“I’m not in it for the fresh air and sunshine,” she said contentedly. “I do okay.”
“Your place?”
“That’s right.”
“You keep it nice,” I said truthfully. It was all spic and span. She had rows of Mason jars full of powders and dried leaves, all neatly labeled: Shave Grass, Hyssop, Hemlock Bark, Borage, Hibiscus. There was a box full of horseshoes. There was a glass case full of incense burners stamped out of brass and tin, and everything with pentagrams on it, even what looked like table napkins, and Ouija boards and Junior Ouija Boards with big colored letters. I said, “I guess people want answers, huh?”
“Guess they do.”
“You do this kind of thing yourself? Foretell the future?” I set my hand down in front of her, palm up, and looked hopeful.
She slapped lightly at my arm. “Now, you’d better be nice,” she said. “That kind of stuff is just out of books, anyway. It’s not what’s in the lines, it’s what’s in the person who reads them. What she sees.”
“What she sees? Just by looking?”
“Sure. If you’re good.”
“You can just look at someone and see how he’ll wind up?”
“Well, it’s more you see a sort of light around someone. And in that light, certain pictures come to you, or ideas. And sometimes they’re what’s going to happen.”
She’d been gazing like I was something far off she was trying to get into focus.
“What do you see right now?” I said.
She looked away. “I don’t mean I can see things, personally. I mean, maybe you’ve got a talent, or think you do, but you still have to develop it,” she said uncomfortably.
“No time, huh? Business keeps you hopping?”
“That’s right.”
“You have any books on the Tarot?”
“Sure. Back over there by the antlers. Third shelf.”
She was watching me again. She didn’t seem as jaunty somehow.
I went where she said and took down a book called
I read:
MAJOR ARCANA
{KEY 12}
THE HANGED MAN
§
Reversed:
I closed the book and stood there rubbing my nose. The gal at the cash register hadn’t stopped watching me. By now her eyes were about as sad as eyes get. “Do you want that book,” she said, almost whispering.
I shook my head and put it back on the shelf.
“Can I do anything for you.”
“No,” I said.
She whispered, “Then I think I’d like you out of my store now, please.”
Halliday’s house still didn’t look like much house for a gangster. But one good thing about it, no one seemed to be home. No lights, no cars in the driveway. I’m not sure what I’d have done if someone had been there. I turned left at the corner and left again onto Remsen Avenue, which ran parallel to Shippie and one block over, and decided on a house that was being renovated, not quite back to back with Halliday’s but only three doors down, with a few trees in between. I pulled into the driveway, and got my toolkit from the trunk, making no special attempt to be quiet. I went into the new garage, which had no door yet. It was just half-naked studs letting in the moonlight. I set down my tools and put on some gloves. I wiped down my flashlight and gun, in case I had to leave them inside. I put the flashlight in my pocket and my gun in my holster, then slipped out through the open studs at the back of the garage and made my way through the trees to Halliday’s back door.
I was prepared to go back and get my bolt-cutters, but he hadn’t put the chain on and my little strips of Samoan lagoon were all I needed. I stopped inside the door and held my breath. The house was still. If there was anyone there, they were asleep and not snoring. Or else holding their breaths and waiting for me with guns. I stood there with my eyes closed, letting Rebecca’s map come back to me. When I had it clear in my mind and my eyes were used to blackness, I opened them. It’s good to have a flashlight, but it’s better not to use it, and I walked through the dark kitchen into what I knew was the dining room.
Rebecca’s map seemed to be pretty damn good. I peeked through a side door and flashed my light in, just to check, and there were rows of 16mm projectors in carrying cases, just as she’d said. I closed the door softly and went through an archway into the front parlor. In the middle was a big armchair with antimacassars. I flicked the flash on it. It was upholstered in roses and green leaves. I looked through the side door there, not using the light. I saw a small room with a single bed and a movie camera in the corner on a stand.
I got out my gun and went slowly upstairs, stepping on the edges of the risers beside the wall. I still made little noises. You always do. Near the top of the stairs I peered through the banister and found all the doors open. The rooms seemed empty. I strode up the rest of the stairs, not caring about what noise I made, and stalked from room to room, gun first. Nobody. I decided I was probably okay and began going over the rooms in earnest.
The one near the head of the stairs was a bathroom, and there was nothing in it out of the ordinary. Next to it was a small room someone had fitted out with metal shelves. There were cans of film on the shelves, each can neatly labeled. I closed the curtain on the window and put on the flash.
This was a back bedroom with a frilly cream-colored bedspread. The walls were painted peacock blue and almost bare. The night table held an inlaid jewelry box, but there was nothing in it but a few pieces of costume stuff. I opened the closet and found low-cut evening dresses on hangers. I took down a couple of hatboxes and found hats. I opened the lingerie drawer and found lingerie. I went into the next room, which seemed to be the master bedroom. The curtains were closed, and I turned on my flash again.
In the middle of the room was a queen-sized bed. At the foot was a projector on a stand. The bed’s headboard had been removed, and a white rectangle painted on the wall behind it. I went over to the projector and switched it on. There was that grinding ticking noise, and then a short length of number leader, and then the
