Chapter 4

The psychic wasn’t what the Chief expected.

He was dressed in a black Vestimenta suit and white shirt with no tie. Classy Italian duds, but about 10 years old and showing obvious signs of wear. He was less than average height and slightly overweight—typical for a guy in his late 30s or early 40s who didn’t do much manual work. With thick dark hair, brown eyes and glasses with metal frames, he had the look of one of those orthodox Jews from Brooklyn, except he didn’t have a beard and he wasn’t wearing a hat.

Chief Black greeted him personally and began to show him to a room they’d prepared for him. He tried a mild pleasantry to break the ice. “We hope we got the feng shui right for your purposes …” The room was dark with a comfortable chair, incense holders, and other new-age paraphernalia.

“Feng shui, shmeng fui,” the psychic scoffed. “You should know, I can’t tolerate incense. And who wants to sit in the dark? Let’s go in your office. You can test me there.”

“Test you?”

“Sure. Don’t you want to find out if I really have psychic powers?”

The Chief said something lame about trusting the people who recommended him, then hated himself for saying it.

The psychic nodded and pointed toward the Chief’s office. “OK. I get the picture. Shut the door please. Thank you. So you don’t want to test my powers …? You say you believe me …? That’s baloney! You don’t care. You think I’m a shnorrer, a con man, a fake … But it was the newspaper lady’s idea—what’s her name, Cromwell, the one with the cute little tuchus?—to use a psychic, and you think I’m gonna do something that’ll make her look stupid. Am I right?”

He gazed with disconcerting directness; he was right in the Chief’s face. It was as if he had eavesdropped on the conversation with the Mayor. The Chief met his challenging look, but without saying anything.

“But what are you forgetting?” the psychic continued. “C’mon, Chief. You’re forgetting something. Don’t let me down; use your noodle. This Cromwell dame, you think she’s gonna play fair with you?” Here he dropped the immigrant shtick and switched to a corporate persona. “You think she’ll be accountable and take responsibility …?”

“But it’s in print,” the chief protested. “She’s on the record.”

“Print, shmint! A week ago. Two weeks. Who’s gonna remembra? Who’s gonna care? If I don’t produce, you’ll be the one who hired me. You’ll be the one who’s payin’ me. You’re the one who’s wasting the taxpayers’ furshlugginer money. You’ll be the one who’s accountable and responsible.”

“So what are we going to do?” The Chief didn’t even notice that he was saying “we” rather than “you.”

“We’re gonna solve da moidra.”

“But we don’t have any clues. We don’t even know who the victim is …”

“Of course. That’s why you need me.”

The Chief looked like he needed to curl up in the fetal position and crawl back into the nearest womb.

“So we got a deal?” The Chief glared, holding out to see if the psychic would retract his offered handshake. He didn’t. They shook perfunctorily. Then the psychic put his business card on the desk and turned to leave, quickly, as if he wanted to get out before the Chief could change his mind.

Chief Black picked up the card gingerly by the edges and examined it carefully. There was a crude drawing of a flashlight emitting rays of light, with the detective’s name and a phone number.

“Bruno X?” The Chief read the information aloud in a voice dripping with self-pity. “That’s your name, Bruno X? And no address, just a phone number?”

“That’s correct,” said Bruno. “This is a dangerous business. The less people know about me, the better. I charge five hundred a day plus expenses. Call me when you’re ready to get started.”