The Wrong Dead Guy

  “The Lovers,” she said.

  J brought her hands to her mouth and said, “Robert is leaving his wife after all?”

  Oh God. One of these. Minerva kept her cool and stared at the cards like a wise gypsy she once saw in an old horror movie. After a nice dramatic pause, she raised her eyes to meet J’s.

  “You’re all he thinks about.”

  “I knew it,” J said, raising her arms over her head like she’d just won a stuffed bunny at the county fair. “What else do the cards say?”

  Minerva dealt another card from the bottom. She’d loaded the deck earlier in the afternoon. There was a real art to stacking the cards just right so they’d tell a story that would reel the suckers in. She turned over what she knew was the World, with promises of good times to come. Only it wasn’t the World. It was Death.

  “Oh,” said the bimbo.

  “Oh,” said Minerva, thinking, Fuck. Fuck Fuck. Fuck. Goddammit. Fuck.

  J’s hands went back to her mouth. “Oh my God. Is Robert going to die?” she said. Her voice dropped an octave. “Am I going to die?”

  The bell over Minerva’s door tinkled. She looked up and saw Kellar standing by the curtains, one eye cocked at her. Minerva knew that he knew that she’d fucked up.

  She slapped down a random spread of cards on top of Death and did her gypsy stare.

  “What does it say?”

  “Reply hazy. Ask again later,” said Minerva.

  J looked puzzled. “Isn’t that something from a Magic 8 Ball?”

  Minerva gathered up the cards. “Not at all. Sometimes the spirits just aren’t ready to reveal their secrets. I’m afraid we’ll have to conclude today’s session.”

  “I have to leave? What about Robert? Isn’t there something I should do to bring our love together?”

  Minerva grabbed the candle closest to her, but spotted Keith Richards on the back.

  “Oops. Not that one.” She handed J a Virgin of Guadalupe instead. Virgin, she thought. That’s rich.

  “Here. Burn this.”

  J looked at it. “Is that all? It doesn’t seem like enough.”

  Working hard to hide her annoyance, Minerva picked up her tin and pulled out a joint. She held it out to J, but withdrew it at the last minute.

  “You’re not a narc, are you?”

  “Of course not,” said J.

  “Then here. Smoke this with the candle.”

  “What is it?”

  No spring chicken, Minerva really was seriously fried from last night’s cram session. She knew it was why she screwed up the card bit, and why she was experiencing a major brain fart that left her staring at J instead of answering.

  Kellar stepped forward, delicately plucked the joint from Minerva’s fingers, and handed it to J. “It’s sage and rose petals,” he said. “Very powerful for love. And health.”

  “Just don’t drive or handle anything sharp,” added Minerva.

  J put the joint in her purse. “Can I come back tomorrow to see if the cards are ready to speak?”

  “Sure. Tomorrow,” said Minerva vaguely. “I’m certain the cards will be aflutter with good news.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  Minerva escorted J to the door. “Good-bye, my dear.” She threw the lock and looked at Kellar. “It took you long enough to get here.”

  He crossed his arms and gave her a reproving look. “Really? The old lover bit? Nice money up front, but the rubes can get pretty testy when it doesn’t work out.”

  “Money!” said Minerva. She unlocked the door and ran outside, following J, but the woman had disappeared. Minerva slammed the door when she came back in. “I forgot to get the damned money.”

  Kellar rolled his eyes. “Come on, Minerva. Hookers and psychics get paid up front. It’s basic.”

  “It’s your fault. I got flustered.” She walked back into the reading parlor. Kellar locked the door and followed her in.

  “Don’t look for money from me,” he said. “I’m skint. But I do have this two-for-one Red Lobster coupon.”

  “Then tonight we feast.”

  Minerva took another joint from the box, lit it, and passed it to Kellar. He took a long hit and said in a raspy holding-in-the-smoke-like-a-pro voice, “What are you going to do when Juliet returns tomorrow looking for Romeo?”

  Minerva handed back the joint. “I’ve got that covered. How’s this: the boyfriend has a brain tumor and lost his memory—except of her. But he isn’t well enough to leave his wife yet. In the meantime, she should come back once a month to check in on old Bob’s condition.”

  “And pay up front.”

  “Cash on the barrelhead,” said Minerva, slapping the table.

  “Good girl. I’ll have to steal that for one of my clients.”

  “Go right ahead,” Minerva said. She drew in the smoke and let it out. “But with luck, we won’t have to worry about crap like that anymore.”

  Kellar got a sly smile on his face when Minerva passed the joint back. “Tell me. What do you have?”

  Minerva took the knife from the pocket of her flowing dress and set it on the table between them.

  Kellar poked it with a chubby index finger. “Been shoplifting at Pier 1 again, have we? I suppose it’s pretty. Is it real gold?”

  “Of course it’s gold, but that’s not the point,” Minerva said. “It’s an ancient Egyptian athame.”

  Kellar rolled his eyes. “A magic knife? Please. I make PB&Js with those.”

  Minerva accepted the joint back. “Not this one. It’s the real thing. Give it a squeeze.”

  He looked at her skeptically and picked up the athame. Kellar’s expression changed. “Oooo. Those are some nice vibrations. What can you do with it?”

  Minerva tapped some ash off the joint. “I don’t actually know yet.”

  “Then why did you call me all the way over from the airport?” said Kellar sternly.

  “I mean, I know what it does,” she said. “I just need to work out how to do it.”

  “And what does it do?”

  She leaned forward. “It sends a psychic text message straight into the brain of a mummy. A real live resurrected one that’s walking around in L.A. right now.”

  “No!” said Kellar in a hushed voice.

  “Yes. Remember Coop?”

  Kellar thought for a minute. “The thief? Bit of a loser?”

  “Exactly. He pissed the thing off and it’s put a curse on him. I gave him a necklace to keep the mummy at bay and he gave me this lovely knife in return.”

  “But how does that help us?” said Kellar.

  Minerva winked. “The necklace isn’t to keep the mummy away. It’s to draw the mummy right to him. All we have to do is get in touch with Bubba Ho-Tep, and make sure he knows that we’re the Good Samaritans who helped out and offer our services for the future.”

  Kellar frowned. “That’s a tad on the mean side.”

  “Would you rather spend the evening eating fried shrimp at Red Lobster or jumping in front of rented minivans?”

  Kellar placed a hand on his chest. “My heart says leave the poor boy alone, but my knees and back say screw him.”

  “Good man,” said Minerva.

  “To be back on top again,” said Kellar dreamily. “So, if we’re going to cut deals with . . . ?”

  “Harkhuf.”

  “It sounds like you’re clearing your throat. If we’re cutting deals with him, what are you going to ask for?”

  Minerva stubbed out the joint and put the remains in her tin box. “I want it to be like the old days. I want those young show-biz punks who laughed at me to come crawling back. I want limos and five-star hotels and to go the Academy Awards with Jack Nicholson.”

  “Does he even go anymore?”

  “He will when I’m done with him.”

  “Bad girl.”

  “What do you want?” said Minerva.

  Kellar clapped his hands together. “This is perfect. You do the stars and I’ll do everyone else. I’
ll be the Dr. Phil of psychics with my own supernatural afternoon talk show. Maybe I’ll write a memoir about my adventures in the occult.”

  Minerva chuckled. “It will be banned in all fifty states, you degenerate.”

  “And Oprah will pick it for her book club.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Oprah. That is dreaming big.”

  Kellar’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you cutting me in on this windfall?”

  “We’ve known each other a long time,” Minerva said. “And I need some help. You know how obscure those old mystical texts can be.”

  “Well, what do you have?”

  “I was up late last night and I’ve made some notes. Should we go ahead and give it a try?”

  “You’re not going to summon the Devil or anything, are you? I mean, that little mix up with the cards . . . ?”

  “No, this is nothing like that.”

  “Then there’s no time like the present.”

  “Good,” said Minerva. She pulled out her bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a couple of glasses from behind the cushions. “For toasts later.”

  “Now you’re talking,” said Kellar. “Okay. Make with the magic.”

  “Did you lock the door?”

  “And put up the Fuck Off We’re Conjuring sign.”

  Minerva went into the kitchen and came back with a cracked tea saucer piled high with herbs. She put a match to them until they burned and consulted her notes. With the athame in her left hand, she delicately dipped it into the burning herbs and pointed it to the four cardinal points while chanting something she’d written down.

  Kellar waved his hand to keep the smoke out of his face. He raised his eyebrows as she chanted. “Are you having a seizure, dear?”

  “Shut up,” said Minerva out of side of her mouth. She went back to chanting.

  Something formed in the air between them. It was a small ball of vapor at first, but soon it collapsed in on itself and began to glow. It pulsed and shot across the room like a thumb-size star, went to curtains, and looped back toward them.

  “What is that?” said Minerva. “That doesn’t seem right.”

  Kellar pursed his lips and said, “I think what you have there is an ignis fatuus. A will-o’-the-wisp.”

  The star came to a sudden halt a few inches from Minerva’s nose. On closer inspection, the light was a tiny woman with shaggy hair, a short dress, and what appeared to be tiny go-go boots. She reminded Minerva of a miniature Debbie Harry.

  Minerva smiled at the will-o’-the-wisp apologetically. “I haven’t had much sleep and I seem to have gotten my wires crossed. I’m awfully sorry,” she said.

  Debbie gave Minerva the finger, darted around her, and grabbed the Jack Daniel’s. The go-go-booted star sped away with the bottle and they vanished with a cheerful little tinkle.

  Kellar looked at Minerva. “I guess we’ve been put in our place.”

  “I’ll check a few more sources,” she said.

  “As will I.”

  “So,” said Minerva. “Red Lobster?”

  “By bus?”

  “Fuck it. It’s a special occasion. Let’s cab it.”

  “I thought you were broke, too,” said Kellar.

  “I always keep a little mad money in my sock.”

  “That’s where I keep my coke.”

  Minerva opened her arms wide. “And now we have dessert!”

  28

  “Where is my amulet?”

  Coop opened his eyes. It certainly felt like he did. The truth was that he was still in the strange netherworld between deep sleep and true wakefulness. It’s that fuzzy zone where you’re absolutely convinced you’re up and ready to juggle barracudas, but in reality are more likely to put your eye out with a shoehorn.

  Coop sat up in bed. “What? Who’s that?”

  “The amulet, dog. What have you done with it?”

  The voice was deep and didn’t sound at all like Giselle’s. It was more like a cop who thought he had you dead to rights or a strip-club owner who’s annoyed that you taught all of his dancers how to pick pockets. But the strangest part was that it felt like the voice was coming from inside his head.

  “Where is my amulet? Return it to me!”

  Okay, that I definitely heard.

  Coop got out of bed and walked into the living room. He still didn’t recognize who was talking, but it wasn’t like he’d stolen so many amulets recently that he had to puzzle out which one the voice meant. He went to the window and peeked out through the blinds.

  “Crap.”

  What Coop wanted to be able to say was How weird is it that there’s a mummy in the street? but what he ended up thinking was How weird is it that I’m in the street in my underwear?

  He did appear to be standing in the middle of Franklin Avenue in his boxer briefs, the ones that Giselle got him with the Millennium Falcon on the butt. He hated them, but they were a gift, so he made an effort to put them on every now and them. And now any neighbors who happened to look out their windows would know about them, too. Good thing this was all just a strange dream.

  “Bring it to me,” said Harkhuf. “It is mine, wretched thing.”

  Coop wiggled his necklace at the dead man. “You can’t hurt me. I’m mummy-proof. See?”

  “You are nothing.”

  “In that case, nothing is going to say good night.”

  “Halt,” Harkhuf.

  Coop stopped. He didn’t exactly have to, but all of a sudden he really wanted to. This really is a weird dream, he thought.

  “Be my thrall.”

  Coop yawned. “You know, if you got yourself a ukulele and a hat, you’d wow the tourists on Hollywood Boulevard. They love novelty acts.”

  “Dogs do not question their masters. They speak when they are spoken to.”

  Coop looked down at his stupid shorts. He looked at the empty street. He looked at the three-thousand-year-old jerk in the shadows by a dented VW Bug. He’d seen scarier scenes at the DMV.

  “You, my friend, are nothing more than an anxiety dream. I had one like this in high school when Angie Rodriguez said she’d go out with me. All week l dreamed I drove to her house without pants. ‘Hi, Angie,’ I’d say in nothing but socks and a T-shirt. Then I’d run home screaming like someone snapped a waffle iron shut on my rooster eggs.”

  “Cease your nonsense and come to me, slave.”

  “No, it’s Coop. Remember? Charlie Cooper.”

  “Deliver to me what I want.”

  This was a pretty realistic dream, he thought. Lights came on in a couple of houses down the street and Coop stepped in something that felt like gum.

  “You want the amulet? I don’t have it, asshole. And if I did, I still wouldn’t give it to you because you’re nothing but bourbon, Ambien, and that extra-spicy pad thai that Giselle always orders. Personally, I think it’s too hot, but it makes her happy.”

  “In the end I will come for you, and when I do, I will not be as kind as tonight.”

  Coop waved to Harkhuf. “Good night, Angie. You were the girl of my dreams, but now you look like someone tried to make a hobo out of greasy Fatburger wrappers and dirty diapers.”

  “Soon, dog. Soon,” said the mummy as it faded into the shadows.

  Coop turned around and pulled down his Millennium Falcon shorts. “Kiss my ass, dream date.”

  “Coop!”

  It was Giselle. A cherry red El Camino was rounding onto Franklin, coming fast. With his underwear around his knees, all Coop could do was hop out of the way.

  “Crap.”

  “What the hell are you doing out here?” yelled Giselle. “And pull your damned pants up.”

  “This really is a weird dream,” Coop yelled back to her. More lights came on.

  “This isn’t a dream, Dorothy, and you’re not the head of the Lollipop Guild. You’re in the damned street. And you just about got run over. Plus, you flashed everyone on the block.”

  Coop pointed to her with one hand and pulled up his underwear with
the other. “That’s exactly what you’d say in a dream.”

  The El Camino came barreling around the corner again, heading straight for him. Giselle dashed down the apartment steps and pushed Coop out of the way. The car stopped, reversed, and stopped right next to Coop. A girl, maybe sixteen years old, leaned out of the passenger-side window.

  “Nice ass, Grandpa,” she said, and bounced an empty Coors can off Coop’s forehead.

  The El Camino sped away around the next corner. He could hear young laughing voices as it went. Coop touched his head and sniffed. “Ow. That smells like beer.”

  “That’s because it is, Lady Godiva. Now come back inside.”

  Coop looked around. “This isn’t a dream?”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Did you see Harkhuf?”

  “The mummy? Of course not.”

  “Then maybe this isn’t a dream, but that part was,” he said. “Or maybe the mummy was really in my head, but it couldn’t take me over.” He gave the necklace a flick of his finger. “It means the rocks are working.”

  “Sure they are,” said Giselle, pushing his wet hair back off his forehead.

  “How about we say no more pad thai for a while?”

  “Yeah. That’s what’s wrong with your life. Pad thai.”

  “What else?” he said.

  “You’re cursed, dumb-ass.”

  “I’m protected.”

  “If that’s what you call protection.” Giselle picked up the beer can and bounced it off his forehead.

  “That felt real.”

  “Some protection.”

  “Maybe I should look into getting more.”

  Giselle pulled him back to the apartment. “Let’s get you inside and cleaned up. You smell like cheap beer, Hot Topic lip gloss, and balls.”

  “So . . . your prom night.”

  “I’d throw this can at you again if you weren’t so close to right.”

  More lights came on around them.

  “You sure this isn’t just an anxiety dream?” Coop said.

  “If it is, it’s mine,” Giselle said. “Now get inside, Grandpa.”

  Coop stopped. “Do I really have old-man ass?”

  Giselle pointed to the apartment lights up and down the street. “You don’t need my opinion. The whole neighborhood saw it. Ask them.”