The Broken Clock is Right Thrice: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #4

Chapter 6 - Beet It

"One minute everyone tells you you're a psychic, and they love you for it. The next, they act like I'm a dead rat they found under the sink. Honestly, you think I wanted this? I can't just walk into a regular job interview now that everyone knows me. How am I supposed to make a living now? There's only one way. I guess I have the psychic powers they say I do, right?"

~ Zandra, 24 years ago, interview with The New York Times

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"If he hasn't OD'd by now, he's probably home. I'll bet he hasn't left in years," Zandra says inside the white SUV. She and Sunglasses roll into one of Stevens Point's old, core neighborhoods.

Even from a block away, they can smell it. It's coming from a Victorian-style home with peeling white paint.

"Good lord, what is that? Smells like a compost heap, but worse," Sunglasses says. From the driver's seat, he shuts off the vents circulating outside air into the cab.

Zandra rubs her hands together. "That smell is good news."

"How could that possibly be good news?"

"It means he's home."

"Who is home?"

Someone who learned the hard way to not buy into their own grift.

"Our first invitee. Pull into the driveway over there," Zandra says. She slips a cigarette between her lips but doesn't light it. "You want one? Helps cover up the smell."

"I don't smoke," Sunglasses says.

"It doesn't count if you don't inhale. Just let it burn," Zandra says.

"Against regulations."

"Enjoy the rot then. Stay in the car."

"It'd be better if I went with you."

"I'd rather not listen to you piss and moan about the smell. Breaks my concentration."

Zandra stumbles out the SUV after the vehicle comes to a stop, her left ankle protesting the drop to the pavement. She sparks the end of the cigarette. Sampling the air in the driveway, she decides to light a second one, too.

Surprised the city doesn't shut him down. Then again, knowing this city, maybe I shouldn't be surprised.

The single-stall, detached garage at the end of the short driveway lacks the peeling paint of the Victorian home. A window on a side entry offers a look inside.

I'm sure he won't mind me peaking.

The smell gets worse the closer her nose gets to the window. With the cherry tips of her cigarettes nearly touching the glass, she spots rows of white, five-gallon buckets. Blood-red liquid rests a few inches from the top of each bucket.

"This is private property," a man's voice from behind Zandra says.

Good. He's here.

Zandra turns to see a man in denim overalls with no shirt underneath. He sports a tight bolt of gray, curly hair off to one side of face. More striking than that is the hammer in his left hand.

"Congratulations. That must mean the city hasn't condemned the property yet," Zandra says.

The hammer drops to the ground once the man recognizes Zandra. "Oh, shit."

"At least your memory is still working, Melvin. You still go by Melvin, right? Melvin Hicks? Or did you change your name again?" Zandra says. She ashes both cigarettes with one hand simultaneously. "Say, Melvin, what you got cooking in the garage?"