by Alexie Aaron
Gerald picked up his phone and collected a few favors. “Our ride will be here in five minutes.” he said, wrapping a cashmere scarf around his neck before pulling on his Vince asymmetric shearling fur coat.”
“You’re going to get red paint tossed on you, Shem,” Bev warned. “It’s why I leave my furs at Mia’s. Country folk respect warmth.”
Gerald refrained from saying what he was thinking. He needed Beverly focused on saving her niece and not outwitting him in an argument on country folk.
~
Mia salted her hot chocolate and set the shaker between the two of them. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you? Cid makes it from scratch.”
“I don’t eat or drink.”
“Are you dead?”
“That’s a tricky question.”
“I mean, all living beings have to eat to survive.”
“There are other ways to nourish oneself.”
“Well, go on, you have me interested,” Mia said, blowing on the hot beverage.
The aroma wafted over to Richard, and Mia saw his nostrils quiver. He does eat, the liar, she thought.
“Cid does an excellent prime rib if you’re staying for supper.”
“I told you I don’t eat.”
“Then what do you get out of all this? Power? Power is so fleeting. A nice, tender, medium rare piece of beef sustains me for quite a while,” Mia tempted.
Richard bit his lip. Mia knew to back off for a while. You can’t reel in a shark with constant pokes.
“Aren’t you cold?” he asked her. “This cold isn’t good for the baby.”
“Actually, I am getting a bit chilly. But the baby is nice and warm inside. He’s moving around. Want to feel?” Mia asked, reaching for his hand.
Richard reared backwards before he popped to his feet. “I’m here to discuss a proposal from my client, not become one of the family!”
Is he saying this to me or to convince himself? Mia questioned silently. She cleared her voice and asked, “Who is your client?”
“I can’t reveal that.”
“You can’t tell me whom you represent, and you expect me to invite you into my home to negotiate my cooperation in enslaving myself to an unknown person or entity? You must be the worst of your bunch, Richard,” Mia scoffed. She got up and salted a path behind her as she walked to the door. She noticed that Richard walked around the crystals. What is he? What are his weaknesses?
“Are you inviting me in?”
“Let me go to the ladies room and change my shoes. Then you can come in, Richard. But I’m warning you, you’re not going to be successful. Oh, and leave your scum outside.”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking them to join us,” he said and stepped back to wait patiently.
Mia walked into the house, past where Ted stood. He was pale. His concern couldn’t be more pronounced. Mia lifted her hand to his face. “No matter what happens, I’ll make it clear that the baby isn’t included in the deal.”
“For heaven’s sake, Mia, I don’t want to lose you! There has to be a way out of this.”
“There is, but I’ve not figured it out yet. I sense that if I walk away from the bargaining table, I lose. If he does, then I win. I just have to do my best to be irritating. Right now, I’m tapping into my memories of my aunt and emulating her style.”
“Throw in a little Mike Dupree. I sense bawdy jokes are frowned upon.”
“Great idea! Now, I have to pee and change my shoes as promised. In the meantime, get Cid cooking in the kitchen. Have him make a roast, and anything else with an aroma that will drive a starving man to his knees. Sauté some onions, fry some chicken, anything that makes you drool.”
Ted looked at his wife anew. “You’ve been hiding your light under a basket, haven’t you?”
“Great idea! Flames. Keep a fire extinguisher handy. This is going to be fun,” Mia sang as she walked up the stairs.
Chapter Twenty
Murphy tumbled out of the vortex, his axe flying out of his hand. He panicked for a moment until he found his beloved tool embedded in the skull of the largest of the ghosts. The goon didn’t know what had hit him. He tumbled forward and disappeared. Murphy picked up his axe and made his way quickly towards the farmhouse. He saw the two remaining ghosts pacing back and forth in front of the residence. The man in gray was standing, waiting impatiently at the door. If Mia had succeeded in thwarting the Other, the man would be gone. He saw, to his horror, Mia open up the farmhouse door and invite the Other in. The ghosts tried to follow their master, but he turned them away.
He needed to get word to Mia, Ted and Cid. Having the Other in the farmhouse made that impossible. He skirted the parking lot and waited for an opportunity to cross to the barn unobserved.
He didn’t have too long to wait. The pouting ghosts’ attention were on Curly who had abandoned his salt spreading attachment and had decided to climb the far post of the farmhouse. He sparked a warning when the ghosts drew near. This only seemed to make them more interested.
Murphy moved into the barn and headed over to the office where he suspected Jake was running the Curly show for his benefit. The main monitor bore this warning. IF YOU TOUCH ANYTHING, I WILL SO FRY YOU!
Murphy leaned his axe against his shoulders and raised his hands. He watched as Jake put Curly through a few more maneuvers before disconnecting and letting the little bot fall into the snow. The infrared cameras showed the disinterested ghosts move off, away from the house and down the lane.
“They’re guarding the entrance,” Murphy vocalized.
A massive eyeball studied him from the side monitor. It narrowed into a glare before disappearing.
“I need to tell them in the house a few things, but I can’t enter that house with the Other in it,” he explained.
“Murphy, Jake just connected us,” Cid’s voice came over the computer speakers. “Try speaking, and we’ll see if your voice transfers digitally,” he instructed.
“Help is on the way.”
“I got ‘help is on the way.’ Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Who is coming?”
“Tom, Tonia, Lorna and Ryan.”
“Did you say Tonia and Lorna?”
“Yes.”
“Whoa. The odds are changing. When will they be here?”
“Look for a white horse, and then open the front door.”
“Got you. Thanks, Murphy, we would be lost without you.”
“Let Mia know that there is a barrier cone over the farm. It’s being held by salt licks buried in the snow. I will wait here until needed. How is Mia?”
“Frustrating the crap out of the Other as we speak. Now, I better get back to my fried chicken.”
Murphy wrinkled his face. He worried about Cid. Now wasn’t the time to be cooking. Mia needed clear minds and ready muscle, not kitchen help.
Jake sensed the ghost’s puzzlement. He flashed pictures of sumptuous feasts across two monitors. Murphy, who had been dead for a century and a half, drooled in response.
“Ah.”
IS HE OR ISN’T HE? THAT IS THE QUESTION, rolled by in continuous marquee form on top of the food videos. It was followed by, THE WAY TO A MAN’S HEART IS THROUGH HIS STOMACH.
“The dead don’t eat.”
EXACTLY!
~
Bev pushed at the hood of her coat, trying to get comfortable. Shem’s ride, a snowplow, was the only thing that moved on snowy days like this in the Chicago area. The driver, sufficiently bribed, barreled westward, ignoring the comments on the radio from fellow snowplow operators as he passed them. He pulled off the highway and headed north to where Gerald was promised a snowcat was waiting for them.
“We’ve got a few minutes. Do you want to explain the outside talker comment?”
Bev looked over at their rustic chauffeur and said, “Come on, tap into my mind. I’m not reciting my secrets in here.”
A young Beverly rolled over, placing her hand on the empty spot Guillaume had v
acated sometime during the night. She was used to his nocturnal roaming, but part of her feared that one night he would roam too far and not return.
Most young women wouldn’t put up with this kind of behavior. But Beverly had lost her heart to this Haitian-born magician, and the Cooper curse set in. Her pride was constantly sidelined for the overwhelming compulsion to have every need of Guillaume’s seen to. While most of her peers were pulling away from male dominance, Beverly clung to hers. Had she been able to look outside of herself, she would have noticed that this behavior was pushing the man, who liked challenging women, away.
She moved through the cramped trailer, washing her body at the kitchen sink. She put on the suggested gypsy costume, tugging the black wig on her head after pasting on the long spiderlike eyelashes. Her nails were her own, as were the black lace gloves. They let in just enough information for her to be successful in her readings; the rest she would make up. Let the customer leave happy, confident that what the future held for them was wonderful. A happy client tipped.
She stepped out of the trailer and stood balancing on the cinderblock step to take in the morning. Beverly had gotten used to the smells of carny living. Everything was fried or came from cans that could be heated up on the hotplates. Only the clowns seemed to have the whole eating breakfast on the road thing done right. They always had a pot of coffee on the burner, fresh fruit in their trailer, and homemade granola which they sprinkled over Mama Olhouser’s homemade yogurt. Beverly had been taken in by the matriarch of the Olhouser Clown Troupe. The two had developed an unlikely friendship. Mama was all sunshine, and Beverly was cynicism personified. Still, the two could be heard laughing at something one or the other had said throughout the small community of transient performers.
“Don’t you walk by me, missy, without stopping for your breakfast,” Mama warned as she popped her head out of the bright yellow-painted airstream trailer. “The Dukkering can’t be done proper on an empty stomach.”
“I’m late. Guillaume didn’t wake me up this morning,” Bev explained.
“Nonsense, all that’s about are lot lice. You’re not going to see a mark for hours. Come in for a gossip. The Toby News is agog with the antics of that new outside talker.”
“The Brit that keeps dropping ‘is aitches?” Beverly asked interested, climbing into the nicely-appointed travel trailer.
“He’s got the town’s womenfolk dressing up high style.” Mama danced around, swinging her hips dangerously in the small space. Still, she managed to pour a cup of coffee and slide two eggs off the griddle without losing a single beat of the zany impersonation of a burlesque performer.
“Ever since the Beatles, womankind has lifted their skirts for a bit of accented come-on,” Beverly sniffed.
“Seems to me that a certain island accent has you lifting yours,” Mama observed, slipping into the booth across from her.
“Guilty.”
They went on to talk smack about that suitcase act that showed up moments after Randy, the veteran outside talker, blew his pipes and was on the walking dead list until further notice.
“He has been sending the love-struck girls in my direction. I guess I owe him a take of the tips,” Bev grumbled.
“Better for you to offer compensation then for him to demand it,” counseled Mama. “This way, you can entice him to work for you and for you alone. Old Maggie draws more marks than you, but he’s got the front door and will direct the patrons your way.”
Beverly got up and took Mama’s plate and her own to the tiny sink. “You are a shrewd business woman.”
“There’s more than snot behind my rubber nose,” Mama assured her.
Beverly walked to the front of the lot and didn’t see the talker anywhere around. She stopped at the ticket booth and asked One-eye Louie to send the talker over when he had time.
“I’ll deliver the message, but I don’t like that fellow. I think I seen him before. I swear he was drinking with Randy and some candy butchers the night before Randy’s voice went… But I don’t see things too well lately.”
“I’ll be careful. This is business, just business,” she assured the arthritic brother-in-law of the sideshow manager.
Gerald halted the memory. He took a moment to look around the carnival. He noticed the shadows were longer than they should have been at that hour of the day. The place had an electricity to it that would prickle the thumbs of even an amateur medium. Why hadn’t Beverly, young as she was, picked up on it?
He watched her move to the tent and deal with a few early patrons. There was nothing much to enlighten him here so he sped up his reading. It wasn’t until darkness had fallen when he slowed down her memory and concentrated on the spectacle before him.
“My momma swears that I’ll be a star. She’s taking me to an audition with a real Hollywood producer. He’s a friend of my step-daddy. I’d like to know if I will be successful?
Beverly could see that this beautiful young girl was in jeopardy before she even held her hand. The cheap blouse, sizes too small, strained at the young girl’s chest. Beverly grasped the child’s hand, and images she’d rather not see filled her head. The child hadn’t been molested, but she had been paraded up and down beauty pageant runways, collecting the wrong kind of glances from the criminals that ran them. The only spark of good in the child’s life was an overbearing grandmother who insisted that the young thing finish school before going anywhere. Beverly knew that fate had delivered her this child for her to guide to safety.
“I see that you are indeed talented. I worry that you may be heading to Hollywood too soon. The role you are meant to have requires smart dialogue and a knowledge of …” Beverly stopped and flipped through her memory of classes she didn’t take because it was only available to the college bound. “You need to speak and read French.”
“French!”
“That’s what the role will demand. Do you speak and read French?”
“No.”
“This is a breakout role. If you go to Hollywood now, you’ll just get little roles. You will get pregnant and end up a housecleaner for a Motel 6.”
The child’s jaw dropped. There would be no tip for Beverly.
“But how? Mamma don’t want me around. Say’s I’m too distracting.”
Beverly picked up her hand and pronounced, “Your grandmother will open up her house and take you in. If you study hard after you graduate, you will get your breakout role, and you will thank me.”
“My granny did say that I belonged with her. She’s my granny on my father’s side.”
“Go straight to her, and tell her that you need her guidance. Tell her you want to stay in school and that your mother doesn’t want you home any longer.”
“I will. Thank you. I’ll be famous one day, and you’ll be first on my list to thank, gypsy lady.”
“I’m just doing my job,” Beverly said and walked the girl to the open flap of the tent and watched as a she ran to a group of school friends and told them all about her reading.
“You did a good thing, Beverly Cooper,” a deep voice said beside her.
She turned slowly, composing herself before she addressed the speaker.
“It isn’t polite to listen in,” she scolded.
“You asked me to come ‘ere.” The gray-suited man asked, “Mind telling me what it’s about?”
Beverly looked around and saw Old Maggie lurking outside of her tent. “You better come inside.”
“For the record, you are inviting me inside.”
“Yes, moron,” Beverly snapped. She entered the small dark tent and sat down. “Sit.”
The gray-suited man sat down, tugging at his pant legs as he did. He swung a thin leg over the other, the bell bottom hem made a swishing sound as it connected with the silk of the over scarf of the table.
“I’ve asked you here, ah… What’s your name?”
“Richard Chapman.”
“Mr. Chapman, I wanted to thank you for sending me patrons, and I would like
to give you a percentage of my tips.”
“Not necessary.”
“Yes it is. Lets’ work out an arrangement. You send me the marks with large BRs, and I’ll give you, let’s say, ten percent.”
“No.”
“Fifteen percent, that’s more than an agent in Hollywood gets.”
“No, Beverly, I ‘ave a different proposal in mind.”
Beverly stood up and pointed her finger. “Get out! I’m not offering you anything but money. Get your skinny English ass out of here.”
“Calm down,” Richard said. He pulled out a folded piece of parchment and opened it up. “Sit.”
Beverly didn’t know why she did so, but she sat.
“I’m ‘ere to offer you a position of importance in the company of ‘arvey and Associates as a closer for their soul-gathering operational division.”
“Pardon me?” Bev asked.
“Soul gathering, you do know what a soul is, don’t you?” he drawled.
“Don’t take that condenscending tone with me, you ass. Of course I know what a soul is. But what would give you the audacity to offer me this position?”
“You ‘ave certain skills. My client needs these skills. ‘e instructed me to offer you the position.”
“As a soul snatcher?”
“Yes,” Richard said and pushed the contract forward for her to read.
Beverly took the time to read all the fine print. The more she read, the madder she got. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t a job offer. It is a contract of enslavement.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got the nerve to come to me to negotiate my enslavement to Harvey and Associates?” she said, pushing down her anger.
“Yes.”
“What are you? A devil, a demon?”
“An Other.”
“Another what?”
An O T H E R.”
“You’re going to have to run that by me again. Do you mean aitch or haitch?”
The man’s face grew dark, and he, after much difficulty, managed to spout a reasonable sounding H.