Free Grimrose Path by Rob Thurman Page B

could let a human do a trickster’s work and not lose any sleep over it.
    Second, there was the real thing. Usually human and connected to a plane of existence only they could see. To them, the world was one huge clock... every piece doing its part, every cog turning, and everything as it should be, no matter how horrible. They would never tell you ahead of time, but they’d smile sorrowfully as that bus finally ran your granny down and pat you on the back with a “There, there. What’s meant to be is meant to be. But cheer up. She’s one with the universe now.”
    Big comfort.
    Big asses . . . but technically I couldn’t punish them, but that didn’t mean I didn’t want to.
    Third was also the real deal, but they didn’t give a damn about philosophy or fate, Granny or the bus. They only wanted cold hard cash, and I understood that. You paid for something and they gave it to you. Trouble was, the second kind of psychics were right—as much as you might want to hate them for it. Things couldn’t be changed. What will be . . . Well, everyone knows the rest of that saying. But these third kind of psychics would tell you. The second type wouldn’t mention Granny and the bus. You’d find out in the fullness of time and they’d give you your money back with a smile of pity. They dealt in the light and the way, and that way, the best they’d discovered so far, happened to be blissful ignorance. Number three had no such compunction. Not only would he or she tell you about Granny but they’d even tell you the number of the bus that was going to run her muumuuloving, orthopedic-shoe-wearing self down. Then they’d put your money away and shove you out the door to make room for the next client. The bastards wouldn’t even bother to give you a Kleenex on your way out. And they definitely didn’t leave you any money to soak up those tears either.
    That’s why I used only the third kind. They were sons of bitches, but they told you the truth, all of it. But I made absolutely sure that I wanted to know the truth before asking. Once it was out there, there was no taking it back, no matter how much you wanted to. That meant I didn’t use psychics often. They weren’t worth the pain or the money, and I usually could guess the future as clearly as they could see it. And the times that I couldn’t, when people died . . . family died, it would be too bad for the psychic I was with when I lost control because I couldn’t accept what they told me.
    Fate. If you can’t accept it, don’t tempt it.
    “You’re late,” came the complaint as soon as I walked into the bar.
    “Galileo,” I sighed, dumping my bag and taking him in as he finished off his—I counted the plates—seventh plate of potato skins and cheese sticks. “You’re looking . . . your handsome usual self.”
    Four hundred and fifty pounds if he was an ounce, he beamed over four double chins and patted greasy fingers on his Hawaiian shirt that sported hula girls and rather obscene monkeys peering up the grass skirts. “You know what they say at the Vatican, the sun doesn’t revolve around the earth. It revolves around me.”
    I sat down opposite him, wondering idly for a moment if I could actually feel the pull of a gravity well, then got down to the matter at hand, because, quite frankly, the less of Galileo I had to put up with, the better. He might come off cheerful as Santa on vacation, feeding the slots and catching a show, but he was a shark through and through for his forty-some years. Too bad for him that made him about six inches long with a teeny tiny dorsal fin and sitting across from Jaws. “I need to ask you a question. I’d ask how much, but I believe you’ve already eaten your fee and then some.” I flicked a finger against one of the plates to make a ringing note hover in the air. “So I’m thinking we’ll make this an even trade.”
    He laughed and smoothed a plump hand over what few black strands he had left for a seven-inch