“In a nine-foot chiffon train and see-through harem pants, yes,” Harrison groaned. “And let me know I was Out of the Royal Favor for
“Watirion,” Di said helpfully. “Do you realize you can pronounce that as ‘what-tire-iron’? I encourage the notion.”
“But that wasn’t the worst of it!” Harrison shook his head, distractedly, as if he was somewhat in a daze. “The worst was the monologue in the cab on the way over here. Every other word was Crystal this and Vibration that, Past Life Regression, and Mystic Rituals. The woman’s a whoopie witch!”
Di blinked. That was a new one on
Harrison looked up, and for the first time, seemed to see her. “Uh—” he hesitated. “Uh, some of what Morrie said—uh, he seemed to think you—well, you’ve seen things—uh, he said you know things—”
She fished the pentagram out from under the neck of her jumpsuit and flashed it briefly. “My religion is non- traditional, yes, and there are more things in heaven and earth, etcetera. Now what in Tophet is a whoopie witch?”
“It’s—uh—a term some friends of mine use. It’s kind of hard to explain.” Harrison’s brow furrowed. “Look, let me give you examples. Real witches have grimorie, sometimes handed down through their families for centuries. Whoopie witches have books they picked up at the supermarket. Usually right at the check-out counter.”
“Real witches have carefully researched spells—” Di prompted.
“Whoopie witches draw a baseball diamond in chalk on the living room floor and recite random passages from the
“When real witches make substitutions, they do so knowing the exact difference the substitute will make—”
“Whoopie witches slop taco sauce in their pentagram because it looks like blood.”
“Real witches gather their ingredients by hand—” Di was beginning to enjoy this game.
“Whoopie witches have a credit card, and
“Real witches spend hours in meditation—”
“Whoopie witches sit under a pyramid they ordered from a catalogue and watch
“Real witches cast spells knowing that any change they make in someone’s life will come back at them three-fold, for good or ill—”
“Whoopie witches call up the Hideous Slime from Yosotha to eat their neighbor’s poodle because the bitch got the last carton of Haagen-Daaz double-chocolate at the Seven-Eleven.”
“I think I’ve got the picture. So dear Val decided to take the so-called research she did for the Great Fantasy Novel seriously?” Di leaned back into the railing and laughed. “Oh, Robert, I pity you! Did she try to tell you that the two of you just
“Lemuria,” Harrison said, gloomily. “My God, she must be supporting half the crystal miners in Arkansas.”
“Don’t feel too sorry for her, Robert,” Di warned him. “With her advances, she can afford it. And I know some perfectly nice people in Arkansas who should only soak her for every penny they can get. Change the subject; you’re safe with us—and if she decides to hit the punch-bowl hard enough, you can send her back to her hotel in a cab and she’ll never know the difference. What brings you to New York?”
“Morrie wants me to meet the new editors at Berkley; he thinks I’ve got a shot at selling them that near- space series I’ve been dying to do. And I had some people here in the City I really needed to see.” He sighed. “And, I’ll admit it, I’d been thinking about writing bodice-rippers under a pseudonym. When you know they’re getting ten times what I am—”
Di shrugged. “I don’t think you’d be happy doing it, unless you’ve written strictly to spec before. There’s a lot of things you have to conform to that you might not feel comfortable doing. Listen, Harrison, you seem to know quite a bit about hot-and-cold-running esoterica—how did you—”
Someone in one of the other rooms screamed. Not the angry scream of a woman who has been insulted, but the soul-chilling shriek of pure terror that brands itself on the air and stops all conversation dead.
“What in—” Harrison was on his feet, staring in the direction of the scream. Di ignored him and launched
