excuse for a business? That you just make this shit up and take the money of unsuspecting community members?”
“Why would anyone believe you, huh? You just lost your professional athletic career for cheating.”
“It wouldn’t have to be me going public with your misdeeds,” Frank snapped. “It would be the newspaper I own, the friends I have with television connections, the word of mouth I could kick off. You wouldn’t believe how many connections I have in this town.”
Violet pressed her lips together, trying to hold in the curse that threatened to emerge. Next door, she heard the music start up. She tried to distract herself with the thrum of the rhythm, the faint urge to name the tune. She could just barely pick out a smattering of lyrics. It seemed like a smarter thing to do than reaching across the coffee table and grabbing that horrible excuse for a human by his scrawny little throat and—
Frank laughed. Then he scratched his neck.
Suddenly, Violet had had enough. She jumped to her feet and pointed a finger at him.
A trembling finger, but still.
“Get out!” she shrieked. She stepped to the other side of her chair, desperate to get away from him. “Now, out. And stop scratching yourself like that! It’s disgusting. Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s rude to do that in public?”
Frank shrugged and kept scratching. “I got this weird growth that just showed up the other day. It’s sort of long and skinny and—”
“It’s a goddamn snail penis!”
He stopped scratching and stared at her. “What?”
“Nothing. Never mind. Get out.”
“No problem,” Frank said, giving his neck one last scratch before standing up. “This place gives me the creeps anyway. Besides, I already said what I had to say.”
“Out!” Violet repeated, pointing the door.
Frank snorted and began moving that direction. “Just don’t forget… tomorrow afternoon. Jed Buckles. Give him an appointment, tell him what he needs to hear, and everything will be fine.”
On the other side of the wall in Drew’s bar, the song was still playing. The title clicked into place in Violet’s brain just as Frank reached the door.
“‘I Hate Everything About You.’”
“What?” Frank said from the doorway.
“Lyrics from the song they’re playing next door. It’s by Ugly Kid Joe. Came out in the early nineties, I think.”
Frank looked over his shoulder at her and laughed. “You’re a real fuckin’ nut job, lady.”
Then he walked out the door, scratching his neck as he went.
Chapter 14
Violet was just finishing up with one of her accounting clients when Drew walked in the next morning under the pretense of getting toilet paper from the storage closet.
Okay, so he didn’t really need the toilet paper. He needed to see Violet. Naked, preferably, but fully clothed would do.
“Thank you so much for pointing out we could deduct that trip to Europe,” Violet’s client was saying as he shook her hand. “I can’t believe you even thought to ask if we’d traveled there.”
“Yes, well, Europe was on my mind this morning and I knew you had business interests over there, so it seemed wise to check. I’m glad it all worked out.”
“Me too, Violet.” He laughed. “Heck, maybe me and the missus will start planning another trip.”
He waved and headed out the door, a thick packet of papers tucked under one arm. Violet was still smiling as Drew approached.
“Europe, huh?” he said. “I’ve been playing their Final Countdown album all morning.”
“Oh?”
“Maybe that’s why it was in your head.”
“Hmm,” Violet said, glancing away. “Right. Well, it’s a nice album. Did you need something?”
“Just wondering how things went with Frank.”
Violet sighed. “Not great, but I don’t really want to talk about it. Frank’s the least of my concerns right now.”
“And what are the most of your concerns?”
“I had a meeting earlier with the occupational therapist. She came through to check out the house and make sure it’s safe for Moonbeam to come home the day after tomorrow.”
“And did it pass muster?”
Violet shook her head. “It looks like there’s a lot more to do than I realized.”
“Like what?”
She shrugged. “Moving furniture. Building a wheelchair ramp. Stuff like that.”
“You planning to do all that by yourself in the next twenty-four hours?”
“I can manage.”
“Of course you can. Moving sofas alone is always a good idea.”
“Well—”
“And I’m sure you flew out here with a Skilsaw and lumber in your suitcase. That should come in handy for building the ramp.”
“I’ll figure it out,” Violet said, her jaw set with determination.
“I’ll help you. Tonight at seven, how’s that?”
“You don’t have to—”
“Of course I don’t, but I want to. It’s what neighbors do. I’m sure your mom would do it for me.”
Violet raised an eyebrow. “You think my mother would build you a wheelchair ramp?”
“Well, maybe not that, exactly. But she’d probably turn my coffee table into a toad so it’d be easier to move.”
Violet laughed, a warm, musical sound that made Drew glad he owned a Skilsaw and a hammer. Not in a euphemistic way, but…
“Okay then, I accept your offer. Thank you. How about if I make dinner?”
“Dinner,” Drew repeated, with visions of tofu dancing unpleasantly in his head.
“What do you eat?”
“Well, there are the four basic food groups, and I pretty much eat all of them.”
“You’re not vegan or vegetarian or on a free-trade organic diet or anything?”
“How about if we just order in?”
A look of relief crossed Violet’s face. “You like pizza?”
“Perfect. The more grease, the better.”
She grinned at him. “I’ll see you at seven.”
***
Violet kept her mom’s business cell tucked in her back pocket while she hustled around the house, moving the smaller furniture and digging for tools in the garage. The phone hadn’t rung all afternoon, and Violet wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Frank had said Jed Buckles would call for his appointment today. What was she going to say?
She had stopped by the hospital on her way home from the shop. When she’d told Moonbeam the whole sordid tale of Frank’s threats, Moonbeam hadn’t even flinched.
“Well naturally, dear, a psychic can’t be bought. I’m sure Frank knows that in his soul. Maybe he’s just testing you.”
Violet had gritted her teeth and stared at her mother. “He’s not testing me. And he doesn’t have a soul.”
“No, but he does have a snail penis on his neck,” Moonbeam had said with a gleam in her eye. “Tell me that part of the story again, dear. I enjoyed that.”
&
nbsp; The conversation had pretty much petered out after that, with Moonbeam remaining steadfastly convinced that Violet would “do the right thing,” whatever the hell that meant.
Now, as she shoved an end table across the room, Violet glanced down at the phone for the hundredth time. Maybe Jed Buckles wouldn’t call. Maybe he didn’t really want a psychic reading.
Or hell, so what if he did? What was the harm in doing what Frank asked, really?
It’s not like you haven’t spent the last couple weeks making stuff up for everyone who comes to see you, Violet told herself.
But that wasn’t the same thing. What she’d been doing before was harmless, a carnival act. This was something bigger. Not just a client wondering if she should talk to the cute guy at work, but someone with a lot of money at stake. Maybe his whole livelihood.
And then there was the possibility that she wasn’t just making stuff up. A small possibility, but it was there, in every song Drew played over the sound system, his car radio, even hummed in the hallway. What the hell was that about? Obviously, other people could hear the music, so it wasn’t like some magical cosmic thing that only she could sense. But Moonbeam seemed to genuinely have no idea what Violet was talking about when she’d mentioned it. So maybe it was just her. Or just her and Drew, to be precise. Maybe some sort of bizarre psychic connection between the two of them.
Or maybe it was just a ridiculous coincidence. That seemed a hell of a lot more likely.
The doorbell chimed and Violet jumped. She had been so braced for a phone call that she wasn’t expecting anyone at the door. She glanced at her watch as she headed toward the front of the house, wondering whether it was Drew or the pizza arriving early.
But it wasn’t Drew on her doorstep.
And if the unwashed, dreadlocked man standing there had a pizza anywhere on his person, Violet was certain she didn’t want to eat it.
She opened the door cautiously and peered out at the man.
“Dude,” he said in greeting, and flipped his butt-length dreadlocks over one shoulder.
Violet caught a whiff of sweat and patchouli and took a step back. “Um, hello?”
He looked up her up and down and nodded approvingly. “Duuuude. Nice.”