Wise. Better not to make an issue of the omission and risk showing too much interest in a client's worldly status.
'Now,' Foster said, seating himself behind the desk, 'I believe we can squeeze you in for half an hour on Tuesday. Would three o'clock be convenient?'
'How about now?'
'Oh, I'm afraid that's impossible. Madame has a group reading at three.'
'Well, why don't I sit in on that?'
'That would not do. These four clients always book readings together. An outsider at the table would upset the spiritual dynamics Madame has worked so hard to establish. Quite impossible, I'm afraid.'
This guy loved the word impossible. But Jack had something he was sure he'd like more.
'Oh, I don't want to take part in the session,' Jack said, unbuttoning his shirt's left breast pocket. 'I just want to watch. Won't say a word. I just want to be a, you know, fly on the wall. And I'm willing to pay for the privilege.'
Before Foster could say impossible again, Jack slapped a coin onto the desktop. It landed with a weighty thunk. He saw instant recognition in Foster's eyes and watched his raised eyebrows stretch even further into his forehead when he saw the galloping antelope stamped into its gleaming gold surface. A one-ounce Krugerrand. He didn't have to know the spot price of gold to realize that this newcomer was offering a hefty price to be a mere observer.
'That's gold, Carl. And gold is what my uncle told me is the best way of dealing with the spirit world.'
'That's very generous, Mr. Butler,' Foster said, licking his lips-the sight of gold did that to some people. 'Tell me: Did your uncle have many dealings with the spirit world?'
'All the time. Never met a medium he didn't like, is what my aunt used to say.'
'And how about you?'
'Me? This'll be the first time I've been within a mile of a seance.'
'Do you have any idea what to expect?'
'My uncle once mentioned seeing ectoplasm and stuff like that, but I was never sure what that was all about.'
Foster reached out a finger and touched the coin. 'I hope you realize it's a most unusual request.'
He'd taken the bait. Now Jack had to set the hook.
'I wouldn't know about that. Way I figure, it's gonna take me a while to work out these issues with my uncle. A half-hour session won't hack it. I'm going to need hours of sessions, a bunch of them. But before I invest that kind of dough, I want to know what I'm getting into. I want a look at what the lady's offering. If I'm convinced she's the real deal, then I'll make an appointment for the next available slot she's got free so we can get to work tracking down my uncle in the Great Hereafter. That sound fair to you, Carl?'
'What I think doesn't matter,' Foster said. 'It's all up to Madame. I'll go ask her.'
As Foster disappeared again, Jack leaned back and listened.
'You heard?' he said to his wife.
'Yeah, I heard. And he wants to pay with gold?'
'The real thing. Take a look.'
'Lotta money just to sit and watch and get nothing out of it. You think this fucker's on the up and up?'
'Well, he's put hard currency where his mouth is. And maybe a Krugerrand's no big deal to him. Maybe he's got a closet full of them.'
'All right. Let's do it. But keep him away from the table, in case he's some kinda nut case.'
'Will do.'
When I'm finished, Jack thought, you'll wish I'd been a nut case.
Foster returned and told Jack, yes, he could observe the group reading as long as he agreed to remain in his seat and speak not a word. Jack agreed and the Krugerrand went into Carl Foster's pocket.
He cooled his heels awhile till the sitters showed up for the group reading. The four middle-aged women, two blondes-one heavy, one a bulimia poster girl-a brunette, and a redhead arrived as a group, all oozing Prada, Versace, and other overpriced designer wear he didn't recognize. On Jack's visit here last night he'd found dollar signs drawn next to their names in one of the Fosters' notebooks. Not only did these four book regular sessions, but they were very generous with their 'love donations.'
Their names slipped past him but Jack did his best to be pleasant and charming when introduced to the four. They could queer his whole plan if they objected to his presence. At first they were cool to him-probably put off by his mullet head and odd attire-but once they learned he was a psychic virgin they warmed up, apparently delighted for the chance to make a believer out of him. They gushed about Madame Pomerol's powers, but not one of them mentioned her mishap last night. Apparently they didn't read the Daily News.
Soon enough the big moment came and they were ushered into the reading room. Jack hadn't fully appreciated the room last night because he and Charlie had used flashlights. Now that it was fully illuminated, he was struck by the sheer weight of the decor. Velvet drapes in heavy folds, thick carpeting, satin-flocked wallpaper- all in various shades of red. Suffocating, like the inside of a coffin.
So this is what it's like to be buried alive.
He watched as Foster seated the four ladies around an ornate round table under a huge chandelier suspended over the center of the room.
Four sitters at five hundred a pop, Jack thought. Beats my hourly rate by a parsec or two.
Foster then indicated a lone chair set against a side wall, maybe a dozen feet from the table, for Jack.
'Remember,' he said in a low voice. 'You are here to observe. If you speak or leave your chair you'll disrupt the spirit presences.'
Jack knew the only presence he'd disturb would be Carl Foster, slinking around after the lights went out. But he simply nodded and looked serious.
'Gotcha.'
Foster exited and a moment later he heard him say, 'Okay, the fish are in the barrel. Get out there and start shooting.'
Finally Madame Pomerol herself appeared, her short, dumpy frame swathed in a flowing, pale blue, gownlike get up, beaded to within an inch of its life; some sort of white turbanlike thing sat on her head. Jack barely recognized her. But then, he hadn't seen her at her best.
Madame greeted the four sitters warmly, smiling and chattering in a French accent that had not been in evidence last night when she was cursing at Carl and their car.
Finally she came over to Jack and extended a ring-laden hand, dangling at the wrist as if awaiting a kiss. Jack rose and gave it a quick shake as unbidden visions of the woman naked and bound with duct tape swam through his head. He shuddered and chased them away.
Clothes make the woman too.
'You are chilled, Monsieur Butler?'
Her ice blue eyes glittered at him. If she had any facial irritation from the duct tape, she'd hidden it with make-up. Her thin, lipsticked lips were curved into a smile.
'No, ma'am. I just never been to one of these things before.'
'Nothing to be afraid of, I assure you. You are observing, yes? So just hold your seat and your tongue and I will show you wonders that are, quite simply, incroyable.'
Jack smiled and nodded as he reseated himself, knowing nothing she could conjure here would come within light-years of the reality he'd experienced since last summer.
She hit a light switch on her way back to the table. This turned off the spotlights recessed in the ceiling, but the chandelier remained lit.
Madame Pomerol made some introductory remarks, explaining-'for the benefit of our guest'-how she would go into a trance that would release ectoplasm from her body and open a gateway to the Other Side. Her spirit guide, an ancient Mayan priest named Xultulan, would then speak to the living through her.
'One more thing before we proceed,' she said in a grave tone. 'I know my four dear friends at the table are well aware of this, but I must repeat it for the sake of our newcomer. Should ectoplasm manifest itself, please, please, please do not touch it. It exudes from my body and soul, and contact with anyone else will cause it to flee back into my body. The sudden return of so much ectoplasm can harm a medium. Some of us have actually been
