Kiyoko and I visit the offices of Starkweather and Andersonat 106 Broadway in the Financial District. It’s a lovely building with massive iron torches on either side of the entrance, each cradling a globe of electric light. Trollies clang and carriages clatter and people gather in the small park across the street. A doorman stops us in the lobby.
“Reason for visit?”
Stealing blueprints!
Spirit yells that in the chamber of my mind like a petulant toddler; they are still pissy about this plan. I’m glad I don’t echo this intention aloud.
“We have an appointment with Mr. Starkweather,” Kiyoko says. She is as bold as a sword.
The doorman is already shaking his head by the time she finishes the sentence. He looks at our gray clothes, the holes in our shoes, and he knows—we are no clients of Starkweather’s. “No ma’am.” He taps a leather-bound datebook. “No record of you here. Out you go.”
Kiyoko thins her lips, and her mouth sounds with a loudpop. We leave.
We camp out under a green-and-white awning at a deli two doors down. Our stomachs rumble at the smell of deli meats and fresh-baked bread, but we have no extra money without Pax’s purse. Kiyoko and I pass the time by wrestling our thumbs.
“Worst client you ever had?” Kiyoko asks, arching her wrist to pin my thumb with her own. I’m too fast for her wily digits.
I snort a laugh. “Where do I start? I guess besides the ones that, you know, threaten to kill you…” Kiyoko nods, the tip of her tongue out in concentration. “Oh! There was the fellow whose dead wife insisted he make amends for cheating on her.He listened to the whole reading silently, then asked, ‘Can I talk to the man of the house? I think he’d have better advice.’?”
Kiyoko spits out a laugh. Our wrists arch and sway as we thumb-wrestle. “Mine was the woman who insisted that she must cuddle her Chihuahuanakedwhile I did the reading, so she could feel every emotion her little Junebug was experiencing.”
I pretend-retch, and Kiyoko laughs.
“It was awful. Memorable, though. Wow, did Junebug hate that woman.”
“I once had a woman who wanted me to contact her dead husband. Her dead sister came through and told me—the woman had never been married.”
“A guy brought in his shepherd mix, adamant that I tell him about the bumps on his dog’s belly. I said, ‘Those are nipples sir.’ The man was flabbergasted. ‘But… he’s ahe!’ He was so confused when I said, ‘Sir, all mammals have nipples. Don’t you?’ That fellow didn’t pay.”
I laugh. “Oh! I forgot about the man who describedin great detailthe rash he had on his… parts. He thought it was a demon. He wanted me to exorcise it.”
“Mmmm, no sir. The gentleman who brought in the ashes of his dead cat—in the pockets of his trousers.”
“Clients with gas.”
“Clients with pets with gas.”
We’ve forgotten our thumb wrestling and we both have tears streaming down our faces. Our shoulders bump together when we laugh. It’s amazing, finding someone who understands you exactly as you are.
Or maybe I’m just imagining that? I’ve been so lonely for so long. I can’t trust myself to know if Kiyoko is truly a friend, or just another temporary person in my life.
After an hour or so, Mr. Starkweather emerges, his impressive handlebar mustache unmistakable. He makes his way to McDudley’s Old Ale House. Kiyoko kicks a fire hydrant. “Stupid joint doesn’t let in women.” We sit outside again, backs against the scratchy brick building next door, this time exchanging a list of our favorite foods. Our stomachs growl in chorus.
“Baklava.”
“Yum. Chicken tikka masala.”
“Ooo good one. Matzo ball soup.”
“Yes! With an egg salad sandwich on rye.”
“Definitely.”
Oh my. Do I miss food.
Me, too! Aye, what I’d do for a rare steak…
A baked potato…
