Glass Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective

Bonus Short Story - "Don't Trust the Banks"

Note: This short story featuring Zandra of "Glass Eye" originally appeared under the title, "Greasy Fingerprints," on Wattpad's Fright profile. However, I had to trim about a half from the story to make it fit the 1,000-word requirement. Here I present the uncut version, "Don't Trust the Banks," as a bonus to Zandra fans. Enjoy! ~Ben

Don't Trust the Banks

"Whatever you do, child, don't trust the banks," Zandra says and hacks into the wet crease of her purple sleeve. Too many cigarettes this morning before heading into Sneak Peek, her cramped downtown business in Stevens Point, Wisconsin, where her "psychic" abilities talk to the dead men printed on dollar bills. Or maybe it's from the cologne plastered to the 40-something man in a fitted suit sitting across the desk from her.

"What? I just got here," the man, Zandra's latest client, says. "I haven't even asked a question yet."

Zandra straightens her posture. Gives her baggy, purple gown a shake. The glittery trinkets barely hanging onto the wall chime in response, a fitting testimony to the foundation of Zandra's fraud. Always hanging by the threads of her lies. Always pulling them tighter. She must be careful, but she must also remember why people like the man opposite her are here. It's not for their benefit. It's not for Zandra's, either. No, it's for the ruin of this bastard of a town.

"I tell you again, child. Your money isn't safe in the banks," Zandra says, already thinking 10 steps ahead of her client.

The man looks confused. "I'm sorry, have we met?" he says and awkwardly stretches his right hand across the desk in greeting.

Zandra doesn't reach to shake it. She studies the man's appearance from the corners of her eyes instead. It's the reading he's not paying for.

"We can skip the formalities," Zandra says. "You booked this session under the name of Adam, no last name, and paid cash in advance. Introducing ourselves is a waste of time."

That shut him down. "Adam" leans back in his chair, showing his palms in surrender as if to say, "OK, sweetheart. You want to impress me? Go ahead."

Except Zandra isn't anyone's sweetheart. She's seen his type in here before. Nine times out of 10 they're all going through the same mid-life crisis like it's some sort of club.

Forty-ish. Using an assumed name. Paying cash to seem impressive. Wearing cologne a generation too late for the gray chest hair scrambling toward the chin. Nice clothes. Too nice. The desperate kind that drools for attention.

They always book late afternoon appointments. They leave work a little early, but not too early, to avoid suspicion, allowing enough time for Zandra's reading without showing up late to kiss the missus hello at home.

Or not. What do men of Adam's age want with a psychic? They have families. A career. Plenty of money. Why would they be here? Adam, like all the others, has the itch.

The tell, as if Zandra even needed it, is in how he hides his wedding ring. Tries to keep it out of sight, even when he raises his palms. He tried to shake with his right hand, although it's clear his left is dominant. It's also in the subtle angle of his fingers away from Zandra, but she spots it. He might not realize why all of this is important, but his subconscious certainly does.

Now that Zandra put the pieces together, it's as easy as separating the mark from his marriage, then his money.

"Draw a card, child," Zandra says. Her wrinkled hand pushes a tarot deck toward Adam.

"Don't you want to read my palm or something?" Adam says. "I don't really do tarot. Seems a little silly."

Zandra doesn't blink. "Do you think I'm silly?"