A Rush to Violence (9 page)

She was one of his best friends and perhaps, with the exception of Gloria, the one person he had been closest to the longest. There was a time when he doubted her talents, but that no longer was the case, particularly the last time he went to her for help. She nailed events that were so spot on, his opinion of her and her gifts changed.

He checked his watch and saw that it was just after two. She’d be wrapping up the lunch crowd now. He went to his desk, retrieved the satellite phone, grabbed the manila envelope Carr gave him and then stopped when the thought came to him.

If he went to see anyone with this chip embedded in his shoulder, he could implicate them. He wasn’t certain how accurate the device was, but he wasn’t willing to take a chance that it was inaccurate, and so he knew there would be times when he’d need to temporarily disable it if he was going to protect his friends. But how to do so?

Tape a magnet over it and scramble the signal.

If Carr questioned why the blip that was Marty Spellman suddenly disappeared off their screens, he’d just show him his shoulder, prove the chip was there and say that he must have hit a dead zone. “Just like with cell phones,” he could hear himself saying. “It happens. There’s nothing I can do about it if you want me on these streets trying to find Camille.”

Charged by the idea, he went to the kitchen and looked at the refrigerator. It wasn’t covered with as many colorful drawings as it used to be—his girls now painted on their iPads. But Katie still drew him the occasional picture and when she did, up on the fridge it went. He looked at some of them and tried not to think of the dream he had last night. His daughters were gunned down. So was he, but what did it mean? Stress? Probably. He needed to think it was just stress.

He shook the thought and returned his attention to the fridge.

There were several magnets not in use. He took a thin round one and put it in his pocket. He opened one of the kitchen drawers, retrieved a package of tape and put it in his pocket. He grabbed the manila envelope again and left for the door.

Outwitted by tape and a magnet,
he thought.
Fuck you, Carr.

CHAPTER NINE

The Tarot Café was located in the partitioned basement of an old warehouse on Prince Street. Owned by three psychic sisters from Flatbush, the café served imported coffees and herbal teas, ginseng extracts and mushroom shoots, exotic-looking desserts and homemade breads, soups, sandwiches, as well as glimpses into their clients’ futures.

The latter cost extra.

It was through his ex-wife, Gloria, that Marty came to know about the place, which was narrow and dim and often smelled of freshly baked bread and patchouli oil. And it was through Gloria that he had met the three sisters Buzzinni—Roberta, Carlotta and Gigi.

Initially, he hadn’t believed anything Gloria said about them. When he first met the sisters, he was surprised they had the ability to see beyond their massive breasts, let alone into somebody’s future. But over time, as he got to know them, there were too many coincidences to ignore, too many times when they got it right, too many reasons why he needed to rethink how the universe worked and that some people were gifted in ways he may not comprehend, but could no longer ignore.

Roberta Buzzinni, his favorite of the three sisters, had taken the reins of the café on Prince while Carlotta and Gigi worked to make a success out of their new satellite café on Christopher Street.

When he was three blocks away from Roberta, he found a storefront window and turned to face it. Inside were customers, salespeople. It appeared to be some sort of furniture store. He tucked the manila envelope between his legs, rigged the magnet with tape, reached his hand inside his shirt and pressed the magnet over the bandage to cover the chip. If anyone inside saw him, he didn’t catch it.

When he entered the café, he found Roberta at the far end of the room, near the double set of doors that led to the kitchen. While he wished he could say he was surprised to find her twirling, the truth is that he wasn’t. To her core, she was an eccentric hippie and she’d never change.

In an outstretched hand was a yellow silk scarf that fanned out as she turned, spun and whirled, her double-wide barrel hips gracefully moving in time with the deep rhythms of Middle Eastern music. He leaned against one of the tables and smiled as Roberta dipped and fluttered, the scarf trailing behind her as she looked his way and blew him a kiss.

“Two minutes,” she said breathlessly. “Can’t stop. Favorite part. Sorry.”

Her hand disappeared inside her skirt pocket and she removed a thin stick of incense, which she held in the air as if it was a wand. She passed one of the many empty tables, lowered the stick into the heart of a burning candle and then twirled along with the swirling smoke, which curled in circles around her wide midsection as if some invisible god was blowing smoke rings over her body. When the song came to its crashing finale, she placed her hand on the back of a chair, feigned a weak curtsy and then walked over to a booth and collapsed in the red-padded seat. When Marty sat opposite her, he noted the sweat beading along her forehead and running in a thin trickle down her neck.

“Exercising?” he said.

“Oh, shut up.”

“Was that Zumba or something more exotic?”

“I don’t have the energy for something exotic. And what the hell is Zumba?”

“A fad.”

“Well, that wasn’t a fad. That was art. Did you see the smoke snaking around me? You try that. Parts of it were beautiful. For a moment there, I was a smoking top.”

She reached for the cloth napkin in front of her and tossed it over her face. “Oh, Goddess,” she said. “Please help me lose the chunk. Please make bread go away forever. And pasta. And Gigi’s meatballs. And Carlotta’s cannolis. That would be nice. It also would help.”

“You’re beautiful the way you are.”

“I can’t stand a liar.”

“I also
love
you the way you are.”

She wiped her face with the napkin and he caught a whiff of incense when she moved. It smelled of cinnamon and something else—something sweet—which knowing her, was made of a substance he likely had never heard of.

“Can I get you a glass of water?” he asked.

“The only water I need is in a pool.”

“Can’t help you there.” He picked up one of the menus and started fanning her with it. “How’s that?”

“It’ll only make me hotter.”

“That’s an old wives’ tale.”

Her eyes snapped at him.  “Wives’ tale? I never thought you were against women. Why don’t they call it an old husband’s tale? Why are women always the ones to blame? And why are we always old? It’s wrong.” She reached out to lower his arm so he could fan her bosom and when she did, she was all business. Her eyes widened, she straightened in her seat and her grip tightened on his arm. “Why are you here?”

“You tell me.”

“You’re working another case.”

“The manila envelope give that away?”

“Always the nonbeliever.”

“Not after Wolfhagen.”

“So, who’s the woman with the blonde hair?”

He screwed up his face. “Jennifer?”

“I’m not talking about your wife. I’m talking about the other woman.”

“What other woman?”

“The one you’re looking for.”

“That woman has dark hair.”

“Not anymore she doesn’t. What’s her name?”

“Camille Miller.”

“Camille Miller. She has a daughter? Name sounds like ‘gem.’”

“Her name is Emma. What are you seeing, Roberta?”

She shook her head and her expression darkened. She was punchy a moment ago, but now she looked troubled. “I’m seeing what you usually bring through my door. Anger. Resentment. Bitterness. Betrayal. Nothing good.”

“For who?”

“For you. For others. Why did you come here, Marty?”

“For this.”

“Well, this is a mess. I’d tell you to get out of it, but you can’t, can you?”

“I can’t. So, what do I do?”

Her eyes lifted to his and in them, he saw an older sister’s worry. That’s how close they were. Each considered the other family. They sparred like brother and sister, but when it came down to it, each had the other’s back.

“You need to see it through,” she said.

He pulled out the photograph of Camille and Emma from the manila envelope. He pointed at Camille. “I have seventy-two hours to find her or they murder one of the girls. Rinse and repeat until we’re all dead. Can you get a feel on where she is? I have no starting point. No clues. Just orders to find her or they’ll take action.”

Roberta took the photograph and looked at it. “She’s the one I saw with the blonde hair.” She turned the photo over in her hands and closed her eyes. After a moment, she put it on the table between them. “Why am I seeing a car?”

“The man who gave it to me is named Carr.”

“Stay away from him.”

“Easier said than done.”

“You need to listen to me. The car I saw was burning, which for me either represents evil or something to come. Or both. Probably both.”

“It’s too late.” He patted his shoulder. “With only brief exceptions, I have no getting away from Carr or the men he’s hired.”

“What does that mean?”

“They implanted a chip beneath my skin.”

“They did what?”

“They put me in a limousine, threatened me and punched a chip under my skin.”

“What does it do?”

“It lets them know where I am.”

She couldn’t keep the alarm from her voice. “They know you’re here now?”

“They know I’m in the vicinity. But don’t worry. Three blocks back, I covered the chip with a magnet that’s blocking the transmission. To them, I just disappeared. Think of it as a cell phone cutting out. They’ll see me again when I leave here and take off the magnet. It’s one of the reasons I can’t stay long. If I’m gone too long, they’ll think I yanked it out.”

“Then we need to hurry.” She ran her hands over her doughy face and wiped away the last of the sweat. She took a breath and looked down at the photograph. “I get nothing from either of them. Do you have something personal of Camille’s? Something she might have touched?”

He removed from the envelope the letters shared between Camille and her father. He gave them to Roberta, who gave a start when the café’s door opened. A young man entered. He was tall and thin, had a guitar slung around his shoulder and dreadlocks that roped down his back.

“We’re closed, sweetie,” she said. “Sorry about the sign—I should have turned it to ‘closed.’ We re-open at five. If I see you then, dinner is on me.”

“No problem,” he said.

“You need to eat,” Roberta called after him. “You’re too thin. Come back, OK?”

He smiled at her and nodded as he stepped out.

Marty got up and went to the door. He turned over the sign, flipped the locks and lowered a metal bar to secure the door. “Will he be back?”

“Not today. He’ll be by next week and I’ll give him a meal then. I hate to see kids his age that skinny. There’s no need of it.” She handled the letters for a moment and then dropped them. “Camille Miller is here. Not in Manhattan because what I see is the tip of Manhattan, from the outside, which means she’s either in Brooklyn or Jersey.”

“You can’t tell which?”

“I’m not a GPS system, Marty. What I see is the tip of Manhattan. That’s all I see. Not from the left or from the right. Just the tip. She must be able to see it, too, or I wouldn’t be able to see it.” She hesitated. “You need to be careful tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tonight isn’t going to go well for you.”

“How so?”

“When I see black, it usually means death. In this case, I think it means murder, because I’m also seeing red. Flashes of red.”

“Whose murder?”

She closed her eyes again. Shook her head.

“Does it involve my family?”

“I can’t see your family.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure. You know I know Gloria and the girls. But right now, I can’t see any of them. I can’t even force a mental image of them. It’s as if they’ve disappeared.”

“As in dead?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m having dinner with them tonight. Carr knows that. Gloria, her husband, the kids and Jennifer will be there. So will Carr’s men.” He felt sick to his stomach. “Is one of them going to die?”

“Somebody will die tonight.” She opened her eyes, reached out and put her hand over his. “I don’t know who it is. It might not be any of you. It might have to do with Camille.”

“What do I do?”

“When it happens, be prepared, because when it does happen, you’re going to be in this so deep, I don’t know how you’re going to get out of it. But take my advice. Before it happens, get rid of the chip. Cut open your shoulder, take out the chip and destroy it. Try to keep your family safe. Because when it does happen, everything will dissolve very quickly. That I can see.”

* * *

Outside, on the street, Marty started down Prince, waited until he was on the next block and then removed the magnet.
See
, he thought.
Here I am, Carr. Come and get me.

He removed the satellite phone from his pocket and called one of his best friends, Detective Mike Hines. He was a hulking brute, six feet eight, over three hundred pounds, all muscle. He also was one of Marty’s best connections.

He answered on the second ring. “Hines.”

“I need your help,” Marty said. “I’m in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“You might be tossing dirt on me in a week.”

“Where are you?”

“On Prince.”

“You saw her again, didn’t you?”

“Yep.”

“And she’s filled your head with all sorts of shit, right?”

“It goes deeper than anything she said.”

“You near the café now?”

Marty looked around him. He disappeared on Prince about twenty minutes ago. Now, as far as they were concerned, he was back again. If they were actively tracking him, they might be looking for him. The sidewalks were busy. Stores and restaurants were open. Any number of people could be watching him from any number of locations and if they were any good, which he sensed they were, he wouldn’t know. “I’m near it.”