"O-S?"
"Other Side."
"Got it." Jack rested a hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Okay, do a search for 'coin collector' and see what comes up."
"'Coin collect' might get us more hits, yo."
He typed in "coin+collect." A few seconds later a list of half a dozen names appeared.
Only half a dozen? Jack was disappointed. He leaned closer to the screen searching for dates.
"I need a guy who's died in the past year or so."
"Ay, yo, trip this," Charlie said, tapping a finger on the screen over the fourth name down. "Matthew Thomas West. Died January twenty-seventh."
Jack looked and saw the typical documentation: name, address, date of birth-and, in this case, date of "crossing over"-along with Social Security number, the names of his wife-deceased sixteen years before him-and his brother and parents, even his dog, but no kids. Plus a list of his interests. Matthew West's big passion, besides his wife, with whom he'd been communicating through mediums for many years, was rare coins.
This guy looked perfect except for the address. Minnesota...
He shook his head. "I was hoping for something closer. Let's check out the others." He stared at the screen awhile, then shook his head again. "Nope. Looks like I'll have to make do with Uncle Matt from St. Paul."
"Uncle Matt?" Lyle said.
"I talked up a fictional uncle to Foster that I wanted Pomerol to contact for me. Fortunately I never gave his name. Well, now we have a name. Uncle Matt the Minnesotan. Can you print him out for me?"
"Done deal," Charlie said. "But what you got going?"
"A sting. If things go right, I hope to tempt Madame Pomerol into pulling the old Spanish handkerchief switch on me."
Charlie frowned. "Spanish handkerchief? Whuddat?"
"An old Gypsy con," Lyle said. "And I do mean old. Probably been running a couple hundred years now, and grifters are still working updated versions on the street." He looked at Jack. "But how's that-?"
"Once she sets up the switch on me, I'm going to work a double switch right back at her-one with a nasty barb at the end."
"Okay, but I still don't see what that's gonna do for us-me and Charlie."
Jack held his hands high like a preacher. "Have faith, my sons, have faith. I can't tell you all the details because I haven't figured them out yet. But trust me, if this works, it will be a sting of beauty."
Charlie handed Jack the printout. "You a natural at this. Why ain't you still in?"
Jack hesitated. "You really want to know?"
"Yeah."
You're not going to like this, he thought.
"I got out because I found it an empty enterprise. I wanted to be doing something where I gave value for value."
"We give value," Lyle said, a bit too quickly.
Charlie shook his head. "No we don't, bro. You know we don't."
Lyle appeared to be at a loss for words, a new experience for him, perhaps.
Finally he shrugged and said, "I could use a beer. Anyone else?"
Jack had a sense this was mere courtesy-did Lyle want him to leave?-but took him up on it anyway. A beer would be good right now, and maybe he could find out why he was so on edge.
Instead of drinking in the kitchen as they had last night, Lyle sat him down in the waiting room. And like last night, Charlie had a Pepsi.
"So," Jack said after they'd popped their tops and toasted the coming downfall of Madame Pomerol, "what kind of electrical problem you having?"
Lyle shrugged it off. "Nothing serious."
"Yeah right," Charlie said. "Like a haunted TV ain't serious."
Lyle glared at his brother. "No such thing as haunted anything, bro."
"Then what-?"
Lyle held up a hand. "We'll talk about it later."
Haunted TV? Sounded interesting. Then again, maybe not if that meant it played nothing but "Casper the Friendly Ghost" cartoons.
"Anything I can do?"
"I'll straighten it out," Lyle said, but he didn't look convincing.
"Sure?"
"If I may quote: 'Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, the gnomed mine.'"
"The gnomed mine... gnomed with a G?"
Lyle nodded. "With a G."
"I like that."
"It's Keats."
"You're quoting Keats?" Jack laughed. "Lyle, you've got to be the whitest black guy I've ever met."
Jack had expected a laugh, but Lyle's expression darkened instead.
"What? You mean I'm not a real black man because I know Keats? Because I'm well spoken? Only white men are well spoken? Only white men quote Keats? Real black men only quote Ice-T, is that it? I'm not a real black man because I don't dress like a pimp and drive with a gangsta lean, or drape myself in dukey ropes and sit on my front porch swiggin' forties?"