door slammed angrily behind him.
He hurried down the sidewalk, hoping she’d understand.
8
The greasy spoon on East 11th Street had no name. Wolfe sat at the counter, gazing at a dingy storefront across the street. THE SACRED PLACE-PSYCHIC READINGS FOR ANY OCCASION. He pulled a slip of paper from his wallet to make sure he had the right place. Lester Rowe, owner of The Sacred Place, was number three on his hit list.
Wolfe resumed eating his steak and eggs. A police cruiser passed by, splashing water onto the sidewalk. It was the third cruiser he’d seen in the past ten minutes. That wasn’t normal, and he guessed the law was looking for him. That was the tricky part of his work. It was classic cat and mouse, and he relished his role as the mouse.
Wolfe glanced at his waitress, a young woman with spiked hair and a ring in her nose. She was flirting with another customer, a punked-out boy about her age. Picking up his steak knife, he slipped it beneath the rubber band on his wrist, and pulled down his sleeve. His captain in the army had taught him the usefulness of rubber bands. They came in handy in so many situations, he always wore one.
The rain was spitting as he crossed the street. The weather was worse than London. The front door was locked, and he rapped loudly on the glass while peering inside. It was a toilet, with cheap furniture and even cheaper wall coverings. Hundreds of psychics worked out of storefronts in New York. Except for the names on his list, they were all fakes. There were so many fakes that the real ones were forced to scrape by giving readings out of places like this. A greeter wearing a turban unlocked the door, and ushered him inside.
“Welcome to The Sacred Place. My name is Habib.”
Wolfe was good at placing accents. Habib was from the southern region of Turkey.
“I’d like a reading with Lester Rowe,” Wolfe said. “Is he available?”
“Yes, he is. You will need to make a one-hundred-dollar donation. Cash or credit?”
A donation. That was a new one. Wolfe paid in cash, and Habib handed him a clipboard and a pencil.
“Please fill this out. I will return shortly.”
Wolfe parked himself on a cheap plastic chair in the reception area and read the printed form on the clipboard. It asked for his name, date of birth, astrological sign, and personal things about himself, including his fears, beliefs, likes, and dislikes. The last question was the kicker. Why had he come for a reading today?
He laughed to himself. He’d been given a similar form to fill out in psychic parlors before, and knew what it meant. The Sacred Place was a scam. There was a hole in the wall behind his chair which Habib was staring through at this very moment. Habib would copy down his answers, and share them with Rowe before their session began.
Taking out his Zippo lighter, Wolfe stared into its reflection, and found the hole in a framed picture hanging behind his chair. Rowe was a bloody fake, and shouldn’t have been on his hit list. Something wasn’t right here, and he decided to find out what was going on.
Wolfe scribbled down his answers. Soon, Habib returned.
“All done?” Habib asked cheerfully.
“I believe I am,” Wolfe replied.
“Very good. Take the form off the clipboard and put it in your pocket. We ask you to write down your answers so you can better channel your thoughts during the reading.”
“Please follow me, and watch your step. The carpet needs to be replaced.”
They passed down a narrow hallway to a small parlor with Persian rugs hanging on the walls. A white- bearded Turkish man sat in a wheelchair strapped to an oxygen tank. The apple had not fallen far from the tree. Habib looked just like him.
The elderly Turk motioned toward an empty chair. Wolfe sat down.
“Are you Lester Rowe?” Wolfe asked.
“Do I look like a man whose name is Lester Rowe?” the elderly Turk replied.
“I’ve never met the man. But I’m guessing you’re not him.”
“You are a good guesser. My name is Akan. I bought the business from him a few month ago.”
“Do you have Rowe’s address? I need to get in touch with him.”
“Why do you want to contact a man you’ve never met?” Akan asked pointedly.
“It’s a personal matter,” Wolfe replied.
Wolfe heard someone breathing. Behind the wheelchair was a door with light streaming through the bottom. A pair of shoes lurked on the other side. Son number two, he guessed.
“You are a liar,” Akan said. “Sedat! Come out here!”
A dark-skinned man built like a Greco-Roman wrestler marched into the parlor. He pulled Wolfe out of his chair, and patted him down.
“He’s clean,” son number two said.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Wolfe demanded.
“I think you know,” Akan said.
“No, I don’t. I’m not a mind reader. Then again, neither are you.”
“Do not make fun of my father.” Sedat had a voice like a bear. “You’re the man in the BOLO. The police say you’re extremely dangerous.”
“What’s a bloody BOLO?” Wolfe asked, trying to buy time.
Sedat removed a flyer from his pocket, and held it out for Wolfe to see. Wolfe’s photo was printed on the paper, along with the words BE ON THE LOOKOUT, courtesy of the NYPD.
“That doesn’t look anything like me,” Wolfe said indignantly.
“I will be the judge of that. Take off your hat.”
“And what if I say no?”
Sedat ripped off Wolfe’s baseball cap, and compared his face to the one in the photo.
“You bear a strong resemblance to this man,” Sedat said. “I am going to call the police. If you are innocent, then there is no harm done.”
Wolfe’s mind raced. He needed to keep several steps ahead of the police if he was going to have a chance to complete his mission.
“By all means, do call them,” Wolfe said. “Because I plan to tell the police there’s a bloody hole in the wall in your front room that you’re using to spy on customers. Once they hear that, they’ll take your license away, and shut you down.”
The parlor fell silent. Akan shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair.
“Perhaps we can come to some kind of arrangement,” the elderly Turk said.
“You mean a bribe to keep your mouths shut? How much do you have in mind?” Wolfe asked.
“How about a thousand dollars?”
“That sounds reasonable enough. Do you take traveler’s checks?”
“Of course.”
“Gentlemen, you have a deal.”
Sedat held his hand out for the money. It was the opening Wolfe had been waiting for. He kicked the big man in the chest, and sent him tumbling onto his father’s wheelchair. Habib came next. Drawing the steak knife, Woolfe slashed son number one across the face.
“Stand against the wall,” Wolfe ordered him.
Habib cowered against the wall, his hand pressed to the gushing wound. Wolfe pointed his knife at Sedat, who was trying to rehook the oxygen tank to the tube hanging around his father’s neck. The crying sound of escaping oxygen filled the air.
“Give me Lester Rowe’s address, and I’ll leave you alone,” Wolfe said.
“I don’t have it,” Sedat replied.
