"So she can't like, predict the future?"
"At times, yes. But we must remember that any special knowledge she might have comes from the spirits, and they do not tell her everything."
"Well, I ain't connected with no religious group. No worry there. I'm here because I got some important questions for my uncle. I can't ask him myself—him being dead and all—so I figured I need a psychic type."
This was Jack's cover story. He'd make an appointment for tomorrow but wouldn't keep it.
"What sort of questions?" Foster asked nonchalantly as he moved behind the desk.
There's a good helper, Jack thought. Finding out as much as he can in advance.
He smiled but let an edge creep into his tone. "If I thought you could answer them, I wouldn't need Madame Pomerol, would I?"
Foster forced a good-natured laugh. "No, I suppose not. Who referred you to Madame Pomerol, by the way?"
"Referred? No one. I read about her in the paper this morning. I figured if she was tight enough with the spirits that they're playing tricks on her, then she's the lady for me."
Foster nodded as he pulled a sheet of paper from the desk's top drawer. He indicated the chair on the other side.
"Please have a seat and fill out this questionnaire."
"What for?"
"Just a formality. It's a nuisance, I know, but as I explained, circumstances have forced us into screening our clients." He handed Jack a pen. "Please fill that out completely while I go get the appointment book and see about setting up your private reading."
"By the way," Jack said, "what's a private session cost?"
"Five hundred dollars for a half hour; one thousand for an hour."
Jack parked his gum in his cheek and gave a low whistle. "Pretty damn steep."
"She is the best," Foster said.
"I'll be counting on that."
Jack watched Foster leave, then turned his attention to the form, pretending to study it. He knew he was on camera. The overhead smoke detector housed a wide-angle mini-cam; he'd seen the monitor in one of the back rooms last night. He figured Foster was watching him now, waiting to see if he rifled through any of the desk drawers. But Jack already had been through them and knew they held nothing but pens, paper clips, and questionnaires.
The camera was a good way to check out a potential sitter who was an unknown quantity, but it also came in handy when using the three microphones that had been installed here and there about the room. Sitters tend to yak it up before a group session, allowing an eavesdropping medium to pick up invaluable information; but it wasn't really useful if you didn't know who was talking.
"What's going on out there?" he heard Madame Pomerol say through the tiny speaker in his ear piece. "Who's the dork?"
"New fish."
"Well, reel the fucker in, baby. Reel him in."
Yeah, Jack thought. Reel me in.
The questionnaire contained a run of standard intake questions—name, address, phone numbers, and so on—but tucked into the middle was a box for the client's Social Security Number.
Jack suppressed a smile. Yeah, right. He had a collection of SSNs, none of them legitimately his, but he wasn't about to use one of them here. He wondered how many people, in zipping through the form, unthinkingly filled in that blank along with all the others, unaware of the wealth of information, financial and otherwise, it laid open to the medium.
Jack had used the Bob Butler name because he'd once met a Robert Butler who lived in the Millennium Towers, a high-rent high-rise in the West Sixties. He wrote in that address and put down one of his own voice mail numbers for home phone.
Foster returned with the appointment book. Jack watched his eyes as he scanned the almost completed questionnaire, and saw an instant of disappointed narrowing—the blank SSN box, no doubt. But Foster said nothing. Wise. Better not to make an issue of the omission and risk showing too much interest in a client's worldly status.
"Now," Foster said, seating himself behind the desk, "I believe we can squeeze you in for half an hour on Tuesday. Would three o'clock be convenient?"
"How about now?"
"Oh, I'm afraid that's impossible. Madame has a group reading at three."
"Well, why don't I sit in on that?"
"That would not do. These four clients always book readings together. An outsider at the table would upset the spiritual dynamics Madame has worked so hard to establish. Quite impossible, I'm afraid."
This guy loved the word impossible. But Jack had something he was sure he'd like more.
"Oh, I don't want to take part in the session," Jack said, unbuttoning his shirt's left breast pocket. "I just want to watch. Won't say a word. I just want to be a, you know, fly on the wall. And I'm willing to pay for the privilege."
Before Foster could say impossible again, Jack slapped a coin onto the desktop. It landed with a weighty thunk. He saw instant recognition in Foster's eyes and watched his raised eyebrows stretch even further into his forehead when he saw the galloping antelope stamped into its gleaming gold surface. A one-ounce Krugerrand. He didn't have to know the spot price of gold to realize that this newcomer was offering a hefty price to be a mere observer.
"That's gold, Carl. And gold is what my uncle told me is the best way of dealing with the spirit world."
"That's very generous, Mr. Butler," Foster said, licking his lips—the sight of gold did that to some people. "Tell me: Did your uncle have many dealings with the spirit world?"
"All the time. Never met a medium he didn't like, is what my aunt used to say."
"And how about you?"
"Me? This'll be the first time I've been within a mile of a séance."
"Do you have any idea what to expect?"
"My uncle once mentioned seeing ectoplasm and stuff like that, but I was never sure what that was all about."
Foster reached out a finger and touched the coin. "I hope you realize it's a most unusual request."
He'd taken the bait. Now Jack had to set the hook.
"I wouldn't know about that. Way I figure, it's gonna take me a while to work out these issues with my uncle. A half-hour session won't hack it. I'm going to need hours of sessions, a bunch of them. But before I invest that kind of dough, I want to know what I'm getting into. I want a look at what the lady's offering. If I'm convinced she's the real deal, then I'll make an appointment for the next available slot she's got free so we can get to work tracking down my uncle in the Great Hereafter. That sound fair to you, Carl?"
"What I think doesn't matter," Foster said. "It's all up to Madame. I'll go ask her."
As Foster disappeared again, Jack leaned back and listened.
"You heard?" he said to his wife.
"Yeah, I heard. And he wants to pay with gold?"
"The real thing. Take a look."
"Lotta money just to sit and watch and get nothing out of it. You think this fucker's on the up and up?"
"Well, he's put hard currency where his mouth is. And maybe a Krugerrand's no big deal to him. Maybe he's got a closet full of them."
"All right. Let's do it. But keep him away from the table, in case he's some kinda nut case."
"Will do."
When I'm finished, Jack thought, you'll wish I'd been a nut case.
Foster returned and told Jack, yes, he could observe the group reading as long as he agreed to remain in his seat and speak not a word. Jack agreed and the Krugerrand went into Carl Foster's pocket.
He cooled his heels awhile till the sitters showed up for the group reading. The four middle-aged women, two blondes—one heavy, one a bulimia poster girl—a brunette, and a redhead arrived as a group, all oozing Prada, Versace, and other overpriced designer wear he didn't recognize. On Jack's visit here last night he'd found dollar signs drawn next to their names in one of the Fosters' notebooks. Not only did these four book regular sessions, but they were very generous with their "love donations."