First Person Peculiar Read Free

Wiz makes a face. “Brokers!” he snorts contemptuously. “They’re almost as bad as weathermen.” He pauses and stares at Milt. “How much do you need?”
    “Don’t you know?” asks Milt, surprised.
    “My mistake,” amends the Wiz. “How much do you want ? We both know how much you need.”
    “Twelve, thirteen grand?” says Milt, though it comes out more as a question.
    “How soon?”
    “By Friday.”
    “Too bad,” says the Wiz. “There’s a really nice filly who’ll be running for a big price on Saturday.” I must have made a face, because he turns to me. “You don’t think she’ll win?”
    “I don’t even know who the hell she is,” I say. “But somehow I thought a wizard was more than a racetrack tout.”
    “I’m not a racetrack tout,” he replies. “I haven’t been to Belmont or Aqueduct in years.”
    “You know what I mean,” I say.
    “Yes, and I want you to remember that I didn’t take offense at it.” He turns to Milt. “Give me a pen.” Milt supplies one, and he begins scribbling on a paper napkin. “You still have a little over seventeen hundred dollars in your bank account. Take it out—”
    “All of it?” interrupts Milt, his voice shaking a little.
    “Take it out,” repeats the Wiz firmly. “Give it to your broker, and tell him to go to the commodities market and invest it all on what I just wrote down.” He looks up at Milt. “Now, this is important, Milton, so pay attention. He has to buy between noon and 1:00 PM on Wednesday, and he has to sell it between 10:00 and 11:00 AM on Friday morning. If one or the other of you fucks up either end of it, don’t come running to me.”
    “And that’ll give me thirteen grand?” asks Milt.
    “After my fee,” says the Wiz.
    “Oh, of course,” agrees Milt promptly. “Thank you, Wiz.”
    The Wiz shrugs. “It’s my job.”
    “Your job?” I say. “Who do you work for?”
    “I’m a freelancer.”
    “Are there any other wizards in Manhattan?” I ask.
    “Not to my knowledge.” A brief pause. “I sure as hell hope not.”
    “Don’t want any competition, eh?” I say with a smile.
    He stares at me with suddenly sad eyes that have seen too many things. “If you say so, Jake,” he says at last.
    Milt gets to his feet. “I owe you big time, Wiz,” he says.
    “I’ll collect, never fear,” the Wiz assures him. He sighs, suddenly deflated. “I always collect.” It sounds like anything but a brag.
    “You won’t be offended if I leave?” continues Milt. “I want to get by the bank before I go back to the office.”
    “Not a problem,” says the Wiz. He nods toward a woman who is wearing a dress that just doesn’t belong in a cheap deli, along with furs and diamonds that would be ostentatious even fifty blocks north of where we are. “I have someone else waiting to see me.”
    “Nice meeting you,” I say, getting up and trying not to sound too insincere.
    “May I offer you a suggestion, Jake?” he says, and then adds: “Freely given.”
    “Sure, why not?” I say in bored tones, waiting for him to tell me what horse or boxer to put some money on.
    “I have a feeling that you were planning on having dinner at Rosario’s tonight.”
    “Now, how the hell did you know that?” I ask, surprised.
    “Just a guess.”
    “Damned good guess,” I admit. I turn to follow Milt to the door.
    “My suggestion?” he says, and I stop and turn back to him.
    “Yeah?”
    “Don’t eat there this evening,” says the Wiz.
    Before I can answer, he signals the bejeweled lady to come to the table, and I join Milt in the street.
    I don’t go to Rosario’s Ristorante that night. I don’t know why. Maybe I just have a taste for Greek food instead. I really don’t think what the Wiz said has anything to do with it.
    But the next morning, as I am getting dressed, I hear on the news that Rosario’s has burned down to the ground, and that six diners have died in the blaze.
    * * *
    I am back at the deli at noon, but