Jack knew a couple of grifters who'd told him the same thing. From palm reading to tarot to astrology and beyond, the millennium had proved an across-the-board bonanza for the hocus-pocus trade.
"But it was time to move on," Lyle said.
He rose and leaned against the counter. The more he talked, the more his detached Ifasen pose melted away. The guy probably had no one but Charlie to open up to, and he plainly longed to talk about this stuff. It came spilling out in a rush. Jack doubted he could have stopped him if he wanted to.
"So Charlie and I packed up our show and took it on the road. We bought this place ten months ago and spent most of our savings renovating it. Once we had things set up the way we wanted, I called up the Adventists who'd harassed me before. I told them—using another name, of course—that I was a fellow Adventist who wanted to let them know that the devil Ifasen they'd driven out of Dearborn had resettled in my neighborhood and was starting up his evil schemes to threaten the unwary souls of Astoria. They'd closed him down before. Couldn't they do it again?"
"Don't tell me they bussed in a crew of protesters?"
"That would have been okay, but I had a better idea. I'd already started advertising in the Village Voice and the Observer. I sent the Adventists copies of my ads and suggested they take out space on the same pages to tell folks God's truth."
"You didn't need the Adventists for that," Jack said. "You could have run your own counter ads."
"I could have. But I wanted them to be legit if the papers ever checked them out. Plus, those big display ads aren't cheap. I figured if I could get someone else to foot most of the bill, why not?"
"And did they go for it?"
"All the way. I sent them a hundred-dollar money order to get the ball rolling and they took off from there. Big weekly ads for a month."
Jack laughed. "I love it!"
Lyle grinned, the first real break in his studied cool, and it made him look like a kid. Jack found he liked the guy behind the mask.
"Serves them right," Lyle said, his smile fading. "Tried to ruin my game because it interfered with theirs."
"Difference is," Charlie said, frowning, "that they believe in what they're doing. You don't."
"Still a game," Lyle said, his mouth twisting as if tasting something bitter. "Just because we know it's a game and they don't doesn't change things. A game's a game. End of the day we both deliver the same bill of goods."
Tight, tense silence descended as neither of the brothers would look at each other.
"Speaking of delivering," Jack said, "I gather the ads served their purpose?"
"Oh, yeah," Lyle said. "The phone rang off the hook. The ones who made that first trip out here have mostly all come back. And they've been bringing others with them when they do."
"Mostly from the city?"
A nod. "Like ninety percent."
"I'm sure I don't have to tell you that most of these people were going to other mediums before you came along. And if they're your regulars now, that means they've left somebody else. I'll be very disappointed if you don't have a list somewhere of who they were seeing before you."
"I do."
"Good. I'll be equally disappointed if you haven't run financials on every sitter who's walked through that door as well."
Lyle's expression calcified; he said nothing.
Come on, Jack thought. This guy was an overwound clock. Jack didn't know a player in the spiritualist trade who didn't use names, licenses, credit cards, bank accounts, and Social Security numbers if they could get them, to peek at their sitters' financials.
Finally Lyle's lips twisted into a tight approximation of a reluctant smile. "I can predict no disappointment on that score."
"Excellent. Then here's what you do. Divide your sitters up by their previous gurus; then list them in order of their net worth and/or generosity. Identify the psychics who've lost the most high rollers to you and we'll make that our short list of suspects."
Lyle and Charlie glanced at each other as if to say, Why didn't we think of that?
Jack tossed off the rest of his beer and rose. "Getting late, guys. One of you call me tomorrow about whether or not we're in business."
"Will do," Lyle said. "If we decide yes, when will you want the down payment?"
"Since tomorrow's Sunday, I can pick it up Monday. Cash only, remember. That's when I'll start."
On the way out, even though it was dark and he wasn't officially hired, Jack had Lyle give him a tour of the yard. As he stepped off the front porch he noticed that all the foundation plantings were dead.
"Hey, if you're into this look, I know a bar in the city you'll just love."
"Forgot to mention that. Happened overnight. They must have been poisoned."
"Nasty," Jack said, fingering a stiff, brown rhodo leaf. Felt as if it had died last month and spent the time since in the Mojave Desert. "And petty. I don't like petty people."
Something about the dead plants bothered him. He'd done some landscaping work as a teen. Remembered using defoliants now and again. Didn't remember anything that killed so quickly and thoroughly. Almost as if they'd had all their juices sucked out overnight.
The dead foundation plants aside, the rest of the shrubbery scattered about Menelaus Manor's double lot offered a number of good surveillance points at ground level, but he'd need a high perch. The pitch of the house roof was too steep; the garage roof looked better but was only one story high.
"That garage looks like an afterthought."
Worse than an afterthought. More like a one-car tumor off the right flank of the original structure, destroying its symmetry.
"According to the real estate agent," Lyle said, "that's exactly what it was. Built in the eighties by the original owner's son after he inherited the place—"
"And before he offed himself."
"Obviously. If I ever find a reason to buy a car, I'm sure it'll come in very handy after I've been shopping. Opens right into the kitchen area. Great for when it's raining."
"Or when you don't want anyone to see what you're unloading."
Lyle frowned at him. "Yeah, I guess so. Why'd you say that?"
"I don't know," Jack said. "It just came to me." And that was true. The idea had leaped into his head. He shook it off. "Let's check out that big maple," he said, pointing toward the street.
"Maple," Lyle said as they walked through the dark toward the street. "I'll have to remember that."
"Didn't have many trees where you grew up, I take it."
He sensed Lyle stiffen. "What makes you say that?"
"Your accent's good, but Charlie…"
"Yeah, Charlie," Lyle said through a sigh. "I couldn't do this without him, but I can't let him speak when a sitter's around. He just doesn't get it."
They arrived at the maple that hugged the curb and spread over the sidewalk and the street. It looked good and sturdy but the branches had been trimmed far up the trunk. The lowest hung about ten feet off the ground.
"Give me a boost," Jack said.
Lyle gave him a dubious look.
"Come on," Jack said, laughing. "I know how it's a matter of pride with you scammers about getting your hands dirty, but a little alley oop is all I need and I'll take it from there."
Shaking his head, Lyle laced his fingers together and boosted Jack up to where he could grab the limb. As Jack clambered onto the branch, he noticed Lyle stepping back between two parked cars and into the street.
"Where you going?"
"No offense, but I figured I'd get out of the way in case you and/or that branch come down."
"Aw, and I was counting on you catching me if—"
Jack heard an engine rev. He looked down the street and saw a car with its lights out racing Lyle's way.
"Incoming!"
Lyle looked around but didn't react immediately. Maybe he didn't see the car right away because its lights were out. When he finally did move, jumping back toward the curb, the car swerved toward him, missing him b
y a thin breeze as it creased the fender of the parked car to his right.
"That them?" Jack shouted as he swung down from the tree.
The car didn't stop, didn't even slow. Jack glanced at Lyle, who looked shaken but otherwise unscathed.
"I-I don't know."
Jack took off. I'm not even hired yet, he thought as he sprinted along the sidewalk.
He'd started running by reflex but didn't stop. Starting a job without a down payment was against Jack's rules, but after this, Lyle was a pretty sure bet to come across. And a look at the mystery car's license plate tonight might save Jack days of surveillance next week.
He kept to the sidewalk, hoping the driver wouldn't spot him. As the car passed under a street light he saw that it was either yellow or white, but he couldn't identify the make or model. Couldn't be something distinctive like a PT Cruiser, could it; no, had to be one of those generic-looking mid-size sedans that could be a Camry, a Corolla, a Sentra, or any of half a dozen other models. With its lights still off, the Camrollentra's license plate remained hidden in the shadow of the bumper.
Ditmars Boulevard lay maybe a hundred yards ahead. The traffic light showed red. Would the car stop?
Fat chance. Jack saw its brake lights glow as it slowed, but that was it. The Camrollentra cruised the red and turned right.
Jack kept moving, putting a little more juice into his stride. Probably a waste of energy, but who knew? Might get lucky and find that the mystery car had plowed into a cab and locked bumpers. Stranger things had happened.
He rounded the corner and skidded to a stop… just like the traffic. People out on the town for Saturday night had done what the red light hadn't.
Jack started moving again, at a more relaxed pace this time, sorting through the cars in the jam as he strolled past the brightly lit store fronts. Within the first twenty-five yards he found two Camrollentras, one white, one pale yellow. Swell.
But the yellow one had a dented front fender and its headlights were out. The woman in the passenger seat kept looking over her shoulder. Her gaze swept right past him. Looking for someone with lots darker skin, no doubt.
Gotcha.
She faced front again, banging on the dashboard and pointing ahead, obviously telling her driver to get moving. But cars were lined up ahead and behind, and the opposite lane was no better. They'd move when everyone else moved.
Coming almost parallel, Jack ducked out of her line of sight and squatted, pretending to tie his shoe. After checking to make sure no one was paying attention, he crab-walked between two parked cars. This placed him two feet from the target car's right rear tire. He was close enough now to see that he was dealing with an aging Corolla. He wormed the black-handled Spyderco Endura Lightweight out of his back pocket, did a one-hand flick-out of the four-inch serrated blade, and jabbed it through the sidewall of the tire. Then he slunk back to the sidewalk, made a show of tying his other shoe, and rose again to his feet.
Without a glance back, he checked out the store signs and found a Duane Reade. He'd go with that. Hoped it had what he wanted.
It did. Gotta love these Duane Reades. Called themselves pharmacies but carried so much more. Just about everything anyone could need.
Like duct tape.
And pantyhose.
Jack walked along, noting that traffic had thinned. He paused by a trash receptacle to open the pantyhose package; he cut off one of the legs and threw the rest away. Then he moved on, searching for the yellow Corolla. He went three blocks without seeing it. Had they decided to keep driving, flat tire or no? He hadn't figured on that because it was sure to draw attention, maybe even a police stop, and they'd want to avoid something like that.
As he was crossing a side street, heading into block four, he heard a clank of metal off to his right. Stopped, listened, heard a man's voice cursing in English. Peered up the block and saw a man and a woman by the curb just past a streetlight. The man knelt by the wheel of a pale Corolla that had pulled in next to a fire hydrant, the woman stood, as if on guard.
"Come on, come on!" said the woman. "Can't you do this any faster?"
"Fucking lugs are rusted. I—" Another clank. "Shit!"
Jack stepped off Ditmars and crept up the other side of the street, keeping low behind the parked cars. When he came even with the Corolla he found a pool of shadow and watched from there.
The man was average height, maybe forty, with receding hair and a medium-size gut; she was pint-size, five-one, tops, and built like a fire plug. The mouth on her would make Eminem blush.
Obviously the guy hadn't changed too many tires, and his companion's constant bitching didn't help, but finally he got the spare onto the wheel. When the car was off the jack, the woman got back into the front seat.
As the man gathered up his tools, Jack pulled the pantyhose leg over his head; slipped his left wrist through the roll of duct tape and ripped off a six-inch length; stuck this to his left forearm and waited for the man to lift the flat tire.
When he did, Jack dashed across the street, straight at him. He didn't see Jack until he was in his face. Guy's mouth dropped open into a terrified O as he looked up but both his hands were burdened with tire, making him a sitting duck for the fist that rammed into his nose. Dropped the tire as his head snapped back. Jack grabbed his shirt, hauled him forward, and flung him into the trunk. Guy was dazed, didn't struggle as Jack pushed his legs over the rim and slammed the lid closed.
Without slowing Jack slipped around to the passenger side, pulling his knife and flicking out the blade as he moved. The raised trunk lid had hidden him from the passenger. Now he yanked open the door and slapped a hand over her unsuspecting yap.
He wiggled the knife blade before her terrified eyes and spoke, raising his pitch in a bad German accent, one that wouldn't have made the cut even on Hogan's Heroes.
"Vun peep unt you ah dead!"
She glanced at his stocking-distorted face, made a soft noise that sounded like, "Gak," then shut her mouth.
"Dat's da spirit."
Jack replaced the hand over her mouth with the length of duct tape. Then he pulled her out of the front and pushed her face down on the back seat where he taped her hands behind her back and wrapped up her ankles.
Final touch: flipped her face up and taped over her eyes—a vertical strip on each, then twice around the head. Rolled her onto the floor, then got her buddy out of the trunk and went through the same procedure on him.
All told, a two-minute process. Maybe less.
Jumped into the driver's seat, hit the ignition, and they were rolling. Pulled off the stocking and rubbed his itching face. Then he addressed his whimpering, struggling audience of two.
"You ah probably vondering vhy I haff brought us togezzer like zis. It iss a mattah of money. I need, you gots. So vee ah all going zumplace nize unt private vhere vee can make zee exchange. Nuzzing perzonal. Opportunity has knocked unt I haf anzzered. Do not giff me troubles unt you vill valk avay in vun piece. Zat iss clear, yah?"
He didn't care if they bought the accent; he simply didn't want them to recognize his normal speaking voice when they heard it. Because if his plans worked out, they'd be hearing it fairly soon.
9
After driving aimlessly for twenty minutes, making a succession of unnecessary lefts and rights, bogus three-point turns, Jack was fairly lost. He figured if he was confused, his passengers had to be completely disoriented.
He found Ditmars Boulevard again, reoriented himself, then meandered back to the Kentons' house. When he pulled into the driveway, Lyle and Charlie hurried out onto the front lawn. Jack jumped out and motioned them to be quiet. He led them to the car and pointed through the rear window. The brothers started when they saw the two bound forms on the back seat and turned to him with wide eyes. Jack motioned them to open the garage door.
When the car had been moved inside and the door closed behind it, Jack motioned them into the house.
"They're the ones?" Lyle said, his voice barely
above a whisper even though the car was far out of earshot.
Jack nodded.
"The ones who tried to run me down?"
"The same."
"But how did they wind up…?"
"Part of the service."
"Who are they?"
"We'll find that out in a couple of minutes. By the way, I hope I'm hired. Otherwise I'll have to throw them back."
"Don't worry," Lyle said. "You're hired. You're so very hired. Do we sign a contract or something?"
"Yeah," Jack said, and stuck out his hand. "Here it is."
Lyle shook it, then Charlie.
"That's it?" Lyle said.
"That's it."
"Ay, yo, you kidnapped them!" Charlie said.
"Technically, yes. Does that bother you?"
"No, but the cops, the FBI—"
"Won't ever hear about this. Those people never saw me, and they don't know their car is parked in your garage." Jack rubbed his hands together. Time to learn a little about the Kenton brothers. "So, the question now is, what do you want to do to them? We can break their arms, break their legs, break their heads…"
He watched their expressions, was glad for the revulsion reflected there.
"Oh, man," Lyle said. "This afternoon I wanted blood. I wanted to kill them. Now…"
"Yeah," Jack said. "They are kind of pathetic looking. Personally I prefer messing with heads to breaking them."
"Mess with their heads," Charlie said, looking relieved. "Yeah, I'm down with that. Sound like the way to go."
Lyle nodded. "Fine with me. How?"
"First off, some rules. Only I speak in their presence, and I'll sound like Colonel Klink. Not a word out of you two because they might know your voices. We don't want them connecting you with this, right?"
They both nodded.
"Good. That settled, the first thing we'll do is take them out of the car, lay them on the floor, strip search them—"
"Yo. Rewind there. Strip 'em?"
"Right. I think a little humiliation will be good for the souls of a couple of attempted murderers, don't you? Plus, it'll keep them cowed; nothing makes you feel more vulnerable and helpless than being without your clothes. On top of all that, it'll scare the hell out of them, wondering if we've got some twisted sexual plans for them."