by James Swain
Peter got up close to stare.
It was Wolfe. The assassin sat at the counter of a diner, eating a breakfast of steak and eggs. Taking the knife off his plate, Wolfe tested the knife’s sharpness. Satisfied, he stuck it up his sleeve, and hopped off his stool.
The symbol vanished, leaving a menu for Chinese takeout.
“He’s going to kill someone,” Peter muttered.
“Who? What are you talking about?” Liza asked.
The diner looked familiar. It was on the Lower East Side, and served a mean breakfast. He had to alert the police, and grabbed his leather jacket off the back of a chair.
“I have to go out.”
“What? You can’t be serious. Didn’t you just promise me—”
“I’ll explain everything later.”
“I’m sure you will.”
He tried to kiss her, and Liza pulled away.
“You have to trust me,” he said. “The man who attacked me last night is about to strike again. I have to stop him.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“I just do.”
“You’re treading on dangerous ice, Peter.”
Liza followed him down the hallway. He went outside, and turned up his collar to the annoying rain. The front door slammed angrily behind him.
He hurried down the sidewalk, hoping she’d understand.
8
The greasy spoon on East 11th Street had no name. Wolfe sat at the counter, gazing at a dingy storefront across the street. THE SACRED PLACE—PSYCHIC READINGS FOR ANY OCCASION. He pulled a slip of paper from his wallet to make sure he had the right place. Lester Rowe, owner of The Sacred Place, was number three on his hit list.
Wolfe resumed eating his steak and eggs. A police cruiser passed by, splashing water onto the sidewalk. It was the third cruiser he’d seen in the past ten minutes. That wasn’t normal, and he guessed the law was looking for him. That was the tricky part of his work. It was classic cat and mouse, and he relished his role as the mouse.
Wolfe glanced at his waitress, a young woman with spiked hair and a ring in her nose. She was flirting with another customer, a punked-out boy about her age. Picking up his steak knife, he slipped it beneath the rubber band on his wrist, and pulled down his sleeve. His captain in the army had taught him the usefulness of rubber bands. They came in handy in so many situations, he always wore one.
The rain was spitting as he crossed the street. The weather was worse than London. The front door was locked, and he rapped loudly on the glass while peering inside. It was a toilet, with cheap furniture and even cheaper wall coverings. Hundreds of psychics worked out of storefronts in New York. Except for the names on his list, they were all fakes. There were so many fakes that the real ones were forced to scrape by giving readings out of places like this. A greeter wearing a turban unlocked the door, and ushered him inside.
“Welcome to The Sacred Place. My name is Habib.”
Wolfe was good at placing accents. Habib was from the southern region of Turkey.
“I’d like a reading with Lester Rowe,” Wolfe said. “Is he available?”
“Yes, he is. You will need to make a one-hundred-dollar donation. Cash or credit?”
A donation. That was a new one. Wolfe paid in cash, and Habib handed him a clipboard and a pencil.
“Please fill this out. I will return shortly.”
Wolfe parked himself on a cheap plastic chair in the reception area and read the printed form on the clipboard. It asked for his name, date of birth, astrological sign, and personal things about himself, including his fears, beliefs, likes, and dislikes. The last question was the kicker. Why had he come for a reading today?
He laughed to himself. He’d been given a similar form to fill out in psychic parlors before, and knew what it meant. The Sacred Place was a scam. There was a hole in the wall behind his chair which Habib was staring through at this very moment. Habib would copy down his answers, and share them with Rowe before their session began.
Taking out his Zippo lighter, Wolfe stared into its reflection, and found the hole in a framed picture hanging behind his chair. Rowe was a bloody fake, and shouldn’t have been on his hit list. Something wasn’t right here, and he decided to find out what was going on.
Wolfe scribbled down his answers. Soon, Habib returned.
“All done?” Habib asked cheerfully.
“I believe I am,” Wolfe replied.
“Very good. Take the form off the clipboard and put it in your pocket. We ask you to write down your answers so you can better channel your thoughts during the reading.”
Sure you do.
“Please follow me, and watch your step. The carpet needs to be replaced.”
They passed down a narrow hallway to a small parlor with Persian rugs hanging on the walls. A white-bearded Turkish man sat in a wheelchair strapped to an oxygen tank. The apple had not fallen far from the tree. Habib looked just like him.
The elderly Turk motioned toward an empty chair. Wolfe sat down.
“Are you Lester Rowe?” Wolfe asked.
“Do I look like a man whose name is Lester Rowe?” the elderly Turk replied.
“I’ve never met the man. But I’m guessing you’re not him.”
“You are a good guesser. My name is Akan. I bought the business from him a few month ago.”
“Do you have Rowe’s address? I need to get in touch with him.”
“Why do you want to contact a man you’ve never met?” Akan asked pointedly.
“It’s a personal matter,” Wolfe replied.
Wolfe heard someone breathing. Behind the wheelchair was a door with light streaming through the bottom. A pair of shoes lurked on the other side. Son number two, he guessed.
“You are a liar,” Akan said. “Sedat! Come out here!”
A dark-skinned man built like a Greco-Roman wrestler marched into the parlor. He pulled Wolfe out of his chair, and patted him down.
“He’s clean,” son number two said.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Wolfe demanded.
“I think you know,” Akan said.
“No, I don’t. I’m not a mind reader. Then again, neither are you.”
“Do not make fun of my father.” Sedat had a voice like a bear. “You’re the man in the BOLO. The police say you’re extremely dangerous.”
“What’s a bloody BOLO?” Wolfe asked, trying to buy time.
Sedat removed a flyer from his pocket, and held it out for Wolfe to see. Wolfe’s photo was printed on the paper, along with the words BE ON THE LOOKOUT, courtesy of the NYPD.
“That doesn’t look anything like me,” Wolfe said indignantly.
“I will be the judge of that. Take off your hat.”
“And what if I say no?”
Sedat ripped off Wolfe’s baseball cap, and compared his face to the one in the photo.
“You bear a strong resemblance to this man,” Sedat said. “I am going to call the police. If you are innocent, then there is no harm done.”
Wolfe’s mind raced. He needed to keep several steps ahead of the police if he was going to have a chance to complete his mission.
“By all means, do call them,” Wolfe said. “Because I plan to tell the police there’s a bloody hole in the wall in your front room that you’re using to spy on customers. Once they hear that, they’ll take your license away, and shut you down.”
The parlor fell silent. Akan shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair.
“Perhaps we can come to some kind of arrangement,” the elderly Turk said.
“You mean a bribe to keep your mouths shut? How much do you have in mind?” Wolfe asked.
“How about a thousand dollars?”
“That sounds reasonable enough. Do you take traveler’s checks?”
“Of course.”
“Gentlemen, you have a deal.”
Sedat held his hand out for the money. It was the opening Wolfe had been waiting for. He kicked the big man in the chest, and se
nt him tumbling onto his father’s wheelchair. Habib came next. Drawing the steak knife, Woolfe slashed son number one across the face.
“Stand against the wall,” Wolfe ordered him.
Habib cowered against the wall, his hand pressed to the gushing wound. Wolfe pointed his knife at Sedat, who was trying to rehook the oxygen tank to the tube hanging around his father’s neck. The crying sound of escaping oxygen filled the air.
“Give me Lester Rowe’s address, and I’ll leave you alone,” Wolfe said.
“I don’t have it,” Sedat replied.
“You bought his bloody business. You must have some idea where he went.”
It was Habib who answered him. “Lester Rowe moved his business to Second Street, between First and Second Avenues. He works out of an apartment house on the bottom floor.”
“What’s the address?”
“He didn’t give it to us. He has a steady stream of clients. You won’t have a problem finding him.”
“That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”
Sedat had pulled his father into his lap, and was trying to revive him. It was touching to see the son’s devotion to his father. Had it been his own father, Wolfe would have taken his head and smashed it against the floor, then given it a twist for good measure.
Wolfe backed out of the parlor. Stopping in the doorway, he pulled out his trusty Zippo, and grabbed a promotional flyer off a table. He crushed the flyer into a ball and began to ignite it.
“No!” Sedat said.
“The police offered you a reward for turning me in, didn’t they?” Wolfe said.
Sedat nodded his head fearfully.
“How much for my head?”
“Does it matter?” Sedat asked.
“It does to me.”
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
“That’s a lot of money. Why settle for a thousand?”
“We are illegals. If the police found out, they’d throw us out of the country.”
“Makes sense. Have a nice hereafter.”
Wolfe lit the flyer with his Zippo, and tossed the flaming paper directly at the tank. The escaping oxygen made a distinct Pop! as it ignited and caught fire. He went into the hallway and slammed the door, then braced himself. He could hear the Turks yelling in their native tongue. Seconds later the tank exploded, and the whole building shook.
It was still raining as he went outside. Eleventh Street was deserted, although it would not be that way for very long. He fired up a cigarette, and smoke filled his lungs as he started to walk. It was strange: The more times he killed, the harder it was for him to calm down. Madame Marie had called him the Devil, only he didn’t think the Devil had a conscience. He still did, no matter how small it might be.
Soon he reached Second Avenue, and began to hunt for Lester Rowe.
9
The lobby of the 19th Precinct was filled with people. Located on East 67th Street between Lexington and Third Avenues, the precinct served one of the most densely populated areas of the city, which included many foreign missions and consuls. Peter sifted his way through the mob, and caught the eye of a gruff female desk sergeant. He sidled up to her desk.
“Good morning.”
“You always take a shower with your clothes on?” she asked, working a piece of gum.
Everyone in New York was a comedian. Especially the cops.
“I’d like to see Detective Schoch,” he replied. “Is she here?”
“Depends who’s asking. Hey, I know you. You’re that magic guy. I saw your show last year. Not bad. There’s something I’ve always wanted to know. Is that your real name?”
“Warlock is my stage name.”
“I didn’t think so. Show me a trick.”
Peter made it a rule to never walk out of his brownstone without a trick in his pocket. Only today he’d forgotten, so he had to improvise. He told the desk sergeant to think of a card, and when he attempted to read her mind, hit a wall. It happened sometimes. Borrowing a pen and a piece of paper, he wrote down a prediction and placed it face down on the desk.
“Name your card,” he said.
“Queen of hearts,” she replied.
“Want to change your mind?”
“Nope.”
“Happy with the mind that you have?”
“Very funny.”
“Turn my prediction over.”
She flipped over the paper. Written on it were the words QUEEN OF HEARTS.
“Wow. How’d you do that?”
There were only five playing cards that people ever thought of—the ace of spades, queen of spades, queen of hearts, king of hearts, and seven of spades. Most middle-aged women chose the queen of hearts. He smiled and shook his head.
“Not going to tell me, huh?” The desk sergeant slid a form toward him. “Fill this out so I can sign you in. Is Detective Schoch expecting you?”
“She was at my home earlier, discussing a case,” he said.
“Is that a yes, or a no?”
“No, she’s not expecting me.”
“I’ll give you a pass this time.” She made a quick call, then hung up. “Detective Schoch will be down in a few minutes. Have a seat in one of those chairs. Nice meeting you.”
“You, too.”
He sat on a hard plastic bench bolted to the wall. A copy of today’s New York Post lay on the seat beside him. No one did headlines like the Post. KIDNAPING SUSPECT TO GO FREE—COPS OUT-RAGED! By the time he’d finished the story, Schoch had come downstairs. She was all business, and wore a sidearm strapped to her side.
“Hey, Peter, what’s up?”
He rose from the bench. “I had another vision. Wolfe’s on the Lower East Side, stalking his next victim. He was eating breakfast in a diner that looked familiar.”
She shot him an exasperated look. “That’s it? You can’t give me an address, or a name?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll put out an alert.”
Schoch started walking toward the elevators. He hurried to catch up.
“Please tell me what you know about Wolfe,” he said.
“I already told you, I can’t do that.”
“I have something to trade.”
“What are you talking about?”
He pulled the Post out from under his arm. “I can help you solve this kidnaping case.”
“Exactly how do you plan to do that?”
“The newspaper ran a photo of the ransom note. I saw something in the note that told me who the kidnaper is.”
“Our handwriting expert looked at the ransom note, and didn’t see a thing.”
“He must of missed it.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I see things that other people miss. I can help you crack this.”
“Is that part of your psychic abilities?”
“Actually, it comes from being a magician. We look at things differently.”
Schoch gave him a long, searching look. She shrugged her shoulders as if to say what the hell, and punched the elevator button.
“Follow me,” she said.
* * *
Homicide was a sea of cubicles and ringing phones. Dagastino’s cubicle was a pigsty, his desk covered in dead coffee cups and dog-eared reports. Dag was on the phone, and had his feet propped on the desk. He ended the call as they entered, and shot Peter a hostile look.
“We’ve got company,” Schoch said.
“I see that,” Dagastino said. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Peter thinks he can help us solve the Bunny Ruttenberg kidnaping.”
“Be my guest.”
“He wants something in return,” she said.
“A horse trade?”
“That’s right.”
“I want to know about the guy who tried to stab me last night,” Peter jumped in.
Dagastino scratched his chin, and gave it some thought.
“You go first,” the detective said.
“Do we have a deal, o
r not?” Peter asked.
“We have a deal. Now, start talking.”
“The ransom note spray-painted on the wall of Bunny Ruttenberg’s apartment was put there by her husband, who the Post said was going to be let out of jail,” Peter said.
“You figured that out just by reading the Post?” Dagastino snorted. “Give me a break, for Christ’s sakes.”
“It’s right there in the ransom note,” Peter said defensively.
“The note was spray-painted on the wall of the apartment. Our handwriting expert studied it. There was nothing to see,” Dagastino shot back.
“Your expert missed it. The clue was right there.”
“What clue?”
“Magicians call it the familiar-name principle. I’ll show you.” Peter turned his back to the desk. “In random order, write the name of someone important to you on a piece of paper, then write the names of four people you don’t care about on the same piece of paper.”
Dagastino’s pen scratched across a legal pad. “Done.”
Peter turned back around. Dagastino handed him the pad, which he studied. Five names were written across it. A quick glance told him everything he needed to now.
“The second name on the pad, Maryann Magliaro, is someone you care deeply about,” Peter said. “Am I right?”
Dagastino’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
“Is she your wife?”
“Jesus H. Christ. How’d you know that?” the detective asked.
“You wrote her name differently,” Peter explained.
“I did?”
“Yes. You’ve probably written your wife’s name hundreds of times, maybe more. You wrote her name without having to think about it, and used the subconscious part of your brain. The other names you had to think about, and therefore used the conscious part of your brain. The difference shows up in the handwriting. It’s an old magic trick.”
Peter had the copy of the Post under his arm. He laid the paper on the desk and pointed to the ransom note in the story. “Look at the words in the note. They all have paint dripping down them, except Bunny Ruttenberg’s name. Her kidnaper spray-painted her name without having to think about it. It’s her husband.”
Dagastino studied the ransom note printed in the newspaper. “That’s brilliant. Now how do we get him to admit it?”
