The Djinn Read Free

disillusioned with the spirit world. Sometimes you can
really sense that there’s something out there, something lurking in the
mysterious beyond. But at other times, you get to thinking that it’s all hokum,
and that can make you bitter as a bottle of bock beer. For months now, I’d been
turning over Tarot cards, peering at tea leaves, and feeling that my great
occult talent had deserted me forever. That’s another reason I came to Max’s
funeral. Maybe, in the company of recently departed souls, I would find the
inspiration to carry on. On the other hand, maybe I wouldn’t. Whatever
happened, it was a change.
    I managed to
edge my way around the room and home in on the young lady with the red lips.
    From dose up,
she was older than she first appeared, but also more attractive. She was short,
but she had a more-than-bounteous pair of breasts and the kind of foxy-eyed
look that always reminds me of Sophia Loren.
    With my usual
charm, I handed her my card. She lifted the smoky veil on her black turban hat
and read it aloud.
    “ ‘Harry Erskine. The Beyond Is My Business.’ What on earth
does that mean?”
    “Well... it
means I tell people’s fortunes. Old ladies, mostly. Like a clairvoyant.”
    “A clairvoyant? You mean , you look
into crystal balls, that kind of stuff?”
    “Well, not
exactly crystal balls. I can do crystal balls, if you’re interested. But
generally it’s Tarot and tea leaves. I’m also quite handy with the Ouija board.
It’s a living.”
    The girl looked
at me oddly. “I never met a clairvoyant before. Do you really read the future?”
    “I guess so. Within limits. I think I’ve gotten better with practice.
It’s like anything else. You can’t service an automobile without practice, and
you can’t probe the future without practice either.
    The occult is
kind of delicate, you know, and you can’t go blundering around the spirit world
in hobnail boots.”
    The girl
smiled. “No, I guess not. I’ve never considered it”
    “Well, take it
from me.”
    The girl sipped
sherry. “Did you know Max Greaves very well?” she asked.
    “Pretty well. He was my godfather. He was a close friend of
my father’s, way back at college or something. We always used to call him
‘Uncle.’ He was a pretty interesting guy.”
    “Nobody seems
exactly heartbroken that he’s dead.”
    I shrugged,
“Well... he got kind of cranky in his old age. He used to be real kind and
gentle and generous when I was young. That’s the way / recall
him . I remember he gave me a terrific clockwork train outfit for my
tenth birthday, and he never forgot to send me a Christmas card.
    But he turned
into a recluse when he got older. Very short-tempered. I haven’t seen him in years now. I suppose he was one of life’s great
characters, but he got like all great characters-more than a little hard to
live with.”
    “What did he
do?” asked the girl. “I mean, for a living?”
    “He used to be
in oil. Some independent refinery I think. I don’t recall. But he spent most of
his early life in Arabia-something to do with Mideast oil. That was before the
days of Arabian oil politics, of course, when every white man was a big cheese.
He used to have a lot of Arabian junk around the house, although it looks like
it’s all been sold. I used to like to play with his camel saddles. You know,
the Lone Ranger, that kind of thing.”
    The girl raised
an eyebrow. “Who played Tonto?”
    “I never had a
Tonto. I guess I’ve always been something of a lone Lone Ranger.” “Not
married?”
    “Are you
kidding? Can you imagine trying to support a wife and five kids on tea leaf
readings?”
    The girl said
nothing; she just smiled. I finished my sherry. If you ask me, it was the
amontillado that Edgar Alien Foe had bricked up into his cellar wall.
    “Listen,” I
told the girl, “I know a terrific lobster restaurant just up the cape. How
about lunch?
    That’s if
you’re not too full of cakes.”
    “Sure,” she
nodded.