Anton Strout: Dead To Me

Again, Davidson pointed randomly into the sea of media. “Yes?”

This time the camera settled on a young woman with glasses. “What about the eyewitnesses on the sidewalk who claim they actually saw this apparition pass right through another person?”

The camera quickly cut back to Davidson and the practiced smile was already back in place.Cool as a cucumber, I thought again.Ice water in your veins, buddy.

“Look, the Village and the people who live there are some of the most…colorful in the City. I’m not surprised to hear an eyewitness account like that. It is New York City, after all! I recently had someone stop me in Washington Square Park to tell me how the squirrels were plotting a coup d’йtat against the Department of Parks.”

The crowd rippled with laughter. The camera switched back to the female reporter as she dug into a large bag hanging off her shoulder and pulled free a stack of photos.

“What about these photos a tourist took of the incident? They clearly show something distinctly spectral-”

Davidson cut her off. “Double-exposed film or merely a trick whipped up on the computer.”

I watched uncomfortably as the camera stayed with the reporter. She tucked the photos under her arm and began rummaging through the bag once more. This time she produced a small clay pot filled with a jellylike substance, just like the ones we had found last night. “What about this? Some sort of residue left by the manifestation?”

I knew the stuff well. I had rolled around in it last night.

Damn,I thought,physical evidence. Surely that would throw Davidson, but when the camera switched back, I was relieved to see his unfazed smile.

“Miss,” he said, “I just have to say…you’re a brave young woman for scraping anything up off the streets of Manhattan.”

The crowd roared with laughter and I was pretty sure that he was in the clear. Davidson held his smile for a few moments before the camera pulled close in on his face.

“Look. We’ve been over this type of situation before and my answers are still the same. Time and time again, the Mayor’s Office would like to state for the record that there is no government body that handles any sort of ‘paranormal’ investigations. His Honor is a practicing Catholic, and as such, he refuses to give credence to rumors of endorsement for any program that encourages a belief in life after death or the supernatural, unless it is in an appropriately monotheistic manner.”

“Simon,” croaked an elderly voice from the back of the coffee shop. It was Mrs. Teasley and her voice sounded roughly like the creaking of well-worn leather. “Is that nice young man Davidson helping us out again?”

“Yes, Mrs. T, I suspect he is.”

I rarely entered the cafй without finding the plump, pleasant woman with her kind face and always-present tabby cat seated somewhere at the back of the Lovecraft’s main room. Mrs. Teasley supposedly possessed the gift of telling the future by reading leftover coffee grounds from the morning brew at the Lovecraft. I had seen her powers at work only once, but it had taken a great deal of interpretation on my part to make any sort of sense of her vision. The old mystic had told Connor that he would “soon come into money.” When he left the cafй later that day, an armored car on Eleventh Street almost ran him down.

I turned to see Connor walking through the door among a crowd of the White Stripes, of which he was now a proud member. They were patting him on the back mercilessly, and although Connor looked a little bit rough around the edges from last night, I could tell how proud he was to be sporting the new shock of white in his hair. A female White Stripe went to tease Connor’s hair, but he brushed her away good-naturedly and waved to them as the rest headed off to the hidden offices out back.

He spotted me by the television, and headed over as he tried to wipe the out-of-place goofy grin from his face. He took a seat across from me in a ghastly purple chair covered in a paisley print that I bet even the seventies had rejected. He gave a nod to the punker behind the counter, who began whipping up Connor’s usual.

“Hey, kid,” Connor said, settling back.

“Morning,” I said. “I see the Stripes noticed your badge of honor.”

He tugged the streak of white in his hair. “If I had known how many free drinks this thing was gonna get me, I woulda worked harder to do it years ago. Maybe you should have jumped through that ghost while you had the chance.”

I smiled at that but remained silent. Maybe it was vanity, but I hadn’t quite made up my mind where I stood on the hazinglike esteem that was part of the White Stripes clique. It smacked of elitism, and I didn’t see how it fit here on Team Good.

Hoping to change the subject, I motioned toward the television. “Davidson was just talking about how last night’s eventdidn’t happen.”

“Tell my stripe that,” Connor said, still playing with his hair.

“At least we made the news,” I said with an optimistic shrug.

The counter jockey arrived and handed an iced coffee to Connor. Before Connor could reach for his wallet, I slipped the guy a ten. “Keep the change.”

Connor looked surprised.

“I promised you a beverage if we survived last night,” I said. “Remember?”

Connor raised his glass in salute to the distinguished Davidson on the television. I raised my own, joining his gesture.

“Davidson was just on TV. One of the reporters held up one of those clay pots we found. I guess Haunts-General didn’t do that great a job cleaning up the scene.”

“Not our concern, kid,” Connor said. “That’s their problem.”

As I took a hearty swig of my coffee, my eyes caught those of the attractive brunette across from me and the two of us stared at each other. A notable awkward silence stretched out and it was only when Connor rustled around in one of his coat pockets that I was able to pull my attention away from her.

“Whatcha got for me, boss?”

Connor’s mood shifted. In his hand was a reddish blue object about the size of a cigarette lighter and he tossed it to me. I caught it and gave it a cursory examination. It was a common enough item from my own childhood, three simple letters running down the worn rectangular body of the object, ending any possible doubt as to its identity.

“It’s a PEZ dispenser,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Case solved then, isn’t it, Poirot?” he said, brushing his hands together as if wiping them clean. He pointed to the television, where Dave Davidson was still press-conferencing away. “Let’s just close up shop and put him out of a job denying that the Department of Extraordinary Affairs even exists, shall we, kid?”

“Forgive me for pointing out the obvious,” I said with retaliatory testiness. I flicked the marred and unidentifiable head of the dispenser back, the empty candy clip mocking me with its lack of PEZy goodness. At one time the dispenser might have had a cartoon character or the mask of a superhero for its hinged top, but with age, the identity had been worn away. Just another mystery on top of Connor’s little test. “Is this honestly from a case?”

“You tell me,” Connor said, refusing to give anything away.

I knew this was just another little challenge meant to help me channel my powers more effectively, but after the night I had been through, I really didn’t feel like jumping through anyone’s hoops.

I thought about refusing, just getting up and heading off to my backlog of paperwork and mountain of forms back at my desk. Deep down, though, I knew that random exercises like this were good for my training.

I wrapped my hand around the object and focused the entirety of my concentration. I felt it wash over the tiny plastic toy as my eyes glazed over. I opened up a closed-off section of my mind.