Christopher Smith - Running of the bulls

Amused, Marty threaded his way through the many tapestry-covered tables and wispy, gray-blue slips of incense smoke. Today, the cafe smelled of tomato soup and myrrh. “That bad?” he asked.

Roberta buried the cards at the bottom of the pile and put the deck away. “What the hell do I know?” she said. “I’m just a psychic.” She stood up and enfolded him in heavy arms. “Where have you been?” she asked. “We’ve missed you.”

“I’ve been working,” he said. “What else?”

“I can feel your bones,” she said, squeezing him. “You’re not eating. You’re too thin.”

“It’s all muscle, baby.”

“Yeah,” she said, stepping back. “Kinda like me.”

He gave her a kiss on the forehead and inhaled the sweet scent of plums in her thick, curly black hair. “Sorry it’s been so long,” he said. “But I did stop by three Sundays ago. The place was closed.”

“We had a little fire in the kitchen,” Roberta said as they sat down. “Carlotta saw it coming two weeks before it happened, but couldn’t zone in on the exact date. Gigi and I tried like hell to tap into it, but our own Information Superhighway was on the fritz. Too much static in the summertime-too many souls buzzing in and out of our lives. But the fire turned out to be great. No one got hurt and we got a new kitchen out of the blaze, courtesy of Fabrizzi’s Insurance. Gigi’s in heaven. No more rats!”

Marty laughed. “How’s the new place?”

“Opening next month. And wait until you see it. Spirits speak to you in there. The place is brimming with energy.”

“Just be careful who you tell that to.”

“What are you talking about? I’m telling everyone.”

“How are you?”

“Fatter than ever, but happy as hell. It’s you I’m worried about. Where have you been? Two months I haven’t seen you. Gigi was asking for you the other day. I told her I didn’t know anything, which surprised all of us because, you know, I tend to know things without knowing how I know them. Gloria disappeared years ago, but you, you hung in there. You came to see us. You cared. Then, poof! You’re also gone.” She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here now, so you might as well eat. I’m feeding you. Lotta made a tomato soup this morning that’ll make you cry. It’s on me.”

“Bring tissues.”

“You’ll need them.”

She got up from the table with a bit of a struggle. She was a large woman with hips like barrels and breasts so heavy they rounded her back. She pushed sideways through the swinging set of kitchen doors and returned a moment later with soup, bread and chilled herbal tea on a wooden tray. “Enjoy,” she said, placing the food in front of him. “There’s more where that came from.”

He knew better than to argue. He started to eat and became aware that she was studying him.

“You’re giving off a helluva lot of energy, sweetie, and that either means you’ve met someone, or you’re working a new case. I think it’s both, but let’s start with the new case.”

Marty spooned soup and evaded the subject. “I meant to tell you that I’m meeting someone here.”

“I knew that,” Roberta said, sitting in the chair opposite him. “Now, give me your hand.”

“Let’s not start that crap, Roberta.”

“Just give me your hand,” she said. “I had a bad feeling when you came in. I need to make sure of a few things.”

“I’m not superstitious.”

“Neither am I,” she said. “Just gifted. So, humor me. Something’s off.”

Reluctantly, Marty gave her his hand. Roberta held it for a moment, then turned it so the palm faced the tapestry-covered ceiling. She closed her eyes and massaged the soft center with her thumb and index finger. She was silent for a moment before she spoke. “This new case of yours,” she said. “It’s not what you think.”

Marty sipped his tea.

Roberta’s forehead creased with thought. Her dark eyebrows stitched together and became one. “You’re in over your head. You’re being lied to. You’re in danger and you don’t even know it. Someone’s not what they seem.”

“Few people are,” Marty mused. “Take Gloria, for instance.”

“No,” Roberta said, looking at him. Her eyes were serious. “Don’t be flip. I drew the Death card when you came in. You’re at risk. I’m sure of that. For once in your life, listen to me. It’s possible you might not come out of this alive.”

Marty tried to pull his hand back, but Roberta hung on.

“Three women,” she said. “One of them loves you, one of them resents you, the third is keeping secrets from you. They’re in danger, too, but only one knows it and she doesn’t care. She’s got murder in her heart. She wants someone dead. I don’t know if it’s you, but you’re involved. She might kill you.”

She released his hand.

“You’ve got to listen to me,” Roberta said. “This is real.”

At that moment, the front door swung open and Linda Patterson stepped inside.

Linda Patterson was not the woman Marty remembered from two years ago.

Dressed casually in beige linen pants and a white top, her light blonde hair just reaching her shoulders, she moved toward Roberta and Marty with the air of a professional, which was a radical difference from the last time he’d seen her.

Where was the hardened, strung-out cop he once caught freebasing coke in the back of a tenement on Avenue C? Where were the deeply rouged cheeks, brittle red hair and dumpy looking clothes that once aged her? Today’s Linda Patterson looked nothing like her past and instead gave the clever illusion of city chic-until she opened her mouth.

“Oh, this is perfect, Spellman,” she said, looking around. “A Tibetan massage parlor. Last time I caught a whiff of incense was 1969 and Mama Cass had yet to choke on her chicken bone.”

“You and your urban legends. It was a ham sandwich.”

“Whatever. You and your freaky joints. I suppose you’re into holistic home medicine, too. Acupuncture. Aroma therapy.”

“Good manners.”

“Bullshit responses.”

Roberta shot him a glance. Marty returned the look and stood. “Linda,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Roberta Buzzinni. She’s one of the owners of the cafe.”

Unfazed, Patterson turned to Roberta and blinked. “You a psychic or something?”

Roberta nodded.

“And you admit it,” Linda said. “Now, that’s interesting.” She said ‘interesting’ as though it were the least interesting thing in the world. She lowered her shiny leather handbag onto the table and put her hands on her hips. “Okay,” she said, “I’m game. Tell me my future.”

Roberta lifted an eyebrow at Marty, then pushed back her chair and stood. “Ms. Patterson,” she said, “something tells me you wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“I’ve been a detective with the NYPD for eight years,” Linda said. “Before that, I was an assistant at the M.E.’s office. You have no idea what I can handle. Try me.”

Roberta’s face became set, expressionless. It was the face of a woman addressing a problematic child. Marty saw tolerance in her eyes, but also a hint of something else. Mischief? “All right,” she said. “Give me your hand.”

Linda held out her hand, which Roberta took and just as quickly dropped. “You won’t live to see your fiftieth birthday. You’ll be shot dead in the street-a hole right through that Botoxed forehead of yours. The number of people who show up at your funeral will reveal just how cruelly you’ve lived your life.” In the silence that fell, Roberta excused herself and swung sideways into the kitchen. Marty heard her bark out a laugh as he sat back down.