Scott Sigler - Nocturnal - A Novel

North Beach primarily supports two types of street-level businesses: an endless supply of food represented by restaurants, bakeries, butchers and candy shops, and then the kitsch, represented by stores full of souvenir crap, overpriced clothing and even more overpriced art. Above those numerous food and kitsch shops sits the second layer of North Beach, represented by faded signs in the windows that advertise importers, exporters, olive oil merchants, tailors and more.

Mr. Biz-Nass had one of those second-story stores, just a flight up from Stella Pastry & Café. His sign wasn’t faded — a blue neon eye set in a red neon hand with the white neon words FORTUNE TELLER curving beneath.

“Convenient,” Pookie said. “Once we’re done talking to this guy, we come downstairs for some Sacripantina cake.”

“The choo-choo needs gas?”

“The metaphor is coal , actually,” Pookie said. He adjusted the four overstuffed manila folders under his arm just before their contents spilled onto the sidewalk. “Brains require chemicals, like potassium and sodium. Sugar is also a chemical, Bryan, ergo, my brain needs sugar. It’s what they call science .”

“The guy who believes in the Invisible Sky Daddy is quoting science?”

“Yep,” Pookie said. “And he’s about to have a nice chitchat with a black-magic pagan. Confession will be a bitch this week. By the way, I didn’t tell Mister Biz-Nass we were cops.”

Bryan nodded. “Always good to surprise ’em a little.”

“Far as I’m concerned, this guy is a suspect,” Pookie said. “But I don’t want to move too fast. He’s the only person of interest we have.”

Bryan wasn’t going to get excited about this, not yet. The fortune-telling Thomas Reed, a.k.a. Mr. Biz-Nass , had only been looking for info on the symbols. That meant he might have some connection to the case, or, more likely, he’d just seen the symbols somewhere and wanted to know more. Still, people didn’t make requests to the SFPD and to the city out of pure curiosity.

“Pooks, what kind of a name is Biz-Nass, anyway?”

“Maybe he’s like Elvis,” Pookie said. “As in, taking care of business . Ready to get some answers?”

Bryan was. He’d take just about any answer at this point. He had a small headache, and that was the least of his pains. His rebellious body tried to drag him down, but he refused to give in. At least for now, he could muscle through and ignore the fact that it hurt to move, even hurt to breathe .

They entered the ground-floor door, then climbed the stairs. The smell of incense from above mixed with the smell of pastries from below. No question which upstairs door belonged to Mr. Biz-Nass — it was bright red, with a blue eye icon painted on it. They walked in.

Inside was a man dressed in red robes with blue trim, and a blue turban decorated with glass rubies. He had to be sixty; if his face was any benchmark, every one of those sixty years was hard. He sat in a red, thronelike chair. In front of his chair, a blue crystal ball rested on a table draped with a red velvet cloth. Two cheap, blue plastic chairs sat on the other side of the table.

His outfit was something one might find on a 1960s Hollywood prince of India, but his face looked anything but royal: thrice-broken nose, pallid, wrinkled skin and a left eyelid half hanging over his iris in a perpetual stop-action wink.

The man waved them in. In his left fist he held a small, cylindrical object. He pressed the object to his throat.

WELCOME, he said in a mechanical voice. PLEASE COME IN.

Bryan and Pookie stopped, stared.

DON’T MIND MY HANDICAPS. I AM VOCALLY ASSISTED.

“A voice box,” Pookie said. “A fortune-teller with a voice box.”

“Handicaps?” Bryan said. “Plural?”

I ALSO HAVE A MILD CASE OF COPROLALIA.

Bryan and Pookie exchanged a look.

TOURETTE’S SYNDROME.

“Of course,” Pookie said. “A fortune-teller with a voice box and Tourette’s.”

IT’S ON MY FACEBOOK PAGE. DO SOME RESEARCH NEXT TIME SHITTYBALLS! FUCKLESNIFF! DON’T MIND MY CURSING, IT IS JUST MY HANDICAP. COME AND SIT.

Bryan and Pookie sat on the blue plastic chairs.

WHICH ONE OF YOU IS POOKIE?

Pookie raised his hand. “That’s me.”

Mr. Biz-Nass leaned forward and circled his right hand over the blue glass ball. He stared into it, scowling like he saw the fires of hell inside. If Bryan hadn’t already been so taken aback by the guy’s handicaps, he would have laughed at the overly dramatic act.

TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT TO KNOW. I AM IN COMMUNICATION WITH THE PRICKERDICKER SPIRITS.

“We’re cops,” Pookie said. “We need to ask you some questions about a case.”

Bryan held out his badge. Pookie did the same.

The hand stopped in midwave. Mr. Biz-Nass looked up without moving his head, eyes peeking out from beneath gray-speckled brows. The scowl vanished, replaced by a wide-eyed oh shit expression.

COPS?

“Take it easy,” Pookie said. “We just want to ask you some questions.”

Biz-Nass looked at them both, eyes flicking back and forth. He seemed to be waiting for something. When whatever that was didn’t come, he spoke again.

HHMMMMM QUESTIONS ABOUT WHAT?

“Twenty-nine years ago, you submitted a request to the SFPD about information on some symbols.”

The man’s eyes widened in fear.

MMMMM I DON’T WANT ANY TROUBLE. DON’T ROUGH ME UP .

Bryan wondered why the guy was so nervous. What kind of an operation was he running up here? Besides the obvious scam of pretending to know the future in order to bilk the gullible out of their money, of course.

“It’s no big deal,” Pookie said. “We’re working on a case. We need some help, we’re not here to hassle you.”

The eyes flicked back and forth again. YOU JUST WANT TO KNOW WHY I MADE THE REQUEST? THAT’S IT?

Pookie nodded. Biz-Nass seemed to relax, just a little. His expression grew hopeful.

I WAS WORKING ON A BOOK.

“Nice,” Pookie said. “An author. A fortune-telling author with Tourette’s and a voice box. What’s the name of your book?”

I DIDN’T FINISH IT. WHAT DO YOU WANT?

Pookie opened one of his manila folders. He took out the photos of the bloody symbols and gently slid them across the table.

Mr. Biz-Nass looked at them. His eyes grew wide. The guy recognized those symbols, and they scared the hell out of him.

COCKITYTWAT COCKITYTWAT COCKITYTWAT.

“Take a breath, Biz,” Pookie said. “Easy, man, just take a breath.”

Mr. Biz-Nass dropped his voice box. It rolled across the red velvet surface. He put both hands palms down on the table, then took three long, slow, deep breaths. That seemed to calm him. His face relaxed. He looked at Pookie, then at Bryan, like he was waiting for them to do something.

When they did nothing, Biz-Nass eased back in his throne. He reached out a shaking hand, picked up the voice box off the table and held it to his throat.

NEVER SEEN THOSE BEFORE.

Bryan laughed. “Of course not. That’s why you almost shit yourself. Or is incontinence another one of your handicaps? A little late to pretend you don’t know what those are.”

Mr. Biz-Nass glared at him.

Was the man scared of the symbols, or scared that cops knew about the symbols and had come a-calling? Biz-Nass was a fortune-teller, a psychic … could he have projected the dreams into Bryan’s head?

Bryan instantly wanted to punch himself for thinking such ridiculous thoughts. Fortune-tellers were scam artists, nothing more. Still, Mr. Biz-Nass knew something about the symbols. He had to have some answers.

Bryan leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Come on, where have you seen these symbols?”