The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [75]
A shrink? Oliver wanted him to go see a shrink? Charlie said, “Hm?” pretending not to hear, and Oliver didn’t follow up. Hard to say which of them was gladder to drop the subject. Worth men didn’t go to shrinks.
Although, come to think of it, Oliver might’ve gone to one after the accident, for all Charlie knew. How many years ago was that, five, six? Change that, then: Worth men didn’t go to shrinks and talk about it.
Oliver paused, as he usually did, to look at Charlie’s collection of Western bronzes on the glass shelves by the front door. He picked up his favorite, the biggest, heaviest one: five mustangs in full gallop. Charlie picked up his own favorite, a cowboy whipping his muscle-bound horse with his hat, hair blowing back in a realistic headwind. Thirty years ago, he and Oliver used to roll around on the living room rug in Charlie’s house, making up games about posses and ambushes, cattle drives and gold rushes. Love of a mythical Old West was the main thing they’d had in common in those days. Probably still was.
Even now, just holding the heavy bronze horses had the effect of putting them back in favor with each other. “Got any shirts for the cleaners?” Oliver asked, and Charlie said no, not this week, thanks. They talked about Charlie’s 401(k), whether he ought to renew his AARP membership. They exchanged their traditional manly, one-armed hug, and Charlie thought it went on a second or two longer than usual.
Then Oliver ruined everything by saying, “So we’re clear about this psychic, right, Grandfather? No more of that. I’m holding you to your promise.”
“Oh, hold this,” Charlie said, and closed the door on him.
TWO
Hold this?
Charlie must be going senile. A psychic. What next, wiring money to a Nigerian bank account? Oliver didn’t like the look in his eye either when Grandfather had shut the door in his face. Shifty, that’s what it was. Shifty and untrustworthy.
If you gave Charlie an inch, he’d take a mile—Oliver knew that from experience. So it was no good saying, Fine, call Madame Romanescu anytime you want, and if it breaks the bank, no problem, I’ll step in and save you. Which he could easily do, but that wasn’t the point. Charlie needed to live within his means for his own good, his own self-respect. If Charlie was tired of being treated like a child, Oliver was tired of acting like the heavy.
“Madame Romanescu.” What a laugh. He’d seen their ads on late-night cable, the lady fortune-tellers. Such obvious fakes. How could Charlie fall for such a rip-off? Stopped at a light on Connecticut Avenue, Oliver rummaged in his briefcase till he found his grandfather’s credit card statement, and at the next light he punched in Madame Romanescu’s 900 number on his cell phone.
“Hello,” said a soft, smoky voice in some kind of an accent. “It is Madame Romanescu. What is troubling you today, dear one? What is the problem you cannot solve? Perhaps it’s difficulty with a loved one. Someone you love who doesn’t love you back. Or is it your career? Money problems? Your child; a beloved pet? Maybe a dream, or the memory of one of your past lives. I have helped others, and I can help you. The cost of the call is $2.99 a minute, and I accept all major credit and debit cards. And”—the low-pitched, sympathetic voice rose a note with genuine-sounding goodwill—“today is your lucky day, dear one, a special offer—ten minutes for only $19.95. What an opportunity for us, yes? So call me, and we will talk. For now, I wish you light, life, and love.”
Then the operator’s voice, completely different, clipped and no-nonsense. “Please enter your credit card number now.”
Right, thought Oliver, and clicked off.
Cocktail parties were work, not play—Charlie’s opinion notwithstanding—and if you were smart, you didn’t eat or drink much at them. Otherwise you couldn’t do your job, not to mention that in a year or two you’d be an