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Authors: Jordan Castillo Price
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with a gringo. They prefer to shop at their own Botanicas, but once in a while they'll come here in a pinch." He tweaked the angle of the lodestone box again.
"Shit. I gotta do inventory—this shelf looks picked over, and lately jimson weed is nearly impossible to find. Must be a Voodoo convention in town."
I noticed a Saint Martin candle just like the one in the Lopez apartment burning beside the doorway. "They have conventions?"
"It's an expression." Clash rolled his eyes. "More likely, some kid's figured out he can get high if he smokes it."
I nudged a stack of "Fast Luck Money Drawing" soap out of alignment. "So everything's connected to a whole religion, a giant ritual? You don't have anything that'll just give me an answer?"
Crash narrowed his eyes. "I can sell you something, sure.
But none of the tools will work for you if you don't have the talent to use them. Come on. You and I both know a good precog can read the future in a chicken liver or a wet spot.
You're the PsyPig. Don't you have a cop friend who can tell your fortune?"
"I do. Only she won't talk to me."
"Aha." I could see him grinning again in my peripheral vision, even though I was trying really hard to avoid him by focusing on an illustration of the Seven African Powers.
"That's why you're so tied up in knots that I can feel it from across the room. And here I thought you'd ditched Mister Perfect and come over to take me for a spin."
"You'll be the last person I'll run to if that ever happens."
"We'll just see about that." He grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me toward the counter. "Miss Mattie's not here, is she?"
I gather that when Crash was a child, he'd been closer to his neighbor, Miss Mattie, than he was to his own mother—who was still alive and heading up her garden club in the wealthy suburb, Arlington Heights. "Why would Miss Mattie be here?" I said. "You were sitting in her spot."
"She hung around here all the time before I even got her that chair. And I totally surrender the chair when Oprah's on.
And The View." A small television perched across from the chair on an end table painted with zebra stripes. The TV was currently off.
"If she's not here now," Crash said, "then I don't need to behave." He pulled a wooden box out from behind the counter as he spoke, grinning all the while. It was just banter. I don't think he actually had the hots for me. He just needed to preserve his reputation as a slut. Probably.
"I'll let you test drive a pendulum if you give me a blowjob."
"No!" I snapped.
He opened the box with a flourish. "Can't say I didn't try."
He pulled out one of the pieces, a fancy metal pointer-looking thing on a chain, and held it between the two of us where it circled over the glass countertop. "But anyway, I won't let you get your wiggy vibes all over it and just sell it to someone else. Unless...."
I watched the charm circle around, and thought of the little metal person Mrs. Lopez had given me that morning. I dug in my pocket, hoping it wasn't so small that I'd managed to lose it.
"Ohmigod. I could totally market these as ... as Medium Charms. Or something. I'd have to think of a better name.
'Get messages from beyond the grave.' They'd have your name on 'em, endorsed by the most powerful medium in the United States. What do you say?"
"Right. Everyone'll believe that." I felt the cool metal between my fingertips, snugged up against a pack of gum and a Polaroid.
"That's the beauty of it," Crash said. "It'll be totally true. You can wear 'em under your shirt for a week, rub your weird mojo off all over 'em."
"No, I mean the 'most powerful medium' part. You'll need a bigger celebrity than me."
Crash twitched his fingers so that the pendulum spun in a figure eight. "Didn't you test out at level five? Or is that just another juicy Internet rumor?"
I avoided talking levels with Crash, since he'd bombed his testing and therefore couldn't get a government psychic job, and he got nastier than usual when his
"Shit. I gotta do inventory—this shelf looks picked over, and lately jimson weed is nearly impossible to find. Must be a Voodoo convention in town."
I noticed a Saint Martin candle just like the one in the Lopez apartment burning beside the doorway. "They have conventions?"
"It's an expression." Clash rolled his eyes. "More likely, some kid's figured out he can get high if he smokes it."
I nudged a stack of "Fast Luck Money Drawing" soap out of alignment. "So everything's connected to a whole religion, a giant ritual? You don't have anything that'll just give me an answer?"
Crash narrowed his eyes. "I can sell you something, sure.
But none of the tools will work for you if you don't have the talent to use them. Come on. You and I both know a good precog can read the future in a chicken liver or a wet spot.
You're the PsyPig. Don't you have a cop friend who can tell your fortune?"
"I do. Only she won't talk to me."
"Aha." I could see him grinning again in my peripheral vision, even though I was trying really hard to avoid him by focusing on an illustration of the Seven African Powers.
"That's why you're so tied up in knots that I can feel it from across the room. And here I thought you'd ditched Mister Perfect and come over to take me for a spin."
"You'll be the last person I'll run to if that ever happens."
"We'll just see about that." He grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me toward the counter. "Miss Mattie's not here, is she?"
I gather that when Crash was a child, he'd been closer to his neighbor, Miss Mattie, than he was to his own mother—who was still alive and heading up her garden club in the wealthy suburb, Arlington Heights. "Why would Miss Mattie be here?" I said. "You were sitting in her spot."
"She hung around here all the time before I even got her that chair. And I totally surrender the chair when Oprah's on.
And The View." A small television perched across from the chair on an end table painted with zebra stripes. The TV was currently off.
"If she's not here now," Crash said, "then I don't need to behave." He pulled a wooden box out from behind the counter as he spoke, grinning all the while. It was just banter. I don't think he actually had the hots for me. He just needed to preserve his reputation as a slut. Probably.
"I'll let you test drive a pendulum if you give me a blowjob."
"No!" I snapped.
He opened the box with a flourish. "Can't say I didn't try."
He pulled out one of the pieces, a fancy metal pointer-looking thing on a chain, and held it between the two of us where it circled over the glass countertop. "But anyway, I won't let you get your wiggy vibes all over it and just sell it to someone else. Unless...."
I watched the charm circle around, and thought of the little metal person Mrs. Lopez had given me that morning. I dug in my pocket, hoping it wasn't so small that I'd managed to lose it.
"Ohmigod. I could totally market these as ... as Medium Charms. Or something. I'd have to think of a better name.
'Get messages from beyond the grave.' They'd have your name on 'em, endorsed by the most powerful medium in the United States. What do you say?"
"Right. Everyone'll believe that." I felt the cool metal between my fingertips, snugged up against a pack of gum and a Polaroid.
"That's the beauty of it," Crash said. "It'll be totally true. You can wear 'em under your shirt for a week, rub your weird mojo off all over 'em."
"No, I mean the 'most powerful medium' part. You'll need a bigger celebrity than me."
Crash twitched his fingers so that the pendulum spun in a figure eight. "Didn't you test out at level five? Or is that just another juicy Internet rumor?"
I avoided talking levels with Crash, since he'd bombed his testing and therefore couldn't get a government psychic job, and he got nastier than usual when his
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