Read Online PsyCop 3: Body and Soul by Jordan Castillo Price - Free Book Online
Authors: Jordan Castillo Price
Tags: mm
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strung-together bells.
"Oh. It's you." Crash sprawled on a threadbare recliner beside the counter, squinting at a catalog. His ancient Levis had been washed so many times that they molded to every intimate contour of his body, except his knees, which poked out through frayed holes. His T-shirt was screened with the logo of a band I'd never heard of before, and Jesus Christ, I felt every sad year of my pushing-forty life when I looked at his spiked, bleached hair, his piercings and tattoos, and his long, lean muscles.
I stared at him, wondering what, exactly, I'd expected him to do for me. He ignored me and read.
"Do you sell anything that can answer a yes or no question?" I asked him.
"For entertainment purposes," he asked me, not bothering to look up, "or for real?"
I squelched the impulse to scream, "What do you think, you jackass?" Maybe he was asking a serious question—though I had my doubts. "You're the one with the metaphysical shop. If I wanted a Magic Eight Ball, I'd go to SaverPlus."
He looked up at me and grinned. "Did you notice the new guy who works at the return counter in the SaverPlus basement? He's kind of a creep—which I think I like about him—and he's got this monster bulge in his pants."
I could totally see him getting into someone who was a creep. "Um. No."
"They're still open. Why don't you go buy a Magic Eight Ball so I can return it?"
"No."
"Then what the fuck good are you?"
I turned my back to him and started flipping through rows of incense boxes on a shelf beside the door. "Don't you have something, I dunno, like one of those pendulum things?"
"They only work if you're a precog. Which you aren't."
I sighed. I knew that. I was just freaking out because of Lisa.
"So first it's this purported GhosTV you want me to locate for you," Crash said, the recliner creaking and protesting as he levered himself out of it, "which makes no sense, since it can't actually get rid of ghosts, only screw around with their signals so you can't see 'em." He looked like he was grinning, though I only saw him from the corner of my eye because I refused to give him the satisfaction of looking at him. Still, it was a pretty safe bet.
"That sounds way worse to me—knowing they're there but not being able to see 'em, just 'cos you flipped a switch. So tell me, Vic. What is it you really want?" He'd abandoned his catalog and swung the full weight of his focus on me, pouring himself against the shelf where I couldn't possibly not see him, running his tongue-barbell along his bottom teeth. It might've been full-on flirt mode for anyone else, but it was day-to-day attitude for him. No wonder Jacob cut him loose. I don't think I'd sleep well at night knowing my boyfriend was willing to drop trou for any Tom, Dick, or Harry, either.
"I really do want some kind of divination. How about, uh, tea leaves?"
Crash glanced down at the colorful box in my hand. "You won't find anything that benign if you keep shopping in the Voodoo section. Maybe what you really want is a bigger hard on."
I put the box of lodestone shavings back on the shelf, where it lived between a "Come to Me" aerosol spray and a candle with Saint Barbara on it. "You keep the Voodoo next to the religious stuff?"
Crash huffed and repositioned the lodestone box that I apparently hadn't shelved to his satisfaction. "Voodoo is a religion. What the hell did they teach you at psychic school—or where you high that day?"
I considered buying the Triple-X Curse mojo bag and dumping out the contents on his spiky, blond head.
"Saint Barbara is a Catholic saint," he said, "sure. But she also represents Chango, one of the Oshiras. The slaves who honored their African religions had to do a little creative improvisation to keep on worshiping while the whites were watching."
I thought about the shrine in Mrs. Lopez's house. "What about Mexicans—do they buy this stuff from you?"
"Who, the Santerians?" he shrugged. "They could, if they want to do business
"Oh. It's you." Crash sprawled on a threadbare recliner beside the counter, squinting at a catalog. His ancient Levis had been washed so many times that they molded to every intimate contour of his body, except his knees, which poked out through frayed holes. His T-shirt was screened with the logo of a band I'd never heard of before, and Jesus Christ, I felt every sad year of my pushing-forty life when I looked at his spiked, bleached hair, his piercings and tattoos, and his long, lean muscles.
I stared at him, wondering what, exactly, I'd expected him to do for me. He ignored me and read.
"Do you sell anything that can answer a yes or no question?" I asked him.
"For entertainment purposes," he asked me, not bothering to look up, "or for real?"
I squelched the impulse to scream, "What do you think, you jackass?" Maybe he was asking a serious question—though I had my doubts. "You're the one with the metaphysical shop. If I wanted a Magic Eight Ball, I'd go to SaverPlus."
He looked up at me and grinned. "Did you notice the new guy who works at the return counter in the SaverPlus basement? He's kind of a creep—which I think I like about him—and he's got this monster bulge in his pants."
I could totally see him getting into someone who was a creep. "Um. No."
"They're still open. Why don't you go buy a Magic Eight Ball so I can return it?"
"No."
"Then what the fuck good are you?"
I turned my back to him and started flipping through rows of incense boxes on a shelf beside the door. "Don't you have something, I dunno, like one of those pendulum things?"
"They only work if you're a precog. Which you aren't."
I sighed. I knew that. I was just freaking out because of Lisa.
"So first it's this purported GhosTV you want me to locate for you," Crash said, the recliner creaking and protesting as he levered himself out of it, "which makes no sense, since it can't actually get rid of ghosts, only screw around with their signals so you can't see 'em." He looked like he was grinning, though I only saw him from the corner of my eye because I refused to give him the satisfaction of looking at him. Still, it was a pretty safe bet.
"That sounds way worse to me—knowing they're there but not being able to see 'em, just 'cos you flipped a switch. So tell me, Vic. What is it you really want?" He'd abandoned his catalog and swung the full weight of his focus on me, pouring himself against the shelf where I couldn't possibly not see him, running his tongue-barbell along his bottom teeth. It might've been full-on flirt mode for anyone else, but it was day-to-day attitude for him. No wonder Jacob cut him loose. I don't think I'd sleep well at night knowing my boyfriend was willing to drop trou for any Tom, Dick, or Harry, either.
"I really do want some kind of divination. How about, uh, tea leaves?"
Crash glanced down at the colorful box in my hand. "You won't find anything that benign if you keep shopping in the Voodoo section. Maybe what you really want is a bigger hard on."
I put the box of lodestone shavings back on the shelf, where it lived between a "Come to Me" aerosol spray and a candle with Saint Barbara on it. "You keep the Voodoo next to the religious stuff?"
Crash huffed and repositioned the lodestone box that I apparently hadn't shelved to his satisfaction. "Voodoo is a religion. What the hell did they teach you at psychic school—or where you high that day?"
I considered buying the Triple-X Curse mojo bag and dumping out the contents on his spiky, blond head.
"Saint Barbara is a Catholic saint," he said, "sure. But she also represents Chango, one of the Oshiras. The slaves who honored their African religions had to do a little creative improvisation to keep on worshiping while the whites were watching."
I thought about the shrine in Mrs. Lopez's house. "What about Mexicans—do they buy this stuff from you?"
"Who, the Santerians?" he shrugged. "They could, if they want to do business
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