by James Swain
“I must be going,” the Fool said. “Be safe.”
“And you as well.”
The Fool disappeared before his eyes, as did the other spirits crammed inside the parlor, leaving only Madame Marie’s worn deck of Tarot cards spilled across a worn rug on the parlor floor. Peter shut the door, and turned to face the irate cop.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Who the hell were you talking to?” the cop asked.
“Myself.”
“Come again?”
“She was a special person. I had to say good-bye.”
“I told you to stay out of there. Let me see some ID.”
Peter handed him his wallet. The cop gave his identification a cursory inspection, and flipped the wallet back to him. “Get out of here. Don’t let me see you hanging around.”
“Yes, sir.”
He walked to the next block and ducked beneath an awning to get out of the rain. When a psychic died, there was a void felt on both sides of life, a tear in the fabric of existence. There was no one waiting in the wings to fill Madame Marie’s shoes, no apprentice who could jump in and pick up where she’d left off. Her gifts had been unique, and could never be replaced. She’d helped thousands of people, and done countless good deeds, none of which would ever be recorded. She had made a difference, and her loss would forever haunt him.
He wanted to scream. The monster inside of him had woken up. He could only keep it contained for so long. Eventually, it would come out. When it did, Wolfe would pay for what he’d done.
12
Lester Rowe gave psychic readings out of a building on Second Street on the Lower East Side. Once a haven for the homeless, the area had been transformed by upscale apartments and trendy restaurants. Rowe’s building was run-down, and stood out like a sore thumb.
Wolfe sat in the reception area waiting his turn. The room was hot, and he was sweating. Beneath his coat was the hand axe he’d purchased at a hardware store on First Avenue. It was not the kind of thing he wanted to be showing off.
Beside him sat a crazy woman with beautiful rings on every finger of each hand. In her lap sat a fluffy toy dog with hair covering its eyes. Both had pink ribbons tied in their hair like characters out of a warped fairy tale.
“Are you going on a trip?” the crazy woman inquired.
Wolfe stared at an imaginary point in space, and said nothing.
“I always come to see Lester before I take a trip,” she said, ignoring his snub. “Lester always knows what the weather will be like where I’m going, and which restaurants are good, and all the places to avoid. His prescience is extraordinary.”
Wolfe wanted to tell her that she could get the same information off the Internet, but remained mute.
“Excuse me? Did you say something?” the crazy woman asked.
Wolfe shook his head, and kept looking straight ahead.
“I swear I thought you said something.”
Such a pest. Wolfe hoped she didn’t get in the way, and force him to give her a whack with the axe. He’d been raised a Catholic, and the church’s teachings had been pounded into his skull at an early age. Not a day went by when he didn’t think about the special place awaiting him in hell. It would have been easier to be an atheist, but those people were boring.
A red light above the door began to flash.
“Lester’s ready,” the crazy woman said breathlessly. “Why don’t you go next? You look like a man who has a lot on his mind. I’ll go take Buttercup for a walk.”
Wolfe glanced at the dog in the old woman’s lap. The animal appeared mortally afraid, and would not stop shaking.
“Take him for a long walk,” he said, breaking his silence.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, take your dog for a long walk. It will be good for him.”
“You must have a great deal to talk to Lester about.”
Wolfe rose from his folding chair, and led her to the door. “Have a nice walk.”
“Why, thank you. I will. I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Jeremy.”
“Mine’s Alice. Enjoy your session with Lester. He knows everything.”
She left, and Wolfe locked the door behind her. He waited a spell to make sure she didn’t return, then headed for the back room, the axe rubbing against his leg.
* * *
Lester Rowe gave his psychic readings in a bright pink room that was hard on the eyes. Framed pictures of the Zodiac hung on the walls, and dark blinds covered the windows. In the room’s center was an antique table where Lowe sat, gazing into a crystal ball as big as a cantaloupe. He was the size of a leprechaun, and sported a mane of red hair.
“Hello,” Wolfe said.
“You’re not Alice,” Rowe said.
“No, I’m not. She gave me her slot.” Wolfe sat down in the other chair.
“How considerate of her. And who are you? No, wait, don’t tell me.”
Rowe gazed into the depths of his crystal ball and scrunched up his face. “I’m seeing it clearly. Your name is Robert.”
“Jeremy,” Wolfe said.
“Damn. I get a lot of hits with Robert.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“To answer your question, the place used to be a bordello,” Rowe said. “I haven’t gotten around to repainting the walls just yet.”
Wolfe was impressed. He had planned to ask Rowe about the pink walls before he hacked him to death, only the little fellow had beat him to the punch. Slipping his fingers beneath his jacket, he grabbed the axe handle, and started to pull it free from his belt. Oblivious to the danger he was in, Rowe continued to gaze into his crystal ball.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” the psychic said.
So do I, Wolfe nearly replied.
“The people you work for are about to betray you.”
Wolfe grew hot under the collar. He pulled his hand out, wanting to hear more.
“Is that so? What are they planning to do?”
“A hundred dollars. Cash or credit?”
The crummy little bastard had hooked him. Wolfe took out his wallet, and tossed the bills onto the table. He noticed that Rowe was unshaven and wore a satin blue bathrobe. Rowe probably lived in the building, and had a short commute.
“Now, tell me what you saw,” Wolfe said.
“Your employer is not happy with how things are going,” Rowe said, peering intensely into his crystal ball. “Something happened recently which has caused them to lose faith in you.”
Through their psychic prowess, the Order followed Wolfe’s every movement when he was on assignment, and would have known about the botched hit on Peter Warlock.
“Go on,” Wolfe said.
“Your employer is convinced you will not succeed with your current assignment, and is making arrangements to make sure they’re not dragged down if you fail.” Rowe lifted his eyes. “Am I getting warm?”
“Very.” Wolfe choked on the word.
“Would you like some water?”
Wolfe was dying for a drink, and nodded.
“Bottled or sparkling?”
“Bottled.”
“That’s another five dollars.”
Wolfe wanted to kill him. “Forget it. Continue.”
“Let me see your palm.”
“Which one?”
“Either will do.”
Wolfe placed his upturned right hand on the table. Rowe pointed at a puncture wound that had been caused by a bullet that had been meant for Wolfe’s face. Rowe made a clucking sound with his tongue as if the wound held deep and significant meaning.
“More trouble lies ahead,” the psychic proclaimed.
“What do you mean? What kind of trouble?”
“Do you really want to know? It’s not why people come to me.”
Wolfe felt a fist tighten in the pit of his stomach. “Yes—tell me.”
Rowe gave him a funny look. Reaching behind the table, he opened a small lacquered cabinet, and removed a bottle of
The Glenlivet single malt Scotch whisky and two shot glasses. Filling the glasses to the brim, he slid one in front of his visitor.
“On the house,” Rowe said.
“The news must be bad,” Wolfe replied.
“I’m afraid it is.”
They knocked back their drinks. Rowe put his elbows on the table, and dropped his voice. “I’m not in the business of causing trouble. In fact, causing trouble is bad for business. But I’ve got to call them the way I see them.”
“I understand,” Wolfe said.
“I don’t want you to get angry with me. Some people think it’s necessary to kill the messenger, if you know what I mean.”
His choice of words was prophetic, and Wolfe hid a macabre little smile.
“I won’t get mad,” he promised.
“Very well. Your employer has maintained a distance from you, which you’ve always found troubling. Only one thing connects you, and that thing is now being wiped out.”
“My bank accounts?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“How many?”
“All of them.”
The Order paid Wolfe by wire transfers to offshore bank accounts that he kept all over the world. Besides himself, they were the only people who knew the accounts’ locations, and how to access them. A bead of sweat rolled down Wolfe’s nose and hit the table.
“They see it as a business decision,” the psychic explained.
“Have they wiped me out?”
“The process has started. You need to save whatever’s left.”
Wolfe’s chair scraped the floor as he pushed himself away from the table. “Where’s the closest coffee shop with Internet access?”
“Try the Coyi Café on Avenue B and Third Street,” Rowe said. “It’s where I go.”
“Much obliged.”
Wolfe slipped his hand into his overcoat and grabbed the axe. He really didn’t want to kill Rowe. After all, the little man had done him a huge favor. Only Rowe knew too much about his life for Wolfe to be comfortable with.
“I think we should set up another appointment,” Rowe suggested.
“Why’s that?”
“Your future is filled with surprises.”
“What kind of surprises?”
“I see a ravenous, dark-haired lady in your future.”
Rita. Wolfe hadn’t believed he was capable of falling in love until he’d met Rita. She’d stolen what little was left of his heart, and he longed to see her again.
“What about her?” he asked.
“You sent her a letter a month ago.”
“Yes?”
“She only just received it. She misses you terribly, and is in the process of responding to you. Look, we can discuss this later. Go take care of your business. I have a cancellation at three this afternoon. Come back then, and we can talk in more detail.”
“All right,” Wolfe heard himself say.
His head was spinning as he left the building. He’d never spared a victim before. It told him that there were still things more important than money. On the sidewalk he ran into the crazy lady and her precious mutt. She had her skirt pulled up by her waist, and was kneeling down with a plastic bag covering her hand. Only in New York did masters clean up after their bloody dogs.
“I hope you weren’t disappointed in Lester,” she said.
“Hardly,” Wolfe replied, and hurried up the street.
13
Max was bending minds for a table of lovely ladies as Peter came through the front door of Perilla in the West Village. Although technically retired, Max still performed in trendy restaurants around the city, and delighted in making patrons shriek at his miracles.
Seeing his student, Max nodded, and continued his trick. Getting Max to quit during the middle of a show was like asking the pope to give up religion, and Peter took a seat at the bar to watch. With his shock of snow white hair and dated tuxedo, Max looked more like a harmless old kook than a master magician, which was part of his wonderful charm.
“Your name, please?” Max asked a lady seated at the table.
“Anita,” she replied.
“A beautiful name. Have we ever met before, Anita?”
“I think I’d remember if we had.”
“That makes two of us. With your help, I’d like to try a little experiment in thought transference.” Max picked up a large pad of paper from a chair, and held it for his audience to see. “Ladies, I am going to write a long number on this pad. Anita, as I write, I want you to call out whatever numbers come to mind. Sound easy enough?”
“Whatever you say,” Anita replied.
“Wonderful. Here we go.”
Using a black magic marker, Max wrote a long number on the pad that soon ran off the page. At the same time, Anita turned around in her chair so she could not see what Max was writing, and began to call out the exact same numbers that were appearing. It was a miracle for which Peter had no explanation, and by the time they were finished, he was clapping along with everyone else inside the restaurant. Max hadn’t lost his touch. The great ones never did. Moments later, his teacher saddled up beside him at the bar.
“Peter, what a surprise. What are you drinking?”
“I’m not.” He dropped his voice. “Someone is trying to kill us, Max.”
The bar was noisy, and his teacher broke into a smile.
“I slayed them, dead, didn’t I?”
Peter spoke in his teacher’s ear. “Someone is trying to kill us. He already got Madame Marie and her husband.”
“What? I just spoke to Marie yesterday.”
“I just came from her parlor. She’s gone, Max.”
The bartender placed a shot of bourbon and a beer chaser on the bar. Max downed the shot, chased it away with the beer, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His face was filled with anguish, and he shook his head. “Who would do such a thing?”
“His name is Wolfe. He tried to kill me last night at the theater.”
“He attacked you during your show?” Max asked incredulously.
“He gave new meaning to the phrase ‘Knock ’em dead.’”
“That’s not funny, Peter.”
“And this isn’t either. He was sent by the Order of Astrum to kill our group.”
Max’s head snapped. “Who told you about the Order of Astrum?”
“A police detective. Have you heard of them?”
“Yes, although not in a long time. They’re a cult of dark magicians out of the UK. Have you warned the others?”
“I’ve left messages for everyone but Lester. He doesn’t have a phone.”
“I know where Lester lives. We’ll go there right now, and make sure he’s all right.” Max addressed the bartender. “Good sir, how much do I owe you?”
“Sixteen dollars,” the bartender replied.
A cocktail napkin was taken off the bar and turned into a crisp twenty-dollar bill.
“Keep the change,” Max said.
* * *
The world outside the restaurant was loud and unfriendly. Max hailed a cab by whistling so shrilly that he stopped traffic in both directions. They hopped in, and his teacher barked an address to the driver. Soon they were racing across town.
“That was a wonderful trick you did with the woman at the table,” Peter confessed. “You fooled me.”
“That’s high praise, coming from you,” Max said.
“Will you tell me how was it done?”
“You don’t know?”
“I wish.”
“The number I wrote on the pad was the stops on the subway line Anita takes each day.”
“How did you know which line she rode?”
“I overheard Anita talking with her friends. She mentioned living on Christopher Street. The Number One Line services that station. I cued her to start with the next station, which is Fourteenth Street, and work her way up. Since she hears those stops every day, I knew the numbers were burned into her memory. I have all the stops of the subway system mem
orized. The trick is finding out which line the spectator rides. The rest, as they say, is showmanship.”
“You cued her?”
“Of course I cued her. We spoke earlier at the bar.”
“So she was a stooge.”
“Exactly. I can’t read minds like you.”
“Tell me about the Order of Astrum,” Peter said.
Max stared out the window at the passing scenery. It was still raining, and the buildings had taken on a gloomy gray color that only sunlight would erase.
“We’ll talk about this later, all right?” his teacher said after a moment.
“I’d prefer now,” Peter said.
“This is not the right place. Please don’t challenge me, Peter.”
It had been a long time since Max had raised his voice to him. It made Peter feel like he was a child again, and not a young man battling demons whose origin and motives he did not understand. He nodded his head compliantly.
“Of course, Max. Whatever you say,” he replied.
14
The Coyi Café was in an area of the city called Alphabet City, the avenues named after the first letters of the alphabet. The axe was rubbing Wolfe’s leg, and he ditched it in a trash bin.
The café had red brick walls and a menu of organic loose-leaf teas from the Far East. Wolfe ordered a cup of Lung Ching tea and a grilled pork sandwich called a Banh Mi. When his waitress was gone, he leaned back in his chair. The place was crowded. Everyone on a laptop or smart-phone. He needed to get one of these people to let him use their laptop so he could get on the Internet, and check his bank accounts. He could have done this with a smartphone, only he didn’t carry a smartphone for fear of it being traced. And his laptop was in his hotel room on the other side of town.
He listened to the people around him. When he put his mind to it, he could hear just about anything, even an insect crawling up a wall. He didn’t think that someone in his profession could have asked for a better gift.
The college girl at the next table was a good candidate. With a laptop open in front of her, she ate lunch while instant-messaging a friend. He listened to her breathing, which told him a great deal about her personal state of mind. Her breathing was slow and normal. Not a hint of excitement or stress was going on in her life as of this moment. Wolfe tugged her sleeve.