She got him started on the basics: socks, gloves, a casual, not-too-fancy sweater that had pockets and zipped up the front, two hats: a wool cap—without a ball on top—to wear out in the yard, and a very male western hat for looking studly. He picked out a scarf to go with the hat, something that would give him that rugged, Louis L’Amour look once he got a hefty, fur-collared coat. “I’d try Borris’s Western Wear for that,” she said. “Up on 95. And if you need long underwear, try Inland Outfitters. They have a whole line of polypros, a lot less bulky. And boots, too—and I don’t mean galoshes, I mean a man’s kind of boot.”
So there, he’d done some shopping after a whole lot of traipsing. He stepped out onto Sherman Avenue with the western hat on his head, the gloves on his hands, and the rest of his new stuff in a shopping bag, feeling as much better as new stuff could make him feel, which wasn’t a whole lot.
The wind moved up the street, fluttering the leaves still on the ornamental trees and scattering those on the sidewalk, and there was that October chill, a little warning nip on his face to trouble him, Are you ready? Are you ready?
“No,” he answered.
He knew where he’d parked his newly purchased, low-mileage, extended cab Dodge pickup with four-wheel drive—his replacement for the BMW—but he just plain didn’t want to go there. That rig, just like the hat on his head and the bag in his gloved hand, struck him now as so much a part of this whole reefing, wrenching, uprooting change that he’d only made worse by moving here in the first place. What in the heck was he thinking?
The cold wind nipped at him again. No, he wasn’t ready. He might never be.
The wind swept the heat from him; he could feel the cold through his light jacket, his Vegasjacket. Fine, he would go pick up a coat, maybe some long underwear and boots, and then head back home to his big, stupid, empty house.
“Hey, meester! Vould you li-eek to see a treek?”
The tacky street Gypsy with her card tricks. He’d seen her across the street earlier, flourishing those cards and accosting people for tips. He’d managed to avoid her until now.
She fanned the cards, then held them like a fan, undulating in a standing dance, her long skirt trailing after her hips, and her arms making snaky moves. She thrust the cards toward him, her bracelets jangling. “Seelect a card, eenee card!”
This was so bad. The Spanish blouse and secondhand shawl, the cartoony flowered head scarf, the cheap jewelry and stage makeup as thick as a mask—in October, in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho? From here he could see maybe four people out on the street, certainly en route to somewhere indoors. No one was lingering on the sidewalk benches, and the eating establishments had pulled in their sidewalk tables and chairs. Maybe this town didn’t have any busking ordinances, but for this poor girl’s sake it should. She was in sandals. She wasn’t wearing a coat, only her costume. Her hands were red from the cold, and a drop was forming on her nose.
Oh, all right, he felt sorry for her. He pulled a card from the fanned deck.
She waved her hand in front of his face in a magical, hypnotic gesture, “Do not let me see eet! Study zee card! Write eet een your my-yeend!”
Six of clubs.
She’d squared up half the deck and directed him with a witchy finger to place his card on top. As he stood there, drawing upon his dwindling patience and getting a bit cold himself, she went through the routine, shuffling, counting, flashing cards around. He knew the trick, and she wasn’t doing it very well. The six of clubs was in the stack of cards she placed in his hand, not in the five—actually, four—she kept.
“Now”—she backed away for the big finish—“I haff not touched you, no?”
“No.”
“Tell me eef you feel somezing.” She tightened her lips, got buggy-eyed, and flexed the cards in her hand with an audible snap. “Zere! Deed you feel zat?”
Well. What would he want his subject to say? “I think maybe I felt something, yes.”
“Look!” She spread out the five cards faceup—except now there were only four. “Oh, what ees zees? I have only four cards!”
He could have acted more surprised. “Oh, well, look at that.”
“I have dawn eet! I have sent your card to yoo!”
He raised an eyebrow for effect and looked down at the deck in his hand.
“Look through zem! Now!”
He fanned through the cards, all facedown except …
“Hey!” The six of clubs, faceup among the others.
“A good treek, yes?”
He smiled at the cards in his hand, then gave them back. “Yeah. Good trick.” He turned to leave.
She had a can on a lanyard around her neck, and gave it a little shake, jingling some coins. From the sound he could tell business had not been good.
He reached for his wallet. “Aren’t you getting cold out here?”
That must have made her think of her nose. She dabbed it with a corner of her shawl. “I do not my-yeend.” Her other hand was holding out that can expectantly, and her eyes were full of hope.
He fumbled his gloves off, then pulled out a twenty and dropped it into the can.
Her eyes got big—they looked even bigger under all that eye shadow. Obviously a twenty was a new experience. Maybe paper money was a new experience. “Ohh! Sank you! Sank you, sir!” She was starting to hunch her shoulders and cross her arms against the cold.
“Better call it a day. You’re going to catch pneumonia out here.” He turned to walk away.
“Oh, but wait!”
Now he’d done it. She was following him. “Vould you lie-yeek to see anozair treek?”
He wanted to say no without slowing or turning around, but that would have been mean, and here she was all by herself and the Bible always had something to say about caring for the poor, and … He stopped. She caught up with him, wielding that deck of cards and looking up at him with imploring eyes. Blue eyes on a Gypsy!
“I know anozair! You weel love eet!”
He studied her face under all that makeup. She was very hard not to like, and so young. He shouldn’t be encouraging this. “Gal, you really need to find another line of work. You shouldn’t be out here on the street all by yourself.”
She must have been very hungry, too. She was starting another trick already. “Zees ty-yeem you just touch a card, eenee card …”
He held up his hand. “Wait.”
“Eet ees a good treek!”
He grabbed his wallet and fished out another twenty. “Let’s do that other one again.”
That befuddled her. “Oh, meester, I cannot—”
“Do the same trick twice, I know. But … if I may …”
She was looking at him warily, her weight shifted away from him. He planted the second twenty in her tip can. She still looked suspicious.
“Your fingers are getting cold, aren’t they?”
She looked at her hands and gave a little shrug of denial.
“I could see the steal when you were counting.” He looked up and down the sidewalk. There was nobody close enough to see or hear anything. “The rest was okay—well, you drew a little attention on that double undercut—don’t watch what you’re doing so much, look your audience in the eye, get them to look at you and not the cards.” He reached tentatively for her hands. “May I?”
She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no either. He showed her a better dealer’s grip, moving her fingers into position around the deck—her fingers were like ice. He showed her how to fan out half and control the first card returned on top of the selected card. He adjusted her little finger as it held a gap in the cards near the back of the deck. “When you set up the break—I know it’s cold out here, but try to use just the tip of your little finger and don’t let me see it. You see there? Tilt the pack up toward my eye level so I don’t see it, and watch for the people on your right. Use your right hand to cover. Now …”
Slowly, one step at a time, he guided her hands through the moves. “Okay, try the count again, and move in deeper with the right hand. That’s it. Right hand covers the steal. Oops, don’t let that edge hang out. Try again. Keep that left hand moving so it draws the heat. They’ll tend to watch the hand that’s moving. There, that’s it!”