Night Secrets

by Thomas H. Cook

  “Maybe for the last time,” Frank told her.

  “To see Maggie?”

  “Yeah.”

  She looked suspiciously at Farouk. “Who’s he?”

  “He works with me,” Frank explained. “On the same case.”

  “Actually, I’m with Social Services,” Farouk said. He pulled out one of his fake identification cards. “The woman has been assigned to me.”

  “You guys work late, too, huh?” Ruth said. Then she shrugged. “Well, okay, you can go on up.”

  They turned and walked to the elevator. Frank stepped in first and pressed for the sixth floor.

  Farouk remained silent for a moment, his eyes staring steadily at the lighted number. “We must think a moment,” he said.

  Frank looked at him. “About what?”

  “We cannot change her, my friend,” Farouk said. “She is still the Puri Dai.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To save her daughter, she will do anything.”

  “That confession won’t hold together, Farouk.”

  “Then we must put something in its place.”

  “What?”

  “Her daughter,” Farouk said flatly. “She would not accept anything else.”

  “Do you think she knows where her daughter is?”

  “I do not know,” Farouk said. “But if she does, she must tell us.”

  The elevator doors opened and the two of them walked quickly down the corridor until they reached Room 603.

  “This is it,” Frank said as he knocked lightly.

  There was no answer, and so he knocked again.

  “She is not sleeping,” Farouk said bluntly. Then he tried the door. It opened at his touch, and the two of them walked inside.

  The light was on, but the room was empty.

  “Do you think she is gone?” Farouk asked.

  Frank’s eyes shot over to him. “Right out the front door while the woman downstairs was …”

  Farouk nodded. “Yes.”

  “So she’s out there,” Frank said as he walked over to the window, then peered through its slender metal bars, his eyes moving down toward the darkened alleyway. He drew himself back into the room. Everything in it was completely still except for the small blue note he’d brought her a few hours before. It lay faceup on the small bureau, rocking softy in the same breeze that drifted lazily through the curtains. He picked it up immediately.

  “It’s in another language,” he said as he handed it to Farouk.

  Farouk glanced at the note, then handed it back. “Yes,” he said. “Another language. The Gitano tongue, Romany.”

  “Do you know what it says?”

  Farouk nodded. “Yes,” he said. Then he told him. “All things remain. It is not you who shuffles the cards.”

  Frank took the note from Farouk’s hand and stared at the incomprehensible script. “What does it mean?”

  “It is the opposite of the Gypsy blessing,” Farouk said. “It means that you do not control things anymore, that your destiny has been tossed to the wind.”

  “What would it mean to the Puri Dai?”

  Farouk looked at Frank darkly. “That she has failed to change her daughter’s fate, to make her daughter’s destiny different from her own.”

  They walked quickly out of the center, then headed north, up Eighth Avenue. Farouk moved very rapidly, his enormous frame practically bounding along the cement walkway.

  “Where are we going?” Frank asked.

  “Back to the old woman,” Farouk said. He stopped at the corner of Forty-second Street and glanced to the right, his eyes moving up the neon canyon of porno theaters and burlesque houses. “The Puri Dai could not stay for long on such streets,” he said. “She would be too quickly noticed.”

  “Because of her beauty,” Frank said.

  Farouk shook his head. “Her dignity,” he told him. He glanced to the left, down the darker stretches of the street, along a seedy tunnel of old slum hotels and cheap diners, and then farther west, to the renovated theaters beyond Tenth Avenue. He drew in a long breath. “The Puri Dai would not think of food or shelter.” He smiled, as if in terrible and enduring admiration. “She would think only of love … and vengeance.”

  “So where would she go?” Frank asked insistently.

  Farouk shook his head. “I do not know,” he admitted. “But I know how to discover it.” He started moving again, this time even faster, with Frank traveling breathlessly at his side.

  They didn’t stop until they reached the door of the fortune-teller’s storefront. It was entirely dark, but Farouk pounded at the door anyway, slamming his fist into it so hard that the metal grating which covered the adjoining window rattled with the blow.

  “Please, madam,” he cried, “I must see you.”

  Finally, a light went on in the back of the building, and Frank could hear footsteps moving softly toward the door.

  “It is I, Farouk,” Farouk called. “I am in distress. Please, help me, madam.” Then, under his breath, “No questions, Frank. No matter what I say here. Yes?”

  Puzzled, Frank nodded.

  The door inched open, and the woman peered out. “What do you want?” she asked.

  “The other woman,” Farouk said, “the poor murdered one. She read the tarot, and warned me of swirling waters.”

  “Yes?”

  “And she promised me that I could return to her,” Farouk added. “But now, there is only you, and I … I am a man of substance, madam … you would not regret assisting me.”

  “Assisting you?”

  “To complete my fortune,” Farouk explained. “I must know my destiny. I know the hour. I will pay you well.”

  To Frank’s surprise, the door swung open immediately, but began to close again when the old woman spotted him.

  Farouk placed his hand against it. “Please, madam. He is a friend.”

  The woman looked at Frank darkly. “You came before,” she said.

  “But he is only with me now,” Farouk said quickly. “He will not harm you. Please, madam, you must help me.”

  The woman hesitated an instant longer, then opened the door and allowed the two of them to pass in front of her.

  “Take a seat there,” she said, as she nodded toward the small metal chair and the little table beside it.

  “Yes, thank you,” Farouk said. He wrung his hands desperately. “I am sorry to trouble you, but …”

  “I understand,” the woman told him. She took a seat on the other side of the small table. “Give me your hands.”

  Farouk drew his hands up and laid them down flat on the table.

  “Turn them over,” the woman commanded.

  Farouk did as he was told, and the woman picked up his two large hands and stared at them closely.

  “What do you see?” Farouk asked eagerly.

  “A moment, please,” the woman said. She continued to concentrate on the hands while Frank watched her absently, his arms pressed up against the door which led back into the building, his eyes glancing randomly through the red bead curtain that still hung over it.

  “You are a man of great troubles,” the fortune-teller said. She lifted her head and closed her eyes. Her voice took on a trancelike monotone. “Great troubles.”

  Farouk bowed his head slightly. “Yes, yes. What are they?”

  “Problems with health,” the woman said. One eye fluttered slightly. “Your stomach. Your digestion.”

  “Oh yes,” Farouk groaned. “It is always hurting me.”

  “And with money,” the woman added.

  Farouk looked at her worriedly. “Money?”

  “You must be careful,” the woman told him. “There are those close to you who would … who would …” She stopped, then lowered her head slightly, staring intently at Farouk’s outstretched hands. “Who would betray you,” she said finally. “Who would take from you that which is not theirs.”

  Farouk leaned forward instantly. “Who?” he demanded loudly. “Who wou
ld do that?” His eyes narrowed menacingly. “A woman? Is it a woman?”

  The Gypsy appeared to think about it, then nodded. “An evil woman. She does not serve you as she should.”

  “I knew of this,” Farouk said suddenly. His eyes shot over to Frank. “You know who she’s speaking of, yes?”

  Frank shook his head, bewildered.

  “Josephina,” Farouk said. “She is cheating me.” He looked back at the fortune-teller. “That is right, yes? It is Josephina.”

  Frank gave Farouk a quizzical look. Josephina?

  Farouk glanced at him pointedly, instructing him to go along with the tale. Then he returned his attention to the woman. “It must be Josephina,” he said.

  The fortune-teller said nothing.

  “Tall woman,” Farouk went on, as if half-crazed with desperation. “Very thin. As they say, a shadow.”

  The fortune-teller smiled. “That is the one, yes,” she said. “A woman full of bad feeling, bitterness. In her, all loyalty is dead.”

  Farouk looked disturbed. “Loyalty? Is there another man?”

  The fortune-teller hesitated again, staring more and more deeply into Farouk’s open palms.

  “With Gaston,” Farouk blurted. “With Gaston, yes?”

  The fortune-teller continued to stare at his hand. “I am sorry. It is not clear who is this man.”

  “It is Gaston,” Farouk said firmly. “Believe me. He is the one who has stabbed me in the back.” He shook his head. “And after all I have done for him.”

  “Done for him,” the fortune-teller repeated. “Yes, I can see that. You are a generous man. You have done much for him.”

  “He was like a son to me,” Farouk told her. His voice grew deep and mournful. “Like the son that God did not give me.” He took out his wallet. “Everything I had, it was also his.” He took out a small stack of credit cards. “See all these things,” he said.

  The fortune-teller’s eyes shot open. She stared hungrily at the cards.

  “Gaston had all of these, as well,” Farouk said bitterly. He swept them from the table in a sudden, violent thrust. “The bastard!” he screamed.

  “Do not worry, sir,” the fortune-teller said quickly. She dropped to her knees and began to gather up the cards. “Please, you must be careful with such things.”

  Farouk sunk his face in his hands. “Gaston and Josephina,” he moaned. “It is more than I can bear.”

  “No, no, you will be well,” the fortune-teller said as she got back to her feet. She plucked Farouk’s wallet from the table and returned the cards he’d swept onto the floor. “Do not despair. All will be well.”

  “Well?” Farouk groaned. “Never.”

  The fortune-teller took her seat again, then picked up Farouk’s hands and began to stare at them. “See, see there?” she said after a moment.

  Farouk looked up. “What? See what?”

  “This line here,” the fortune-teller said. She touched it lightly, a thin crease near the top of his hand. “That is the dawning of renewal.”

  “Is it?” Farouk asked wonderingly.

  “It is the sign of survival and recovery.”

  “Yes? Recovery?”

  “Those who have it,” the fortune-teller assured him, “they will be well in the future.”

  Farouk looked at her doubtfully.

  “You must believe me,” the woman said. “About such things, I am never wrong.”

  Farouk concentrated on the small thin crease. “Recovery?” he whispered. “Survival?”

  “The two together,” the woman said happily. “You are very fortunate, sir.”

  A small, hesitant smile fluttered onto Farouk’s lips. “That is good, then?”

  “Oh, very good,” the woman said.

  Relief swept into Farouk’s face. He took in a deep breath. “Thank you, madam,” he said. He stood up and opened his wallet. “Your fee. I do not know what it is. But please, madam, be generous.”

  The fortune-teller smiled. “It is the same for all,” she said sweetly.

  “I am happy to pay it,” Farouk said.

  “One hundred dollars,” the woman said.

  Farouk did not flinch at the amount. Instantly, he plucked a one-hundred-dollar bill from the wallet and handed it to the woman. “I hope this will be of assistance to yourself and the Puri Dai,” he said.

  The woman froze, her hand drew back from the bill. “The Puri Dai is in prison,” she said coldly.

  Farouk shook his head. “Ah, perhaps I can bring you good tidings, madam, as you have brought them to me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Farouk pressed the bill toward her. “The Puri Dai is free.”

  “Free?” the fortune-teller said.

  “She has escaped,” Farouk said flatly. He inched the bill closer to the fortune-teller, and she finally snapped it from his fingers.

  “Escaped?” she said.

  “She may return here,” Farouk said. “To her family, yes?”

  The fortune-teller smiled thinly. “Of course, that is possible.”

  “Then perhaps you will be so kind as to give her my regards,” Farouk said.

  The fortune-teller nodded curtly. “Of course.”

  Farouk nodded toward the bill, which remained clutched in the woman’s hand. “And perhaps a sweet, as well. I am sure the Puri Dai has not been treated well.”

  Again, the fortune-teller smiled. “Yes, a sweet. Of course.” She took Farouk’s arm and nudged him quickly toward the door. “Good night, then,” she said.

  “Good night,” Farouk said as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. He motioned Frank behind him, then glanced back at the woman. “I wish you well, madam, in all things.”

  “Thank you.”

  Farouk leveled his eyes upon her. “And may it always be you who shuffles the cards,” he said.

  The woman looked at him icily, but said nothing. For a moment her eyes seemed to turn into two brightly shining orbs, then the darkness returned to them and the mask reappeared.

  “And you, too, sir,” she said gently. Then she closed the door.

  “What was that all about?” Frank asked as the two of them made their way up the avenue toward Frank’s office.

  “If it works,” Farouk said, “you will soon know.”

  “Soon?”

  “Yes,” Farouk said. He continued on, moving silently up the avenue until he reached the corner of Forty-ninth Street. Then he turned to the right. A pinkish dawn light had begun to break. He stared at it a moment, then turned to Frank. “The day case is beginning,” he said. Then he walked hurriedly away.

  The light was considerably brighter a few hours later when Frank pulled himself up from the sofa, walked back into the small bathroom and took a quick shower. Outside, he could see the early-morning pedestrian traffic as it moved east and west along Forty-ninth Street. The old woman was crumpled up near the bottom of the stairs, her body curled up motionlessly against the brick wall. A soda can lay on its side near her shoulders. Along the curve of her back, there was a scattering of crumbs and gnawed chicken bones, the remains from a red Popeye’s Famous Fried Chicken box that rested near her feet, its open top slapping back and forth in the breeze from off the river.

  As he watched her, he thought of the Puri Dai, trying to imagine where she might have gone, where she could possibly be sleeping. It was possible that she’d left the city entirely by now, that she was already chasing the nomadic Gypsy band that no doubt had her daughter. If she were still in the city, then it was only because they were still in it, too.

  He glanced up slightly and let the hard morning light settle on his eyes. They were burning again, but there was nothing he could do about it but draw them away from the light, back down toward the shadowy bottom steps where the old woman remained.

  He stared at her for a few seconds, then thought of the day case, and quickly returned to the bathroom and brushed his teeth. His clothes hung in the closet near the window, and one by one he pull
ed his shirt and trousers from the metal hangers and put them on. Before leaving, he took a quick glance at himself, saw his image in the dusty window, superimposed over the old woman’s body, and straightened the loosely fitted knot of his tie.

  Once outside, he eased himself up the stairs, carefully stepping over her. Halfway up the stairs, he looked back and noticed that she did not move as she usually did, and as he watched her briefly, he noticed that the single finger he could see jutting out from beneath the long sleeve of her coat was utterly still and very white.

  He walked back down the stairs and touched her shoulder gently.

  There was no response.

  He shook her softly. “Ma’am?” he said.

  There was still no answer.

  He bent somewhat closer to her. “Ma’am?” he repeated, this time a bit more loudly.

  He knelt down, pressing his knees against the edge of the bottom step and shook her more forcefully. The body rocked softly, but the old woman did not stir.

  Frank drew his lips down close to the pile of smelly clothing. “Mother?” he called softly. “Mother, arc you awake?”

  No answer.

  He could feel a trembling in his hands as he turned her body toward him very slowly, his eyes searching for her face amid the smelly mound of clothes mat engulfed her. When he found it, the eyes were staring lifelessly into the morning light and a line of red hung with an odd, affecting beauty, like a child’s Christmas ribbon, from the unmoving, silent comer of her mouth.

  It was nearly eleven o’clock by the time they finally took her, and Frank was still standing in the small cement square that led from the stairs to his office, his eyes fixed on her body as the two men heaved it onto the stretcher, then laboriously hauled it up the stairs to the waiting EMS ambulance.

  “So you didn’t know her, is that right?”

  Frank pulled his eyes from the stretcher and let them settle back on Tannenbaum again. He shook his head. “No, I didn’t know her,” he said.

  “The autopsy’ll tell us if anything happened to her,” Tannenbaum said, “but you don’t have any reason to be suspicious, do you, Frank?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t hear anything, see anything?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Was she sleeping here when you got home last night?”