Free Falling Angel by William Hjortsberg

connected to the appropriate internal organ by a drooping length of satin ribbon. The stuff linked to the heart was called, “Proudfoot’s Beneficial Belladonna Extract.”
    Over the back wall of the display, I could see into a portion of the store. Fluorescent lights hung from a pressed tin ceiling; old-fashioned glass-fronted wooden shelves ran along the far wall. The swinging of a clock pendulum seemed the only activity.
    I went inside. A smell of burning incense stung the air. Bells tinkled above my head as I shut the door. I took a quick look around. On a revolving metal stand near the entrance a collection of “dream books” and pamphlets addressing the various problems of love competed for the customer’s attention in gaudy multilith jackets. There was a pyramid display of lucky powders packaged in tall cardboard cylinders. Sprinkle some of this stuff on your suit in the morning and the number you pick from your dream book will sure pay off big.
    I was examining the perfumed, colored candles guaranteed to bring good fortune with continued use when a lovely mocha-skinned girl came in from the back room and stood behind the counter. She wore a white smock over her dress and looked about nineteen or twenty. Her wavy, shoulder-length hair was the color of polished mahogany. A number of thin, silver hoops jingled on her fine-boned wrist. “May I help you?” she asked. Just beneath her carefully modulated diction lingered the melodic calypso lilt of the Caribbean.
    I answered off the top of my head: “Have you got any High John the Conqueror root?”
    “Powdered or entire?”
    “I want the whole thing. Isn’t the shape what makes the charm work?”
    “We don’t sell charms, sir. This is an herbal pharmacy.”
    “What do you call the stuff up front?” I asked. “Patent medicine?”
    “We carry a few novelty items. Rexall’s sells greeting cards.”
    “I was joking. Didn’t mean to offend you.”
    “No offense. You tell me how much John the Conqueror you want, and I’ll weigh it out.”
    “Is Miss Proudfoot on the premises?”
    “I’m Miss Proudfoot,” she said.
    “Miss Evangeline Proudfoot?”
    “I’m Epiphany. Evangeline was my mother.”
    “You say was?”
    “Mama died last year.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “She’d been sick for a long time, flat on her back for years. It was best.”
    “She left you a lovely name, Epiphany,” I said. “It fits you.”
    Beneath her coffee-and-milk complexion she flushed slightly. “She left me a good deal more than that. This store’s been making a profit for forty years. Did you do business with mama?”
    “No, we never met. I was hoping she might answer some questions for me.”
    Epiphany Proudfoot’s topaz eyes darkened. “What’re you, some kind of cop?”
    I smiled, the Look alibi engraved on my silver tongue, but I figured she was too smart to buy it, so I said: “Private license. I can show you a photostat.”
    “Never mind your dime-store photostat. Why did you want to talk to mama?”
    “I’m looking for a man named Johnny Favorite.”
    She stiffened. It was as if someone touched the back of her neck with an ice cube. “He’s dead,” she said.
    “No, he’s not, although most people seem to think so.”
    “Far as I’m concerned he’s dead.”
    “Did you know him?”
    “We never met.”
    “Edison Sweet said he was a friend of your mother’s.”
    “That was before I was born,” she said.
    “Did your mother ever talk to you about him?”
    “Surely, Mr… . whoever-you-are, you don’t expect me to betray my mama’s confidences. I clearly see you are not a gentleman.”
    I let that one pass. “Perhaps you can tell me if you or your mother ever saw Johnny Favorite in, say, the last fifteen years or so.”
    “I told you we never met, and I was always introduced to all mama’s friends.”
    I got out my wallet, the one I carry cash in, and gave her my Crossroads card. “Okay,” I said, “it was a long shot anyway.