"They damn well better be charged!" Lyle said. "They tried to kill me with that gun!"
"She pretty quick on her feet, ain't she," Charlie said.
"Yeah. Too quick, maybe."
That harpy had turned what should have been humiliation into a publicity stunt. Lyle wondered if he would have been quick enough to do the same.
Charlie said, "Ay, yo, leastways now she got something else to think about besides us."
"Yeah. She and the mister have got to be worried about that gun. But even if they skate on that, maybe all this publicity'll help her pick up enough new business so she'll stop caring about the clients we siphoned off."
Charlie grinned. "She ain't gonna be so crazy about one new client comin' in today, know'm sayin'?"
"You mean Jack."
"Yeah, my whodi, Jack."
"You really like him, don't you."
Charlie nodded. "I first saw him I'm thinkin', this the guy gonna pull our butts outta the fire? Nuh-uh. But was I off. My bad. He rag out like some kinda bama, but he the furilla gorilla, bro."
Lyle felt a twinge of jealousy at the admiration in his little brother's voice.
"Think he's up to putting Madame Pomerol in her place?"
Charlie shrugged. "Sure had her in her place last night, yo. We checked her appointments when we was over her 'temple.' She got four flush fish set for a group sitting this afternoon. Jack gonna try to wheedle his way in." He grinned. "And that's when the fun'll begin, know'm sayin'?"
"We should be doing our own Sunday sittings," Lyle said. They'd been over this countless times before, but he couldn't help bringing it up again. "It would be a big day for us. People are home, it's a spiritual day, and if they're not going to church, maybe they'd come here."
Charlie's grin vanished. "I told you, Lyle, you do a sittin' on a Sunday, you do it without me. I hope someday I be forgiven for what I help you do the other six days of the week, but I know I'll burn in hell sure for luring Godfearing folks away from praising the Lord on a Sunday. If I ever—"
Lyle started as a voice spoke from the adjoining room. He gripped the edge of the table and was halfway to his feet when he recognized Bugs Bunny.
"The TV," he said, feeling his muscles start to uncoil. For some reason it had suddenly blared to life. He glanced at Charlie. "You got the remote in your pocket or something?"
Charlie shook his head. "No way. Never touched it."
They both jumped at the sound of gunfire, then Lyle realized that too came from the TV. He might have laughed then, but it wasn't funny. The TV room was what remained of the old dining room, which used to connect to what was now the waiting room, but they'd closed off the opening during the remodeling. No way in or out of the TV room now except through here, the kitchen.
Lyle stared at his brother for an uneasy moment, then he picked up a knife and straightened to his feet. No way anyone could be in there, but it never hurt to be ready.
"Let's go see what's up."
Knife held low against his thigh, Lyle stepped into the next room, but found it empty. On the screen the early, long-snouted Bugs was taunting a shotgun-toting Elmer Fudd. Lyle spotted the Cartoon Network logo nestled in the lower right corner.
"You been watching cartoons?" he asked Charlie.
"Not lately."
He glanced around, found the remote on the recliner, and hit the number of the Weather Channel. "Might as well see what the weather's going to be."
The Weather Channel came on, but the set immediately flipped back to the Cartoon Network. Lyle tried again, with the same result. Annoyed now, he punched random numbers, but the set always returned to the Cartoon Network.
"What is this shit?"
He went to the window and peered outside.
"What you looking for?" Charlie said.
"Oh, I've heard stories of pranking kids using a universal remote on a neighbor's set."
The yard was empty.
"Yo, maybe it the Fosters, you know, messing with our heads again."
"This seems too petty, even for them. Besides, I'm pretty sure they've got other things on their minds this morning."
Hell with it, he thought, and hit the power button.
The screen went dark. But a second later it buzzed to life again. He hit power half a dozen times in a row but the damn set kept turning itself back on.
Charlie said, "Lemme deal with this."
He reached behind the set and pulled the power plug, killing the picture.
Lyle held out a hand for a five. "Now why didn't I think of—"
They both jumped as the screen lit again, this time with Jerry the mouse flattening the head of Tom the cat with a frying pan. Lyle pointed to the plug in Charlie's hand.
"You must have pulled the wrong one."
"The other's the VCR. Look at it. The display still lit."
"Pull it anyway."
Charlie reached back and yanked out the other cord, but Tom and Jerry kept up their nonstop mayhem.
Charlie threw down the cords as if they were live snakes. "I'm geese, man."
"Hey, don't bail on me. You're the electronics guru here. Figure this out." But Charlie kept moving, disappearing into the kitchen. "Where you going?"
"Where I go every Sunday at ten: church. You should give it a shot, bro, because there ain't nothin' electronic wrong with that TV. It's haunted, yo, know'm sayin'? Haunted?"
Lyle turned and watched the cartoon characters race about on the screen of the unplugged TV. After the last couple of night's crazy visions of Charlie with a hole in his chest, Lyle had begun to wonder if he might be cracking up. But he wasn't imagining this TV thing. They'd both seen it.
No way he was buying into a haunted TV set, though. There had to be an explanation, a rational one—like some kind of battery inside—and he was going to find it.
Lyle headed for the garage and his toolbox…
3
Jack sat in the rear of Julio's and sized up his latest potential customer. The man had introduced himself simply as Edward, without offering his last name, a precaution Jack could appreciate.
A few of the regulars were already at the bar getting their first dose of the day. Morning sun filtered through the funeral procession of dead ferns, Wandering Jews, and spider plants lining the front window, then moved on to light up the cloud of tobacco smoke hovering over the bar. Jack's was the only table without the burden of upended chairs. The relatively cool air back here in the shadows wouldn't last; the day was promising to be a scorcher. Julio had opened the rear door for cross ventilation, to waft out the smell of stale beer before he had to close up and turn on the AC.
He approached now with a coffee pot.
"You want anything in the Java, meng?" he said as he refilled Jack's cup. "Little hair o' the dog?"
Julio had his name on the front window. He was short and muscular, with a pencil-line mustache. And he stank.
"Had a canine-free night," Jack said, and tried to ignore the odor. He'd got his first cup up front, which Julio had poured from the far side of the bar. He hadn't noticed the smell then.
Julio shrugged and turned to the customer. "Top you off?"
"That would be lovely," Edward said with a Barry Fitzgerald brogue.
Come to think of it, he sort of looked a little like Barry Fitzgerald too: sixty-five, maybe even seventy from the look of his gnarled hands, white hair, compact frame, twinkling blue eyes. He was oddly dressed: on top he wore a graying T-shirt that might have been white once but had spent too many cycles in with the dark wash; below the waist he was dressed for a funeral with black suit pants—shiny in the seat from wear—and black socks and shoes. He'd brought a large manila envelope that lay between them on the table.
Edward frowned and sniffed. He rubbed his nose and looked around for the source of the odor. Jack felt he had to say something.