Free Dead Anyway by Chris Knopf Page A

impressive progress. You have a strong will. What was it, car accident?”
    The unexpected accuracy of the reading was nearly rendered cartoonish by her accent, though not enough to dampen the jolt.
    “Hit and run,” I said. “How’d you know?”
    She smirked.
    “What do you think, we’re a bunch of amateurs here?”
    This was the second time she referred to her operation in the plural. I wondered if it was a royal “we” or someone else was watching nearby.
    “No ma’am. So what do you see in the future?”
    “For me, a new water heater, if that puddle in the basement is any sign. But that’s not what you mean. For you, not so sure. You’re not very nervous, so I wonder why you want to get your fortune read. Most people are usually quivering over their fates. Do you have a pulse?”
    She felt down along my wrist, stopping to press two fingers between ligaments and veins.
    “Very strong and steady,” she said. “But too slow. What happened to your head?”
    I involuntarily reached up with my other hand and touched where I thought my hat concealed the little crater in my skull. All I felt was the hat fabric.
    “Not outside,” said Francine, “inside. Never felt such a quiet landscape. Not barren, but still.”
    I almost pulled my hand away, but caught myself. Francine must have felt it anyway. She looked up at me.
    “Don’t worry, I can’t actually read minds. Not exactly. Especially a mind like yours. It’s like a bank vault. You aren’t planning on robbing a bank, are you?”
    “What if I was? Could you tell me how to launder the money?”
    She scowled.
    “I can tell you how to launder your shirts, buddy, and that’s about it.”
    “I know that isn’t true,” I said.
    “Now who’s trying to read minds?”
    She gripped my wrist a little firmer and closed her eyes. Her fingers felt warm and slightly slick, as if from inadequately absorbed hand cream. When she opened her eyes, she stared right into mine.
    “I’m not safe with you,” she said, calmly. “Where did you come from?”
    “California.”
    “Not that kind of place. A place of the heart. What you came from was cold, dark and a little insane. But you’re sane enough now, aren’t you?”
    “Perfectly.”
    “No. Not perfectly. You just think you are.” She let go of my wrist and I pulled back my hand. “You aren’t here for your fortune. You want something else from me.”
    “I want a conversation,” I said. “Though not with you.”
    She tapped out a little rhythm on the table with her fingers, a series of impatient triplets.
    “That’ll cost you a lot more than a hundred dollars,” she said.
    “Though not as much as it’ll cost you if you don’t agree.”
    She withdrew further back into her chair, folding her arms and squeezing herself.
    “I must be getting senile, not seeing this coming,” she said.
    I put my hand back on the table, palm up.
    “Take it again,” I said.
    She leaned forward and took it, pressing her thumb into my wrist.
    “Do I mean what I say?” I asked.
    After a slight delay, she nodded.
    “You do.”
    “I want to talk to Mr. Frondutti. Here is a phone number. I want him to call me at exactly six P . M . tonight. If he doesn’t, I can predict your future with exact precision.”
    She twitched and let go of my hand as if it had turned into a burning coal.
    “I don’t tell the man what to do,” she said.
    “Then it would be his loss.”
    “His? What about me? What’re you going to do, blow up my house? Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with? Do you think you could do worse to me than he could?”
    “Yes,” I said, without hesitation.
    She put her hand up to her mouth and opened her eyes as wide as they would go. Then she nodded, the message understood.
    I got up without another word and left, making a sharp right outside the door and another into an alley that connected with the parking lot of a big drugstore. I started the Subaru with the remote control. Gave it less than a