Running Hot

TWENTY-EIGHT

The chef carried a large knife that looked like it had been designed to slice and dice something other than vegetables. The heavily tattooed waiter kept a gun strapped to his leg beneath his trousers. The auras of both showed above-average levels of psychic talent and unmistakable signs of permanent damage done by extreme violence. There was also evidence of an odd Zen-like acceptance of what they had done and what they knew themselves to be.

The Dark Rainbow appeared to cater to a weird crowd of misfit sensitives, most of whom looked like they had fallen off the edge of somewhere far, far away and washed up on the beaches of Hawaii. The majority of the customers had profiles typical of people whose auras had been scrambled, warped or badly dented. Most of them probably didn’t even know that they were psychic, let alone that their problem stemmed from that side of their nature.

So why do I feel right at home here? Grace wondered.

She sat with Petra Groves in a booth at the back of the room, adjacent to the swinging door that opened onto the hot, steamy kitchen. It was late afternoon. Behind the bar Wayne polished glasses with scary precision, as if each was a cartridge he planned to load into a rifle and upon which his life might depend.

Petra had explained that they were in the lull between the lunch rush and the dinner service. There was only one customer in the place. He had parked his rusty shopping cart containing a stained bedroll and a number of empty soda cans and bottles outside in the courtyard. Referring to him as a customer was pushing it, Grace thought, since he was getting a free meal.

“That’s Jeff,” Petra explained in low tones. “Head trauma while he was doing his third tour.”

“I can see the damage,” Grace said softly. “He’s low level. Looks totally paranoid.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t trust the VA. Probably just as well. Doubt the doctors would know what to do with a sensitive. When he gets one of his spells, he shows up here. Luther tweaks his aura a little. Calms him right down. On his good days, like today, he stops in and orders the fish and chips.”

“Which you serve him without charge?”

Petra shrugged. “He always offers to pay but we don’t need any more empty cans and bottles.”

“Judging by the lunch crowd, a lot of your clientele look like they should have an appointment with one of the Society’s shrinks.”

Petra snorted. “Most of ’em don’t even know the Society exists. What’s more, if they did find out that there was such a thing, they’d probably run like hell in the opposite direction.”

Grace nodded solemnly. “They become so paranoid they would probably fear anyone who tried to coax them into a clinical setting.”

“A few of them have good reason to be paranoid,” Petra said grimly. “A lot of our regulars got into trouble somewhere along the line when their psychic natures brought them to the attention of folks in white coats.”

“You mean when other people decided they were crazy?”

Wayne paused in his polishing, eyes as cold as those of the snake that crowned his shaved head. “Couple of ’em ended up in some damned lab experiments.”

Petra lowered her coffee mug. “We don’t try to play doctor here at the Dark Rainbow. Me and Wayne, we put off having kids and then found out we couldn’t have any. After we moved here, I guess we just started adopting folks like Jeff and Ray and the others. The customers come here the first time for a meal or a drink. They come back because they feel better when they’re here.”

Grace smiled. “And they feel better because the proprietors understand them and because the bartender has a special knack for calming them down.”

Petra blew that off with a slicing motion of her hand. “Luckily we don’t have to deal in empty pop cans a lot. Most of our crowd pays with actual cash. Enough about us. Let’s talk about you. Luther says we’re on the lookout for a female who can whack someone by singing opera.”

“I think so. Her songs sounded like operatic arias.”

“I’m into classic rock, myself. Wayne, here, is the one who likes opera.”

Grace looked at him, trying to conceal her surprise. “You’re a fan?”

Over at the bar Wayne picked up another glass. “I’m okay with it. Puts me in another place, y’know? Only been to a couple of live performances but I got a lot of CDs. This Siren. She any good?”

“Well, her singing certainly has a very dramatic effect on her audience,” Grace said. “But her psychic talent aside, I think she is more than good. Fallon Jones believes that she’s a professional hit woman, not a professional singer, but I’m not so sure. It may be the other way around.”

Wayne pondered that closely while he applied the towel to another glass. “Either way, Luther is right. You shouldn’t be running around on your own until J&J punches her ticket.”

Grace tried not to be stunned by the casual way he referred to killing the Siren. She cleared her throat.

“Does J&J actually do things like that?” she asked.

“Fallon Jones would never admit it,” Petra said. “But yeah, once in a while stuff like that gets done.”

The wall phone rang. Wayne ignored it. Petra shoved herself out of the booth and took the call.

“Yeah, Julie,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. Hope he feels better soon. Tell the little guy I said hi. No problem.”

She tossed the phone back into its cradle and heaved a sigh. “Julie can’t make it in tonight. Probably not tomorrow night, either. Her kid’s sick.”

“No dishwasher and no waitress,” Wayne said. “Comin’ up on the weekend. Busiest nights of the week. Figures.”

Petra shook her head. “These are the kind of personnel problems that come with success. We never used to have to worry about someone not showing up for work B.L.”

“B.L.?” Grace said.

“Before Luther,” Petra explained. “Who knew success was gonna be such a pain in the ass? We can squeak by without Julie but there’s no way I can cook and keep up with the dishes at the same time when we’ve got a full house.”

“I can wash dishes,” Grace said.

Wayne and Petra looked at her as if she had started speaking in tongues.

“I used to wash dishes for a living,” she explained. “Then I became a butler. You could say I’m a professional.”