NYU sweatshirts staggered into the parlor.
“What do you want?” Madame Marie demanded.
“Tell her, Bobby,” the drunk girl said.
“Katie wants to know if I’m screwing around on her,” her boyfriend replied.
“Oh, Bobby,” the drunk girl giggled.
“Go away. I have a customer,” Madame Marie said.
“Come on, lady. She doesn’t believe me,” the boy said.
“You heard me! Get out! Both of you!”
The college kids laughed to themselves. Madame Marie came around the table, grabbed them by the arms, and ushered them outside. Slamming the door, she dead-bolted it. She returned to her chair.
“Now, where were we?”
Wolfe glanced out the front window. The college kids were standing beneath the awning, making out. He needed to kill time and wait for them to leave.
“Sorry, I don’t remember.”
“Perhaps we should start over?”
“That would be good.”
The cards were gathered and re-mixed. Then, another row was dealt onto the table. Cards representing the Devil, Death, and the High Priestess stared up at them. Panic filled Madame Marie’s eyes, and she drew back in her chair.
“I know who you are,” she muttered under her breath.
“You do?”
“Yes. You’re going to kill all those people in Times Square.”
“What are you bloody talking about?”
“You’re the Devil, and must be stopped.”
“Me? Come on. Get real.”
She drew a small-caliber pistol from her dress, and aimed it at Wolfe’s chest. Her breathing had grown accelerated, and he realized she was going to shoot him without caring about the consequences. He had a few seconds to save himself, and his mind raced.
It was difficult to own a legal handgun in New York, and, as a result, there were few firing ranges in which to practice. That was to his advantage. As he upended the table and sent the cards into the air, she fired, the bullet missing him by a foot and lodging in the ceiling.
He knocked the old Gypsy out of her chair, and jumped onto her chest. A feeble scream escaped her lips. On the other side of the curtain, Wolfe heard footsteps. He was not surprised when the curtain brushed back, and an elderly man charged into the parlor clutching a baseball bat, which he waved menacingly at Wolfe’s skull.
“Let her go,” the man declared.
“And who might you be?” Wolfe asked.
“I’m her husband. Now release my wife.”
“Whatever you say.”
Wolfe grabbed the rug the husband was standing on, and pulled his feet out from under him. The man flew backward through the curtain and disappeared. The sound of his body hitting the floor was loud and painful. Wolfe resumed looking at his wife.
“Tell me about Times Square.”
“I didn’t see it,” Madame Marie said.
“Who did? Tell me, and I won’t make you suffer.”
“No.”
Wolfe picked up the bat and tapped it against her skull.
“Who was it?” he asked.
“Please, don’t hurt me.”
He tapped a little harder. “Tell me, damn it.”
“No.”
He smashed the bat onto the floor, making her scream.
“Last chance,” he said.
“It was Peter,” she whispered.
“The magician?”
“Yes. He saw you during a seance. He said you were going to kill thousands of people in Times Square on Tuesday night.”
“How?”
“He didn’t know.”
Wolfe wasn’t buying it. He didn’t have the means to kill that many people. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have done it. The only people he killed were the names on his list. That was what he got paid to do. There were no freebies in his line of work.
The husband groaned behind the curtain. It was time to go.
Wolfe put his hands around Madame Marie’s throat, and squeezed the life out of her. She shuddered once, and the life seeped out of her body.
“Have a nice hereafter,” he whispered.
Retrieving the pistol from the floor, Wolfe went into the back room. The husband lay on the floor in a daze. Wolfe inserted the pistol into his mouth, and squeezed the trigger. It made a loud popping sound, and the husband died instantly.
He slipped out of the parlor. The college kids were gone and the street was quiet, save for the steady beat of the rain. He fired up a cigarette and filled his lungs with smoke. Each time he killed, he was overcome with revulsion. Buried deep within his psyche there were still the small remains of a conscience. Someday, he guessed, it would be gone, and the Devil Madame Marie had seen in her cards would be all that remained.
7
Peter barely slept. His parents’ abduction kept playing in his head like a trailer for a bad movie. He couldn’t turn the damn thing off, no matter how hard he tried.
He opened his eyes the next morning to the smell of toasting bagels. The spot beside him on the bed was empty, and he could hear Liza downstairs in the kitchen. Tossing on his clothes, he barreled down the narrow staircase to the first floor.
Liza was a wonderful cook who did magic in the kitchen. He found her standing by the sink, wearing one of his dress shirts and a pair of fuzzy Garfield slippers. His eyes grew wide at the spread of food on the table. Sliced lox, cream cheese, tomatoes, chives, and a basket filled with sliced bagels. New Yorkers held bragging rights for many things, and that included the world’s best bagels. Some claimed it was the water they were boiled in; others said it was the dough. Whatever the reason, a New York bagel was a delicacy found nowhere else.
“This is awesome. What’s the occasion?” he asked.
“After last night, I thought you deserved a treat,” she said.
“You’re the best.”
“Have a seat. The show is about to begin.”
The food gave him an idea. He went to the basement, and grabbed a bottle of vintage champagne given to him by the Sultan of Brunei after a private show at the Waldorf. Liza oohed and aahed when he brought the bottle to the table. The cork hit the ceiling with a distinct
“May we never have a repeat of yesterday,” he declared.
“I’ll drink to that,” she said.
They drained their glasses and began to eat. As he bit into his bagel, he noticed Liza looking at him out of the
