After they’d adjourned to the kitchen, where Lyle and Jack drank beers and Charlie sipped a Pepsi, Lyle tried to angle for a low-ball price, pleading financial straits after the major renovations to the old place, and now the repairs they’d need. Jack wasn’t buying, but he did allow for three payments instead of the usual two: he’d take half down, a quarter when he identified the culprits, and the final quarter when he got them to stop.
Lyle still held out, saying he and Charlie would have to discuss it, go over the books, blah-blah-blah before making a final decision. But Jack sensed the decision had been made. He was on.
Damn, it felt good to be working again.
“Let’s talk about possible bad guys,” Jack said as Lyle handed him a fresh Heineken. “Could anyone local be behind this?”
Lyle shook his head. “There’s an old gypsy on Steinway who reads palms and such, and that’s about it. Astoria’s got a lot of Muslims, you know, and if you believe in Islam, you can’t believe in spiritualism.”
Jack was thinking things must have been pretty tense around here after the World Trade disaster, but all that had gone down before the Kentons’ arrival.
Which brought Jack to a question that had been niggling him since last night. “Then why Astoria?”
“Manhattan’s too expensive. All the real estate agents told me rents had dropped after the Trade Center attack, but even so, they were still too high for the amount of space we need.”
“For your eventual church.”
From Charlie’s uneasy expression and the way he started fingering his WWJD pin, Jack figured he’d hit a sore spot.
“When do you figure you’ll get yours going?”
“Never, I hope,” Charlie said, glaring at Lyle. “Because that’s the day I walk out.”
“Let’s not get into that now, okay?”
Jack tried to break the sudden tension by gesturing at this house around them. “So you went out and found this place in the wilds of Queens.”
“Yes. I wanted it because of its history. And because of its history, the price was right.”
“All those murders in your brochure are for real?”
Charlie nodded. “Absolutely. This place got some evil history.”
“Fine. But the real money’s either in Manhattan or in Nassau County, and you’re in the great nowhere between. How do you get the money people to make the trip?”
Jack sensed a combination of pride and pleasure in Lyle’s grin.
“First off, it’s not such a trip. We’re handy to the Triboro Bridge, the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, the 59th Street Bridge, the BQE, and the LIE. But the main spur to get them coming here was by having someone tell them to stay away.”
“Enlighten me,” Jack said.
“My previous mediumship,” Lyle said, leaning back, “was in a town—don’t ask which because I won’t say—that was also home to a fair-size population of Seventh Day Adventists.”
“Who’ve got to believe that spiritualism is a sin.”
“Worse. It’s the work of Satan, a direct link to the Horned One. They’d post signs around town warning people away, even went so far as to picket my storefront one Sunday. I was pretty scared and worried at first—”
“For about ten minutes,” Charlie said.
“Right. Until I realized this could be the best thing that ever happened to me. I called the local papers and TV stations—at the time I wished they’d chosen a Saturday for
their protest, but Saturday is their Sabbath—but the media showed up anyway and the result was amazing publicity. People started asking, ‘What is it about this Ifasen that has the Adventists so worked up? He must really be onto something.’ Let me tell you: business boomed.”
Jack nodded. “So, in a sense, you were banned in Boston. Works almost every time.”
“Not Boston,” Charlie said. “Dearborn.” He looked at Lyle and found his brother glaring at him. “What?”
Jack leaned back, hiding a smile. So the Kenton brothers were from Michigan. In the psychic trade you tried to hide as much of your past as possible, especially if you were operating under a phony name. But also because lots of mediums had an arrest history—usually for other bunko scams—and a fair number had had careers as magicians and mentalists before discovering that, unless you were a superstar like Copperfield or Henning, conjuring tricks paid off far better in the seance room than in cocktail lounges and at kids’ birthday parties.
He wondered what the Kentons’ histories might be.
“Okay that’s all fine for Dearborn,” Jack said, “but I don’t remember any stories about Astoria Adventists acting up.”
“Because there aren’t any,” Lyle said, turning away from his brother, “or at least no group big enough to suit my needs. But I’d planned for that. Before leaving Dearborn”—another scathing look at Charlie—“I laid some groundwork by taking out an ad in the News-Herald to announce my departure. I said I was leaving because the local Adventists had turned so many people against me that I could no longer continue my mediumship in such an atmosphere. I was beaten. They’d won. They wouldn’t have Ifasen to kick around anymore. Or words to that effect.”
“But I thought you said business was booming.”
“It was. Especially 1999. Man, the six months leading up to the millennium had been incredibly good. Best ever.” Lyle’s voice softened to a reminiscing tone. “I wish ’99 could’ve gone on forever.”
Jack knew a couple of grifters who’d told him the same thing. From palm reading to tarot to astrology and beyond, the millennium had proved an across-the-board bonanza for the hocus-pocus trade.
“But it was time to move on,” Lyle said.
He rose and leaned against the counter. The more he talked, the more his detached Ifasen pose melted away. The guy probably had no one but Charlie to open up to, and he plainly longed to talk about this stuff. It came spilling out in a rush. Jack doubted he could have stopped him if he wanted to.
“So Charlie and I packed up our show and took it on the road. We bought this place ten months ago and spent most of our savings renovating it. Once we had things set up the way we wanted, I called up the Adventists who’d harassed me before. I told them—using another name, of course—that I was a fellow Adventist who wanted to let them know that the devil Ifasen they’d driven out of Dearborn had resettled in my neighborhood and was starting up his evil schemes to threaten the unwary souls of Astoria. They’d closed him down before. Couldn’t they do it again?”
“Don’t tell me they bussed in a crew of protesters?”
“That would have been okay, but I had a better idea. I’d already started advertising in the Village Voice and the Observer. I sent the Adventists copies of my ads and suggested they take out space on the same pages to tell folks God’s truth.”
“You didn’t need the Adventists for that,” Jack said. “You could have run your own counter ads.”
“I could have. But I wanted them to be legit if the papers ever checked them out. Plus, those big display ads aren’t cheap. I figured if I could get someone else to foot most of the bill, why not?”
“And did they go for it?”
“All the way. I sent them a hundred-dollar money order to get the ball rolling and they took off from there. Big weekly ads for a month.”
Jack laughed. “I love it!”
Lyle grinned, the first real break in his studied cool, and it made him look like a kid. Jack found he liked the guy behind the mask.
“Serves them right,” Lyle said, his smile fading. “Tried to ruin my game because it interfered with theirs.”
“Difference is,” Charlie said, frowning, “that they believe in what they’re doing. You don’t.”
“Still a game,’ Lyle said, his mouth twisting as if tasting something bitter.”Just because we know it’s a game and they don’t doesn’t change things. A game’s a game. End of the day we both deliver the same bill of goods.”
Tight, tense silence descended as neither of the brothers would look at each other.
“Speaking of delivering,” Jack said, “I gather the ads served their purpose?”
“Oh, yeah,” Lyle said. “The phone rang off the hook. The ones who made that first trip out here have mostly all come back. And they’ve been bringing others with them when they do.”
“Mostly from the city?”
A nod. “Like ninety percent.”
“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that most of these people were going to other mediums before you came along. And if they’re your regulars now, that means they’ve left somebody else. I’ll be very disappointed if you don’t have a list somewhere of who they were seeing before you.”
“I do.”
“Good. I’ll be equally disappointed if you haven’t run financials on every sitter who’s walked through that door as well.”
Lyle’s expression calcified; he said nothing.
Come on, Jack thought. This guy was an overwound clock. Jack didn’t know a player in the spiritualist trade who didn’t use names, licenses, credit cards, bank accounts, and Social Security numbers if they could get them, to peek at their sitters’ financials.
Finally Lyle’s lips twisted into a tight approximation of
a reluctant smile. “I can predict no disappointment on that score.”
“Excellent. Then here’s what you do. Divide your sitters up by their previous gurus; then list them in order of their net worth and/or generosity. Identify the psychics who’ve lost the most high rollers to you and we’ll make that our short list of suspects.”
Lyle and Charlie glanced at each other as if to say, Why didn’t we think of that?
Jack tossed off the rest of his beer and rose. “Getting late, guys. One of you call me tomorrow about whether or not we’re in business.”
“Will do,” Lyle said. “If we decide yes, when will you want the down payment?”
“Since tomorrow’s Sunday, I can pick it up Monday. Cash only, remember. That’s when I’ll start.”
On the way out, even though it was dark and he wasn’t officially hired, Jack had Lyle give him a tour of the yard. As he stepped off the front porch he noticed that all the foundation plantings were dead.
“Hey, if you’re into this look, I know a bar in the city you’ll just love.”
“Forgot to mention that. Happened overnight. They must have been poisoned.”
“Nasty,” Jack said, fingering a stiff, brown rhodo leaf. Felt as if it had died last month and spent the time since in the Mojave Desert. “And petty. I don’t like petty people.”
Something about the dead plants bothered him. He’d done some landscaping work as a teen. Remembered using defoliants now and again. Didn’t remember anything that killed so quickly and thoroughly. Almost as if they’d had all their juices sucked out overnight.
The dead foundation plants aside, the rest of the shrubbery scattered about Menelaus Manor’s double lot offered a number of good surveillance points at ground level, but he’d need a high perch. The pitch of the house roof was
too steep; the garage roof looked better but was only one story high.
“That garage looks like an afterthought.”
Worse than an afterthought. More like a one-car tumor off the right flank of the original structure, destroying its symmetry.
“According to the real estate agent,” Lyle said, “that’s exactly what it was. Built in the eighties by the original owner’s son after he inherited the place—”
“And before he offed himself.”
“Obviously. If I ever find a reason to buy a car, I’m sure it’ll come in very handy after I’ve been shopping. Opens right into the kitchen area. Great for when it’s raining.”
“Or when you don’t want anyone to see what you’re unloading.”
Lyle frowned at him. “Yeah, I guess so. Why’d you say that?”
“I don’t know,” Jack said. “It just came to me.” And that was true. The idea had leaped into his head. He shook it off. “Let’s check out that big maple,” he said, pointing toward the street.
“Maple,” Lyle said as they walked through the dark toward the street. “I’ll have to remember that.”
“Didn’t have many trees where you grew up, I take it.”
He sensed Lyle stiffen. “What makes you say that?”
“Your accent’s good, but Charlie …”
“Yeah, Charlie,” Lyle said through a sigh. “I couldn’t do this without him, but I can’t let him speak when a sitter’s around. He just doesn’t get it.”
They arrived at the maple that hugged the curb and spread over the sidewalk and the street. It looked good and sturdy but the branches had been trimmed far up the trunk. The lowest hung about ten feet off the ground.
“Give me a boost,” Jack said.
Lyle gave him a dubious look.
“Come on,” Jack said, laughing. “I know how it’s a matter of pride with you scammers about getting your hands
dirty, but a little alley oop is all I need and I’ll take it from there.”
Shaking his head, Lyle laced his fingers together and boosted Jack up to where he could grab the limb. As Jack clambered onto the branch, he noticed Lyle stepping back between two parked cars and into the street.
“Where you going?”
“No offense, but I figured I’d get out of the way in case you and/or that branch come down.”
“Aw, and I was counting on you catching me if—”
Jack heard an engine rev. He looked down the street and saw a car with its lights out racing Lyle’s way.
“Incoming!”
Lyle looked around but didn’t react immediately. Maybe he didn’t see the car right away because its lights were out. When he finally did move, jumping back toward the curb, the car swerved toward him, missing him by a thin breeze as it creased the fender of the parked car to his right.
“That them?” Jack shouted as he swung down from the tree.
The car didn’t stop, didn’t even slow. Jack glanced at Lyle, who looked shaken but otherwise unscathed.
“I-I don’t know.”
Jack took off. I’m not even hired yet, he thought as he sprinted along the sidewalk.
He’d started running by reflex but didn’t stop. Starting a job without a down payment was against Jack’s rules, but after this, Lyle was a pretty sure bet to come across. And a look at the mystery car’s license plate tonight might save Jack days of surveillance next week.
He kept to the sidewalk, hoping the driver wouldn’t spot him. As the car passed under a street light he saw that it was either yellow or white, but he couldn’t identify the make or model. Couldn’t be something distinctive like a PT Cruiser, could it; no, had to be one of those generic-looking mid-size sedans that could be a Camry, a Corolla, a Sentra, or any of half a dozen other models. With its lights
still off, the Camrollentra’s license plate remained hidden in the shadow of the bumper.
Ditmars Boulevard lay maybe a hundred yards ahead. The traffic light showed red. Would the car stop?
Fat chance. Jack saw its brake lights glow as it slowed, but that was it. The Camrollentra cruised the red and turned right.
Jack kept moving, putting a little more juice into his stride. Probably a waste of energy, but who knew? Might get lucky and find that the mystery car had plowed into a cab and locked bumpers. Stranger things had happened.
He rounded the corner and skidded to a stop … just like the traffic. People out on the town for Saturday night had done what the red light hadn’t.
Jack started moving again, at a more relaxed pace this time, sorting through the cars in the jam as he strolled past the brightly lit store fronts. Within the first twenty-five yards he found two Camrollentras, one white, one pale yellow. Swell.
But the yellow one had a dented front fender and its headlights were out. The woman in the passenger seat kept looking over her shoulder. Her gaze swept right past him. Looking for someone with lots darker skin, no doubt.
Gotcha.
She faced front again, banging on the dashboard and pointing ahead, obviously telling her driver to get moving. But cars were lined up ahead and behind, and the opposite lane was no better. They’d move when everyone else moved.
Coming almost parallel, Jack ducked out of her line of sight and squatted, pretending to tie his shoe. After checking to make sure no one was paying attention, he crabwalked between two parked cars. This placed him two feet from the target car’s right rear tire. He was close enough now to see that he was dealing with an aging Corolla. He wormed the black-handled Spyderco Endura Lightweight out of his back pocket, did a one-hand flick-out of the four-inch serrated blade, and jabbed it through the sidewall of
the tire. Then he slunk back to the sidewalk, made a show of tying his other shoe, and rose again to his feet.
Without a glance back, he checked out the store signs and found a Duane Reade. He’d go with that. Hoped it had what he wanted.
It did. Gotta love these Duane Reades. Called themselves pharmacies but carried so much more. Just about everything anyone could need.
Like duct tape.
And pantyhose.
Jack walked along, noting that traffic had thinned. He paused by a trash receptacle to open the pantyhose package; he cut off one of the legs and threw the rest away. Then he moved on, searching for the yellow Corolla. He went three blocks without seeing it. Had they decided to keep driving, flat tire or no? He hadn’t figured on that because it was sure to draw attention, maybe even a police stop, and they’d want to avoid something like that.
As he was crossing a side street, heading into block four, he heard a clank of metal off to his right. Stopped, listened, heard a man’s voice cursing in English. Peered up the block and saw a man and a woman by the curb just past a streetlight. The man knelt by the wheel of a pale Corolla that had pulled in next to a fire hydrant, the woman stood, as if on guard.
“Come on, come on!” said the woman. “Can’t you do this any faster?”
“Fucking lugs are rusted. I—” Another clank. “Shit!”
Jack stepped off Ditmars and crept up the other side of the street, keeping low behind the parked cars. When he came even with the Corolla he found a pool of shadow and watched from there.
The man was average height, maybe forty, with receding hair and a medium-size gut; she was pint-size, five-one, tops, and built like a fire plug. The mouth on her would make Eminem blush.
Obviously the guy hadn’t changed too many tires, and his companion’s constant bitching didn’t help, but finally
he got the spare onto the wheel. When the car was off the jack, the woman got back into the front seat.
As the man gathered up his tools, Jack pulled the pantyhose leg over his head; slipped his left wrist through the roll of duct tape and ripped off a six-inch length; stuck this to his left forearm and waited for the man to lift the flat tire.
When he did, Jack dashed across the street, straight at him. He didn’t see Jack until he was in his face. Guy’s mouth dropped open into a terrified O as he looked up but both his hands were burdened with tire, making him a sitting duck for the fist that rammed into his nose. Dropped the tire as his head snapped back. Jack grabbed his shirt, hauled him forward, and flung him into the trunk. Guy was dazed, didn’t struggle as Jack pushed his legs over the rim and slammed the lid closed.
Without slowing Jack slipped around to the passenger side, pulling his knife and flicking out the blade as he moved. The raised trunk lid had hidden him from the passenger. Now he yanked open the door and slapped a hand over her unsuspecting yap.
He wiggled the knife blade before her terrified eyes and spoke, raising his pitch in a bad German accent, one that wouldn’t have made the cut even on Hogan’s Heroes.
“Vun peep unt you ah dead!”
She glanced at his stocking-distorted face, made a soft noise that sounded like, “Gak,” then shut her mouth.
“Dat’s da spirit.”
Jack replaced the hand over her mouth with the length of duct tape. Then he pulled her out of the front and pushed her face down on the back seat where he taped her hands behind her back and wrapped up her ankles.
Final touch: flipped her face up and taped over her eyes—a vertical strip on each, then twice around the head. Rolled her onto the floor, then got her buddy out of the trunk and went through the same procedure on him.
All told, a two-minute process. Maybe less.
Jumped into the driver’s seat, hit the ignition, and they
were rolling. Pulled off the stocking and rubbed his itching face. Then he addressed his whimpering, struggling audience of two.
“You ah probably vondering vhy I haff brought us togezzer like zis. It iss a mattah of money. I need, you gots. So vee ah all going zumplace nize unt private vhere vee can make zee exchange. Nuzzing perzonal. Opportunity has knocked unt I haf anzzered. Do not giff me troubles unt you vill valk avay in vun piece. Zat iss clear, yah?”
He didn’t care if they bought the accent; he simply didn’t want them to recognize his normal speaking voice when they heard it. Because if his plans worked out, they’d be hearing it fairly soon.