Bobby had dropped out of school three years before, in the middle of his junior year. A year after that he'd exploded onto the national rock scene as Harley Davidson-Instant Millionaire. He'd signed with Jake Stein, a friend of mine with the William Morris Agency, and I'd kept track of him through Jake. One year I'd even received a Christmas card. I'd thought Bobby spent all his time in Los Angeles, but he'd obviously touched base often enough in New York to hear of Krowl. Seeing the palm print suddenly made me realize that I hadn't heard anything of Bobby for at least six months-no records, no television, not even a gossip item. I wondered what had happened to him.
The second name hit even closer to home, and it gave me a jolt. The name was Bart Stone. Stone was a prolific writer of Western pulp novels who had provided the fictional fodder for dozens of Western films turned out by Hollywood.
I wondered if Krowl, when he'd make the print, had known that "Bart Stone" was but one of the many pseudonyms used by Frank Marlowe. I might ask him.
I wandered down the hallway to the end, where a narrow balcony looked out over a small, exquisitely arranged garden and patio. The area was encircled by plants which seemed to be miraculously surviving in New York's sulfurous air; it seemed a tiny piece of serenity in the middle of the most manic city in the world. Across the way, looming up into the drizzling twilight, was a fifteen-story factory building. The side I was looking at was covered with climbing ivy. The windows had been painted black.
"Mr. Frederickson?"
I wheeled and was startled to find a man I assumed to be Krowl standing almost directly behind me. The door to the left of the foyer entrance was open, and he'd managed to approach me without making a sound.
No one had thought to mention the fact that John Krowl was an albino; his wraithlike, ghostly appearance startled me. Krowl's skin was almost the color of chalk, and he wore his thin, white hair at shoulder length. He wore glasses with tinted lenses, presumably to protect his sensitive eyes from the light. He was five feet ten or eleven, and reminded me of some coloring-book Jesus who hadn't been crayoned in.
I wondered how much Krowl's bizarre physical appearance had to do with the fact that he'd been drawn to-and succeeded in-the occult. Perhaps, in a sense, Krowl and I had something in common; Garth had always maintained that I'd have stayed on our family's farm in Nebraska if not for the fact that I'd been born a dwarf. Deformity-any deformity-can crush, but it can also propel a man beyond his normal limits.
"Is that part of your act?" I asked.
"Excuse me?" Krowl's voice was high-pitched, nasal and raspy.
"I'm Frederickson. I take it you're John Krowl."
"That's right," he said coldly, looking at me intently. "Garth left word with my secretary that you wanted a reading. He said it was a matter of some urgency. Why?"
Krowl's chilly abruptness took me aback. I didn't want to offend Krowl in light of the fact that Garth had told me he could be a valuable source of information. On the other hand, something about me obviously put him off; he looked as if he were getting ready to ask me to leave. I decided it might be a good idea to get a better feel of his territory before I started asking direct questions.
"I've got problems," I said quietly.
"Really?" He removed his glasses and stared at me with pink, washed-out eyes. "How do you think I can help?"
I shrugged. "I thought that was obvious. I was hoping you'd read the tarot for me."
Krowl put his glasses back on and smiled thinly. "Frederickson, why do I get the feeling that you think I'm full of shit?"
I felt myself flush. I had to give him points for frankness. "Let's say I'm hoping you can help me," I said, trying to sound humble and offering up my most innocent smile.
"My fee is forty dollars."
"Fine."
"Very well," Krowl said abruptly. "Come with me, please."
He turned and walked back down the hall. I followed him through the open door, which he closed behind us. I found myself in a kind of parlor/sitting room carpeted with the finest Persian rugs. There were more Haitian paintings and faded antique tapestries on those sections of the walls not covered by oak bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes. The room was dominated by a round mahogany table in the center. Over the table a stained-glass Tiffany lamp hung like a sparkling jewel in the middle of the room's dark, earth colors. Although the table was not particularly large, its magnificently carved legs and edges lent it an air of massiveness. There were two chairs.
Krowl took a small bundle wrapped in black silk out of a drawer in the table, unwrapped it to reveal a deck of tarot cards. He sat down and motioned for me to sit in the chair across from him.
"Aren't you going to look at my hand?" I asked.
He shook his head and began to shuffle the cards. "Not now," he replied softly. "Perhaps later. Frankly, I get very bad vibrations from you, and I'd like to see what the cards reveal."
"I'm sorry you feel that way," I said, resisting the urge to add something sarcastic.
Krowl put the deck back together, shoved it across the table to me and indicated that I should shuffle.
"I still don't feel that you believe there's anything to be gained from this," the albino said, watching me closely as I manipulated the cards. He made a clucking sound of resignation. "You should try to keep an open mind. As you shuffle the deck, meditate on some problem or question you'd like the cards to speak to. By the way, are you involved with a woman by the name of Amy? Or Abigail?"
"What?" I stopped shuffling and looked up at him, startled once again. The names Amy and Abigail were very close to April. I found Krowl's question distressing for a number of reasons, and I wasn't sure I wanted to confront any of them. I tried to smile, but it felt like a grimace. "Is that a preview?"
"You'll have to tell me."
"Don't you think you should check out my cards?"
"You're carrying a woman with you," he said, looking at me intently. "I thought I saw one of the names mentioned."
"No," I said curtly.
"All right," he said easily. "The presence of the woman is what's important, not her name. Are you right- or left-handed?"
"Right," I said, actually having to think about it. My mind was wandering, and I was having trouble concentrating.
"Then the left is the hand of your subconscious. Use it to cut the deck into three piles, then put them back in the opposite order."
When I'd done as he'd instructed, Krowl looked through the deck, without disturbing the order, until he found a particular card, which he placed face up on the table between us. The card showed a young man stepping off a cliff.
"This card is the Significator he continued. "It will represent you in the reading. It's The Fool."
"That doesn't sound very complimentary."
He wasn't amused. "The Fool is an innocent," he said. He spoke softly, but his voice had an edge of disdain. "I often use The Fool as a Significator for people who come to see me for the first time. As you can see, the young man is about to step into an abyss; it's the first step in a journey of the consciousness. Whether you succeed on this journey or are dashed on the rocks below is up to you."
"That seems fair enough."
Krowl quickly laid the cards out between us. He placed a card on top of The Fool, then another card crossing them both. Moving in a counterclockwise direction, he laid out four more cards, one at each point of the compass around the center cards. Finally he laid out four cards in a vertical line to his right.
I found myself staring at the cards. The predominant symbol in a number of cards seemed to be swords; I didn't find that encouraging.