Free Jack's Black Book by Jack Gantos Page A

written in your palm,” she said, and touched a line. It made my backbone vibrate.
    I didn’t see what she saw, but that’s what I was paying her for. “Will I write about something awful?” I asked.
    â€œYes,” she said.
    â€œI’ve already written about a criminal who threw my typewriter in the water,” I said, bubbling over. “That was pretty awful.”
    â€œWhat I see is worse than that,” she said, sounding very distressed.
    â€œWhat?” I asked. “Is it something with tragic love in it?”
    â€œYes,” she replied sadly. “Tragic, and vastly humiliating.”
    I was thrilled. The more misery on the page, the more money in my pocket, I recited to myself. “When will it happen to me?”
    She stared even harder at my hand. “You won’t have to wait too long,” she said. “It’s coming.”
    â€œTell me more,” I said. “I need the gory details.” I opened my notebook, took out a pen, and was prepared to write down her predictions.
    She began to shuffle through a deck of tarot cards, then laid them out. “Love,” she murmured, as she ran her hands over the pictures. “Love, love, love.” Then she brightened. “Here it is.” She held up the card of an angel, then pressed it against her eyes. “I see a leg,” she moaned.
    â€œA leg. Whose?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” she replied. “I can’t give names. Just clues.” Suddenly Madame Ginger slumped down into her chair like a deflated balloon. “I’m whipped,” she said, and sighed. “A leg is it for today. I need a cup of tea.”
    â€œFor five bucks all I get is a leg?” I asked. “Can you tell me if it’s tall, muscular, skinny, short, thick, bowed, anything?”
    She closed her eyes and tried to squeeze out another vision. “I’ve got it,” she said. “The leg you are looking for is upside down.”
    That confused me even more. “Is it attached to a body?” I asked. “Or has it been severed? That would be really good.”
    â€œDon’t go getting psychotic on me,” she snapped. “You’re too young to be a sicko.”
    I knew that wasn’t true. I changed the subject before she had a vision of what I did to BeauBeau. “Anything about money?”
    â€œYou have a lot of rodents in your financial future,” she said. “Don’t ask me why. Some people have a date with destiny. You have a date with vermin.”
    That depressed me. I could already feel the rats clawing my face. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll let you know how it all turns out.”
    â€œI’ll know before you do,” she said, and slumped back into her chair. “If you need more advice, come see me.”
    â€œOkay,” I promised.
    When I stepped out of her tent I took a deep breath of fresh air. I was allergic to patchouli and coughed up a huge yellow loogie. I spit it out behind her tent. An ant walked onto the loogie and got stuck. I watched closely as it slowly drowned. I bet that’s how amber is made, I thought. Then I strolled over to the Yankee Clipper Hotel to think about the upside-down leg.
    The Yankee Clipper was my favorite hotel because it was shaped like a cruise ship with decks, round windows, and smokestacks. And whenever I sat at the outside patio, on a barstool, with a pair of smoky-blue sunglasses covering half my face, Coke in one hand and black notebook in the other, I felt like a famous American writer, usually F. Scott Fitzgerald, sailing from New York to Paris. He had a brilliant wife named Zelda who went insane and died in a hospital fire. That gave him plenty of tragic material to write about. I didn’t have anything that horrendous in my life, but maybe the upside-down leg could lead to total humiliation. That would be awesome.
    Pete came tapping by to give me the morning