THREE
It took me an hour to drive across town in rush-hour traffic. All that driving made me hungry so I stopped at a joint I knew that served a good steak and beer. The waitress was moderately notable.
When I finished, I drove the 10 minutes to the place of employment for Ms. Isis Grant, alleged psychic and con-person. It was a residential address in a working-class neighborhood known locally as The Sty. Back in the sixty’s, the development was called Stuyvesant Acres. None of the smallish mix of colonial and ranch-style houses had more than a quarter-acre of property, but there you have it. Over the years, those who bought these modestly priced starter homes in suburbia moved on and the area moved down a notch or two. The homes were still rather nicely kept for the most part, but The Sty is what it was called anyway, even by the residents.
The sun was nearly down, and the lone Willow in the front yard cast a shadow long enough to reach into the street. There was a sign on the lawn advertising Isis’ abilities: Astrology, Palm Reading, Tarot Cards, Crystals. I thought that was a pretty impressive array, though I didn’t know how “crystals” fit in. I’m so uninformed about some things.
I knocked on the door and after a while, a rather remarkable looking woman in her late 20’s early 30’s answered the door. Debunking was going to be harder than I thought.
“Yes?” she said.
“Hello, I heard you help people talk to relatives who have passed to the other side.” I thought that sounded about right. But she gave me a hard stare and didn’t answer.
“I would like to contact my recently deceased Uncle Ted,” I continued hoping for some response.
“Uh huh.”
Great, I thought, progress.
“So can you help me?”
She continued with the hard look, then threw open the door, “This way,” she said and I was lead into a small living room, nicely appointed in a sort of modern kitsch.
She motioned me to the couch and she sat in a severe leather chair.
“This is where you, um, work?”
“No, this is where I find out what you’re doing here.”
“I told you, I have an Uncle…”
“Ted.”
“Yes, and…”
“You do not have an Uncle Ted.” She said matter-of-factly.
Hmmmm. I studied her. Raven dark hair; pale green eyes; nice rack; healthy. And she wasn’t buying a word I said.
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. People often can’t stand silence between strangers and usually they start talking just because they are uncomfortable. Isis was not at all uncomfortable and just sat there waiting for me to say something.
Steely-eyed.
A beautiful, steely-eyed psychic. Just my luck.
Finally I said, “Do too.”
She smiled, looked down and shook her head. Beautiful. But I was on the job and revealed nothing.
She looked up at me and said, “OK, you want me to tell you what I know? I know you’re a private detective. And you have come here to reveal me as a charlatan.”
“Charlatan,” I said.
“But you have a problem,” she continued.
“And what would that be?”
“I’m not. So you can go back and tell your client, which would likely be Mr Roberts, what you have found out and you can get your money and go catch a murderer or something. ‘Kay?” She popped up. I got up too. Actually, I didn’t know what else to do. Her being right and all caught me off guard.
“Besides, I don’t see his mother any more. She’s found peace and no longer requires my talents.” She walked to the door and opened it. She looked great coming and going.
She looked me in the eyes and said, “Will that be all?”
My mouth wanted to drop open but I maintained my cool and kept it shut.
“Um, yeah,” I didn’t like this gig anyway. I headed out the door then stopped, turned around and was about to ask her for a date when she said:
“I suppose.”
“Excuse me?”
“I suppose we could try one dinner. You are kind of cute. And I sense you’re a better conversationalist when you’re not quite so off balance. Tomorrow at eight, you pick me up here” she said as she was closing the door.
“Don’t be late,” she said and closed the door.
Wow.