Dark Magic

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 Cafe 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.