Illegal Fortunes

by Sabrina Stark

  "Nah, my other job covers that." I removed my own jacket, but kept on the sweatshirt. "I make a little money from the store."

  "Just a little?"

  "It's Crystal's business now," I said. "I just help out here and there."

  Bishop stretched out his long legs and leaned back. "So it's not for the money, and it's not for the business," he said. "Then why?"

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "You couldn't wait to leave. So why keep coming back?"

  "That's all anyone remembers," I said, "that I couldn't wait to leave. But I wanted to stay too. So now, I do both."

  "It sounds complicated," Bishop said.

  "Well, it's not."

  "If you say so."

  "How about you?" I asked, giving him a taste of his own medicine. "Where have you been since I saw you last? Why'd you leave? Why'd you come back?" I thrust an imaginary microphone into his face. "Why are you sitting here right now? Tell us, Mister Bishop. Inquiring minds want to know."

  Bishop held up his hands. "Point taken."

  "No," I said. "I really want to know."

  "I know the feeling," he said.

  Wordlessly, I rose to look for the tape player. If I still had the thing, it was probably buried somewhere in my bedroom closet.

  It took me less than five minutes to find it, and when I returned to the living area, I found Bishop rummaging through my refrigerator. "Hey, don't be shy," I said. "Make yourself at home."

  "When's the last time you went shopping?" he asked.

  I set the tape player next to the sofa. "Tonight," I said.

  He turned to face me. "Hot chocolate doesn't count."

  "In that case," I said, "it's been a while."

  Bishop pulled a bottle of margarita mix from the fridge. He inspected the label. "Expired last month." He unscrewed the lid and peered inside. "I'll take my chances."

  He reached into the fridge and pulled out the bottle of tequila. Setting the mix and tequila on the counter, he opened the freezer and pulled out an ice cube tray. It was empty. Bishop shook his head and returned the tray to the freezer.

  "Aren't you gonna fill that?" I asked.

  Ignoring me, he rummaged through the cupboard for glassware. He settled on a Mickey Mouse coffee mug and plastic souvenir cup from Tamale Town. "Mickey or Tamale?" he asked.

  "Mickey," I said.

  I watched as Bishop slopped together two primitive margaritas, a little too generous with the tequila. "Trying to get me drunk?" I asked.

  "No, I'm trying to get me drunk," he said. "If you get drunk too, it's a nice bonus."

  He handed me the Mickey mug. I took a long drink. It wasn’t bad. On the downside, it was close enough to a pina colada to make me think of Edgar.

  "We'd better get to those tapes," I said.

  We returned to the sofa, and I pulled out the tapes. Mindful of Crystal in the adjacent apartment, I popped the first one into the player, the volume on low.

  Bishop and I leaned forward, and then we heard it – the first strains of reggae.

  "Bob Marley?" I said.

  "Yup," Bishop said, taking a long slug of his drink.

  "There must be more to it," I said. "Maybe somewhere in the middle?"

  "Only one way to find out," Bishop said.

  We sat back and watched the tape player as we listened for clues. We were silent for several minutes, focusing so intently we didn't hear the footsteps in the hall until they sounded right outside my door.

  Bishop tensed. He pulled out his gun. I waved the gun away, mouthing, "Crystal." Bishop lowered his arm, resting the gun loose at this side.

  A soft knock sounded at the door. "Selena?" Crystal called. "Are you in there?"

  "Yeah?" I called back.

  "Is someone in there with you?"

  I hesitated. "Why do you ask?"

  "Why don't you open the door?"

  I motioned Bishop into the bedroom. Silently, he stuck the gun into the back of his jeans, grabbed his jacket, picked up his drink, walked toward the bedroom, and shut the door behind him.

  When he disappeared from sight, I opened the door to the hall. Crystal stood in a short yellow bathrobe. She gave me the mom eye.

  I gave her the mom eye right back. I looked at her bare legs. "How come you're not freezing?" I asked.

  She ignored my question. "You alright? I thought I heard a man's voice."

  "Everything's fine," I said.

  She looked around. Her gaze stopped at the closed bedroom door. "Who's in your bedroom?" she asked.

  "No one."

  She lowered her voice. "Lemme guess. Conrad Harrison?"

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Is that a yes or a no?"

  "Neither."

  "Okay, okay," she said. "I'm not being nosy. Just making sure you're alright." She turned to go, and then paused. "You know," she said, "sexual desire is nothing to be ashamed of. We all get horny sometimes. It's only natural."

  "Mom!"

  "Call me Crystal," she said.

  "Crystal!"

  "What?"

  Where to begin? "No one uses the word horny anymore."

  "Really?" she said. "What word do they use?"

  "I don't know. But whatever you call it, it's not what I am."

  "Whatever you say, sweetie." She shut the door. I heard her footsteps fade in the hallway, followed by the telltale sound of her apartment door opening, then shutting. At last, I heard the dead bolt click into place.

  Bishop emerged from the bedroom. "If you were horny," he said, "you should've said something."

  "Not another word," I said. "I mean it."

  I picked up the cassette player and stalked into the bedroom, the only room that didn't share a wall with Crystal.

  Bishop followed along, easing onto the bed while I plugged in the player. Before hitting the play button, I dashed to the kitchen. I refilled the mug with more margarita mix and an even bigger splash of tequila.

  Returning to my bedroom, I leaned against the wall and sank, drink in hand, onto the floor next to the tape player. I hit the play button, and the soft strains of reggae filled the room.

  We listened in silence for less than a minute when Bishop leaned over the side of the bed and asked, "So, what's with you and Conrad Harrison?"

  Chapter 59

  I met Bishop's gaze. Although his question had been casual, something about the look in his eye was anything but.

  I set down the drink. "Nothing," I said.

  "But you know him?"

  "Barely."

  "Keep it that way," Bishop said. "I'm telling you as a friend."

  Funny, he wasn't looking very friendly. "Just as a friend?" I asked.

  "Maybe not just as a friend," he said. "But trust me on this one."

  "I'll try to keep that in mind."

  "You sure you're not horny?" he asked.

  "Shut up."

  "Sexual desire is nothing to be ashamed of," he said.

  "Since you're feeling so chatty," I said, "let's talk about you."

  "You're awful testy for a horny person."

  I closed my eyes and rested the back of my head against the wall. The floor was hard and freezing. My butt hurt. Maybe, I thought, I should get some rugs after all.

  After a moment, he asked "You still play poker?"

  "Yeah, but I always lose."

  "Liar," he said. "And not a very good one."

  "Yeah, so everyone says."

  We listened in silence as one song ended, and another began. Jamaica was sounding pretty good. I shivered and imagined myself on a warm, sunny beach. As one song led to another, a series of tropical images slid through my mind, and a wistful sigh escaped my lips.

  If only those things were real, the sun on my face, the sand on my toes, Bishop emerging from a swim in the ocean. I could almost see him, with his hair wet, his chest bare, his abs glistening as he walked toward me with that certain look in his eye.

  I groped to my side and found the margarita. I
picked it up and took a nice, long drink. I was feeling warmer already.

  I heard the bed creak, followed by the sound of Bishop settling onto the floor beside me. "Damn," he said. "This floor's hard." He shifted closer. "Cold too."

  I didn't open my eyes. "Tell me something I don't know."

  "You might want to take it easy on the tequila." I felt him tug at my hand. "Here, stand up."

  I opened my eyes. "Why?"

  "You can have the bed," he said. "I'll sit on the floor."

  "You don't have to do that."

  He pulled me to my feet. "Yes I do." He picked me up and tossed me onto the bed. I looked longingly at the Mickey Mouse cup, sitting half empty on the floor. Bishop shook his head, picked it up, and handed it over.

  "You don't have to sit on the floor," I said.

  "Horniness getting the best of you?"

  I looked up, meeting his gaze. Somehow, the years slipped away, and I heard myself ask, "What if it were?"

  His face froze. "Is that a serious question?"

  "I don't know," I said. "Was yours?"

  He was quiet a moment, and then said, "No."

  Heat flooded my face. "Well, at least that's settled."

  "What's settled?"

  I made my tone light. "Your horniness. Or lack thereof."

  Just when I thought he'd let it go, he settled on the bed beside me and gazed up at the ceiling. I turned to study him in profile.

  His hands were clasped underneath his head, making his biceps flex in that same old way I'd always loved, way back when he used to gather me in his arms and rock my body until I was a quivering, moaning mess.

  Back then, I'd made him moan and quiver too. I let my gaze drift downward. The bulge in his jeans was making a liar out of him.

  As if sensing my gaze, he said, "Yes, I want you." He turned his head, and his voice grew cold. "But if all I wanted was a quick fuck, I can get that anywhere."

  All night, he'd been giving me mixed signals. But there was nothing mixed about these signals.

  I drew back, surprised by the venom in his voice. "A quick fuck?" I said.

  He gave a humorless laugh. "Like you'd want more."

  I stared at him. "What's gotten into you?"

  He pushed himself up too. "We're not doing this," he said.

  "Not doing what?" I said. "Because if you're talking about the 'quick fuck' thing, I don't recall offering."

  "Good, because when I have you–"

  "When you have me?"

  "When I have you," he continued, "it's not gonna be a one-time deal. I'm not gonna hold you, and be with you, and then show up one morning to find you gone."

  My heart twisted. I knew exactly what he was talking about. "Oh c'mon," I said. "That wasn't all me."

  His voice rose. "Or worse, to find you fucking Conrad Harrison."

  "What?" I said. "I barely know him."

  His expression darkened. "But he's your type, isn't he?"

  "I don't have a type."

  Actually, I did have a type, and he was in this room. Except the guy I used to know wasn't a flaming asshole. This guy was.

  He chuckled without humor. "Sure you don't."

  The song ended, and the cassette-player gave a distinct click.

  "What does that mean?" I said.

  His voice was flat. "It means you've got to flip the tape."

  "Screw the tape," I said. "What are you talking about?"

  He pushed himself off the bed and strode to the tape player. He popped it open and removed the cassette.

  "Wait," I said, "don't you have to flip it over or something? There's another side, right?"

  Instead of answering, he reached down to grab the other two tapes.

  "What are you doing?" I said.

  "I'm leaving."

  "Why?"

  "Because I have to."

  He strode toward the living room. I jumped off the bed and followed after him. He shrugged into his jacket and tucked his gun into the back of his jeans.

  "What's wrong?" I said.

  He glanced at the alleyway door, with that board still nailed across it. "Nice security system," he said. "You think that's gonna keep you safe?"

  "Safe enough," I said.

  "If I wanted in, you think it would keep me out?"

  "I don't know," I said. "Are you planning to break in?" I held out my hand. "Those are my tapes, by the way."

  "No. I don't think so."

  "What the hell?" I said.

  He strode toward the hallway door. "You wanna let me out?" he asked.

  "No."

  "Suit yourself." He opened the door and strode out into the hall.

  I followed after him, down the staircase, through the book room, and into the coffee area. When he stopped at the main entrance, I made a grab for the tapes.

  With a stony expression, he held them out of my reach. "If there's anything on these," he said, "I'll let you know."

  "You don't have to let me know," I said. "I can listen for myself."

  "And then what?"

  "What do you mean?" I said.

  "What if there's something on there? What are you gonna do about it?"

  "I don't know," I admitted.

  "Uh-huh."

  He pushed open the door, and the alarm panel started beeping. In ten seconds or so, the alarm would sound if the door weren't shut. I hadn't grabbed my keys. If he left, and I followed after him, I wouldn’t be able to get back in.

  My voice was pleading. "Bishop, c'mon."

  "See ya later," he said, and then walked out, leaving me staring after him.

  Chapter 60

  The next morning, I found Crystal in the book room, all smiles. As for me, I'd slept like crap and couldn't smile if my life depended on it.

  Grabbing my hand, she led me to the window. "Look!" she said. "Isn't that wonderful?"

  I looked outside. It didn't look wonderful to me.

  The picketers had swollen to twice their number. I did a double-take. One of the picketers was Gabriel. He wore flowing black robes, half-hidden beneath his purple ski jacket. In his hand was a sign. It said "Burn Bigots."

  I studied the other new faces. I recognized a few of them, friends and followers from Gabriel's coven. Most wore ceremonial attire, although it was difficult to see under the winter coats. For once, I blessed the cold weather.

  I stood, dumbstruck, as I watched the established picketers parade by, along with the new arrivals. The opposing groups seemed utterly indifferent to each other. Still, I knew that Gabriel, for one, was anything but indifferent.

  Later that night, I called Riley for a dose of sanity. When I told her about Gabriel's picketers, her voice was sympathetic. "I am so sorry."

  "And then there's the thing with Bishop," I said. "I don't know what to think." I'd called him at least a dozen times. He never answered, so I'd been forced to leave a series of voicemails that ranged from pleading to pissed-off. I was beginning to think I'd never see him – or those tapes – again.

  "Want me to get the scoop on him?" Riley asked.

  She had this semi-shady background-check company on speed-dial. It had started the day she learned one of her boyfriends had a wife and kids at home. Since then, not a single man made it to a second date until she'd run a full dossier, unbeknownst to the love-struck suitor.

  She ran so many checks, I was pretty sure she got a quantity discount.

  "No thanks," I said. "If Bishop doesn't want to tell me his life story, I don't want to know."

  "Liar," she said. "You want to know plenty."

  "Maybe," I admitted. "But if he doesn't tell me himself, what's the point?"

  "I see plenty of points," she said.

  "I'd rather hear it from him."

  "Don't you want a preview?" she asked.

  "It wouldn't work," I said. "If he ever told me himself, I'd have to act surprised."

  "So? What's the problem?"

  "I'm a terrible liar."

  "But you're a good bluffer," she said
. "I've seen you play poker."

  "That's different," I said. "This isn't a game."

  She laughed. "That’s what you think."

  I spent the day holed up in my apartment, working on my freelance writing. I hated to spend the time away from the store, but if I didn't buckle down now, I wouldn't have a Southern job to go home to. And unlike fortune telling, that job actually paid the bills.

  Tuesday afternoon, I wandered down to the coffee shop and took a seat by the window. Silently, I watched the picketers parade past. About half the guys from both sides carried cups with our store's logo. Crystal was giving free drinks to Gabriel's companions, but the opposing picketers paid full price.

  I guess that's what you get, I decided, when you paid someone to picket. They might parade by, but their hearts wouldn't be in it.

  I'd given at least half the jailbirds Tarot readings. Crystal had given astrology and palm readings to the same guys. Knowing Crystal, probably half the guys were wearing red underpants.

  Mid-afternoon, I saw a familiar figure approach Gabriel. It was Carolyn, the woman who believed her husband was cheating. She wore a long wool coat and matching fur-trimmed cap that perfectly set off her blonde hair.

  Scowling, she strode toward Gabriel and tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned toward her, she leaned into him and spoke into his ear. He pulled Carolyn aside, and they walked to her vehicle, a silver sports car parked at the curb.

  They sat in the car for about twenty minutes. Finally, Gabriel got out, and Carolyn drove off. Gabriel picked up his sign and resumed picketing.

  I suppressed a wave of irritation. I was tired of worrying, and more tired of winter. I'd been freezing for weeks now with almost nothing to show for it. I still couldn't find Edgar, and the number of picketers had grown, not decreased. It was time to shake things up.

  I settled in to wait.

  At five o'clock, Scruffy, the jailbird's ringleader, appeared around the corner. The protesters perked up. So did I. The jailbirds formed a ragged line. One by one, Scruffy doled out their daily pay in cash.

  I shrugged into my ski jacket and headed outside. I was just in time to see Scruffy hand a fifty to the last man in line.

  "Mr. Scrufton?" I said.

  "Maybe," he said with an appraising stare.

  No matter what happened, I vowed I’d keep my cool. Smiling, I introduced myself. "Can I buy you a coffee?" I said. "Maybe chat a little?"