Val gaped at her.
She shrugged. “Okay, it’s really for Fifi—” she indicated the Chihuahua —“but I get to go along for the ride.”
“She’s gone?”
“Sorry. Incommunicado. Besides, she can’t do any of her stuff unless she’s in person.”
Val burst into tears.
Becky looked stricken. “Oh . . . no, don’t cry.”
She took deep choking breaths while trying to compose herself. “I . . . don’t know . . . what to do.”
Becky patted Val’s shoulder. “I wish I could help.” She waited for Val to calm down, and then gave her a bright smile. “Listen, if what you need is really that urgent, you could always use Psychic Bob down the street next to the Movieland Wax Museum. Ten bucks a reading.”
Her grin widened. “I’m kidding, of course.”
Twenty minutes later, Val sat on the other side of a dirty crystal ball and Psychic Bob. She didn’t have a penny to her name after she’d paid the cab driver, so she had to force Reggie to do some rat tricks on the corner for spare change from the tourists. Made $12.51. She wasn’t sure who gave them the penny, though. That was just an insult.
She handed ten of their earnings over to Psychic Bob.
“So,” Psychic Bob said, his voice gruff and effeminate at the same time. He looked like a truck driver but sounded like he might know what wine would go best with beef bourguignonne. “What can I help you with today? Simple tarot card reading? Want to know when you’ll meet your true love? Career questions? Ask me anything, honey. I’m here to help.”
Val folded her hands and leaned over the table toward him. “I need you to channel an angel named Garry, assistant guardian of the gates to Heaven. And please hurry. This is a major emergency.”
He blinked. “Sweetie, if you have an emergency I have a phone in the back. You can call
911.”
“It’s not an emergency those people can help me with.”
“Garry, you say.”
“That’s right.”
“Guardian of the gates to Heaven.”
“Assistant guardian. Don’t try to make him sound more important than he is—his ego is big enough already. Really he’s just like a glorified receptionist. But I need to talk to him.”
She’d placed Reggie gently down on the tabletop and he lay down. He’d decided not to be a part of this conversation and that was probably for the best. Psychic Bob looked uncomfortable enough without having to deal with a talking rat.
He stared at her. Bob, not the rat. Then, without another word he got out his tarot cards and shuffled them. He laid them out in a cross pattern on the table, narrowly avoiding hitting
Reggie, who had to sidestep out of the way.
Psychic Bob nodded and looked up at her. “I see romance in your future. Great adventure and exciting times lay ahead for you.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I don’t want a card reading. I want you to channel Garry—”
“Assistant guardian to the gates of Heaven. Yeah, I heard you. But I think this is better. Don’t you want to know what your future holds?
Val sighed. “I already know what my future holds. Bad things if I don’t speak to Garry.”
“You paid ten dollars for a reading.”
“I don’t have time for a reading. Didn’t you hear me say that this is an emergency?”
Psychic Bob stood up and pointed at the door. “Go.”
“Pardon me?”
“Go,” he said with his teeth clenched. “I don’t have time for crazy people.”
“Crazy people?” Val exclaimed. “I am not crazy.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You must be. You come in here talking nonsense, carrying that flea-ridden creature—”
“Hey!” Reggie said.
Val coughed to cover the sound of Reggie’s protest. “Just listen to me. I’m not crazy. I’m a fallen angel who needs to talk to the assistant guardian of the gates to Heaven so I can prevent a demon from bringing about the end of the world. Do you hear me? The end of the world!
What sounds crazy about that?”
“All of it.”
“You’re a fallen angel?” Reggie said. “You didn’t tell me that.”
Val sighed. “When we first met I told you I was from Heaven.”
“So you’re trying to tell me that that’s definitely not a strip club?”
“Did the rat just talk?” Bob asked.
“Yeah, but he’s not really a . . . oh, never mind. I don’t have time for this. I need to find that demon. Look, I need a psychic. A good psychic to help me out here. I can’t do this by myself.”
“What gives you the impression that I’m a psychic?” Psychic Bob asked.
“Uh . . . your name. Your storefront. The crystal ball and tarot cards on your table.”
“Oh, those . . . those are just things. Look”—he felt under the table and pulled out a book, Tarot Cards: The Easy Way!—“I’m faking it. I’ll admit it. I’m a big, fat fake. It’s good money from the tourists and I’m currently between acting gigs. So sue me.”
“You’re a fake?”