Not bad, thought Shane Billiken. By five o'clock he would have pocketed over seven thousand dollars, and that still left his evening free. He took another hit of rhubarb wine.
It was a long way from telling fortunes out of a house trailer at carnivals and psychic fairs all over the country, thought Shane Billiken. And really, he wasn't doing much different. Instead of servicing all comers, he saw only a select clientele of wealthy patrons. They paid fifty times for the same line of patter Shane had been dispensing in his curtained-off trailer cubicle. But they weren't just paying for the patter now, they were paying for bragging rights as one of the select clients of the exclusive Shane Billiken, world-renowned Doctor of Positivity, author of The Elbow of Enlightment, Soul Commuting, Crystals and Your Cat, and his current best-seller, The Hidden Healing Powers of Cheese.
It was a sweet deal, lately getting sweeter with the channeling bit he was doing with Glinda.
The wind coming off the Pacific sent the Tibetan prayer wheels positioned at each corner of the redwood sundeck to spinning, and Shane Billiken adjusted his shades. He settled back to enjoy the rays.
He was almost into an Alpha state when the sliding glass door grated open.
"Hey, who's that?" Glinda demanded, toweling her hair.
"What?"
"There. In the ocean. Someone in a boat."
Shane Billiken sat up and looked across the water.
Out in the surf, bobbing in buoy, was a tiny boat. A ragged sail fluttered from a twisted crosspiece.
"What kind of a boat is that?" Glinda wondered aloud. "Looks homemade. Probably some idiot teenager's." Shane Billiken rolled to his feet and leaned on the rail.
"Hey, you!" he called. "This is a private beach. Better not try to land or I'll have to call the cops."
The boat drifted toward shore.
"I think that's a girl in it," Glinda said.
"Didn't you hear me? Private beach. It's posted." Shane Billiken pointed at the signs.
The boat kept coming.
"You'd better stay here," he told Glinda.
"Be careful," she called after him.
Shane Billiken pounded down to the slapping waves. The heat cooked the bare soles of his feet, but he shrugged it off. He had learned to walk over hot coals back in the late seventies when the psychic thing looked to crash and he was considering a lateral career slide into a straight carnival act.
"I said turn back, whoever you are."
The boat was very close now. It was not made of fiberglass, which it would have been had it been some pampered Southern California teenager's boat. Nor was it wood. The hull was dark and ratty like dry vines. They appeared to have been braided. The sail was a faded gold rag. There were holes in it. The boat had taken a terrible pounding, as if it had made an ocean crossing, which Shane Billiken realized was impossible. It was too small. Obviously unseaworthy.
As it drifted in closer, Shane Billiken saw water sloshing at the bottom of the boat. It was not much from being awash. The sole occupant was huddled on a shelf in front of the tiller.
It was then that Shane Billiken got a clear look at her. It was a girl, perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two. She wore a faded kirtlelike garment that had been discolored by salt and sun. Her hair was all over her face. It was long and black and lustrous, in spite of the flecks of dried salt that clung here and there.
"Speak English?" Shane suddenly asked. It was her face that made him ask the question. At first he thought she was Asian. There was something about her skin-a golden brown like poured honey. But her eyes were not slanted. They weren't round like Caucasian eyes either. They were exotic, and as black as hot little balls of tar.
"I said, do you speak English? Speakee English?"
The girl didn't answer. She was too busy at the tiller. It was obvious that she was trying to beach the boat before it swamped. Shane Billiken plunged out into the surf.
"Whoa," he said as he grabbed the shattered bow. It felt like a basket in his hands. Reeds, he thought. This is a reed boat.
"Lemme help," he said. The girl shrank from his voice. She looked at him in a curious mixture of fear and wonderment.
"Help," he repeated, "Me help you." He pointed to himself and then at the girl. He worked his way along the hull. The girl retreated to the other side. The water was up to Billiken's waist.
"What's wrong with you? I want to help. Comprende? No, that's Spanish. Damn. I don't know any Hawaiian or Polynesian or whatever it is you speak."
Shane took hold of the braided rail and started pushing the craft toward shore. A wave came up and sloshed his neck. The next one tossed brackish seawater into his mouth.
"Hell's bells!" he snarled. "I'm not getting anyplace." He shook his head and swore again. The sunglasses fell from his face and disappeared into the water.
"Now see what you made me do? Those were my trademark. "
Despite the violence of his voice, the girl's expression changed. The fear evaporated. The wonderment remained, but she seemed no longer afraid.
For the first time, she spoke.
"Alla dinna Dolla-Dree," she said musically.
"Same to you," said Shane Billiken, spitting salt from his mouth. He was trying to feel for his shades with his toes. He found them when a wave knocked the boat against his chest, and it was all he could do to hold on to the boat. His feet dug into the silty sea bottom. He felt plastic break under one foot.
Swearing, he started to push the boat for shore. Gradually he got it moving. The girl took hold of the tiller, steadying it so that the craft didn't drag.
The water was down around Shane Billiken's knees when the keel grated the sand. He shoved the boat from behind and got the prow onto dry beach.
"Okay, come on. Out of there," Shane ordered, offering his hand.
The girl stood up and shook her skirt. Salt water had stiffened it. Shane noticed that the cloth was of a very coarse weave, and when he reached out to help her onto the beach, his forearms brushed it. It felt like sandpaper. But along the edges of the hem and collar and shortened sleeves was decorative stitching. He touched them instinctively. It was like touching metal wire.
"Silver," he breathed.
"Berra yi Moo. Hakka Banda. Sinanchu. Sinanchu, danna?"
"Babe, I haven't a clue what you're saying, but my name's Shane. Me, Shane. Get it?"
"Sinanchu, danna?"
"Is that your name, Sinanchu?" Shane asked.
The girl grabbed his arm eagerly and spewed out a torrent of words: "Se, Sinanchu. Ho cinda ca Sinanchu. Kapu Moo an Dolla-Dree."
"Whoa, slow down. I don't savvy. What's this?"
The girl was digging under her skirt. Shane Billiken noticed that she had great legs. Better than Glinda's. Come to think of it, her face was prettier than Glinda's. He stared up at the sundeck. Glinda waved back at him. Yes, definitely better than Glinda. And all her parts were probably organic, too. No plastic augmentation.
The girl dug something from under her skirt. It was a leather pouch. It was hung from a string. The pouch rattled when she shook it. She opened it and dug out a handful of fat silvery coins. They resembled old-fashioned silver dollars.
She offered some to Shane.
"Bama hree Sinanchu?" she asked.
"Yeah, right," muttered Shane Billiken. He examined the coins. They were crude. He could see the marks of hammering. Probably handmade. On one side there was the profile of a man who wore a crown. On the other was a fish. Maybe a shark. The fish side was ringed with incised lettering. Shane didn't recognize the script.
"Sinanchu, danna?"
"No comprenda," said Shane Billiken. He shook his head. "No savvy. No. No."
The excited expression fled from the girl's face. She snatched back the coins and replaced them inside the pouch. The pouch then disappeared under her skirt. Shane Billiken watched every move, marveling at her slim honeygold legs.