business practices. Preying on the bereaved is about as low as you can go. This paper no longer intends to associate itself with these dubious activities.”
“Oh, does that mean you’re canceling the astrology column, too?” he asked.
“Certainly not. People are interested in it.”
“And they’re not interested in the afterlife?”
“Mr. Bannister . . .”
“What do you mean, ‘preying on the bereaved’?” he continued. “I help people deal with their grief. If you could talk with a deceased loved one and find he’s peacefully at rest, wouldn’t you do it?”
“I don’t believe you can communicate with the dead,” she snarled.
“But it makes perfect sense that you can determine what kind of day you’re going to have by reading up on what Jupiter is doing?” Bannister said.
“Mr. Bannister”—Magda had heard all she intended to hear—“I am not going to sit here and debate the relative merits of astrology and psychic intervention.”
“I have a right to advertise my services to the public.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, we are in the middle of a major health crisis. There is a string of unexplained deaths in our community. The last thing people need is a two-bit charlatan offering to pass on bogus messages from the other side.” She brushed her hair off her face for a third time, then said, “Now, if you will excuse me.”
She picked up The Wall Street Journal again and used it to block the sight of him.
“You’ll be hearing from my attorney,” Bannister told her.
“If this is a living person, I will be delighted to talk to him.” Magda snapped the paper to add emphasis to the argument.
“How am I going to earn a living?” he asked, pleading.
“ ‘Living.’ ” She sneered. “That’s not a word you’d know a lot about, is it, Mr. Bannister?”
Realizing he was getting nowhere, Bannister turned and stormed out of the office. He rushed through the city room and out the front door, then stalked angrily across the street without looking to see if any cars were coming. There was a screeching of tires as a hearse driver slammed on his brakes to avoid mowing Bannister down.
Several drivers in the long funeral cortege blew their horns, angry at Frank’s reckless jaywalking. Frank jumped onto the curb as the coffin bounced around in the back of the hearse. Funeral director George Zmed glared bullets and swore silently from the back of the second car, where he was sitting alongside the bereaved. Bannister was shocked to see that it was Lucy Lynskey sitting next to him, a black veil covering her pretty face.
Bannister watched in shock as the procession started up again and continued down Main Street on its way to the cemetery. What could have happened? he wondered. He then heard the sound of running feet, as if someone were chasing the funeral procession. Bannister looked around and spotted Ray Lynskey heading down the sidewalk, straight toward him.
Ray was an emanation! He was transparent and running straight through other pedestrians, none of whom seemed aware of his presence. He was chasing the hearse, and in so doing was charging right at Frank.
Bannister jumped back, but it was too late. Ray ran straight into him and both men fell over. To passersby, it looked like Frank alone had fallen. A couple of them helped him to his feet. They couldn’t see Ray, who lay on the pavement looking at Frank with disbelief.
“Bannister?” Lynskey said, a desperate edge to his voice.
“Are you all right, buddy?” one of the good Samaritans asked.
Frank looked Ray straight in the eye. “Yes,” he said.
“Somebody should do something about the state of these sidewalks,” another pedestrian said.
“We ought to complain to the newspaper for never writing about the problem,” Bannister offered.
The two helpers wandered off, leaving Frank standing alone talking to a ghost that only he, among the living, could see.
“Bannister,” Lynskey pleaded, “you gotta help!
“Oh, does that mean you’re canceling the astrology column, too?” he asked.
“Certainly not. People are interested in it.”
“And they’re not interested in the afterlife?”
“Mr. Bannister . . .”
“What do you mean, ‘preying on the bereaved’?” he continued. “I help people deal with their grief. If you could talk with a deceased loved one and find he’s peacefully at rest, wouldn’t you do it?”
“I don’t believe you can communicate with the dead,” she snarled.
“But it makes perfect sense that you can determine what kind of day you’re going to have by reading up on what Jupiter is doing?” Bannister said.
“Mr. Bannister”—Magda had heard all she intended to hear—“I am not going to sit here and debate the relative merits of astrology and psychic intervention.”
“I have a right to advertise my services to the public.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, we are in the middle of a major health crisis. There is a string of unexplained deaths in our community. The last thing people need is a two-bit charlatan offering to pass on bogus messages from the other side.” She brushed her hair off her face for a third time, then said, “Now, if you will excuse me.”
She picked up The Wall Street Journal again and used it to block the sight of him.
“You’ll be hearing from my attorney,” Bannister told her.
“If this is a living person, I will be delighted to talk to him.” Magda snapped the paper to add emphasis to the argument.
“How am I going to earn a living?” he asked, pleading.
“ ‘Living.’ ” She sneered. “That’s not a word you’d know a lot about, is it, Mr. Bannister?”
Realizing he was getting nowhere, Bannister turned and stormed out of the office. He rushed through the city room and out the front door, then stalked angrily across the street without looking to see if any cars were coming. There was a screeching of tires as a hearse driver slammed on his brakes to avoid mowing Bannister down.
Several drivers in the long funeral cortege blew their horns, angry at Frank’s reckless jaywalking. Frank jumped onto the curb as the coffin bounced around in the back of the hearse. Funeral director George Zmed glared bullets and swore silently from the back of the second car, where he was sitting alongside the bereaved. Bannister was shocked to see that it was Lucy Lynskey sitting next to him, a black veil covering her pretty face.
Bannister watched in shock as the procession started up again and continued down Main Street on its way to the cemetery. What could have happened? he wondered. He then heard the sound of running feet, as if someone were chasing the funeral procession. Bannister looked around and spotted Ray Lynskey heading down the sidewalk, straight toward him.
Ray was an emanation! He was transparent and running straight through other pedestrians, none of whom seemed aware of his presence. He was chasing the hearse, and in so doing was charging right at Frank.
Bannister jumped back, but it was too late. Ray ran straight into him and both men fell over. To passersby, it looked like Frank alone had fallen. A couple of them helped him to his feet. They couldn’t see Ray, who lay on the pavement looking at Frank with disbelief.
“Bannister?” Lynskey said, a desperate edge to his voice.
“Are you all right, buddy?” one of the good Samaritans asked.
Frank looked Ray straight in the eye. “Yes,” he said.
“Somebody should do something about the state of these sidewalks,” another pedestrian said.
“We ought to complain to the newspaper for never writing about the problem,” Bannister offered.
The two helpers wandered off, leaving Frank standing alone talking to a ghost that only he, among the living, could see.
“Bannister,” Lynskey pleaded, “you gotta help!
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