So a cop or something similar, and probably a couple of lesser criminals. Basically, I really only needed to feel bad for one of the three. Those were better odds for my overall happiness when I left tonight.
I grabbed my chair by the back, turned it sideways again, and sat. The bay still sparkled pleasantly as the waves rolled by.
“Fine. Fine, okay,” the man said, and though his voice was hard, I could hear the traces of unease lining each word.
Magical and non-magical people alike were discomfited by the thought of the dead walking amongst the living. Hell, even the dead weren’t happy about it, especially when they didn’t know they’d expired and weren’t sure what “crossing over” meant. I was given the side-eye in both societies and from both sides of the “veil”—the line between the living and dead—as though I could help what kind of useless magic I’d been dealt.
If you weren’t unlucky, you’d have no luck at all, Alexis, my mother used to say.
She’d been absolutely right. I wasn’t sure what power the stranger thought he’d felt, but when it came right down to it, my magic greatly limited my options in life.
17
Alexis
The client (I didn’t plan to get his name) stood and pulled out a money clip stuffed with green. The guy was loaded, and he was squabbling over three hundred bucks?
He slapped it onto the TV tray in front of him.
“Put the crystal ball on it,” I instructed.
He hesitated with his hand over the cracked orb. “Won’t that…mess with your…thing?”
“No. It’s just a prop to make me look legit.” I motioned at nothing in particular. “Daisy, count that money.”
“This is all…very strangely done,” Daisy muttered as her clothes rustled. “Hello, good sir. Thank you for stopping by. I’ll just…” Money crinkled, then paper slid against paper. “Yup.” The bills crinkled again, and I knew she was slipping them into her pocket.
The folding chair creaked, and the sound of water lapping against the pillars of the pier filled the following silence.
“Do I have to do something else?” the man asked, impatience ringing in his voice.
“Nope,” I said, not moving. “I was just giving your friends there a chance to get in one last shot at you.”
“It’s like she doesn’t want repeat business,” Daisy said softly.
“I don’t.” Truth was, I had to gear myself up for the worst part of these gigs. A quick glance at the client’s followers told me they were all alert and eager to be heard. My heart sank. “Go ahead. I’m all ears.” I brought up the timer on my phone. “You each have five minutes.”
“Who…me?” the client said as the important dude behind him opened his mouth.
“Of course not you. When you talk, you have a whole host of people who have no choice but to hear you. Those people behind you only have me. And whatever other poor schmucks like me they happen across. I’m about to shove them across the Line whether they want to go or not. The least I can do is hear them out before they go.”
The man licked his lips nervously. Oh yeah, he was a real piece of work. He probably had a whole lot of secrets I shouldn’t hear.
I hoped I wouldn’t.
I reset the timer. “Go.” I gestured to the important-looking guy.
“I headed up the department’s investigation of Mr. Romano for some three months on suspicion of drug trafficking,” the dude began, cementing my earlier assessment. “We got a tip regarding a shipment…”
I let his voice ebb and flow around me. His words mixed together and became nothing but sound, rising and falling. I didn’t want to know the gory details of how he’d been kicked out of the land of the living, because they were probably grisly. I had a good imagination—I didn’t need help putting disturbing images into my mind’s eye.
“Did you hear me?” the important-looking dude asked, and it was clear that even in death, he thought he was the bee’s knees.
“Yep.” Technically, my answer was true. He hadn’t asked if I was listening. I glanced at the timer. “You’ve got one more minute. Anything else?”
“Roger McLaughlin. He works in the Central Park precinct in New York City. Tell him that Jim Miller told you to tell him eight-seven-seven in terminal three. He’ll know what that means. Can you remember that?”
I kept every muscle in my body loose and my face perfectly devoid of expression. If Mr. Criminal knew I’d just gotten that information, whatever it was, I had a feeling ol’ Jim and I would have something in common.
“Can you remember that?” Jim repeated.
“Look, guy, I told you, I don’t deliver messages,” I said with the right shade of annoyance. Mr. Criminal (I still hoped to forget his name after this) leaned forward, his eyes gleaming dangerously. “I’m sure your mother knows you love her.”
Mr. Criminal’s eyes remained alert, but his shoulders relaxed slightly. I’d been down this road a time or two. I was excellent at surviving.
“Will you deliver it?” the Jim asked. “Touch your hair if yes.”
Smart guy, this important dude. He could read people well.
Not well enough, of course, since Mr. Criminal had gotten one over on him.
“All right, that’s time.” I brushed the hair out of my face, because what could I do, not pass his message on? Roger McLaughlin would think I was just some nutter, so it wouldn’t matter, but I wasn’t in the habit of ignoring last requests. It was another reason I tried to avoid using my magic. Each and every spirit seemed to have a last request, and I didn’t have the time or resources to comply with all of them. “Nope, that’s time,” I said into the silence, shaking my head. “I don’t care. You’re done.”
The dead usually only stopped talking once they got their point across. I doubted Mr. Criminal knew that, but I didn’t want to barter with my life.
“Next?” I called.
Time couldn’t go quickly enough for the grueling stories of violence the other two spouted off. They’d each been tortured for information, and they’d been killed after spilling their guts. I couldn’t seem to shut their voices out. They were too hysterical and graphic.
I should’ve asked for more money.
“Stop. I got it all. Please stop.” I pinched the bridge of my nose as Small-Time Criminal Number Two begged me to look after Muffy. “I’m sure your dog is in good hands. I really do. People like dogs. I’m sure Muffy is liked more than you, despite that stupid name.”
“Oh shit…” The words rode a slow exhale from Mr. Criminal. “You really can hear them. You’re not just yanking my chain.”
“Sadly, no.” I didn’t want to know how he knew the dog’s name. “Now shut it. I need to send them across.” I closed my eyes and bowed my head, focusing.
I’d heard other people needed to chime a bell, or light a candle, or say a chant to send spirits across the Line (what some people called the beyond). Some had to do all of the above. I just thought really hard about pushing them across. Had it required any real work on my part, I wouldn’t have been there. These jobs were unpleasant enough without putting in an effort.
“Eight-seven-seven,” Jim said, his voice strangely echoing. I opened my eyes, but I wasn’t in the trance a human needed to be in to see the Line or the spiritual plane. I could only see him cross into it. His body somewhat dissolved, turning translucent. “Terminal three,” he said again, before fading away.
“Johnny Sanderson. He’s the runner. He sold me out.” Small-Time Criminal Number One followed Jim’s lead. “He needs to pay.”
“Muffy was a really good dog. She likes a cuddle in the evenings.” Small-Time Criminal Number Two turned to a wisp and then blinked out.
“See ya.” I gave a last shove before yanking down the divide. I glanced at Mr. Criminal. “You should feel lighter now.”
Mr. Criminal rolled his shoulders. Then his neck.
“No, no.” I waved my finger at him. “Don’t do that here. You paid, they’re gone, now get out.”