The prospect of being responsible for raising a child to be a decent human being without screwing up along the way filled his mind, made dodging knives and bullets seem an easier task. At least then the choices were clear.
Thank God he'd be only partly responsible and could defer to Gia's hands-on experience.
But what if something happened to her?
Jack shuddered at the possibility and wondered why he was borrowing trouble. This wasn't like him. Was that what parenthood did to you?
Leave all that for later, he told himself. Focus on the now.
He checked the wig so that the long rear strands of its mullet were again draped over his ears, especially the left with its ear piece.
The door opened and Carl Foster stood there. "Ah, Mr. Butler. Right on time."
Mr. Butler? Jack thought. He almost looked around, then remembered that he was Butler.
Focus, damn it!
He half wished Gia had waited till tonight to tell him. This was going to be a delicate fix, with pinpoint timing. He had to keep his mind off the future and concentrate on the moment.
"Time and tide don't wait for nobody," Jack said, snapping into character. "That's what I always say."
"Well put," Foster replied, ushering him in.
Today Jack wore jeans, cowboy boots, a white Walking Man collarless shirt, and a plaid sport coat with two deep inner pockets, each heavy with their cargo. He followed Foster to the desk.
"Let's attend to mundane matters first," Foster said. "You have Madame's fee?"
"What? Oh, sure." Jack drew an envelope from a side pocket and handed it to Foster. "Here you go."
Foster opened it and quickly fanned through the five counterfeit one-hundred-dollar bills inside. He looked disappointed.
"I thought you said gold was the best way to deal with the spirit world."
"Yeah well, that's what my Uncle Matt used to tell me, but you know how hard it is to put together a bunch of gold coins that total an exact amount? Too much trouble, if you ask me."
"I could have given you change."
"Never thought of that. Okay, next time it's gold."
"Excellent!" Foster said, brightening as he pocketed the envelope. "You mentioned wanting to contact an uncle? Was he the one you mentioned who used to frequent spiritualist mediums?"
"Yep. Uncle Matt."
"Certainly not Matt Cunningham?"
Oh, you're good, Jack thought. Slick way to draw out some details.
But Jack wanted to be drawn out. He was primed to babble.
"Naw. His last name was West. Matthew West. Great guy. Shame he had to go."
"When was that?"
Jack wondered if Foster was taking mental notes or if Madame herself was seated at their computer, listening to the bugs and typing Matthew Thomas West's name into www.sitters-net.com even as they spoke.
"Early in the year—not sure if it was late January or early February. I just know I never been so cold in my life as at that funeral. Standing outside in that wind at the graveside—boy!" Jack rubbed his hands and hunched his shoulders as if remembering the chill. "I tell you, I thought I'd never feel warm again."
"Really," Foster said. "I recall this past winter being rather mild."
"Here, maybe, but we were freezing our butts off in St. Paul."
"Minnesota? Yes, they certainly do get cold winters out there. Is that where you're from?"
"Me? Nah. Born and raised in Virginia."
"How do you like Manhattan?"
"Love it. Never seen so many restaurants in my life. And they're all crowded." He laughed. "Don't anybody ever eat in around here?"
Foster smiled. "Yes, the Upper West Side offers every cuisine known to man."
Jack narrowed his eyes in a display of suspicion. "How do you know where I live?"
"Why, from the questionnaire you filled out yesterday."
"Oh, yeah." He gave a sheepish grin. "Forgot about that."
Jack had expected the Fosters to check up on him. He'd been the only new face yesterday when the lights had come on, so he had to be a prime suspect. That was why he'd used the name of a real person… just in case he had to come back.
But he'd given himself plausible deniability: the remote rig in the light switch could be activated from outside the séance room.
He was sure they'd checked up on him. Foster no doubt took a trip to the Millennium Towers and found that a Robert Butler did indeed live there. If he'd seen the real Robert Butler, the jig would have been up. But obviously he hadn't. If he'd called the number Jack had written on the questionnaire—someone had done just that last night and hung up—he heard an outgoing message from "Bob Butler" confirming the number and instructing him to leave a message after the beep.
The Krugerrand yesterday and today's envelope full of cash should have laid any residual suspicions to rest. At least that was what Jack hoped. These two were the type who tried to kill the competition. What would they do to someone they thought was trying to pull a sting on them? Jack took comfort in the little .38 automatic nestled in his right boot.
Foster said, "You were close to your uncle?"
"Oh, yeah. Great guy. Split his estate between me and my brother when he died. Great guy."
"Is that why you wish to contact him? To thank him?"
"Well, yeah. And to ask him…" Jack reached into the left inner breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out one of Monte's clamshell cases. "… about this." Foster's eyes fixed on its chrome finish. "Interesting." He reached for it. "May I?" Jack handed it to him and watched his hand drop as it took the full weight of the box. But Foster made no mention of how heavy it was. The fingers of his free hand glided over the tapered surface, caressing the seam, running across the inset hinges, and coming to rest on the keyhole at the opposite end.
"Do you have the key?"
"Um, no."
"Really. I'll bet there's an interesting story behind this case."
Jack put on a guilty expression as he held out his hand for the case. "You might say that. But that's between me, my uncle, and the lady."
"Yes, of course," Foster said, handing it back to him. He glanced at his watch. "I'll see if Madame is ready."
He stepped away from the desk and entered the séance room, closing the door behind him. Jack listened in on a hurried strategy meeting between Mr. and Mrs. Foster beyond that door.
"He's telling the truth," Madame Pomerol's voice said in his left ear. "I found the uncle on sitters-net. And get this: He was a coin collector."
"You should feel the weight of that case he's got. I'm betting it's stuffed with gold coins. Trouble is it's locked."
"That shouldn't be a problem for you. Get a look inside that case. I'll handle the rest."
A moment later Foster reappeared and motioned Jack toward the door.
"Come. Madame is ready."
He ushered Jack into the room. Again that claustrophobic feeling from all the heavy drapes. This time only two chairs huddled against the table.
Foster pointed to the case. "Did that belong to your uncle?"
"I'm pretty sure it did. That's one of the things I want to find out."
"Then I'll have to ask you to place it on that settee over there until later in the session."
Jack looked at the little red velvet upholstered couch against the wall about a dozen feet away. Jack knew what lay on the other side of that wall: Foster's command center, much like Charlie's but not as sophisticated. He'd found it Saturday night when he'd searched the place.
"Why?"
"Madame finds her gift works better if she is not in proximity to objects that once belonged to the departed she is trying to contact."
Good line, Jack thought as he clutched the case against his chest.
"No kidding? I'd think they'd be a big help."
"Oh, they are, they are, but later. Once she is one with the Other Side, they are invaluable. But early on, when Madame is making the transition, the auras from these objects interfere w
ith her connection."
"I don't know," Jack said, drawing out the words.
Foster pointed to the little couch. "Please. Place it on the settee for now. When Madame has the ear of the spirits, she will ask you to bring it to the table. Have no fear. It will be quite safe there."
Jack made a show of indecision, then shrugged. "All right. If it's gonna help make this work, what the hey."
He walked to the settee and settled the case on the cushions, but his eyes were searching the wall behind it, looking for seams in the wallpaper. He found none, but noticed that the molding here ran in a box pattern just above the level of the settee. He knew one of those rectangles hid a little trapdoor; he'd seen its other side Saturday night.
Empty-handed, he returned to the table and seated himself in the chair the smiling Carl Foster was holding for him.
"Madame will be with you shortly."
And then Jack was alone. He knew he was on camera so he looked nervous, drumming on the table, fiddling with his jacket. While doing that he checked the stack of counterfeit bills inside his left sleeve, and the second metal case in his left inner breast pocket.
All set.
A moment later the overhead spots went out and Madame Pomerol made her entrance in another flowing beaded gown, pink this time. She wore the same turbanlike hat as on Sunday.
"Monsieur Butler," she said in her faux French accent as she extended her bejeweled hand, "how good to see you again."
"Nice to be up close and personal, as it were."
"I understand you wish to contact your late uncle, yes?"
"That I do."
"Then let us begin."
No preliminaries this time, no speech about not touching the ectoplasm. Madame Pomerol seated herself opposite Jack and said, "Please lay your hands flat on the table." When Jack complied she said, "I will now contact my spirit guide, the ancient Mayan priest known to me as Xultulan."
As they had Sunday, the clear bulbs on the chandelier faded, leaving the dull red ones lit. Once again shadows crowded around the table, held off only by the faint red glow from above. Jack glanced toward the settee and his case but could make out no details in the darkness.
Madame Pomerol began her tonal hum, then did her head-loll thing.
Jack guessed the reason for the hum: to help mask any sound of the trapdoor opening in the wall by the settee. Foster was probably reaching for the metal case right now.
This was SOP in the spook trade: snatch the purse, rifle through it for whatever information it contained: driver license, SSN, bank account number, address book, pictures of family members. Foster's command center had a photocopier and a key cutter, just like Charlie's; he could copy documents and keys in minutes.
If the remote switch were still in place it might have been fun to turn on the lights and catch Foster with his hand in the till, but Jack had already played that scene. He was going for a bigger sting today.
The table tipped under his hands and so he felt obliged to let out a startled, "Whoa!"
And then the low, echoey moan from the lady. The amp had been turned on.
"O Xultulan! We have a seeker after one who has crossed over, one with whom he shares a blood tie. Help us, O Xultulan!"
Jack tuned her out and concentrated on time. Foster should have snatched the case by now. He'd have had his pick set open and ready and would be working on the lock. Jack had a key but he'd done a couple of test runs picking the lock himself—and had purposely left a few crude scratches around it. As expected, the little lock turned out to be an easy pick, complicated only by its small size. If Foster had any talent, he should be turning those tumblers just… about… now.
And now he's lifting the top… and freezing at the sight of rows of gleaming gold coins. Not bullion coins like yesterday's Krugerrand, but numismatic beauties from Jack's own collection, worth far more than their weight in gold.
He wants to touch them but the plastic dome stops him. He tries to lift it but it won't budge. It's locked down. But there has to be a catch somewhere, a release…
"My case," Jack said, straightening and running jittery hands over his jacket like a man who'd just discovered that his wallet is missing. "I want my case!"
"Please be calm, Monsieur Butler," Madame Pomerol said, suddenly alert and aware and free of her trance. "Your case is fine."
Jack rose from his chair. He put a tremor in his voice. "I-I-I want it. I've got to find it!"
"Monsieur Butler, you must sit down." That was a warning to her husband to put his ass in gear and get this turkey's precious case back on the settee. "I am in touch with Xultulan and he has located your uncle. You can retrieve the case in a few minutes when—"
"I want it now!"
Jack feigned disorientation and wandered in the wrong direction first—he wanted to give Foster enough time to close the case and return it—then lurched around and stumbled toward the settee.
"We're okay," Foster's voice said in his ear. "It's back on your side."
Jack couldn't see the settee in the darkness so he traveled by memory, and made sure he banged into it when he reached it. He felt around on the cushion and found the case.
"Here it is!" he cried. "Thank God!"
As he was speaking he slipped that case into his left breast pocket and removed its identical twin from the right. He'd filled the mounts within the first with gleaming pristine beauties that anyone would recognize as valuable for their bullion weight alone. But when Foster saw the dates he'd know they were old. And since they'd looked up Matthew West on sitters-net.com, he'd assume they were rare.
The second case, however, he'd filled with lead sinkers.
"Shit, that was close!" said Foster's voice. "But worth it. You should see what's in that case. Gold coins. Not more Krugerrands, but old collectibles. They must be worth a fucking fortune. Think of something. We have got to get our hands on those coins!"
As Jack waded back toward the faintly glowing pool of red around the table, he noticed a look of concentration and distraction on Madame Pomerol's face as she listened to her husband.
She'd probably been ready to scold her sitter, but now she gave Jack a warm, motherly smile.
"See, Monsieur Butler? There was nothing for you to get upset about. You feel better now, yes?"
"Much." He took his seat and used the moment to pull the stack of thirty bogus hundreds from within his sleeve and lay it on his lap. Then he put both hands on the table and clutched the case between them. "I'm real sorry about that. Don't know what came over me. I just got scared, I guess. You know, the darkness and all."
"That is perfectly understandable, especially on your first visit." She covered her eyes with a hand. "I have made contact with your uncle."
Jack jerked upright in his seat. "Really? Can I talk to him?"
"The connection was broken when you left the table."
"Oh, no!"
"But that is not a terrible thing. I can reestablish it. But it was not a good connection, so I must ask you a few questions first."
"Shoot."
"Your uncle, his middle name was Thomas, yes?"
"You know, I believe it was. Yes, Matthew Thomas West. How'd you know that?"
She smiled. "Your uncle told me."
"Damn! That's scary."
"He seemed upset about something. Do you know what it could be?"
Jack averted his eyes, hoping he looked guilty. "I don't think so."
"Something about an inheritance, perhaps?"
Jack looked awestruck. "You know about that?"
He was perfectly aware that he'd told Foster about sharing the estate with his brother, but it was common for sitters to forget that their own loose lips were the source of most of what a medium told them.
"Of course, but communication was garbled. Something about you and your brother…"
Jack started with his story. It jibed with all the available information on sitters-net.com; he'd looked at it from different angles and couldn't see any holes. He
hoped Madame Pomerol wouldn't either.
"Yeah. We were his only living relatives. Our folks were gone, and he had no kids."
No kids, Jack thought. Must've died a lonely old man, going to mediums in a vain attempt to contact his dead wife. But that's not going to happen to me. Not now…
The realization lit a warm glow in his chest.
"Monsieur Butler?"
Jack snapped to. He'd drifted away. Jeez. Not like him. Couldn't afford to do that or he'd blow the sting.
"Sorry. I was just thinking about Uncle Matt. After he died, his will divided his estate between me and my brother Bill."
"Yes, he told me his wife Alice had died many years before him. They are reunited now."
"You know about Aunt Alice? This is amazing. And they're together again? That's great."
"They are very happy. The inheritance?"
"Oh yeah. Well, I got the house and everything in it." Jack frowned and pushed out his lower lip, just shy of a pout. "Bill got the coin collection. Uncle Matt always did like him better."
"These two things, they were not equal?"
He sighed. "Yeah, they were about equal in dollar value. But all Bill had to do was find a coin dealer to unload the collection. Know what he walked away with? A quarter of a million dollars." Jack snapped his fingers. "Just like that."
"And you had to sell the house. Not so easy."
"Damn right. Had to sell off all the furniture as well. I wound up with the same amount of cash, but I had to keep flying back and forth to Minnesota and it took me until just last week to get it. That's almost six damn months!"
Madame Pomerol gave a Gallic shrug. "But still you have much money now, yes? You should be happy. But none of this tells me why your uncle is so upset."
"Well…" Jack looked away again. "I guess it has to do with this little case."
"Yes?"
He took a deep breath and sighed again. "Last week, as I was cleaning out the last of Uncle Mart's stuff before the closing, I came upon the case. It was locked and I couldn't find the key, so I brought it back with me. I was planning on finding a locksmith to open it for me, but…"
"But what, Monsieur Butler?"
"I don't think Uncle Matt wants me to have this."
"Why do you say that?"