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Authors: F. Paul Wilson

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BOOK: The Haunted Air
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“Who said it was?”
“Nobody, but, I mean, you've got this Irish accent and that's an Italian name.”
“And because the ‘O' is on the wrong end you're after saying that Eli can't be Irish? Would you believe that where I grew up in Dublin we had. a Schwartz on our block? God's truth. His accent was thicker than mine, don't you know. My American uncle came to visit and couldn't understand a word he said. And then there was—”
Jack held up his hands surrender style. “Point made, point taken.” He tapped his finger on the downtown address below the name. “What's this ‘Shurio Coppe' mean?”
“That's the name of his shop. He sells—”
“Don't tell me. Curios, right?”
Edward nodded. “Antiques, odd stuff, rare books, and all sorts of grotesque thingies.”
“Where's his home?”
“Right over the store.”
Well now, Jack thought. Isn't that convenient. It meant he wouldn't have to trail this bozo all the way out to someplace like Massapequa for the next three nights.
“When's close-up time?”
“The store? Usually at nine, but he'll close early tonight because it's Sunday. You'll be wanting to get there before six.”
He handed Jack the thinned envelope and stuffed the remaining bills into his pants pocket. Then he leaned back, closed his eyes, and placed a hand over his heart.
“You all right?” Jack said, thinking he might be having a heart attack.
Edward opened his eyes and smiled. “I am now. I've been worried sick about this since he told me. I felt I had to be doing something, and now I have. I'd never be forgiving meself if he hurt some poor innocent …” He stopped, glanced at his watch, then slapped his hands on the table. “Well, I've taken up enough of your time, Mister Repairman. I'll be letting you get on with your day.”
Jack waved and watched him thread his way through the
tables and disappear out the door. He thumbed through the bills in the envelope and stared at the photo of Eli Bellitto. Two days, two fix-it jobs. Not bad. Although this Bellitto deal wasn't exactly a fix-it. More like preventive maintenance.
He glanced at the clock over the bar's FREE BEER TOMORROW … sign. Time to get rolling. Had to get home and fix himself up for his date with Madame Pomerol.
“Your dad gave a def sermon this morning,” Charlie Kenton said
He stood next to Sharleen Sparks at the sink in the basement of the New Apostles Church. After the morning service he'd come down here with her and a few other volunteers to pitch in on the church's weekly Sunday dinner for the poor and homeless. The sink was old and rusted, the big gas oven battered and scarred, but both did their jobs. The linoleum floor curled up in the corners, the old tin ceiling flaked here and there, but a spirit of love and giving that Charlie sensed around him made it all feel new. He'd just peeled his way through the first half of a bushel bag of potatoes; his fingers ached but he didn't mind at all. It was for a good cause.
“Yes, praise God,” she said. “He was in rare form today.”
Charlie glanced up from the potato he was peeling to steal a peek at her, wondering what to say next. Had to say
something.
He'd been waiting for a chance to talk to her alone, now he had it and his mind was flatlined. Maybe it was her beauty, inside and out, or the fact that she didn't seem to know she was beautiful.
She had corn-rowed hair, huge brown eyes, and a smile
that made his knees go gumby. She was wearing a white T-shirt under her loose denim overalls, the bib front doing a poor job of hiding her full breasts. He tried not to look at them.
He'd never been this tongue-tied before his conversion. Back in those days he'd been some kinda playa, ragged out in chains and silk, always stocking a little powder and some boo-yaa weed. The women he called bitches and bizzos back then painted on their clothes and faces, wore wigs and big jingly zirconium earrings. Not one thing real about them, but they was easy. He'd sidle up to one, offer a taste of this or that to get her loose, mack her up and down with a few sweet lines, and soon they'd be heading to his place or hers.
He shook his head. A life of sin. But he had the rest of his life to make up for it.
“Sharleen,” said a deep voice, “do you mind if Charles and I have a few private words?”
Charlie Kenton looked up to see Reverend Josiah Sparks, a big man whose black face was made all the blacker by the mane of white hair and beard that wreathed it. He'd just arrived after trading the clerical suit and collar he'd worn at the service for a work shirt and bib-front overalls like his daughter's.
Sharleen gave Charlie a concerned look. “Oh, um, sure Daddy.”
After she'd moved away to one of the stoves, the rev peered at him through the thick lenses of his rimless glasses. “Have you given more thought to the matter we've been discussing?”
“Yes, Rev. Every day.”
The Reverend Sparks took up a knife and began quartering the peeled potatoes, then throwing the pieces into a pot. Eventually they'd be boiled and mashed.
“And what have you decided?”
Charlie hesitated. “Nothing definite yet.”
“It's your soul that's at stake, son. Your immortal soul. How can there be even an instant of indecision?”
“There wouldn't be … if Lyle weren't my brother, know'm sayin'?”
“It matters not that he's your brother. He's leading you into sin, making you an accomplice in his evil. You must break off from him. Remember, ‘If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, for it is better to enter into the kingdom of God with one eye, than have two eyes and be cast into hell fire.'”
“Word,” Charlie replied.
“Yes, it is. The Word of God, spoken through Matthew and Mark.”
Charlie glanced around. Sharleen was out of earshot and no one else was nearby at the moment. The rev was keeping his voice low. Good. Charlie didn't want the whole congregation to know his problems. Especially Sharleen.
Sometimes he wondered if he'd made a mistake in opening up to the rev about Lyle's spiritualist act. The man now saw Charlie as a member of his flock in danger of losing his salvation, and he was determined to save him.
“But what about
Lyle's
soul, Reverend? I don't want him in the everlasting fire.”
“You told me you've witnessed to him, is that correct?”
“Yes, many times. Many, many times. But he just ain't hearin'.”
The reverend nodded. “Your words are seed falling on rocky ground. Well, you must not give up on him—never give up on a soul in need—but you must not neglect your own salvation. You must make sure your own soul is safe before you try to save your brother's. And to do that you must renounce his evil activities.”
Charlie looked away, bristling. Reverend or not, no one should talk about his brother like that.
“Lyle's not evil.”
“He may not appear so, but he's doing the devil's work. Jesus warned us against his sort: ‘Beware of the false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly are ravenous wolves.'”
Charlie felt a hot stab of anger. “He's
not
a wolf, Rev.”
“Son, you must face the fact that he's leading souls along a path away from Jesus, he is doing Satan's work. And as long as you're with him, you are an accomplice. You must first remove yourself from his influence, then you must strive to counter his evildoing. The best way to do that is to lead him to salvation.”
Charlie stifled a laugh. Lead Lyle? Ain't nobody never led Lyle nowhere.
“That last part won't be easy.”
“Do you want me to go speak to him? Perhaps I—”
“No!” The knife jumped and Charlie almost cut himself. “I mean, it's better if he don't know I been jawin' 'bout him. He won't like no outsider mixin' in, know'm sayin'?”
So far Charlie had kept Lyle's location from the rev. Didn't want anyone in the church connecting him to Ifasen the spirit medium. That was why he'd joined a church in Brooklyn instead of Queens. The weekly ride on the subway was long, but worth it.
“Then it's up to you, son. I'll be praying for you.”
“Thank you, Rev. I'll need those prayers, because leaving's gonna be so hard. First off, he's blood, my only brother. I'll be breaking up all that's left of the family.”
What Charlie couldn't explain, because he was sure Reverend Sparks wouldn't understand, was that he and Lyle were a team. They'd been a team since Momma died. Lyle had scammed the Man to keep them from being split up, got them onto the government cheese to keep them from starving, and they'd been scammin' the world ever since. After Lyle had gone to such lengths to see that they stayed together, how could Charlie look him in the eye and say he was splitting?
And something else Charlie couldn't tell the rev, something dark and guilty: he
liked
running the game. Loved it, in fact. He loved piecing together new gags to wow the marks. When a sitting went according to script, when all the bells and whistles were working, it was so def. Lyle would have those people in the palm of his hand, and Charlie would know he had a big part in putting them there.
Times like that he felt stoned, better than stoned, better than he'd ever felt back in the days when he was doing coke and weed.
But for the sake of his soul he was going to have to put all that behind him.
And do what?
That was the question. What else was he good for? Maybe work in the theater doing special effects? He couldn't list any experience so he'd have to start off as an apprentice at the bottom of the pay scale and work his way up … to what?
Nothing he could do in the straight world would ever touch the high he got from working with Lyle.
With Lyle … that was the real kicker, that was what made it real. The rev said he and Lyle had to part. And they'd never been apart.
But Reverend Sparks was right. For the sake of his soul, and to deserve Sharleen, he was going to have to make the break. And soon.
Jack stared at his reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator as it made its way to the fourteenth floor. He blew a pink bubble with the big wad of gum he was chewing, then checked out his appearance. He'd wanted somewhat of an eccentric look today, so he'd chosen a reddish mullet-style wig, banged in the front and long and thick in the back; a thick, dark brown mustache draped his upper lip. He wore a light green, western-style shirt, buttoned all the way to the top, dark green twill pants, and Doc Martens. He'd strapped some padding around his waist to give him a medium-size gut. Too bad he didn't have a pierced earlobe;
a rhinestone stud would have made a nice finishing touch.
He checked to make sure enough of the wig's long back was draped over his left ear to hide the earpiece. One of the tasks he and Charlie had completed last night was planting a bug in Carl Foster's command center. The receiver was taped to the small of Jack's back; its slim, almost invisible wire ran up to his collar and around the back of his ear.
He'd cabbed over from his place on the Upper West Side and arrived unannounced in the lobby of Madame Pomerol's building half an hour before the high-roller sitting she'd scheduled for this afternoon. He'd found a doorman waiting. Thankfully the building didn't keep one on duty around the clock, or he and Charlie would have had to abort their mission last night. As it was, all they'd had to do was use their copies of the Fosters' keys to unlock the glass front door and stroll in.
This afternoon the doorman, a dark Hispanic named Silvio, had allowed him to call upstairs from the lobby. Jack had told the man who answered—presumably Carl Poster—that he wanted to schedule a private reading in the very near future.
Come right up.
Carl Foster—looking so much better clothed—answered Jack's knock on the door of suite 14-B. He wore all black—black turtleneck jersey, black shoes, black socks—and Jack knew why. His skin appeared reddened around the eyes and mouth—irritated by, say, duct tape adhesive, Carl?—but otherwise he didn't look too much the worse for last night's wear.
Carl Foster's forehead seemed permanently furrowed, perhaps as a result of keeping his eyebrows raised, as if he existed in a state of perpetual surprise. Jack hadn't noticed it last night, but then, Foster had had good reason to be surprised then.
He ushered Jack into a small waiting room furnished with an antique desk and half a dozen upholstered chairs.
The muted colors on the walls and the thick Oriental rug lent an atmosphere of quiet comfort and tasteful opulence. Business appeared to be good for Madame Pomerol.
Foster extended his hand. “Welcome to Madame Pomerol's Temple of Eternal Wisdom. I am Carl Foster. And you are … ?”
“Butler,” Jack said, adding a hint of the South to his accent as he gave the hand a hearty shake. “Bob Butler. Pleased to meetcha.” Jack chewed his gum with an open mouth as he looked around. “Where's the lady?”
“Madame? She's preparing for a reading.”
“I wanna talk to her.”
“I thought you wanted to schedule a private reading.”
“I do, but I'd like to speak to the head honcho first.”
“I'm afraid that's quite impossible. Madame Pomerol's time is very valuable. However, you should know that I have her complete trust. I screen all her clients and make her appointments.”
Jack had figured that, but he wanted to seem like a rube.
“Screen? Why would I have to be screened? You mean to tell me I might not be good enough for this Madame Pomerol?”
“Oh, no, of course not. It's just that there are certain religious groups and even some atheist groups who do not approve of Madame's work. They've been known to try to waste her time and even disrupt her readings.”
“I'd think she'd be able to sniff them out in advance herself. I mean, being a psychic and all.”
Foster offered him a wan smile. “The word ‘psychic' is so often misused. Madame is a spirit medium.”
“There's a difference?
“Of course. So many so-called psychics are charlatans, little better than sideshow performers. Madame has a special gift from God that allows her to speak to the souls of the departed.”
“So she can't like, predict the future?”
“At times, yes. But we must remember that any special
knowledge she might have comes from the spirits, and they do not tell her everything.”
“Well, I ain't connected with no religious group. No worry there. I'm here because I got some important questions for my uncle. I can't ask him myself—him being dead and all—so I figured I need a psychic type.”
This was Jack's cover story. He'd make an appointment for tomorrow but wouldn't keep it.
“What sort of questions?” Foster asked nonchalantly as he moved behind the desk.
There's a good helper, Jack thought. Finding out as much as he can in advance.
He smiled but let an edge creep into his tone. “If I thought you could answer them, I wouldn't need Madame Pomerol, would I?”
Foster forced a good-natured laugh. “No, I suppose not. Who referred you to Madame Pomerol, by the way?”
“Referred? No one. I read about her in the paper this morning. I figured if she was tight enough with the spirits that they're playing tricks on her, then she's the lady for me.”
Foster nodded as he pulled a sheet of paper from the desk's top drawer. He indicated the chair on the other side.
“Please have a seat and fill out this questionnaire.”
“What for?”
“Just a formality. It's a nuisance, I know, but as I explained, circumstances have forced us into screening our clients.” He handed Jack a pen. “Please fill that out completely while I go get the appointment book and see about setting up your private reading.”
“By the way,” Jack said, “what's a private session cost?”
“Five hundred dollars for a half hour; one thousand for an hour.”
Jack parked his gum in his cheek and gave a low whistle. “Pretty damn steep.”
“She
is
the best,” Foster said.
“I'll be counting on that.”
Jack watched Foster leave, then turned his attention to
the form, pretending to study it. He knew he was on camera. The overhead smoke detector housed a wide-angle mini-cam; he'd seen the monitor in one of the back rooms last night. He figured Foster was watching him now, waiting to see if he rifled through any of the desk drawers. But Jack already had been through them and knew they held nothing but pens, paper clips, and questionnaires.
The camera was a good way to check out a potential sitter who was an unknown quantity, but it also came in handy when using the three microphones that had been installed here and there about the room. Sitters tend to yak it up before a group session, allowing an eavesdropping medium to pick up invaluable information; but it wasn't really useful if you didn't know who was talking.
“What's going on out there?”
he heard Madame Pomerol say through the tiny speaker in his ear piece. “
Who's the dork?
”
“New fish.
”
“
Well,
reel the fucker in, baby. Reel him in.
”
Yeah, Jack thought. Reel me in.
The questionnaire contained a run of standard intake questions—name, address, phone numbers, and so on—but tucked into the middle was a box for the client's Social Security Number.
Jack suppressed a smile. Yeah, right. He had a collection of SSNs, none of them legitimately his, but he wasn't about to use one of them here. He wondered how many people, in zipping through the form, unthinkingly filled in that blank along with all the others, unaware of the wealth of information, financial and otherwise, it laid open to the medium.
Jack had used the Bob Butler name because he'd once met a Robert Butler who lived in the Millennium Towers, a high-rent high-rise in the West Sixties. He wrote in that address and put down one of his own voice mail numbers for home phone.
Foster returned with the appointment book. Jack watched his eyes as he scanned the almost completed questionnaire,
and saw an instant of disappointed narrowing—the blank SSN box, no doubt. But Foster said nothing. Wise. Better not to make an issue of the omission and risk showing too much interest in a client's worldly status.
“Now,” Foster said, seating himself behind the desk, “I believe we can squeeze you in for half an hour on Tuesday. Would three o'clock be convenient?”
“How about now?”
“Oh, I'm afraid that's impossible. Madame has a group reading at three.”
“Well, why don't I sit in on that?”
“That would not do. These four clients always book readings together. An outsider at the table would upset the spiritual dynamics Madame has worked so hard to establish. Quite impossible, I'm afraid.”
This guy loved the word impossible. But Jack had something he was sure he'd like more.
“Oh, I don't want to take part in the session,” Jack said, unbuttoning his shirt's left breast pocket. “I just want to watch. Won't say a word. I just want to be a, you know, fly on the wall. And I'm willing to pay for the privilege.”
Before Foster could say impossible again, Jack slapped a coin onto the desktop. It landed with a weighty thunk. He saw instant recognition in Foster's eyes and watched his raised eyebrows stretch even further into his forehead when he saw the galloping antelope stamped into its gleaming gold surface. A one-ounce Krugerrand. He didn't have to know the spot price of gold to realize that this newcomer was offering a hefty price to be a mere observer.
“That's gold, Carl. And gold is what my uncle told me is the best way of dealing with the spirit world.”
“That's very generous, Mr. Butler,” Foster said, licking his lips—the sight of gold did that to some people. “Tell me: Did your uncle have many dealings with the spirit world?”
“All the time. Never met a medium he didn't like, is what my aunt used to say.”
“And how about you?”
“Me? This'll be the first time I've been within a mile of a seance.”
“Do you have any idea what to expect?”
“My uncle once mentioned seeing ectoplasm and stuff like that, but I was never sure what that was all about.”
Foster reached out a finger and touched the coin. “I hope you realize it's a most unusual request.”
He'd taken the bait. Now Jack had to set the hook.
“I wouldn't know about that. Way I figure, it's gonna take me a while to work out these issues with my uncle. A half-hour session won't hack it. I'm going to need hours of sessions, a bunch of them. But before I invest that kind of dough, I want to know what I'm getting into. I want a look at what the lady's offering. If I'm convinced she's the real deal, then I'll make an appointment for the next available slot she's got free so we can get to work tracking down my uncle in the Great Hereafter. That sound fair to you, Carl?”
“What I think doesn't matter,” Foster said. “It's all up to Madame. I'll go ask her.”
As Foster disappeared again, Jack leaned back and listened.
“You heard?”
he said to his wife.
“Yeah, I heard. And he wants to pay
with gold?”
“The real thing. Take a look.”
“Lotta money just to sit and watch and get nothing out of it. You think this fucker's on the up and up?”
“Well, he's put hard currency where his mouth is. And maybe a Krugerrand's no big deal to him. Maybe he's got a closet full of them.”
“All right. Let's do it. But keep him away from the table, in case he's some kinda nut case.”
“Will do.”
When I'm finished, Jack thought, you'll wish I'd been a nut case.
Foster returned and told Jack, yes, he could observe the group reading as long as he agreed to remain in his seat
and speak not a word. Jack agreed and the Krugerrand went into Carl Foster's pocket.
He cooled his heels awhile till the sitters showed up for the group reading. The four middle-aged women, two blondes—one heavy, one a bulimia poster girl—a brunette, and a redhead arrived as a group, all oozing Prada, Versace, and other overpriced designer wear he didn't recognize. On Jack's visit here last night he'd found dollar signs drawn next to their names in one of the Fosters' notebooks. Not only did these four book regular sessions, but they were very generous with their “love donations.”
Their names slipped past him but Jack did his best to be pleasant and charming when introduced to the four. They could queer his whole plan if they objected to his presence. At first they were cool to him—probably put off by his mullet head and odd attire—but once they learned he was a psychic virgin they warmed up, apparently delighted for the chance to make a believer out of him. They gushed about Madame Pomerol's powers, but not one of them mentioned her mishap last night. Apparently they didn't read the
Daily News.
BOOK: The Haunted Air
6.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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