Bull's Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #3

Chapter 22

It doesn't matter that Zandra doesn't know the first thing about the spotter, or Gavin. Gavin is a name she pulled out of the air. It doesn't matter. What does is the whole point of the meticulous record-keeping she executed for her files over all those years.

A detail about someone that only you observe is as good as conjuring that detail out of thin air.

When applied correctly, at the right time, said detail can be a powerful gust of psychological drama. Years ago, Zandra took a booking a week in advance from an auto mechanic. She diligently observed him around town for the week leading up to the appointment. Nothing groundbreaking came up, but Zandra noticed a $5 bill flutter to the ground when the mechanic paid cash for a take-and-bake pizza. He didn't notice it was missing, but Zandra did. She watched as an employee pocketed the bill after the mechanic left.

When the time for the reading arrived, the mechanic wished to know whether his spouse still had feelings for another man. Zandra put on quite a show for him, allowing the "spirits" to throw her into convulsions of foam and sweat.

"Count your money, child," Zandra had said. "Love and money are forever intertwined. They both represent energy, and they are always in balance. Should one be missing, you can be sure the other is, too."

Oh, yes, money and love are linked. That's not bullshit at all. You ever hear of someone with money problems also maintaining terrific personal relationships? Nope. People give themselves way, way too much credit for the beating of their hearts. You go broke, your wife or your husband or whoever is rightfully going to dump your ass. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but they will. There is no nobility in poverty. That's why it's called poverty, asshole.

The mechanic opened his wallet, counted his money, thanked Zandra for her time and left with a bloodless face. What happened back home, she'll never know. Maybe they got divorced. Maybe they reconciled. Whatever the case, the sheer odds of Zandra predicting the missing money were enough to convince the mechanic that the "spirits" were on to something.

I know what happened that day at Sneak Peek, though. He paid me. I loved it. Money and love, love and money.

Zandra uses the same process with the Gavin comment to the spotter, only with a little more risk at play. For one, she has no idea if this spotter knows of a Gavin. She's not worried, though. She's banking on it.

Chubby's, like many "gentleman's clubs," isn't where men go to not treat the writhing specimens on stage like meat. Also, Chubby's is considered a rite of passage for freshly minted 18-year-old males in Stevens Point. Not possessing the finest judgement, they either freeze up or freak out.

Then comes Zandra's studious observations of Stevens Point's high school yearbooks. She knows that Gavin is in the top five names for males in high school over the past few years.

Therefore, it's likely that several Gavins either froze up or freaked out with the spotter. Zandra bets on the latter.

All of life is a game of odds. If you know how to play them, you can be successful at almost anything. Just ask any insurance company ever. Actuaries are the closest things to legitimate psychics. Make sure they're not working for Gene, though.

"Gavin took it too far, didn't he?" Zandra says, using more breath for each of the syllables than necessary. She throws in a few weasel words for effect. "It's shattered your aura, child. I can restore your vibration, because you and I have identical light harmonies. It's like how organ donors and recipients must have compatible blood, but on a spiritual plane. Would you like that?"

Always best to force someone into answering a question when you're going in cold. Keep you in charge of the conversation.

The spotter is in better light now, and Zandra can see on her face that there's a reason she's in the dark. Scars. Lots of them. They're tiny, but they're stacked on top of each other like the free hash browns Chubby's offers on Sunday mornings.

"Wha-what? Who are you?" the spotter says.

"I'm Zandra, child, and I think there's a reason fate brought you and I together tonight. This is the moment you've been hoping would come," Zandra says and flicks on the Jeep's interior light.

"What moment? What? You're talking like the guys who used to follow me home. Crazy, crazy shit," the spotter says.

"Not crazy. I know all about the game you're playing. You watch the cars come in, your friend on the inside checks for wedding rings and you go collect in the parking lot. They always stick the rings in the glove compartment, don't they?" Zandra says.

That should wrap her up. No more doubting.

"You sure you're not the police?" the spotter says.

"I'm not, child, I'm not. I go where the spirits tell me to go. Tonight, they brought me to you for a very special purpose. I don't know what that is yet, so I need to get a good look at you. Would that be OK?" Zandra says.

Again with a question. Keep her close. If she's watching cars, she's seeing exactly who is coming and going. If the man with scars on his face is or was here, she would know.

I wonder what Herman would say about this coincidence. Someone with scars on her face is going to tell me about someone with scars on his face. It's funny what you see when you know what you look for.

"What do I need to do?" the spotter says.

"Give me your hand, child," Zandra says.

"You're gonna read my palm, right?" the spotter says as she stretches her hand to Zandra.

I'm not interested in your palms, tonight.

"It's called cutiology, named after the cuticles, and it's been around for ages, child," Zandra says as she balances the spotter's hand in the light. "Despite the name, it's all about the grooves of your fingernails, those tiny, vertical lines. They become thicker or thinner as your nail grows, reflecting your inner spiritual vibration. It works sort of like the grooves on a vinyl record, and I am the record player."

"But I thought..."

"You thought nothing of it until just now. There are thousands of books written about cutiology. It's been featured on TV, in movies, everywhere," Zandra says. "But despite that, this is the first time you've heard of it in your entire life, isn't it?"

"I...I guess so. No, I've never heard of it before," the spotter says. "How did you know that?"

That's because I made it up just now.

"I know nothing, child. I merely interpret what the spirits tell me," Zandra says and rotates the fingers of the spotter's hand. Now she must work for her information. No amount of bullshitting can substitute real information.

Fingernails collect everything. They're goldmines.

After a couple of overbaked minutes, Zandra releases the hand. She's gleaned enough to blow the spotter's mind a couple more times, but first she needs to be paid.

"Child, the spirits tell me there is a connection between you and a man with scars on his face. Has he been here recently?" Zandra says.

The spotter doesn't need a more than a second to think. She snaps back with, "Oh, yes. I saw him, and it wasn't just here."

Zandra is about to reply, but she's cut off by the sudden appearance of Vince. He's out of breath.

"We've got trouble," he says.