by E. A. Copen
Karma was situated between two such shops.
I stood outside the building where a neon sign announced the name of the place for all passersby to see. Being early spring after Mardi Gras, the crowds passing me by weren’t too bad. Tourists in their shorts and long-sleeved shirts paused to nudge each other, pointing at the sign. Others stopped to take a picture in front of the display of shrunken heads in the nearby voodoo shop window, shopping bags in hand. No one came or went from Karma.
After several minutes of casing the place, I kicked off from the lamp pole I leaned against and pushed open the unassuming white door. Inside, the place was done up in shades of neon lavender, crimson, and royal blue with some hot pink thrown in. Twenty or so small tables had a pole in the center. Most of those were unoccupied. The few patrons there in the middle of the day had crowded around a stage made of iridescent plastic where pink and purple lights flashed up through, highlighting a pretty redhead working the pole to something jazzy.
I slid into one of the empty seats near the stage and tried to look interested to get her attention. Judging by my competition, that wouldn’t be too hard. Two of the five other Joes were too busy drinking or chatting with their heads down to notice her. Apparently, they’d chosen the place for the ambiance and not the show. Awful rude, if you ask me. Some of the moves a good exotic dancer can pull off make more refined folk gasp and clap when they see the same acrobatics in Cirque de Soleil. Only difference was circus performers were paid by check and not in fives and tens.
Unfortunately for me, my wallet didn’t agree with my appreciation of the finer points. I had two twenties, a five, and four ones. None of that was going to get me much attention for long against the guy across the bar, schmoozing the stripper with a pyramid of folded twenties.
“Hey, baby. You can call me Angel.” A square-jawed stripper in a star-spangled bustier, ripped short shorts, and a suede cowboy hat sat down next to me and smiled. “You look lonely. Something on your mind? Give me three minutes and let me help you forget about it.”
I turned away from the girl on stage to the all-American gal on my right, considering. Talking about Brandi out there in the open might draw some unwanted attention. It would be best if I heard what she had to say without prying eyes and ears who might report her to the boss for saying something she shouldn’t. Of course, the side rooms had cameras, too. There probably wasn’t anywhere in Karma that didn’t, but at least the side rooms probably didn’t pick up sound.
“What the hell?” I said with a smile and stood.
Angel—which was surely a stage name—led me to a curtained-off section and pulled back the velvet curtain to reveal a comfortable-looking purple love seat with red pillows. Three matching ottomans were pushed to the side for group parties. A shining metal pole stretched from floor to ceiling just in front of the love seat, and a sign attached to the wall opposite me announced that no touching was allowed, but tipping was encouraged. A bunch of other rules were written beneath, most of which amounted to polite ways of saying “don’t be an asshole.”
I stepped into the room and scanned the wall for the hidden camera, locating it in the center of a painting hanging above the chair.
Angel slid the curtain closed. “Have a seat, baby.”
“Actually,” I said, turning, “I was hoping to get some information.”
The smile faded from her face. “Are you a cop?”
“Wizard, actually.” I sat down and spread my arms wide over the back of the loveseat. “Did you know Brandi Lavelle? She had a stage name too…Bea Bliss?”
“Bea? Did I…?” Her face paled, and she touched her fingers to her bottom lip. “Oh, my God! What happened? Is she okay?”
“Dead,” I offered plainly. Her concern felt like an act. That was confirmed the minute I finished speaking.
Angel dropped the performance, letting her shoulders slump and her cheeks sag a little. “Can’t say I’m surprised, to be honest. Don’t get me wrong, Brandi was a good girl, the best. Religious. Sweet. Never went home with anybody or worked on the side. Too good for this line of work.”
That lined up with my first impression of her at least. “So you can’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt her?”
Angel shook her head.
“What about magic or the occult? You said she was religious.”
She shrugged and paced forward to pull one of the ottomans up in front of the love seat. “Not Catholic or anything. Something new age-like. Not sure what. I don’t think it was like Wicca or anything. She was gonna quit working here, you know. Said she had to keep herself pure for religious reasons.”
Virgins were an important ingredient in a lot of magical practices. Their blood was supposed to have extra power, and they were supposed to be more magical in some circles. Mostly, that was bullshit. The definition of virginity was too flexible to be useful in real magic, but some wannabe wizards still touted it as magical. Could be she’d gotten involved in a cult of some kind, but that didn’t jive with her death. I’d never heard of the ritualistic crushing of virgins. Usually, virgin rituals revolved around their blood, and it didn’t look like anyone had collected Brandi’s blood.
“Did anyone ever come around looking for her?” I asked. “Someone from her personal life?”
Angel shook her head. “Not really. I mean, there was this regular guy. Comes in about every other day like clockwork. He paid a lot of attention to Brandi while she was on the pole, and I saw them talking once or twice, but he never paid for a private dance, and they never left together or anything. The guy was a cheapskate. Real shitty tipper.”
“Happen to get the guy’s name?”
“Nobody ever uses their real name in this business, hon.” She flashed me a wide smile.
I leaned forward. “You knew Brandi’s real name.”
“And you see how that worked out for her.” Angel put a hand on my leg. “Discretion is pretty much the golden rule around here. It’s more fun that way. Keeps the mystery going.” Her hand moved up the inside of my thigh.
I caught her wrist. “Look, I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, but my girlfriend, she’s a little…possessive of the magic wand if you catch my meaning.”
“Sounds like she needs to lighten up. Bring her next time. I run a two for one special on Wednesdays.”
“As tempting as that sounds, I’ll have to pass.”
She pulled her hand away, sticking her bottom lip out, disappointed.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Did Brandi have a locker here where she might’ve kept something of value?”
“Like what?” She gave a one-shouldered shrug.
“Something that might’ve been important to her, or had direct contact with her skin. Something that hasn’t been washed since she last wore it. A hat, glove, hairbrush. Anything like that.”
Angel put a finger to her lip, deep in thought and then slipped it into her mouth. The motion made me regret having come on business. Maybe once the case was settled…
No, I thought, imagining Odette marching through the front door to drag me out by my ear. If Odette even caught wind of me being in a place like this again, she’d string me up. As much as I liked Odette, she had an insecure streak a mile wide. No matter how many times I told her how beautiful and perfect she was, she’d never buy it. Catching me making nice with strippers, even if it was for a case, would make her feel like shit, which she’d take out on my hide. No woman likes to feel second best.
Somehow, that thought led to me imagining Odette dressed in the same outfit as Angel, performing the same action. Ah, dammit. I was supposed to be working. That meant using the upper brain, a literal impossibility if the lower brain was bullying its way into doing the thinking for me. I had to wrap this up and quick.
“You guys do have lockers or something, don’t you?” I asked.
“Trying to remember if Brandi ever used hers.”
I pulled out my wallet and handed her the two twenties. “Maybe this’ll jog your mem
ory?”
Angel smiled and snatched the bills out of my hand. “She had a dressing area. There might be some makeup. I can check if you’d like?”
“That’d be really helpful, Angel.”
She beamed when I said her name and started back toward the curtain, pausing when she reached it and turning around. “Oh, sorry. Would you mind waiting in the main area? Customers aren’t supposed to be back here alone.”
I followed Angel back into the main room of Karma. The crowd by the stage had thinned out since no one was dancing. It seemed they were between sets. Several more strippers had wandered out to schmooze with the patrons, trying to sell them private dances. I saw the high roller from earlier in one corner with two girls and was suddenly a little jealous of him. His I Love The Big Easy shirt pegged him as an out-of-towner. He was busy filling his time by stuffing twenties into G-strings. Meanwhile, I had to hope I could make it through the rest of the weekend on nine bucks, and that someone would buy something at the shop on Monday. Life’s just not fair.
A commotion at the stage drew my attention. I looked over just in time to see a tall, busty blonde with ringlet curls slap an older black gentleman. Well, maybe gentleman wasn’t the right word. He wore a black bowler hat with a gray band around it, and a faded button up. Smart eyes peered out from behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses. He had his fair share of wrinkles, but that wasn’t going to stop him from pretending to be a ladies’ man. He’d been womanizing since before I’d been born and would make a daily habit of hitting on girls a quarter his age until the bitter end.
The stripper cussed him out and stomped off.
I slid casually into the seat next to the old man. “Pony Dee. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Pony looked up from over the shot he was finishing. “Lazarus Kerrigan, as I live and breathe,” he said with a grin. “Guess you ain’t dead yet, is you?”
“I see you still haven’t learned how to keep your hands to yourself.”
“Amen to that.” He lifted another shot glass and tossed it back, making a face before putting the glass upside down in front of him. “How’s business? You still whoring your gift to the highest bidder?”
I scowled at that. Pony and I went way back, as far back as two wizards could go. Once, I was his apprentice, but we’d had what you might call a fundamental difference of opinion. I liked to eat, and decided the best way to do that was to offer my services to the public at large, a violation of a wizard’s sacred tenant, at least according to Pony.
“Should I even point out the irony of a thrice-divorced man in a strip club calling me a whore?” I asked and crossed my arms.
Pony grunted and watched me over the rim of his glasses. “Ain’t nothing wrong with using your abilities, Laz. Especially when it’s for good. That power you got, it’s sure something. Most boys with your gift, they go over to the other side, start tryin’ to call up the dead for their own gain. Not you, though. You’d rather walk that thin line.”
“I’m helping people,” I growled, “whether you see it or not.”
“Sure you is. Taking money from the bereaved aside, I’m sure you provide a valuable service to those in need.” He moved to take another drink.
I slammed my hand on top of the tiny glass, pinning it to the surface in front of him and forcing Pony to meet my eyes. “What was I supposed to do? It’s not like you were there when I got out to help me set myself up. Do you have any idea what it was like when I got out of prison and found everyone had moved on without me? I mean Beth, I understand. I didn’t expect her to wait. But you, Pony…you were my teacher. You of all people should’ve understood, or at least given me the chance to explain.”
Pony’s brown eyes drilled into my soul. Staring at him felt like watching two gears grind and throw up sparks. “Times are tough for all of us, Laz. I couldn’t be associated with an ex-con, least of all one convicted of desecrating a corpse.”
“You know it wasn’t like that.”
“I don’t know nothing about you, Laz. Not no more.” Pony jerked the drink out from under my hand and threw it back, swallowing it in one gulp.
I debated sitting and arguing with him, though I knew it’d do me no good. Pony was too stubborn to listen to reason, and too much time had passed. The rift between us had grown wide over time, and nothing was going to heal that, least of all a conversation in a strip club on a Saturday afternoon. Nothing I could say or do would ever make a difference now that he’d made up his mind to cast me aside. That was just how he was.
Angel came out of the back with a red shirt draped over her arm and something small in her fingers.
I stood. “It was good seeing you, Pony. Really. I’m glad you haven’t changed.”
He waited until my back was turned to call out, “I seen something this morning.”
I froze. Pony and I both worked with the same sort of magic, though at different ends of the spectrum. He was more of a medium, a channel for the dead subject to strong and violent visions. Me, I worked directly with spirits, calling them from their resting places to do my bidding. But his abilities had waned after they found cancer in his brain and shrank it. Once he was in remission, the visions stopped. If they were back…
The floor squeaked under my shoes as I turned around. “You saw something, or you saw something?”
“I saw you dead,” Pony continued. “Struck down by magic in your own living room. Dark magic, Laz, for which you were no match.”
“I don’t suppose you saw who killed me?”
He spun on the stool to face me, hands resting on his knees. “You’re living dangerously, Laz. It ain’t wise to draw the attention of your betters. Gonna get you killed, son.”
“I can take care of myself,” I assured Pony and went to meet Angel.
“This is all I could find,” she said, holding the shirt out to me along with a tube of lipstick. “Brandi liked to travel light, I guess.”
“Thanks, doll,” I said and took the offered items. They’d work well for my purposes.
On my way out the door, I stopped to give Pony a salute. His warning hadn’t fallen on deaf ears though. Drawing the attention of my betters likely meant he was afraid there were stronger wizards in town, the kind who just might be able to kill me like he saw in his vision.
I smiled to myself as I went back out to the busy street. Pony’s warning meant one thing: I was on the right track after all.
Chapter Three
On the way back to my apartment, I dropped by a big box store and picked up everything I’d need for a séance. Sounds counterintuitive since I own an occult shop, I know, but I had most of the special ingredients stored in a little box in my closet already. Things like candles and chalk I kept at the shop. Until the cops were done with their investigation, I wasn’t getting in there, hence my trip to the chain store.
By the time I made it back to my place, my wallet was five bucks lighter, and it was pushing three in the afternoon. Odette was gone. She read my note and scrawled a message at the bottom of it in perfect, curling penmanship: We need to talk.
A chill ran through me upon reading those words. Whenever a woman says those four little words, it’s bad news for the guy. Last time I’d “talked” with a girlfriend, I got a glass of ice water tossed in my face and stuck eating a dinner for two all alone.
I tried to think of what I might’ve done wrong with Odette. Everything had seemed fine the night before. Better than fine, in fact. She didn’t sweep into my apartment and drag me off to the bedroom like that often. Not that I was complaining. I should’ve known better than to think everything would go right for a change, though.
I shook my head. Whatever Odette wanted to talk about would have to wait until she was off work anyway, which meant I had all day to stew. Better to focus on the task at hand than let the what-ifs drive me crazy.
First things first; I needed another shower, and not just because of anything I might have gotten on me while out and about. The first thing anyone should
know about magic is how fragile it is. It’s really easy to screw up a spell. If a piece of lint falls off your shirt at the wrong moment, the whole thing can backfire with deadly force, depending on the spell. Going in with a clean mind and a clean body is just one of the few things you can do to lessen the chances that something will go wrong. It’s also one of the reasons most powerful magic is traditionally done in the nude.
Out of respect for the dead, I put on some pants. Then I wandered into the living room to collect the chalk and the two items I’d retrieved from Brandi’s locker. I sat in the center of the room with the t-shirt folded neatly in front of me, the emblem on the front clearly visible. Next to it, I placed the tube of lipstick. Both items would have been in contact with Brandi’s skin, and there was no way to tell by looking at them which one might have had more significance to her while she was alive, so I was going to have to rely on psychometry to make the choice.
Psychometry wasn’t my strongest suit. Reading items to make relevant associations between the object and the owner was a medium’s trick, a basic one in every medium’s repertoire, but then I wasn’t exactly a normal medium. Mediums were more like conduits, tools the dead used to speak through if they were willing. They weren’t able to force the dead across the veil, and they certainly couldn’t reanimate the dead, all part of what I could do. That second ability, reanimation, was serious mojo and something I didn’t play around with. Not anymore, not since I’d failed Lydia.
I shook the image of her pale, lifeless body from my mind. To accomplish the task at hand, my mind had to be clear of distractions.
I reached first for the tube of lipstick, holding it in my dominant hand. It was a standard, black tube with a line of gold paint around the edge. Bits of the paint flaked off when I rubbed my calloused thumb over it. I popped the top off and studied the well-used stick of maroon red inside, focusing hard.
Lots of guys dismiss the significance of makeup to women. Despite what we like to believe, they don’t get all painted up for us. It’s for them, to make them feel different, sexier. Less like a mask, and more like a window. And it ought to be significant for as much as they paid for it. That tiny tube of lipstick probably cost seven or eight bucks. Brandi kept the lipstick in her personal stash, which meant she put it on before she went on stage. It was as much a part of her stage persona as the music, lights, and acrobatics. This lipstick was part of who she’d been aiming to leave behind when she found religion.
