Slugfest

The woman’s name was Terry Ward, Bagua Designs, certified feng shui practitioner, Dix Hills, New York.

In the 1980s, as feng shui worked its way into America’s lexicon, Terry thought she’d struck gold. She’d always known her obsessive desire to move the furniture was more than just neurotic behavior. It was her struggle to, in her words, perfect her surroundings. And now there was a name for it. If only her husband were still around so she could say I told you so.

Terry had signed up for a three-session course at the Learning Annex, and before it even ended she’d ordered cards for her new venture. Back then, it was easy to be considered an expert when few people could even pronounce feng shui, much less tell you which way they thought their chi should be flowing.

She worked the flower, crafts, and flea markets in New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut and the fairs in all five boroughs and Long Island, cobbling together a business from the sale of a staple-bound self-published book and bits and pieces collected from tag and yard sales.

On one fateful trip to the Elephant’s Trunk flea market in Connecticut, Terry reconnected with an old high school friend Kyle DiMucci, who in a fruitless attempt to escape his churlish wife, Doreen, traveled to all markets, preferring the ones farthest from home, where he sold classic television ephemera, mostly lunch boxes and board games. One thing led to another. When Kyle’s wife found out, she threatened to divorce him and torch what remained of his beloved Dark Shadows memorabilia collection. That dried up the flea market scene for Terry.

To refill her pipeline with low-cost feng shui–like tchotchkes Terry found a Chinese wholesaler of resin fountains, chimes, and mirrors. The merchandise had a smaller profit margin than the junk she had bought for a dollar and resold for ten, but avoiding flea markets greatly reduced the chances of bumping into the incendiary Mrs. DiMucci.

“You gotta leave, ladies.” The security guard looked tired and bored. She swung her badge and lanyard around mindlessly over and over again. Unlike Rolanda, she appeared to be an uninterested part-timer filling the extended hours. I didn’t think she cared one lick if we got locked in or backed up a trailer and left with a load of stolen merchandise. But Terry must have been worried she’d get in trouble for taking the flyers, so she scurried off without even saying good-bye.

I walked through the empty convention center hallway to the down escalator and saw Rolanda Knox leaving the security office. “Wait up,” she yelled, but my gloved hand was already on the moving handrail and I’d already started descending. She couldn’t possibly need to see my credentials now. I tapped my fingers and pretended to inspect my coffee-stained glove.

She hurried down the escalator and caught up with me at the bottom.

“Underneath this jacket, I swear, I’m wearing my badge.”

“You crazy?” she said. “I want to ask you something. You ever see that kid again—the one from yesterday who tried to sneak in?”

I’d almost asked her the same question. “Why?”

She waited for me to answer.

“I haven’t, but it’s possible he called me.” I told her about the phone messages Babe had delivered and the one I’d left him.

Rolanda asked if I’d checked the message board.

“I’ve been pretty busy today.”

Rolanda took me by the arm and led me to the up escalator. “Why are we doing this?” I asked.

“I saw something that might interest you.”

Upstairs, past the temporary bookstore, the press room, and the members’ lounge was a long corkboard on the wall between meeting rooms that would soon be filled with people learning wreath-making and bonsai techniques. Most of the notices were four-color promotional materials for products or services with the occasional “Mary Ellen, meet me at Herbaceous Perennials 101.” Good place for an ad. I made a note to print out a picture of one of Primo’s pieces and put it on the board with our booth number. Rolanda was searching. “I hope someone didn’t pin anything on top of it.” Then I saw what she’d been looking for.

Do you still have my bag?

Please call me. G.B.

Eighteen

“I don’t get it. If he was here, why didn’t he just find me? I left him my booth number.”

“’Cause he didn’t have no badge. Do we need to go over that again? Another guard gave him the boot yesterday afternoon. I’m just glad the kid was here. I had a premonition about him. My mother had the gift. In our old neighborhood, she knew who was gonna die right before it happened.”

Given Rolanda’s size and temperament, it occurred to me her mom might have been a hit woman, but I kept that thought to myself.

“I have a little of it, too,” she said. “The gift. You don’t believe me, right?”

“What is it?” I asked, hoping I didn’t look too skeptical and she didn’t see whatever woo woo glow she’d seen around the kid around me.

“Hard to define,” she said. “When I saw the accident this morning, I thought it might be the Happy Valley kid, but it was Otis Randolph, one of the overnight workers.”

“Is he all right?”

She shook her head. “Didn’t even make it to the hospital. Looks like he broke his neck. The escalator turns off automatically, so maybe he was on it and it jolted to a stop, throwing him down the stairs. The police aren’t sure what happened—I’m just guessing.”

“I’m sorry. That’s horrible. Were you friends?”

“I knew him. At first when I saw the jeans and boots, I thought it might be our boy who sneaked in after the kerfluffle yesterday.”

Kerfluffle. I liked that. And hadn’t she referred to herself as a martinet the other day? Between her psychic abilities and her colorful vocabulary, Rolanda was getting more interesting.

I dialed the number on the bulletin board. The same one Babe had given me. It kicked into voice mail, and I left a message, saying the bag was at booth 1142, if he could get in (Rolanda was still within earshot). Otherwise he should call me and I’d arrange to meet him. Out of habit I left my cell phone and my home phone numbers.

“Look at this—you’re a popular girl. Here’s another one.”

Rolanda plucked a pink index card from the board. It was from Connie.

Hi, Paula, Didn’t have your number but hope you see this. Meet me at the St. George at 7 p.m. Connie A.

The I’s were dotted with circles. Instead of periods, she made little daisy-shaped characters. Aaaay.

I checked my watch. “You could pretend you didn’t see it,” Rolanda said.

“She’d know I was lying. I’m a terrible liar.” The last thing I wanted to do was have drinks with a woman who made up her own punctuation marks, but it was a good hotel with a great bar and she was buying.

By that time the escalators had been turned off and Rolanda and I walked to the top of the staircase. The reception didn’t start until 5:30 P.M. the next day, and I considered going back onto the floor for the bag, but Rolanda stopped me.

“Don’t bother. These doors are locked.”

“All right, since you have all the answers, what do people wear to this shindig tomorrow night?”

“Last year we had an international theme. People had all sorts of getups. One woman wore a three-foot headdress that was supposed to be Brazilian. She had to sit in a chair and be carried in because she couldn’t fit through the doorway standing up.”

“Was she wearing her badge?”

“Damn skippy.”