"Done deal," Charlie said. "But what you got going?"
"A sting. If things go right, I hope to tempt Madame Pomerol into pulling the old Spanish handkerchief switch on me."
Charlie frowned. "Spanish handkerchief? Whuddat?"
"An old Gypsy con," Lyle said. "And I do mean old. Probably been running a couple hundred years now, and grifters are still working updated versions on the street." He looked at Jack. "But how's that—?"
"Once she sets up the switch on me, I'm going to work a double switch right back at her—one with a nasty barb at the end."
"Okay, but I still don't see what that's gonna do for us—me and Charlie."
Jack held his hands high like a preacher. "Have faith, my sons, have faith. I can't tell you all the details because I haven't figured them out yet. But trust me, if this works, it will be a sting of beauty."
Charlie handed Jack the printout. "You a natural at this. Why ain't you still in?"
Jack hesitated. "You really want to know?"
"Yeah."
You're not going to like this, he thought.
"I got out because I found it an empty enterprise. I wanted to be doing something where I gave value for value."
"We give value," Lyle said, a bit too quickly.
Charlie shook his head. "No we don't, bro. You know we don't."
Lyle appeared to be at a loss for words, a new experience for him, perhaps.
Finally he shrugged and said, "I could use a beer. Anyone else?"
Jack had a sense this was mere courtesy—did Lyle want him to leave?—but took him up on it anyway. A beer would be good right now, and maybe he could find out why he was so on edge.
Instead of drinking in the kitchen as they had last night, Lyle sat him down in the waiting room. And like last night, Charlie had a Pepsi.
"So," Jack said after they'd popped their tops and toasted the coming downfall of Madame Pomerol, "what kind of electrical problem you having?"
Lyle shrugged it off. "Nothing serious."
"Yeah right," Charlie said. "Like a haunted TV ain't serious."
Lyle glared at his brother. "No such thing as haunted anything, bro."
"Then what—?"
Lyle held up a hand. "We'll talk about it later."
Haunted TV? Sounded interesting. Then again, maybe not if that meant it played nothing but "Casper the Friendly Ghost" cartoons.
"Anything I can do?"
"I'll straighten it out," Lyle said, but he didn't look convincing.
"Sure?"
"If I may quote: 'Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, the gnomed mine.'"
"The gnomed mine… gnomed with a G?"
Lyle nodded. "With a G."
"I like that."
"It's Keats."
"You're quoting Keats?" Jack laughed. "Lyle, you've got to be the whitest black guy I've ever met."
Jack had expected a laugh, but Lyle's expression darkened instead.
"What? You mean I'm not a real black man because I know Keats? Because I'm well spoken? Only white men are well spoken? Only white men quote Keats? Real black men only quote Ice-T, is that it? I'm not a real black man because I don't dress like a pimp and drive with a gangsta lean, or drape myself in dukey ropes and sit on my front porch swiggin' forties?"
"Hey, easy. I was just—"
"I know what you were just, Jack. You were just acting like somebody who's got this MTV image of what's black, and if a guy doesn't fit that he's some kind of oreo. You're not alone. Plenty of black guys look at me that way too. Even my own brother. Better get over it—you and him and them. It's a white man's world, but just because I'm making it in that world doesn't mean I'm trying to become white. I may not have a degree, but I've audited enough courses to qualify for one. I'm educated. Just because I didn't major in Black Studies doesn't make me a whitey wannabe; and just because I refuse to let the lowest black common denominators define me doesn't make me an Uncle Tom."
"Whoa!" Jack held up his hands. He felt as if he'd stepped on a mine. "Sorry. Wasn't looking to offend."
Lyle closed his eyes and took a breath. When he let it out he looked at Jack. "I know you weren't. You didn't deserve that. I apologize."
"I'm sorry. You're sorry." Jack rose and extended his hand. "I guess that makes us even then?"
"Even." Lyle's smile was tinged with embarrassment as they shook. "See you tomorrow. I'll have the first half of your fee ready."
Jack tossed off the rest of his beer and headed out, making a mental note: Lyle Kenton = short fuse.
7
As soon as Jack was out the door Lyle grabbed Charlie's arm and dragged him toward the TV room.
"You've got to see this."
Charlie snatched his arm free. "Yo, what up with you, bro? Whatchu go and gaffle Jack like that for?"
Lyle felt bad about that. Jack had said white and he'd seen red.
"I'm a little on edge, okay? A lot on edge. I apologized, didn't I?"
"You mad at him for what he say 'bout value for value?"
"No. Of course not."
Not mad… but it had stung. Maybe that was why he'd gone off about the "whitest black guy" remark.
Lyle didn't kid himself. He was a flimflam man, but he wasn't a cad. He didn't go after people who couldn't afford it—no poor widows and the like. His fish were bored heiresses, nouveau riche artists, yuppies looking for a New-Age thrill, and dowagers seeking to contact their dead poodles in the great boneyard of the Afterlife. They'd probably spend the money on a trip to Vegas or another fur coat or a diamond or the latest status toy—like so many of his clients who never eat at home but simply must have a Sub-Zero refrigerator in their kitchen.
"And why keep this licked TV a CIA secret?"
"Our business. Not his."
More than that, he didn't want to distract Jack with any of their side problems. Keep him focused on getting Madame Pomerol out of their lives, that was the most important thing.
"Take a look."
He led Charlie to the entryway of the room and stopped. He let him see the basketball game that was running on the set.
"Yo, it stopped playing the Cartoon Network. What you do?"
"Nothing. It switched on its own." He watched his brother's face. "Okay. You spotted that. What else do you see?"
His gaze lowered to the floor. "All kinda circuit boards and junk." He glanced at Lyle. "You been messin' with my stuff?"
Lyle shook his head. "That's all from inside the set."
"Inside?"
"Uh-huh. I took it apart after you left. Damn near cleaned out the box. Practically nothing but the tube left in there, but it keeps on running. Still unplugged, by the way."
He saw Charlie's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "You messin' wit' me now, ain't you."
"Wish I were."
Lyle had had most of the day to adjust to the craziness of their TV, but watching it still gave him a crawly sensation in his gut.
"Hey," Charlie said slowly, staring at the screen. "Who that playing?" He stepped closer. "That look like… it is—Magic Johnson with the Lakers."
"You finally noticed."
"What you got on—Sports Classics?"
Lyle handed him the remote. "Flip around the channels. See what you get."
Charlie did just that, and wound up on CNN where a couple of talking heads were discussing Irangate.
"Irangate? Whuzzat?"
"Something that happened when you were too young to care." Lyle barely remembered it himself. "Keep surfing."
Next stop was a close-up of a big-haired blonde crying so hard her make-up was running down her cheeks.
Charlie's eyes widened. "Ain't that…? What's her name?"
"Tammy Faye Baker," Lyle said. He'd known what to expect, but even so, his mouth was growing drier by the minute. "Keep going."