"No, Lyle. It's like it ain't just us in this house no more. Like something else moved in."
"Who? Beelzebub?"
"Don't you go crackin' on me. You know you feel it, dawg, don't tell me you don't!"
"I don't feel nothin'!"
Lyle stopped and shook his head at the double negative. He'd spent years erasing the street from his vocabulary, but every once in a while, like a weed, it popped through the Third World turf he'd been cultivating. Ifasen's accent said old Third World, his dreads said new Third World; Ifasen was an international man who recognized no barriers—not between races, not between nations, not even between life and death.
But Third World was key. The affluent, white, New Age yo-yos who made up the demographic Lyle was chasing believed that only primitive and ancient civilizations retained access to the eternal truths obscured by the technophilia of western post-industrial civilization. They'd accept just about anything an East African named Ifasen told them, but would brush off the same if it came from Lyle Kenton of Detroit's Westwood Park slums.
Lyle didn't mind the act; kind of liked it, in fact. But Charlie wouldn't make the effort, declining to become what he called an "oreo." So he became the silent partner in the act. At least he agreed to dress the part of Kehinde. Left on his own he'd be baggied out with a dukey rope, floppy fat sneaks, and a backward Tigers cap. A hip-hop Born-Again.
Lyle jumped and spilled some beer on his pants as the phone rang. Man, his nerves were jangled. He looked at the caller ID: Michigan. He picked up.
"Hey, sugar. I thought you'd be on the plane by now."
Kareena Hawkins's velvet voice slunk from the receiver. The sound gave Lyle a rush of lust. "I wish I were. But tonight's promotion ran way over and the last plane out is gone."
He missed Kareena. She ran the PR department of a Dearborn rap station. At twenty-eight she was two years younger than Lyle. They'd been just about inseparable before he moved east, and had been carrying on a longdistance relationship the last ten months, the plan being for Kareena to move east and get a job with a New York station.
"So take a morning flight."
He heard her yawn. "I'm beat, Lyle. I think I'll just sleep in."
Lyle couldn't hide his disappointment. "Come on, Kareena. It's been three weeks."
"Next weekend'll be better. I'll call you tomorrow."
Lyle pressed his case awhile longer but to no avail. Finally they ended the call. He sat there a moment, staring at one of the crummy pictures on the wall and feeling morose.
Charlie said, "Kareena ain't gonna make it, I take it?"
"Nah. Too tired. That job of hers is—"
"Hate to say it, bro, but she playin' on you."
"No way. Don't talk like that."
Charlie shrugged and mimed zipping his lip.
Lyle didn't want to admit it but he'd begun suspecting the same thing. He'd gotten the growing impression that despite all her early enthusiasm for a career move, Kareena had cooled to the idea of leaving her comfy niche in Dearborn and challenging the New York market. And now she was cooling on him.
Only one thing to do: Take some time off next week and head west. Sit her down, talk to her, show her how important she was to him and how he couldn't lose her.
He looked at Charlie and said, "Let's go check the cellar."
Charlie only nodded.
Lyle led the way down to the first level, through the old-fashioned linoleum-floored kitchen, and down the cellar steps. He flipped the light on and stopped, staring.
"Jeees—" Realizing Charlie was right behind him, he stopped himself, then added, "—and crackers."
According to the real estate agent who'd sold them the place, the cellar had been finished by a previous owner, two prior to Lyle. Whoever he was, he'd had no taste. He'd put in a drop ceiling with fluorescent lights, tacky fake wood paneling in some blah shade of pecan on the walls, and painted the concrete floor orange. Orange! It looked like a rec room out of a bad movie from the sixties, or maybe the fifties. Whatever, it did not belong in Menelaus Manor.
But now a huge crack split its orange floor.
"Peep this!" Charlie said as he brushed past Lyle and approached it.
The jagged crack ran the entire width of the floor, wall to wall, east to west, widening to a couple of inches near the center. Crack was an understatement. The concrete slab of the floor had been broken in half.
His brother was already crouched by the opening when Lyle arrived.
"Looks deep," Charlie said.
Lyle's heart stumbled over a beat as he saw his brother start to wriggle his fingers into the crack. He grabbed Charlie's wrist and snatched it back.
"What kind of fool are you?" he shouted, angry and frightened. "What if that floor decides to shift back? What are you going to do with a right hand that's got no fingers?"
"Oh, right," Charlie said, cradling his fingers as if they'd been hurt. "Good point."
Lyle shook his head. Charlie was so bright in so many ways, but sometimes, when it came to common sense…
Lyle studied the crack, wondering how deep the ground was split beneath it. He leaned over and squinted into the opening. Nothing but featureless darkness beyond.
Wait… was that—?
Lyle snapped his head up, momentarily dizzy. For a moment there he thought he'd seen stars… as if he'd been looking at a night sky, but someone else's sky, like no night sky ever seen from earth… a yawning well of stars that threatened to drag him down through the opening.
He backed away, afraid to look again, and as he moved he thought he felt a puff of air against his face. He placed his hand over the opening. A feather-light breeze wafted against his palm.
Damn! Where was that coming from?
"Charlie, look in there and tell me what you see."
"Why?"
"Make like a Nike and just do it."
Charlie put his eye to the crack. "Nathan. Just black."
Lyle looked again and this time saw no stars, no strange sky. But what about a moment ago?
He straightened. "Bring me the toolbox, will you?"
"What wrong?"
"I'm not sure."
Charlie returned in less than a minute. Lyle opened the toolbox and found some two-inch nails. He pressed his ear to the crack and dropped one through. He listened for the clink of it hitting bottom, but it never came.
Lyle motioned his brother closer. "Get your ear down here and see if you hear anything."
A second try yielded the same nonresult for Lyle. He straightened and looked at Charlie. "Well?"
Charlie shook his head. "Could be soft dirt down there. Like sand."
"Maybe. But you'd think we'd hear something."
"Got an idea!"
Charlie jumped up and ran back upstairs. He returned with a pitcher of water.
"This gotta work."
Lyle fitted his ear against the crack; Charlie did the same and then began to pour. The faint trickle of the water through the crack was all Lyle heard. No splash, not even a hint of one, from below.
Lyle straightened to sitting. "Just what we need: a bottomless pit under our house."
"What we do?" Charlie stared at him, obviously expecting an answer from big brother.
Lyle didn't have one. He definitely didn't want the city to know about this. They might condemn the place and boot him out. He hadn't come all the way from Michigan to get kicked out of the first home he'd ever owned.
No, he needed someone discreet who knew his way around construction and could tell him what was wrong and how to fix it. But he'd only been in town ten months and—
"Dear Lord!" Charlie cried, jamming a hand over his nose and mouth. "What that!"
Lyle didn't have to ask. He gagged as the odor hit him. It lifted him to his feet and sent him staggering toward the stairs. Charlie was right behind him as he pelted up to the first floor and shut the door.
Lyle stood in the kitchen, gasping as he stared at his brother. "We must be sitting ov
er a sewer line or something."
Charlie stared back. "One that run through a graveyard. You ever smell anything stink so bad? Even close?"
Lyle shook his head. "Never." He'd never imagined anything could smell that foul. "What next? A meteor through the roof?"
"Tellin' you, Lyle, the Lord's puttin' us on notice."
"With a stink bomb? I don't think so."
Although the odor hadn't reached the kitchen, Lyle didn't want to take any chances. He and Charlie stuffed wet paper towels into the spaces between the door and its molding.
When they'd finished, Lyle went to the fridge and pulled out a Heinie keg can. He could have done with a double deuce of Schlitz M-L right now, but that was way too street.
"You not gettin' bent, are you?" Charlie said.
He handed Charlie another Pepsi. "When was the last time I got bent?"
"When was the last time you had an earthquake open a bottomless pit under your house?"
"Good point." He took a long cold gulp from the can and changed the subject. "By the way, one of the guys with Moonie tried to pull a fast one tonight, and I don't mean Mr. Square Root."
"The bama-looking Joe?" Charlie said, resuming his pacing.
"Bama-looking Jack, if we're to believe the name he wrote. I knew he was trouble right from the start. Heard me calling you by your real name when we were evacuating and wanted to know why I yelled 'bomb' when the quake hit. I kept an eye on him after that. He didn't miss a trick. He watched your every move, then mine. Good thing I was onto him, otherwise I might have missed seeing him tear a corner off his billet."
"So that's why you was holding them by the top corner. You always hold them bottom center." Charlie frowned. "You think he here to make trouble?"
Lyle shook his head. "No. I got the impression he didn't even want to be here. I think he was bored and having a little fun with me. He knew exactly what I was doing but he was cool with it. Just sat there and let the show roll."
Lyle wandered into the waiting room; Charlie followed, saying, "Maybe he in the game."
"Not ours. Another game, but don't ask me what." Lyle had sensed something going on behind that white guy's mild brown eyes; something that said, Don't mess. "Some game of his own."
Lyle prided himself on his ability to read people. Nothing psychic about it, no spirits involved, just something he'd been able to do as long as he could remember. A talent he'd honed to a fine edge.
That talent had found the visitor named Jack a hard read. Bland-looking guy: nothing-special clothes, brown hair, mild brown eyes, not handsome, not ugly, just… there. But he'd moved with a secret grace inside a damn near impenetrable shield. The only thing Lyle had sensed about him besides the steer-clear warning was a deep melancholy. So when he'd seen his question—"How is my sister?"—Lyle's instincts shouted, Recently deceased!
If the reaction of the woman with him was any indicator, Lyle had scored a bull's-eye.
"But we came out okay," Lyle said. "We may have hooked a future fish or two, and after Moonie finds her long lost bracelet right where I told her it would be, she'll be singing my praises to anyone who'll listen."
Charlie sat down at the upright piano that had come with the house, and pounded the keys. "Wish I could play."
"Take lessons," Lyle said as he drifted to the front picture window.
He pulled back the curtain just enough to reveal the bullet hole at the center of its crack web. Before filling it with translucent rubber cement, he'd run a pencil through the hole with ease. So small, and yet so deadly. For the thousandth time he wondered—
Movement to his right caught his eye. What? God damn! Someone was out there!
"Hey!" he shouted as a burst of rage drove him toward the front door.
"Whassup?" Charlie said.
"Company!" Lyle yanked open the door and leaped.onto the front porch. "Hey!" he shouted again as he spotted a dark figure racing away across the lawn.
Lyle sprinted after him. Somewhere in his brain he heard faint cries of Danger! and Bullets! but he ignored them. His blood was up. Good chance this was the banger wannabe who'd done the drive-by, but he wasn't driving now, and he wasn't shooting, he was running, and Lyle wanted a piece of him.
The guy was carrying something. Looked like a big can of some sort. He glanced over his shoulder. Lyle caught a flash of pale skin, then the guy was tossing the can Lyle's way. It didn't go far—sailed maybe half a dozen feet then hit the ground with a metallic sound and rolled. Unburdened, the guy picked up speed and beat Lyle to the curb where he hopped into a car that was already moving before the door closed.
Lyle pulled up at the sidewalk, gasping for air. Out of shape. Charlie came up beside him, breathing hard, but not as hard as big brother.
"See his face?"
"Not enough to recognize. But he's white."
"Figured that."
Lyle turned and headed back. "Let's go see what he dropped."
He squatted by the object and turned it over. A gasoline can.
"Shit!"
"What he gonna do? Burn a cross?"
"Doubt it." Whites were in the minority on these streets. Another dark face moving in was a nonevent. "This is business. He was looking to burn us out."
He rose and kicked the can, sending it rolling across the grass. The New York psychic game had only so many players. One of them had done this. He just had to find out who.
But how?
4
"All right," Gia said. "We're finally alone. Tell me how Ifasen did what he did."
She'd been dying to know ever since they'd left the psychic's house, but they'd been stuck driving Junie home. Since Karyn and Claude lived on the Lower East Side as well, they'd tagged along. Jack had dropped all three outside Junie's apartment building and now he was ferrying Gia uptown on First Avenue.
Despite the late hour, progress was slow. Gia didn't mind. Time with Jack was never wasted.
"First let's decide where we're going," Jack said. "Your place or mine?"
Gia glanced at her watch. "Mine, I'm afraid. We're getting to the end of the sitter's time frame."
Vicky, her eight-year-old, still would be up. She rarely failed to cadge extra hours of TV out of her sitters.
Jack sighed dramatically. "Another celibate night."
Gia leaned close and nuzzled his ear. "But it's the last one for the next week. Did you forget that Vicky leaves for camp tomorrow morning?"
Gia had been trying to forget it. She'd hated the week Vicky had been gone last summer—the seven loneliest days of the year—and was dreading her departure tomorrow.
"I did. Forgot completely. I realize you'll miss her terribly, as will I, but I know just the thing to ease the pain of separation."
Gia smiled and twirled a lock of Jack's hair. "And whatever would that be?"
"That's my secret until tomorrow night."
"I can't wait. And speaking of secrets, what's Ifasen's?"
"No-no," Jack said. "First you tell me the question you asked. If 'two' was the answer, what was the question?"
She shook her head. She now found herself a little embarrassed by her question. If she could get away without revealing it…
"You first. Tell me how that man can give answers when he doesn't know the question."
"You're sure you want to know?" Jack said, turning his head to give her a smile.
A smile from Jack… so few of those since Kate's death. She missed them.
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Might spoil the fun."
"I can handle the truth. How does he do it?"
"Pretty much the same way Johnny Carson did when he pulled his Karnak the Magnificent shtick."
"But he was reading off cue cards."
"Exactly. And in effect, so is Ifasen."
Gia shook her head, baffled. "I don't get it. We sealed those envelopes. We heard him give the answer, we watched him open the envelope and read the question."
"Things aren't always as they appear."
r /> "I know that only I knew what was written on my card."
"Not after his brother Kehinde did his work."
"Kehinde? But he just—"
"Appears to be a gofer? That's what you're supposed to think. But Kehinde is key. Ifasen put on the show, but he couldn't have done it without his brother's help. The method is called 'one ahead.' If you remember, right after Kehinde collected the sealed envelopes he took the bowl around to the rear of the podium and made a show of covering it with the cloth. That's the key moment. Because while you think he's fiddling with the cloth, he's really slitting open one of the envelopes and removing its card—or billet as the psychics like to call them. He was also tossing in a marked envelope containing a blank card."
"Why?"
"Think about it. When Ifasen—and by the way, if that's his real name, mine is Richard Nixon—when he removes the white cloth on the bowl, he looks down and reads the question on the card Kehinde opened for him. Then he picks up one of the sealed envelopes and raises it above his head. But he doesn't answer the question in the raised envelope; he answers the question on the card in the bowl."
"I get it!" Gia said, feeling a burst of pleasure as all the pieces fell into place. "After he answers the question in the bowl, he tears open the envelope and pretends to read the question he just answered, but actually he's seeing the next question."
"Exactly. And for the rest of the show, he stays one envelope ahead—which is how the method got its name."
"And the blank card in the extra marked envelope is so Ifasen won't wind up one short." She shook her head. "It's so simple."
"The best tricks are."
Gia couldn't hide her chagrin at being so easily fooled. "Am I so gullible?"
"Don't feel bad. You've got plenty of company. Millions, I'll bet. That trick's been conning people since the eighteen hundreds. Probably started as a sideshow mentalist gag, then the spiritualists picked it up and they've been milking it ever since."
"So Ifasen's a fake psychic."
"That's redundant."
"How do you know so much about it?"
Jack shrugged, but didn't look her way. "You pick things up here and there."
"You told me earlier you once helped a psychic. One of your customers?"