Tact is the ability to describe others as they see themselves.
—Eleanor Chaffee
Those lucky enough to inhabit the realms of superstardom and hyper-exclusivity are often privately very lonely. Psychics share a special bond with celebrities. Movie stars may shun the paparazzi yet crave a psychic’s help in purging the insecurities that often plague their lives. Psychics learn to take full advantage of these fears by reassuring and spiritually nourishing their clients while at the same time nourishing their own cash flow.
Actors are practitioners of an art rooted in ritual magic and some are notoriously superstitious. “Break a leg” is universally voiced before performances; woe to anyone who utters the cursed word “Macbeth” anywhere near a stage door; and don’t dare whistle in an actor’s dressing room. Stars and starlets have been known to hold fast to the most outlandish beliefs in charms, amulets, and other so-called lucky objects. Robin Williams’ lucky token is a carved wooden trinket that belonged to his father. Esteemed Academy Award–winner Geoffrey Rush won’t be without a plastic Daffy Duck figure in his pocket. Cameron Diaz keeps a special necklace to ward off the effects of aging. The list goes on and on. More people than anyone would like to admit carry on with such silliness. Soap opera stars, commercial actors, those on the way up—all of them spend an inordinate amount of time brooding over lost opportunities and ascribing way too much power to fate and luck.
A catalogue illustration from the foremost dealer of mentalist and medium supplies in the ’50’s and ’60s: Robert Nelson Enterprises, circa 1950s.
I was once booked to do tarot card readings at a star-studded wrap party that the chief shareholder and CEO of RKO Pictures was hosting. I arrived at the immense Brentwood chateau and was escorted by two large headphone-wearing guards to a small, nicely appointed room above the chauffeur’s garage where stray partygoers could get a private psychic reading.
Soon the word spread through the main house crowd that I knew my stuff, which resulted in a busy evening of tarot thrills. As the evening progressed, a steady stream of glittering glamour flowed in. Bored trophy wives, truly stunning in their leathers and lace, climbed the narrow stairway that led to my little loft of dreams.
“I’ve heard wonderful things about you, young man.” A dowager who looked like Mary Pickford’s aunt met me at the top of the stairs, a little out of breath. I smelled the rich aroma of very expensive perfume and admired her collection of authentic Art Deco diamonds.
“Well, I certainly look forward to reading your cards,” I said as I rose from my Louis XIV chair to shake her skeletal hand. The novelty for these patrons was to hear about themselves in a heartfelt manner. I pride myself in my directness in these situations. It’s one of the few chances in my life when I get to feel needed, get my own ego fed a little, and feel important for a few hours to the elite and powerful.
Performing a double tarot reading at The Haunted Hayride, Hollywood, CA, 2010.
After dealing out the cards in an “empathic trance,” I basically centered on what I might have felt if I were in her shoes. I became her. Sometimes it’s just that simple. Tarot cards are my esoteric passport to total verbal freedom. I delivered my brightest vision for this grand dame.
“You have too much money and not enough time. Charities and people compete for your attention. You are often bothered by having so many people around you, and you suffer from not having a peaceful moment to yourself.”
She beamed, clearly impressed. “That part about not having time for myself is so true. I was just talking to my husband about that very thing on the way over here tonight. How odd that you would know that!”
It was not odd, merely common sense. Everybody wants a piece of someone who is rich—including me.
I continued contemplatively turning over the cards. “Ah, the Hermit card. There’s going to be a fabulous breakaway experience coming up for you. You are going to go somewhere you have never been before and find moments of peace and elation that are long overdue.”
She shook her head. “I’m tired of running all over the globe.” Apparently for Madame jet-setting was a bother.
It only took me a heartbeat to minutely correct my course. “When I see a breakaway or travel, that doesn’t necessarily mean actual physical travel. This might point to an inner, more spiritual travel. Peace of mind comes in many forms, doesn’t it?”
She looked wounded. “Well, I’m not really a particularly religious person.”
This was one tough cookie. I shifted gears again. “I’m not seeing anything religious or churchy. It’s more like a place where you can commune with your inner self. Things like music, reading, looking at art, or whatever puts you in touch with calmness and clarity. Look forward to an enlightenment, where you can be totally free to express yourself and indulge in something new, perhaps something you have always wanted to do for yourself, but you have been too busy doing things for everybody else.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
Then I added a creative angle. “Perhaps what I’m seeing has to do with writing or some creative side of your nature. It could be writing or poetry, books or a journal, that sort of thing. If you can write five or six minutes each day, soon you will be writing a valuable book.”
“Well, I don’t write myself.” She sighed, then pensively gazed out the mullioned windowpanes and over the long line of Porsche, Mercedes, and Rolls-Royce vehicles lined up along the perfectly maintained drive that stretched off into the topiary-dotted distance. “I love books, but I never seem to have the time to read what I really want to read.”
“You will,” I assured her. “Very soon, time will present itself. Time is what the Hermit has the most of. It could be the best time in your life.”
“Well, you certainly have told me some wonderful things. I must send my husband up here right away.” She smiled and pressed a hundred-dollar bill into my hand.
Hopefully her husband would also visit me, without knowing precisely what I had already heard from her. I was now in a position to subtly use information about her in his reading.
As a professional mentalist, I have learned how to effectively recall playing cards, driver’s license numbers, and other trivia at a moment’s notice. Being a good psychic—beyond all the hard work and preparation—involves possessing the strength of memory to extract and hold obscure bits of information for later use. By force of habit, I filed Madame’s body language and her reactions to my insights into my memory’s recycle bin. The chances were good it would all come in handy later in the evening, and I wanted to be prepared.
As the party died down to the clink and clatter of costly china and cutlery being tidied up, I began to pack my mojo bag. The heavy tread of a man’s footsteps climbed the stairs. It was late, but I quickly unpacked my cards again, popped a breath mint into my mouth, and resumed a semblance of upscale decorum.
A tall gentleman with distinguished gray hair and wearing a fine Brioni tuxedo sat down. He was in good shape and sported a George Hamilton tan. “I have heard from the crowd that you are very good. My wife was very taken with your comments, so I thought I would give you a try before the party folds up for the night.”
Taken with or taken in?
“Thank you, I’m Mark. That’s nice to hear. How kind of you to tell me.” I reached out my hand to receive his firm handshake, which revealed a strong people person.
He didn’t offer his name, only a cordial “I’m very glad to meet you.”
The fix was in.
His initial enthusiasm was a good portent. I passed him my tarot cards. “Please mix the cards carefully. This is one of the most important parts of your reading. You are now putting your personal vibrations on the cards. Each card will be one of a set of pictures that will tell me everything I need to know.”
“Really?” he asked matter-of-factly.
“Really.”
“I’ve never done this before,” he confessed as he mixed the cards.
“Good. This could be a breakthrough experience for you.” Older first-timers always surprised me. It’s hard for me to believe that someone who had reached such high levels in society had never touched a tarot card along the way. This can work in my favor. Sitters who have had previous negative readings can be harder to satisfy and will expect much more time and energy.
“Now split the cards into three stacks, which will represent your past, present, and future.”
This done, I flipped over the top card of the past pile. I was not surprised to see the Emperor. The Emperor is totally in charge. This gentleman was regal, important, and significant.
I was quick to exploit the obvious. “You are the Emperor,” I began. “I see that time off is indicated. You are trying to do too many things at one time and spreading yourself far too thin. This is often the problem with the Emperor. There are so many people around you who depend heavily on you.”
“You got that right.” He laughed.
“There’s a tendency to not have the time you need to relate to those closest to you. Many look to you for decisions and can drain your energy level. Traveling to try to escape these people only wears you down further. Since you don’t get a chance to recharge and relax, being the leader is no longer satisfying for you. You need to stop rushing around, breathe, smell those roses, and relax.”
He nodded in confirmation. “You’ve got the picture.” He now looked intrigued and began to stroke his chin. It was a sign that I was penetrating his thoughtful side, a fertile zone for me to mine. An impressed sitter may also move his or her chair closer to the table and adopt a classical posture—imagine Rodin’s The Thinker.
I went on soberly. “There is an experience in the near future that will be purely fun. No specific monetary goal or scheme is attached to it.”
He waved his hand tersely, as if to stifle or dismiss me. “I never do anything that doesn’t have a goal attached to it.”
“Precisely.” There is no stifling a psychic on a roll. We cling to our lexicon and move forward, undeterred by interruptions or exclamations. “This is why I’m seeing in the cards a shift away from anything that is a win-or-lose situation to more of a win-win experience for everyone involved.”
He breathed a deep sigh and said, “That sounds really good to me.”
Good enough for me too. I moved on to the present card, turning over the Wheel of Fortune. “This card says that right now you are taking chances, spinning the wheel of fortune, and rolling your dice on something.”
Unless I was way off, this man was an extremely high roller. Few people can afford a scrupulously starched and brushed tailor-made tux, perfect teeth, and a tennis-court tan without being a risk-taker or a gambler of one kind or another.
“The cards tell me that you are a person who can accomplish whatever you put your mind to, but what seems to be a missing for you is a free space where you won’t be judged by your peers or have to succeed. This place doesn’t involve your powers of control; it’s the letting go of control that the Wheel of Fortune speaks of.”
He cringed. “That’s very hard for me to accept.”
“I realize that. That’s why this new viewpoint may be so important, not only to your future mental health and success, but also to your physical mobility, your family, and your strength.” I was verging on getting too heavy with this fellow. He shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. This may not have been what he wanted to hear, but I was homing in on issues that would tie in with his wife’s reading. I had to weave my dialogue very carefully while also not disclosing obvious details that she may have let slip to me earlier.
I took a short breath to let what I’d said sink in. I casually flipped over the future card: the World. This is a card of ultimate triumph, but it contains a built-in warning not to try to do too many things at once. This aspect connected to his wife’s admission that she had too little time. Time and free play were key issues for both of them. Isn’t time the very essence of any high-powered executive’s lifestyle? This was the critical area I was setting my sights on.
“The World card is an excellent card to have turn up in the future. It tells me that—”
“Yes, but what does it mean!”
“I’m going to tell you if you will let me.”
I was sure he wasn’t used to anyone speaking to him this way. Most people stopped having their hands slapped for basic bad manners when they brought in a multimillion-dollar blockbuster film or their first Oscar nomination.
He immediately became conciliatory and interjected a sincere “I’m so sorry. I’m not used to this. It’s fascinating.”
“I understand completely. The cards can be awesome in their reflections of our personalities. It takes some getting used to. Believe me, I know.”
He brought things back into his control quickly. “So tell me more about this World card or whatever it is.”
For a moment, Mr. Results had looked like a child caught stealing candy. Impatience was an unusual reaction for a man of his stature. He had allowed an important clue to drop in my lap.
“The World is about time management and, strangely enough, impatience,” I began. “The World predicts you can continue to have ultimate success in whatever you put your energies toward, but do not attempt to do too many things at once or you may lose the proper focus to handle any of them to their greatest potential.”
“That makes total sense. I’ve got three projects that are in pre-production, this huge film opening right now, and we start shooting two more projects in three weeks. I’m just overbooked.”
I was poised to go in for the clincher. With a confident pound of my hand on the final future card, I declared, “That’s why the World card says to focus on what is most important during the next four to six months and to let the other distractions go, for the time being. Cut your losses.”
“I need to do that. That’s for sure. You hit the nail right on the head.”
“You need time and a breakaway to clear your thoughts. A retreat away from all these juggling acts will be the best for you. You need rejuvenation.”
With a look of relief, he breathed a relaxed “Got it. I’ve been juggling entirely too much for a long, long time.”
“You are a leader. The Emperor represents you. This powerful aspect of your past doesn’t go away. Your risk-taking is at its zenith right now, as we can see through the Wheel of Fortune. Focus on your greatest strength. Everything else must go on the back burner.”
“Can’t you give me any timeline or specific dates?”
“Can’t is a word we don’t recognize in the psychic world, and though I wish I could give you exact information, what I do is not an exact science, at least not yet. Giving exact calendar dates would be like trying to draw a chalk line on a river as it rushes by. Time is fluid. One moment it’s the present, and then . . .” I paused for three seconds and held silent. “It becomes the past, like it just did. See what I mean?”
He sat back in his chair and looked slightly overwhelmed. I sat back in mine too, signaling that the reading was over.
“That was incredible.” He laughed again.
“Thank you,” I said, bowing my head swami-style.
He got up and pulled himself together. “I have a few people in my office I would like to have talk to you. Give me some of your cards. We do a lot of parties and I will definitely keep you in mind. Thank you again.”
The agent who had booked this party later informed me that the gentleman I had described to him was the head of RKO. A producer of a multitude of major motion pictures had cemented forever in my mind a great lesson that night: whether rich, famous, poor, or anonymous, we all need someone to talk to. So talk, baby, talk!
I was the supreme psychic avatar for some of the funniest people in the world at Buddy Hackett’s seventieth birthday party. Buddy’s wife Sherry had a special place in her heart for psychics, so after giving her a sample reading one afternoon, she set up what was to become a memorable evening of partying and roasting of the beloved comedian.
Those in attendance included Milton Berle, Sid Caesar, Bob Newhart, Bob and Dolores Hope, Joey Bishop, Steve Allen, Phyllis Diller, James Garner, Walter Matthau, and assorted character actors, agents, and their families. The scope of this event initially seemed a daunting challenge for me. I figured I would be laughed out of the room or become the brunt of endless psychic jokes.
As it turns out, comedians put their pants on one leg at a time just like the rest of us, although many may start by pulling their pants over their head the funny way. The laughter that night was nonstop and contagious. Each Hollywood icon stepped up to the podium and put in his or her two cents about Buddy. But when they sat down at my little table, hilarity quickly turned to thoughtful introspection and professional respect. Many confessed that they had their own personal psychics.
During that evening I was introduced to Bob Hope and his lovely wife Dolores. Bob had suffered a stroke and appeared to be only semi-aware of what was going on around him, but I knew from experience that a seemingly disconnected or physically disabled exterior doesn’t necessarily mean that a person isn’t mentally still as sharp as a tack.
Deep in his eyes he still had an impish look. I was in awe in his presence. Bob was a man who had started his career third on the bill with acts such as Siamese twins and trained seals. He’d traveled so far, so often to entertain so many people. He had been everywhere and done everything. I wondered what I could possibly say or what the cards could tell us both about Bob Hope’s future. In fact, I felt as if I should be asking him about my future.
Once Dolores had brought him to my table, she stood by his side and listened to what I had to say. Bob’s future card turned out to be the Chariot, which meant travel or movement. His other cards were the Sun and the Emperor, which spelled out a great harvest of investments. Things were looking good for Bob and his family.
Dolores patted Bob on the back and said, “You see? I told you we were going to Singapore next month!”
Dolores was delighted and Bob broke out in a tremendous grin. In a soft whisper, he thanked me, and then shook my hand gratefully. It felt as if a monumental moment had passed in my psychic career.
At one particularly bizarre party, a woman excitedly sat down at my table, and I couldn’t place exactly where and when we had spoken before. It turned out I had given her a psychic reading previously. Gigi is a delightful, bright, and open person and the wife of acclaimed film producer Brian Grazer, who had entered the room with her.
“So, what’s all this about?” he asked as he took in my mosaic of cards, scrolls, candles, and psychic baubles, skillfully arranged to ensure maximum curiosity.
I took my moment to grab onto his curiosity before he could be drawn back into the chattering crowd. “It’s about things psychic. Not for everyone, of course, but the hostess of the party thought I might be helpful.”
Brian presented me his tough side with “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeeeah,” I replied, aping an Edward G. Robinson drawl. I didn’t care who he was. This was my show and he was in my theater tonight.
“Brian, go away so this man can do my cards.” Gigi swooshed her bracelet-bedecked arm over her shoulder in his direction. She didn’t want to wait another second.
“I’ll talk to you later,” Brian said, but glanced over his shoulder at us as he wandered away into his cadre of admirers.
Gigi and I had a wonderful session, and the cards were magically on target as well as surprisingly complicated. Then Brian returned and sat down after his wife. His glib attitude, which was surely the result of years of Hollywood hobnobbing, rapidly turned into a thinking man’s posture. The cards were dead-on and he was stunned.
The amazing thing was that, even though the cards of these two Hollywood toasts-of-the-town had been thoroughly mixed by each of them individually, Brian and Gigi had ended up with the exact same three cards, only in different aspects—past, present, and future. It was evident they were true soul mates, but with patterns that ran in different directions. This kind of tarot spread almost never happens. Sure, once in a while a married couple may have one or two cards alike, but rarely all three.
By the time his future card had been revealed and I had told him about its significance, Brian was a regular guy. I love when this happens. His finely cut persona was stripped away and he became no different, or more special, than anybody else.
He then wanted counsel, very private and personal counsel. What had started out as barely concealed skepticism on his part transformed into two guys just talking about life and women, as if we had known each other since childhood. Call it personal alchemy, transformative communication, or just the effect of expensive red wine, candlelight, and the tarot. This is the real magic in the so-called psychic world, if there is any such thing.
While in the midst of this same cauldron of celebrity madness, I was also introduced to the hostess’ adolescent daughter. She scurried into the party clutching the hand of a svelte Bel Air babe who followed her to a glass-fronted wooden bookcase directly behind me.
“Come and see Mommy’s magic books!” she cried out.
The library was indeed beautiful, with rare books meticulously ordered and maintained. Firelight glinted off gilt spines and fine leather-bound volumes. Since my background includes professional magic performances, I am always interested to see what other aficionados have managed to collect. I expected a few first-edition Houdini books or perhaps some older treatises on coin and card tricks.
As the little sprite danced away after sharing her mother’s treasures with her friend, I stood up and perused the shelf that I had been sitting in front of for several hours. These were not old conjuring or magic books filled with tricks. These were magick books. I pored over ancient volumes chronicling the very beginnings of witchcraft, alchemy, and magick. Crumbling tomes written centuries before by alchemists such as John Dee and Paracelsus were packed into every empty space behind the locked glass doors. I called over my psychic colleague for the evening, Cheri, to share in this find.
“Oh, my God,” Cheri whispered as we both felt ourselves transported. Seldom can one gaze upon works created in the twelfth century outside of a museum. We both instantly felt an additional respect for our hostess (along with a healthy dose of caution) when we spotted ritual objects tucked away in the shadowy corners of each towering bookcase—pieces of mandrake root, the occasional hazel-wood wand, ritual athamé daggers, and other pagan arts and crafts.
“Holy shit!” Cheri exclaimed. “No wonder these people are so serious about my readings. They must all be in some sort of coven or something.”
“Do you think so?”
“I don’t know, but these books are the real thing. They must be worth a fortune.”
I recalled something the hostess, Mrs. Thompson, had said on the phone while planning the particulars of this party’s schedule that had struck me as odd at the time.
“Mrs. Thompson told me it would be okay if we both stayed until five in the morning, if we wanted to.”
“She told me that too,” Cheri said.
“I don’t think I’m staying past two, thank you very much. Are you?”
“No way. Four hours is my limit. Especially after seeing all this. I mean, I like magic and all that, but this is really weird stuff.” She waved her hand at the books.
If we had known a little more about these people, we probably would have jumped at the chance to remain until dawn, but we both knew enough about the ways of Hollywood to be wary of strangers, especially strangers with books chronicling the medieval torture of witches and the treatises of infamous villains like Torquemada.17 Neither of us wanted to end up as the targets of some spell or ritual sacrifice.
“Let’s get back to work,” I suggested, “before someone sees us snooping around.”
“Good idea.”
We crept back to our tables. Soon Cheri had reached her four-hour limit of nonstop talking and was ready to leave. I had been asked to stay late to read for the hostess, a treat I could barely wait to experience.
I ended up waiting for a long time. As the candles guttered lower, a young woman with the look of a Russ Meyer vampire sauntered past my table, though no cheap Goth gal was this one. She seemed very familiar with the room and everything in it, so I chanced a few words with her and offered her a seat at my table.
“Hello.” Her voice was low and slow. “I’m Alexandra.” I took her bloodless, lily-white hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, which was not reciprocated. I had the distinct impression she was part of whatever inner circle Mrs. Thompson hung out with. For all I knew, they were in a coven together.
“You know, I couldn’t help but notice the books on these shelves and was wondering if I, eh, we might have a look at a few of them?”
“Absolutely not! Mrs. Thompson keeps them locked up for a reason. They’re very rare and are not to be touched by anybody but her. She might show you some of her collection, if you give her a good reading. I don’t know. They were cleansed by a very famous magician in London, you know.” She glowered at me with undisguised condescension.
“No, I didn’t know that. By ‘cleansed’ you don’t mean just dusted off, do you?”
“Of course not. Some of these books are incredibly evil and had to be ritually cleansed by someone who could exorcise the evil out of them.”
“I see. That’s comforting. Well, it was lovely talking with you.”
Alexandra rose abruptly. She didn’t seem at all interested in anything as pedestrian as a tarot reading from the likes of me and was quickly on the move.
I looked back at the main bookcase and noted that the doors were unexpectedly wide open. The temptation was almost unbearable, but I stayed the course and managed to sit still until around two in the morning, when Mrs. Thompson finally found time for me.
She looked waxen and detached as she made her way to my table. I had met her at a previous party, and there had been an immediate straightforwardness about her that was impossible not to respond to in the same manner. She pulled up one of her more comfortable wingback chairs, plopped down, and said a slurred hello.
“Tired?” I asked.
“Oh, no. This is just the first wave of guests. A whole new crowd will get here after three.”
I don’t remember anything outstanding about her reading. But I was determined to have a look at a few of those books. When that feeling of afterglow descended—the kind that comes after good sex or a satisfying psychic reading—I brought the subject up. “You know, I couldn’t help but notice the titles in your book collection. Very impressive. I’m into alchemy and the Craft somewhat. Could I have a peek?”
“Sure. I know a kindred soul when I see one.” She opened the bookcase, unlocked a lower drawer, and silently removed an unmarked gray leather clamshell box.
“I think you will get a kick out of this,” she said with a fiery glint in her eyes.
I didn’t know what to expect. In the vastness of that elegant library, it was another of those unforeseen Hollywood moments that I crave. She handed me the box reverently and looked around the room to make sure no one else was present. I thought for a moment she was going to haul out an ancient Hand of Glory, the traditional witch’s candle fashioned from the severed right hand of a hanged felon. Instead, the box contained a beautifully bound volume of Malleus Maleficarum (The Witch’s Hammer), first published in 1487, the foremost guidebook for witch-hunting and undoubtedly one of the most infamous books ever written on the grislier aspects of the Inquisition. The text was exquisitely detailed Latin, and there were curious hand-drawn pictures in the margins of crooked fingers pointing out the original owner and inquisitor’s favorite methods of torture.
“Have you read all of this?” I asked innocently.
“Yes. I have an English translation I can email to you, if you like. It’s quite a nasty little book.”
“I’ll pass on that. Thanks anyway.”
After a few unbelievable minutes of allowing my perusal of this antiquarian treasure, she slid it carefully back into its hiding place and moaned. “I’m still really angry that I didn’t get the complete collection I was bidding on. This is only half of it.”
Mrs. Thompson was obviously no casual dilettante at the local Goddess Shoppe. I made a mental note to never get on her bad side and offered a fairly lame, “Yes, it’s never good to break up a collection. It splits the energy. Books like these belong together, like a family.”
“You’re right. Listen, I gotta run. The second phase of the party is about to begin and I have to see how the food is coming along. Feel free to stay as long as you want.”
The elegant Mrs. Thompson disappeared down a darkened stairwell. It was now close to three in the morning. I glanced into the vaulted living room and saw a new crop of guests arriving, looking as fresh as daisies—the cream of Hollywood’s night creatures. I graciously made my escape.
Hollywood parties are almost always hilariously surreal. When I get lucky, I’m the guest of honor and treated like royalty. This is the exception and not the rule, but it happens enough to keep me interested in coming back.
One holiday eve I was booked at another overblown Hollywood dinner party. The agent had warned me that the hosts were “eccentric, but rich.” Bring it on, I say—the more eccentric, the better.
This couple turned out to be into fine art specifically depicting dogs. Dogs were everywhere. A life-sized super-realist portrait of an English beefeater hung over the gigantic mantel, only his head was that of a beagle. Weimaraner puppies ran amok in the rooms, and dog toys dominated the floor space. William Wegman would have felt quite at home.
The house was warm and friendly, and the art was all first-rate. This was a rare thing to see; trendy interior designers usually furnish everything from rooms full of giant stuffed teddy bears to books-as-objects arrangements for their wealthy clients. But this couple had invested well in both their art collection and their mix of friends, who all looked like young-buck movie producers accompanied by their gorgeous dates.
The evening went well and my readings were extremely popular. During a short birthday-song interval, while I was marveling at one of the host’s coffee-table books, which contained essays and photos on variations of dog turds (no, I’m not making this up), the hostess broke through the crowd with her favorite pup in her arms.
She was dressed from head to toe in a virginal white outfit that could have passed for a wedding dress and may have been used for that purpose quite recently. Blonde, young, skinny as a pup herself, and looking uppity with a rather spoiled American cool, this was my boss for the night.
“Excuse me!” She faced me, brushing back the perfectly disarranged locks of her hair that had drooped over one eye. She obviously had something important she wanted to ask me.
I prepared myself to satisfy her every whim. “Yes? How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she answered coquettishly. “How are you doing tonight?”
“Lovely party.”
“Yes it is, isn’t it?” She seemed uncomfortable and was choosing to look at the floor rather than make eye contact with me.
“Your palm reading was wonderful,” she purred, “and it was all so true.”
I smiled. “That’s my job.”
“I have a special little favor to ask of you, if I might?” She was beginning to blush. One of her perfectly manicured toes was now sketching lazy loops above the Navajo carpet. She held tightly to her dog as she licked her lips.
“Anything. What’s up?” I asked as casually as I could. My mind began to imagine scenes involving dog collars. An eternity of seconds passed.
“Well, it’s kind of weird.” Her laughter was girlish and she covered her mouth.
“Go ahead. I like weird. There’s not much I haven’t heard before, doing the kind of psychic work I do. Please feel free.”
“I can imagine.”
It was getting a little warm in the room, and I was about to loosen my collar.
“Well, okay.” She finally blurted out, “Can you read my dog’s paw?”
“Your dog’s paw?” I breathed a sigh of relief. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“Whitney. Can you tell me about her future?”
She was serious.
“Why yes, of course. I do it all the time!” I really had done pet readings before on cable television. I had read for a golden retriever and a lonely cockatiel. And of course the Cat Lady’s runaway Oscar. So, why not? Besides, it’s difficult to give a bad psychic reading in these situations, as long as you are willing and able to keep a straight face.
“What I usually do is get an actual paw print to work with. Since she’s a puppy, she’s very nervous and it’s hard to keep her sitting still long enough for me to read her paw any other way. Do you have an ink pad and a piece of paper we could use?”
I secretly hoped she would find my requests too much of a bother, but true eccentricity is a wonderfully steadfast thing.
“That’s a terrific idea. I’ll go upstairs and get it done and come back in a few minutes!” She took off like a cannon shot. This would be a fun diversion. Why should a dog’s life line look that much different from a human’s life line? It was all in the storytelling.
I sat back in my expensive leather chair, reveling in the glory of the moment. Could it get any better than this? And if it did, would anyone ever believe it?
The hostess soon reappeared with a piece of paper smudged with a slightly smeared paw print.
“Is this good enough?” she asked as a curious group of onlookers began to assemble around us.
A confused guest asked, “What’s he doing?”
“He’s reading Whitney’s paw print,” our hostess cooed.
“Oh, this is great. I see so much already.” I went to work, mentally putting together a plausible storyline while jumping in with an excited “Do you see this line between these two claws that arches upwards?” I positioned my magnifying glass above the swirl in question. The hostess leaned in and bent down close to my face.
“Yes, I see it,” she answered in a hushed tone of reverence.
“That line tells me that Whitney has a lonely side to her personality. She doesn’t get to mix with other dogs as much as she would like to.”
“That’s true!” Our hostess looked guilty. “We don’t let her get out of the house and visit with other dogs.”
“I can see that she loves water and swimming.” I knew from working as an animal trainer that hunting dogs love the water.
“That’s incredible! We can’t keep her out of the pool!”
“Is she a water sign?” I asked.
“A what?” she looked confused.
“A water sign. You know, astrologically?”
“I would have to look up her papers to know her birth date for sure. I’ll definitely be sure to look it up in the morning.” I had no doubt that she would.
“She is a Pisces, the water symbol. There is a long life line and even some evidence of a past life.” I was moving into wacko territory now, but why not? Everyone was buying it. “In this past life she lived very close to a body of water.” I looked away with a concerned look. “Her mother lived in Scotland, and Whitney lost her mother in a drowning. Poor puppy.”
Suddenly I felt someone standing close behind me, looking down on me.
“We should take her out to the beach more often, shouldn’t we, dear?” Hostess’ husband placed a protective arm around her waist, effectively pulling her aside and cutting her off from any further what might be considered inappropriately too close contact with the psychic.
And then—what a stroke of luck! There, lo and behold, was a tiny image on the edge of Whitney’s paw print where it had dragged away from the paper. It was clearly visible, if I turned the paper at a right angle. Peering intently through my 1930s magnifying glass, I focused in on what appeared to be a small dog-like entity with its head turned, looking back over its shoulder toward its tail. Amazing. I was even astonished myself. It was like something out of Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
I dangled the proverbial carrot: “Your dog needs a companion. She only has you and your husband, but I’m seeing another dog in Whitney’s future.”
“What do you mean?” Hostess asked as the small group tensed forward.
“Look at the paw print.” I handed her my magnifying glass as I pointed my index finger to the little pup figure looking behind itself.
Giving away her distinctive California lineage by squealing a perfectly San Fernando Valley-styled “Oh, my God!” she spotted the glyph. Her hand went to her mouth. The crowd surged forward to see what was going on. In a few moments, the entire room had surrounded us.
The husband snatched the paper from Hostess’ hand to see for himself. Perhaps he was a tad jealous.
“Be careful!” she screamed. “You’ll rip it!”
“Did you make this print?” he asked his wife a little accusingly.
“Just a few minutes ago with Whitney in the kitchen.” I supposed Hubby suspected some kind of trick on my part, but it was just fate mixed with a little imagination. They both grabbed up Whitney from the floor and fawned over her.
“Oh, baby,” Hostess cooed. “We are going to get you a new friend right away!”
“And we will start taking her out for more walks,” Hubby declared.
“There’s a great off-leash park in Laurel Canyon not far from here. You should take her up there,” one of Hostess’ girlfriend sympathetically offered while clinging to her date, who looked a lot like a heroin addict. “That’s where I met Bill.”
“We will. Mark, this is just so amazing!” Hostess squinted her eyes under a table lamp just to make sure of the image on the paper that we had all seen.
“Yeah, we gotta get that framed!” Hubby said.
“Great job,” someone else said behind me.
“It’s a gift,” I demurred. “It’s the dog, really. She’s quite exceptional.” I gave Whitney’s head a gentle pat and was rewarded with a generous lick.
Of course the inevitable happened. The crowd moved in closer and I was asked repeatedly for my business card. Word of mouth with a group like this is indispensable.
Somewhere on a wall in a mansion off Bellagio Road in Bel Air a framed inked image hangs, a tiny puppy within the paw print of a larger dog. Draw your own conclusions as to the symbolism or deeper meaning of this anomaly. Its owners treasure this image as much as I treasure the memory of that evening.
Psychics, clairvoyants, and fortune-tellers are not always a welcome addition to the party. It is rare, but there are sometimes clients who display outward hostility or irrational anger toward those who tell fortunes for a living. They are a sorry lot. In some homes, you may be ushered in as a “fortune-teller” but not welcome as a “psychic.”
The introductory comments at the front door of one party I had arrived at went like this:
“Good evening. I’m your psychic for the evening.”
“Psychic! We didn’t hire any psychic here! Do you tell fortunes?”
“Yes, that’s part of my job.”
“Well, if you’re a fortune-teller, that’s different. Please come in.”
When I do a little heavy lifting, lever up a person’s anger, and look at what’s underneath, many times I find fear. Generally, society shuns what they fear and saves their trust for something or someone they can understand or relate to. But if psychics were to be completely understood, we would soon be out of work. Fortunately or not, this won’t happen. There are too many variables for the idea of being “psychic” to be dissected, quantified, and scientifically defined. Until science catches up with superstition, I’ll continue to relate only the best-quality intuition I can offer.
Suspicious attitudes are understandable. There are so many less-than-average psychics out there, the chances of finding one with any level of genuine talent and compassion is slim. For that reason, I feel that no matter how skilled or intuitive, every psychic should be accepted only as an entertainment and nothing more. I have never tried to mislead anyone any more than a hired caricature artist or a bartender who mixes martinis differently for every customer. It’s all a relative equation. And, frankly, some people just need to lighten up.
I have had the dubious privilege of being booked at several of Eddie Murphy’s high-end parties. His begrudging support of my gift must have something to do with his willingness to offer his guests every conceivable diversion to keep them happy. It’s well known in Hollywood circles that he dislikes anything psychic, and each of my adventures at his parties has been a bittersweet experience.
Eddie’s parties fall into a hard-to-categorize zone—somewhere between Hollywood glam and carefully scripted Egyptian ritual. The Moroccan-style soirée, complete with belly and sword dancers, that he held for his daughter’s baby shower ranked right up there with the most lavish events I have ever been invited to. Unfortunately, I have also never been so denigrated and felt so mistreated as a human being, much less a psychic, than at these bloated ego-fests.
Wealth is no excuse for excess. Events like Eddie’s have given me an even greater strength of purpose and an abundance of experience. I can tell the difference between productions of pure class and crassly exploited psychic commercialism. Agents, party planners, event coordinators, publicity and public relations specialists may all recognize a chance to cash in on the psychic market, but in the grand scheme of things, I can’t always pick and choose where, when, or with whom my skills might be utilized. When a new celebrity client appears on my radar, I still think optimistically, knowing that highly sophisticated, unexpected, and perhaps even delightfully bizarre adventures await me. In spite of the many people who become totally intoxicated at one of these affairs or end up oblivious to the sober insights I offer, I have to believe that there will also be one or two individuals who come away with something more than a hangover.
17 Tomas de Torquemada (1420–1498), prominent leader of the Spanish Inquisition.