thick in the back; a thick, dark brown mustache draped his upper lip. He wore a light green, western-style shirt, buttoned all the way to the top, dark green twill pants, and Doc Martens. He'd strapped some padding around his waist to give him a medium-size gut. Too bad he didn't have a pierced ear-lobe; a rhinestone stud would have made a nice finishing touch.
He checked to make sure enough of the wig's long back was draped over his left ear to hide the earpiece. One of the tasks he and Charlie had completed last night was planting a bug in Carl Foster's command center. The receiver was taped to the small of Jack's back; its slim, almost invisible wire ran up to his collar and around the back of his ear.
He'd cabbed over from his place on the Upper West Side and arrived unannounced in the lobby of Madame Pomerol's building half an hour before the high-roller sitting she'd scheduled for this afternoon. He'd found a doorman waiting. Thankfully the building didn't keep one on duty around the clock, or he and Charlie would have had to abort their mission last night. As it was, all they'd had to do was use their copies of the Fosters' keys to unlock the glass front door and stroll in.
This afternoon the doorman, a dark Hispanic named Silvio, had allowed him to call upstairs from the lobby. Jack had told the man who answered-presumably Carl Foster-that he wanted to schedule a private reading in the very near future.
Come right up.
Carl Foster-looking so much better clothed-answered Jack's knock on the door of suite 14-B. He wore all black-black turtleneck jersey, black shoes, black socks-and Jack knew why. His skin appeared reddened around the eyes and mouth-irritated by, say, duct tape adhesive, Carl?-but otherwise he didn't look too much the worse for last night's wear.
Carl Foster's forehead seemed permanently furrowed, perhaps as a result of keeping his eyebrows raised, as if he existed in a state of perpetual surprise. Jack hadn't noticed it last night, but then, Foster had had good reason to be surprised then.
He ushered Jack into a small waiting room furnished with an antique desk and half a dozen upholstered chairs.
The muted colors on the walls and the thick Oriental rug lent an atmosphere of quiet comfort and tasteful opulence. Business appeared to be good for Madame Pomerol.
Foster extended his hand. 'Welcome to Madame Pomerol's Temple of Eternal Wisdom. I am Carl Foster. And you are...?'
'Butler,' Jack said, adding a hint of the South to his accent as he gave the hand a hearty shake. 'Bob Butler. Pleased to meetcha.' Jack chewed his gum with an open mouth as he looked around. 'Where's the lady?'
'Madame? She's preparing for a reading.'
'I wanna talk to her.'
'I thought you wanted to schedule a private reading.'
'I do, but I'd like to speak to the head honcho first.'
'I'm afraid that's quite impossible. Madame Pomerol's time is very valuable. However, you should know that I have her complete trust. I screen all her clients and make her appointments.'
Jack had figured that, but he wanted to seem like a rube.
'Screen? Why would I have to be screened? You mean to tell me I might not be good enough for this Madame Pomerol?'
'Oh, no, of course not. It's just that there are certain religious groups and even some atheist groups who do not approve of Madame's work. They've been known to try to waste her time and even disrupt her readings.'
'I'd think she'd be able to sniff them out in advance herself. I mean, being a psychic and all.'
Foster offered him a wan smile. 'The word 'psychic' is so often misused. Madame is a spirit medium.'
'There's a difference?'
'Of course. So many so-called psychics are charlatans, little better than sideshow performers. Madame has a special gift from God that allows her to speak to the souls of the departed.'
'So she can't like, predict the future?'
'At times, yes. But we must remember that any special knowledge she might have comes from the spirits, and they do not tell her everything.'
'Well, I ain't connected with no religious group. No worry there. I'm here because I got some important questions for my uncle. I can't ask him myself-him being dead and all-so I figured I need a psychic type.'
This was Jack's cover story. He'd make an appointment for tomorrow but wouldn't keep it.
'What sort of questions?' Foster asked nonchalantly as he moved behind the desk.
There's a good helper, Jack thought. Finding out as much as he can in advance.
He smiled but let an edge creep into his tone. 'If I thought you could answer them, I wouldn't need Madame Pomerol, would I?'
Foster forced a good-natured laugh. 'No, I suppose not. Who referred you to Madame Pomerol, by the way?'
'Referred? No one. I read about her in the paper this morning. I figured if she was tight enough with the spirits that they're playing tricks on her, then she's the lady for me.'
Foster nodded as he pulled a sheet of paper from the desk's top drawer. He indicated the chair on the other side.
'Please have a seat and fill out this questionnaire.'
'What for?'
'Just a formality. It's a nuisance, I know, but as I explained, circumstances have forced us into screening our clients.' He handed Jack a pen. 'Please fill that out completely while I go get the appointment book and see about setting up your private reading.'
'By the way,' Jack said, 'what's a private session cost?'
'Five hundred dollars for a half hour; one thousand for an hour.'
Jack parked his gum in his cheek and gave a low whistle. 'Pretty damn steep.'
'She is the best,' Foster said.
'I'll be counting on that.'
Jack watched Foster leave, then turned his attention to the form, pretending to study it. He knew he was on camera. The overhead smoke detector housed a wide-angle mini-cam; he'd seen the monitor in one of the back rooms last night. He figured Foster was watching him now, waiting to see if he rifled through any of the desk drawers. But Jack already had been through them and knew they held nothing but pens, paper clips, and questionnaires.
The camera was a good way to check out a potential sitter who was an unknown quantity, but it also came in handy when using the three microphones that had been installed here and there about the room. Sitters tend to yak it up before a group session, allowing an eavesdropping medium to pick up invaluable information; but it wasn't really useful if you didn't know who was talking.
'What's going on out there?' he heard Madame Pomerol say through the tiny speaker in his ear piece. 'Who's the dork?'
'New fish.'
'Well, reel the fucker in, baby. Reel him in.'
Yeah, Jack thought. Reel me in.
The questionnaire contained a run of standard intake questions-name, address, phone numbers, and so on- but tucked into the middle was a box for the client's Social Security Number.
Jack suppressed a smile. Yeah, right. He had a collection of SSNs, none of them legitimately his, but he wasn't about to use one of them here. He wondered how many people, in zipping through the form, unthinkingly filled in that blank along with all the others, unaware of the wealth of information, financial and otherwise, it laid open to the medium.
Jack had used the Bob Butler name because he'd once met a Robert Butler who lived in the Millennium Towers, a high-rent high-rise in the West Sixties. He wrote in that address and put down one of his own voice mail numbers for home phone.
Foster returned with the appointment book. Jack watched his eyes as he scanned the almost completed questionnaire, and saw an instant of disappointed narrowing-the blank SSN box, no doubt. But Foster said nothing.
