ball.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” the psychic said.
So do I, Wolfe nearly replied.
“The people you work for are about to betray you.”
Wolfe grew hot under the collar. He pulled his hand out, wanting to hear more.
“Is that so? What are they planning to do?”
“A hundred dollars. Cash or credit?”
The crummy little bastard had hooked him. Wolfe took out his wallet, and tossed the bills onto the table. He noticed that Rowe was unshaven and wore a satin blue bathrobe. Rowe probably lived in the building, and had a short commute.
“Now, tell me what you saw,” Wolfe said.
“Your employer is not happy with how things are going,” Rowe said, peering intensely into his crystal ball. “Something happened recently which has caused them to lose faith in you.”
Through their psychic prowess, the Order followed Wolfe’s every movement when he was on assignment, and would have known about the botched hit on Peter Warlock.
“Go on,” Wolfe said.
“Your employer is convinced you will not succeed with your current assignment, and is making arrangements to make sure they’re not dragged down if you fail.” Rowe lifted his eyes. “Am I getting warm?”
“Very.” Wolfe choked on the word.
“Would you like some water?”
Wolfe was dying for a drink, and nodded.
“Bottled or sparkling?”
“Bottled.”
“That’s another five dollars.”
Wolfe wanted to kill him. “Forget it. Continue.”
“Let me see your palm.”
“Which one?”
“Either will do.”
Wolfe placed his upturned right hand on the table. Rowe pointed at a puncture wound that had been caused by a bullet that had been meant for Wolfe’s face. Rowe made a clucking sound with his tongue as if the wound held deep and significant meaning.
“More trouble lies ahead,” the psychic proclaimed.
“What do you mean? What kind of trouble?”
“Do you really want to know? It’s not why people come to me.”
Wolfe felt a fist tighten in the pit of his stomach. “Yes-tell me.”
Rowe gave him a funny look. Reaching behind the table, he opened a small lacquered cabinet, and removed a bottle of The Glenlivet single malt Scotch whisky and two shot glasses. Filling the glasses to the brim, he slid one in front of his visitor.
“On the house,” Rowe said.
“The news must be bad,” Wolfe replied.
“I’m afraid it is.”
They knocked back their drinks. Rowe put his elbows on the table, and dropped his voice. “I’m not in the business of causing trouble. In fact, causing trouble is bad for business. But I’ve got to call them the way I see them.”
“I understand,” Wolfe said.
“I don’t want you to get angry with me. Some people think it’s necessary to kill the messenger, if you know what I mean.”
His choice of words was prophetic, and Wolfe hid a macabre little smile.
“I won’t get mad,” he promised.
“Very well. Your employer has maintained a distance from you, which you’ve always found troubling. Only one thing connects you, and that thing is now being wiped out.”
“My bank accounts?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“How many?”
“All of them.”
The Order paid Wolfe by wire transfers to offshore bank accounts that he kept all over the world. Besides himself, they were the only people who knew the accounts’ locations, and how to access them. A bead of sweat rolled down Wolfe’s nose and hit the table.
“They see it as a business decision,” the psychic explained.
“Have they wiped me out?”
“The process has started. You need to save whatever’s left.”
Wolfe’s chair scraped the floor as he pushed himself away from the table. “Where’s the closest coffee shop with Internet access?”
“Try the Coyi Cafe on Avenue B and Third Street,” Rowe said. “It’s where I go.”
“Much obliged.”
Wolfe slipped his hand into his overcoat and grabbed the axe. He really didn’t want to kill Rowe. After all, the little man had done him a huge favor. Only Rowe knew too much about his life for Wolfe to be comfortable with.
“I think we should set up another appointment,” Rowe suggested.
“Why’s that?”
“Your future is filled with surprises.”
“What kind of surprises?”
“I see a ravenous, dark-haired lady in your future.”
Rita. Wolfe hadn’t believed he was capable of falling in love until he’d met Rita. She’d stolen what little was left of his heart, and he longed to see her again.
“What about her?” he asked.
“You sent her a letter a month ago.”
“Yes?”
“She only just received it. She misses you terribly, and is in the process of responding to you. Look, we can discuss this later. Go take care of your business. I have a cancellation at three this afternoon. Come back then, and we can talk in more detail.”
“All right,” Wolfe heard himself say.
His head was spinning as he left the building. He’d never spared a victim before. It told him that there were still things more important than money. On the sidewalk he ran into the crazy lady and her precious mutt. She had her skirt pulled up by her waist, and was kneeling down with a plastic bag covering her hand. Only in New York did masters clean up after their bloody dogs.
“I hope you weren’t disappointed in Lester,” she said.
“Hardly,” Wolfe replied, and hurried up the street.
13
Max was bending minds for a table of lovely ladies as Peter came through the front door of Perilla in the West Village. Although technically retired, Max still performed in trendy restaurants around the city, and delighted in making patrons shriek at his miracles.
Seeing his student, Max nodded, and continued his trick. Getting Max to quit during the middle of a show was like asking the pope to give up religion, and Peter took a seat at the bar to watch. With his shock of snow white hair and dated tuxedo, Max looked more like a harmless old kook than a master magician, which was part of his
