The Dead Don't Speak (2 page)

Simon could have let Shirley take her seat. That would be smart. Why cheapen the experience for her with a wrong guess? Then again, why not put some extra icing on this cake?

"I'm getting that Michael had a child." Simon said.

"Yes. My cousin, Carl."

"I’m sensing a separation between you and your cousin. Is it just distance? Or a quarrel? A misunderstanding, perhaps?" A safe guess since Shirley had come alone.

"Just distance. Carl lives in Montana," Shirley said. She lifted her head to look at Simon again. He appeared huge and godlike on stage.

"He didn't get back to see his dad as often as either of them would have liked, did he?"

"No. He got back when he could," Shirley said. She sniffled.

"Work kept him in Montana," Simon said nodding.

Shirley nodded with him, "That's right." Her cheeks glistened.

Simon closed his eyes to better receive one last message from the Great Beyond. "Michael wants Carl to have the clock."

"I will give it to him," Shirley said and looked up to the ceiling, "I promise, Uncle Mike!" Tears streamed down her face.

Chris Wright watched the show on a small monitor in Simon's dressing room. He cracked open another beer and wondered how many in the crowd were thinking, "How could he know about the uncle's clock on the bedside table? How could he know it was for sale on eBay? Hell, how could he know the dead uncle's name?"

Chris knew how. No one got into the show, in the reading section anyway, without purchasing tickets a couple months in advance. Chris had the list, complete with names, addresses, phone numbers, and dates the people would be attending. It was a simple matter of searching the internet for information about the ticket holders.

He had a favorite place to start. Shirley Swift was one of about nine hundred thousand people who followed “Simon Simmons, Psychic” on social media.

When the show she'd be attending was less than a week away, Chris went on a hunting expedition. He went hunting for facts, for details. Shirley liked to post photos on her Facebook page. She'd posted a couple of her poor Uncle Michael when he was healthier, though bedridden, and still able to smile. In those pictures were a
lot
of clocks, but only one sat on his bedside table.

Also, on Shirley's page, was a link to her eBay store which just so happened to be selling a lot of clocks. The item descriptions told the story of her uncle's collection. That's where Chris had stumbled upon the very same bedside clock from the pictures. Knowing Simon's maxim that “The money is in the details,” Chris jotted down a few notes and moved on to the next ticket holder.

Chris hadn't known about the son, that bit was Simon being Simon. Ever the showman, Simon liked to do some good, old-fashioned cold reading. It added a little extra flair. It brought him back to the early days when he was first starting out. Long before he'd met Chris in prison.

The detail about the son was a lucky guess. Simon called it a "hit" when he asked a question and the answer was yes. If Shirley said Michael didn't have any children, Simon would have played it off. He'd have said sometimes the messages come through fuzzy and Michael was starting to fade; then he would have moved on to the next read, apologizing to Shirley that someone else had gotten in her uncle's way. Shirley would be content with what she'd already been told and the crowd would be looking forward to whatever happened in the next read.

They weren't all as easy as Shirley Swift. Occasionally Chris had to dig extra deep to come up with some good dirt. Sometimes the research took days, not hours, but, it was well worth it.

The thunderous applause died down. Chris turned back to the monitor. The next read was a difficult one. Chris leaned forward in his seat, his face close to the monitor.

An elderly man, gray-haired and somewhat frail looking, held the microphone. Moments earlier Simon had come directly to him, selecting him out of the crescent crowd.

"Your wife has recently passed?" Simon queried.

"Yes, sir," the man said in a shaky old man voice.

"Her name began with a G," Simon paused, waiting for the inspiration, "G L something..."

"Gladys," the man said.

"Ah, Gladys, I see. She had a tough time of it at the end, didn't she?"

"Yes, sh-she did." The attendant took the man's arm to steady him.

"And you were there for her, weren't you, sir?" Simon said knowingly, telling the crowd more than the old man. "You were there for her right up until those last moments."

"I was."

"What's your name, friend?"

"Harry," he said.

"Harry, Gladys is here with us tonight. She's speaking to me right now. She's telling me about the long years you had together. The good times. Some of the bad times, too. Oh, Harry..." Simon closed his eyes and shook his head, "There were a few bad times."

"There were, sir, b-"

"Stop! Don't speak, Harry. Gladys is coming through loud and clear and she wants her turn to talk."

Harry snorted into the microphone, "That's her all right." Once again tears flowed and not just from the old man. The crowd was getting into it.

"Gladys is telling me she doesn't care about the drinking. She doesn't care about trouble at work. All she cares about is that you turned yourself around. You turned to God and, through God, you became the man she always knew you could be. Gladys is with Him now; you know that, Harry? She's walking with the Big Guy as we speak. Gladys forgave you a long time ago for the wrongs you did her; she forgave you long, long ago. She wants you to know tonight that God forgives you, too."

"I know it. I know He does. I know it," Harry whispered, his head tilting forward, talking straight into the microphone.

"Those were some tough times at the end. Dementia is a tough disease. She is sorry she put you through that."

"It's okay, darlin'," Harry whispered down to the mic, "I love you, baby." He swiped a hand at his cheek.

"Gladys says she barely knew you at the end. She says she barely knew you but you stuck by her just the same. She wants you to know that while her body may have forgotten who you were, her soul never did. You could see it in her eyes sometimes, couldn't you? You could see those flashes of recognition."

"I could!" He sniffled loudly and it echoed in the large room, "I saw them every day."

"She is a lovely woman, truly a lovely woman. She wants you to keep living. That's exactly what she told me. She wants you to keep living your life. Live it for the both of you. Take that cruise you'd always talked about. Drive cross country like you never got to do. Enjoy life double for the both of you."

"I will, baby," Harry said, drying his eyes, "I will do it
all
for us!"

"You're a good man, Harry. Gladys loves you with all her heart."

"I love you, too, darlin'," Harry said, his eyes staring aloft.

The crowd burst into rapturous applause.

Chris loved Simon's preacher routine.

"She wants you to keep livin'!" Chris mocked, finishing his third can of Miller.

Harry and Gladys Tyson had been a real challenge. Harry was older, around seventy and, like so many of his generation, he had no online presence. Chris, not to be deterred, found the website of Harry's local paper. On it was Gladys's obituary. From this short bit of writing he discovered the Tysons were devout Catholics and, more importantly, he found their children's names.

Chris did a quick Google search for their eldest son, Harry Tyson Jr. who lived in St. Cloud, MN. Once he obtained a phone number, Chris picked up and dialed. Harry Jr. was a nice man. Chris said he was from EWTN, a Catholic television network, and they were looking at doing a special on believers who had recently lost a spouse. It'd be about how their faith helped them through it. Harry Jr. was happy to give up all the details. Chris scribbled them down on a notepad, assured Harry Jr. that he'd be in touch if Harry Sr. was chosen for a segment, and hung up.

There was always the risk that Harry Jr. would call his father and tell him everything that'd happened. Then, once at the “Simon Simmons, Psychic” show, it was remotely possible that Harry Sr. would put the pieces together. But judging from Harry's reaction, that hadn't happened.

After the show Simon liked to do a "meet and greet" back stage. Only two passes were available for any show; they were given at random to two audience members by the ticket taker. Thing was, the ticket taker was Chris, and Chris had special instructions.

In Simon's exact words, "If you wouldn't plow her, don't send her back to me."

After a couple stern scoldings, Chris had learned Simon's taste in women and offered the passes accordingly. Tonight he'd given out both. The girls stood apart from one another, each giving the other disapproving looks. Simon and Chris watched them on the monitor in Simon's dressing room.

"We need to get HD cameras," Simon said. "This low-def shit can hide some ugly flaws."

"They looked fine to me," Chris said.

"Yeah, but what kind of judge are you? You'd send a fucking wildebeest to me if I hadn't already kicked your ass for it."

"Give 'em a go. If you don't like them, work the bars. I'd take either one and count myself lucky." The two had an agreement. If a girl wasn't picking up what Simon was laying down, Chris was free to try his luck with her.

Simon shook his head in mock sadness for Chris's sex life. He clapped his hands together, "Time to scout the talent." Simon left his dressing room.

Chris watched the two girls lingering in the Green Room. The Green Room was really just a second dressing room where Simon made the pass-holders wait. It was poorly decorated with a red velvet couch, small bar in one corner, a couple fake palms, and a lot of empty space. It held all the charm of a porno movie set and that's just how Simon liked it.

One of the girls was tall and blonde with a two-day-old tan, probably in her mid-twenties, the kind that came to Vegas in droves. The other was maybe twenty, shorter, and had dark hair, bronze skin that spoke of Hispanic heritage, and dangerous curves. Both wore short dresses, the blonde in black, the other in red. Chris knew Simon would go for the latter, if he didn't attempt both. Curves got to Simon every time.

Simon entered the Green Room and the girls lit up.

"Hello, ladies, I see my assistant has good taste," he said.

"You were great tonight," the blonde one said.

"You really were," the curvy one agreed.

"Thank you. Thank you. It's nice to be able to bring people closure. We've all lost a loved one. It's hard to deal with. I'm just glad I can lend a hand."

"What's it like? Being able to speak to the other side?" the curvy one asked.

Simon chuckled, "I don't really speak to the other side. I get messages; they just come to me. It's like having an idea pop into your head, you know?"

The curvy one was nodding, the blonde wasn't.

"Would you ladies care for a drink?" Simon asked.

"Sure."

"Of course."

Simon made his way to the little bar. "What'll it be?" he asked.

"Vodka tonic," the blonde said.

"Rum and Coke."

Simon mixed three drinks, opting for a rum and diet for himself. He'd made his selection. Another high-five would be waiting for Chris.

Chris was still watching on the monitor. When he saw that Simon's drink matched the curvy girl's beverage, he knew. Simon had picked her. It was a code they'd worked out over a year ago. The blonde was now fair game, a game Chris was willing to try his hand at. He left the dressing room.

Moments later Chris entered the Green Room. He went to the bar without acknowledging anyone in the room and fixed himself a drink, whiskey and water.

"Who's that?" the blonde asked.

Simon inwardly rolled his eyes. It would go straight to Chris's head that his little “man of mystery” move had worked. At least it had worked on this girl.

"Oh, him?" Simon said. "That's my manager, Chris. He's the quiet type."

"Your manager," the blonde repeated.

"Go talk to him. He’s a fascinating man," Simon said.

"What about you?" the blonde said.

"I will be quite entertained with..." Simon looked at the curvy girl with his eyebrows raised.

"Cassandra," she blushed.

The blond girl sensed her loss to Cassandra and made her way to Chris. He was leaning on the bar, facing the wall. The blonde set her drink beside his and backed up to the bar facing the opposite way. She leaned back to speak but Chris pre-empted her with, "Sorry about him."

"What was that?"

"Simon. I'm sorry about him. He isn't always big on manners."

"He was fine," she said, surprised.

"Did he even get your name?" Chris said.

She shook her head, blond strands swaying.

"What is it?"

"Charlotte."

"A fine city."