The Gypsy

EIGHT
The Wolf, the Badger,and the Old Woman

Old woman, I hate too much.

I must give it vent.

Old woman you are hiding

here inside your tent.

Old woman, how much more

will I have to repent?

Old woman will I have left a mark

When my days are spent?

"BLACKENED PAGE"

"Mike!"

At the shout, Stepovich jerked awake. Reflexes rolled him off the couch and onto his feet as he scrabbled for a gun that wasn't there; shoelaces tied together brought him down just as swiftly. He caught himself painfully on one elbow, managed to avoid hitting the coffee table more than a glancing blow.

"You son of a bitch," he said with great feeling.

Ed laughed. "Works every time," he observed cheerfully, even though it was at least four years since he had pulled the same stunt. He turned his back on Stepovich and headed for the apartment's tiny kitchen. "'You want coffee?" he called back over his shoulder.

"That dead bolt cost me fifteen dollars. If you've screwed it up, I'm gonna feed it to you."

"Me?" Ed stuck his head back around the corner."Thing wasn't even shot, Stepovich. Door wasn't locked. I just waltzed right in."

"Uar," Stepovich muttered, working at his knotted laces. He'd never been able to figure out how Ed did it. The man was overweight and clumsy as an ox,but there wasn't a lock he couldn't slip, and Stepovich couldn't count how many times in the years of their partnership that Ed had taken him unawares. When he was a rookie, Ed had almost convinced him that he,Stepovich, just wasn't alert enough to be a good cop. It had taken him a long time to realize that the big man could walk softer than a cat, and could take damn near anyone by surprise. Grabbing cat burglars from behind had been one of his favorite tricks, once upon a time.

Stepovich retied his shoes and got up to make his way into the kitchen. Ed had half the stuff out of his cupboard stacked on the floor. "Where in hell are the coffee beans?" he demanded as Stepovich came around the comer. Sneaky bastard didn't even bother to turn and look at him. Just knew he was there.

"Don't have any." Stepovich reached up to the shelf over the stove, took down a jar of instant. "Coffee's right here."

"That shit?" Ed stepped casually away from the mess he'd made. "Let's skip it, then. We can grab some on the way." He glanced back once at the packages and cans he'd rummaged through. "Pretty sorry haul, Mike. Nothing there I'd feed the neighbor's cat. When's the last time you went shopping, anyway?"

"Don't go shopping, I just pick up what I need for the day on my way home from work. Where we going? And what the hell time is it?"

"Just about midnight. Witching hour. Best time for witches, vampires and gypsy fortune tellers. But, hey,Mike, this is no way to live. Coffee is not something to take casually. You've seen how I do it, little hand grinder, drip pot, and keep those beans in the frig until you're ready."

"Where we going?" Stepovich repeated wearily. Midnight. Shit. He had to work tomorrow. Maybe Ed had been retired long enough that he'd forgotten what it was like to drag his ass out of bed at six in the morning. Look at him. Eyes bright, hair combed,black bomber jacket that could no way meet over his gut anymore. Looked like a teenager going out cruising. Same stupid shitty grin when he finally met Stepovich's eyes and answered.

"Where we going? We're going to get fortunes told,sweet baby mine. Madam Moria sees all, and I've got her primed to tell all. Let's go."

He tossed Stepovich's jacket at him and the flying sleeve stung his face. Ed was humming "Captain of the Pinafore" as Stepovich followed him out the door. Despite himself, Stepovich felt a small quickening of pulse. Gilbert and Sullivan had always been Ed's hunting tunes. Quick, Watson, the game's afoot and all that.

They were into the Cadillac before Stepovich remembered to say, "But Ed, I told you the thing with the Gypsy was all done and it turned out to be nothing after all."

"Bullshit," Ed said kindly, and slammed his door so hard that Stepovich's ears popped. The engine started with a roar, then Ed eased it back to a purr-like a big cat's. It slipped into gear with a barely perceptible whump! and prowled off down the street.

Stepovich heaved a sigh, and then sniffed curiously. Sniffed again. "Smells like a delicatessen inhere. You got a pizza in back or something?"

"Naw." Ed cleared his throat. "It's the cheese." A little further down the street he added, "In the mousetraps, you know. I mean, I hate to kill the little… buggers that way, but I tried everything else. I even stole my neighbor's tomcat and locked him up in the garage with the car one night. I left the trunk and all the doors open. Even the hood. I figured he'd get hungry and nail that mouse for me."

"Didn't work, huh?" Stepovich asked idly.

"No. Bastard got in the trunk all right. Sprayed all over the place!" Ed sounded righteously outraged.

"Ah." Stepovich tried to sound commiserating and couldn't. He couldn't hold back his snickering either."That's what I'm smelling then. Cheese and cat cum.Thought it might be some wow new aftershave you were using. Well, guess the cat knew a pimpmobile when he saw one."

"Shithead," Ed growled. "Work my ass off for you,and you make fun of my car. Nice guy,"

"What are friends for? Now, truthfully, what's with the Gypsy thing? I mean, for real, that's all done and closed. I should be at home, resting up for another day of protecting and serving the public."

They drove in silence. Traffic was down this time of night, and the store fronts were dark. North of Roosevelt. He hadn't patrolled in this area at night in years; it looked the same as it did then. He tried to avoid Little Philly when he wasn't working; he got enough of it during his shifts.

Traces of snow in the less trafficked areas. Only the garish lights of neon tavern signs and stoplights flickered over them in bars and splashes amidst the pale wash of the street lamps. West on Carradine, now.The streets were black with a layer of white from the earlier snowfall.

"You think I'm getting old," Ed said suddenly, softly.

Stepovich was startled. "What? No, man, nothing like that, it's just that this thing is done, and…"

"You're a sorry liar, Mike. Always have been, always will be. Your voice gets too sincere; it's a dead giveaway." A quick stab from Ed's dark eyes sank into Stepovich, gave him a tight pain somewhere in his sternum.

"Yeah." He admitted two stoplights later. "I'm lying. I'm still digging at it. But I wanted you clear, not because you're old, but because this could get real messy." He looked over at Ed, demanding he meet his eyes. "Messy enough to screw up your pension."

"Oh, yeah?" Ed turned a corner, slowed as he chose a parking spot for the Cadillac. He cut the engine, turned to Mike an indecipherable smile. "Well,fuck 'em if they can't take a joke." He stretched in his seat, rolled his big shoulders to crackle them loose."Now," he said, his voice changing entirely, becoming businesslike and instructive. "Here's the setup,and it's taken me two days and seventy-eight dollars,so keep that in mind and don't blow it. I'll go up with you, but you gotta act like you been in on this all along. Here's how it goes. I got Madam Moria's name from my little friend."

"Little friend," Stepovich snorted to himself."Your little friend must be getting old by now." He'd never been able to discover the identity of that particular snitch.

"Never mind that. He turned me on to his fortune-teller. Honest to god gypsy from what my little friend says, and one with a lot of ties to the community, or whatever you want to call the gypsies that pass through here. Anyway. Madam Moria's got an upstairs apartment over that sleazy music store we kept busting for selling hot instruments. Apartment C. I went there to get my fortune told. Gave her ten bucks,and she sat me down in a little back room. Candles,scarves, incense, crystal ball, the whole bit. She gave me a standard spiel, and then started feeling me out for more. So I gave her another ten for a more complete reading, and told her confidentially that I was considering investing my savings in a friend's business, but didn't know it if was a good move. Said that several of my little ventures lately hadn't gone as well as I'd hoped."

Stepovich groaned. He knew what came next."Turned out your money was cursed, right?"

Ed grinned white. "Righto! How ever did you guess? So she told me to bring her all my life savings,and she'd lift the curse."

Stepovich knew the old con. It was familiar enough to any bunko squad. The crone would take his money,wrap it in a scarf and do some mumbo jumbo, and give him back the scarf packet, warning him to put it in a safe place and not disturb it for two weeks, nineteen days, two months or whatever. Had to give the curse-lifting magic time to work. And by the time the gull opened his little package, and found the neatly cut strips of newspapers. Madam Moria would be three states away. He'd even heard of one sap who opened the packet early, and went back to confront the gypsy. That fortune teller must have been one smooth talker, because she convinced her gull that it was still the curse at work, and now he would have to bring her more money to add to the packet before the curse-lifting charm could work. Damn fool had,too. Bunko squad had a laugh riot over that one.

"Then what happened?"

"Then at her suggestion, I gave her all the cash I had on me right then, and she wrapped it and told me she'd hold it for me."

"And?"

"I went back earlier tonight, and let her give me her whole spiel again. Then I ripped open my shirt and showed her a wire taped to my chest and told her she was busted. Then I told her that maybe I could see my way to go easy on her if she could give us a little help with something else, something gypsy related. I left her alone to think for awhile."

Stepovich glanced up at the dark windows. "And you really think she's still there?"

"She'll be there."

"What makes you think so?"

"Her face when I dropped the name Cynthia Kacmarcik. I'd say she has a personal stake in this one, Mike. Even more personal than getting herself off the hook."

The slams of the Cadillac doors were very loud on the quiet street. This was a poorer section of town,one that was the edge of the encroaching industrial district. Many of the storefront windows were blind and empty, soaped shut to the night. The surviving businesses had an air of desperation to them, the signs in the windows curling, their merchandise dusty. Litter whispered in the snowy gutters.

Ed pushed open the glass door that opened onto a narrow stairway. Stepovich followed him in past three dilapidated mailboxes dangling on the pockmarked wall. A single yellow bulb lit the stairway. The carpeting was worn through to the wood in places, and someone had left an empty pint bottle on one of the steps. Ed moved stealthy as an old ginger cat and Stepovich followed, trying not to let the stairs creak under his lesser weight. Ed scanned the narrow hall at the top of the stairs, then nodded to himself as much as to Stepovich. He knocked at the third door,and it opened almost immediately.

The young woman inside had chestnut hair and piercing grey eyes. She wore something Jenny would have referred to as a power suit. Like it hadn't been chosen because she liked it or because it suited her,but because it made her look like an executive. She was just a little too young to pull it off; it made her look a bit like Al Capone's little sister. Ed looked at her for a few seconds before shutting his mouth.

"Come right in," she said briskly, bitterly. "Do come right in. Ignore the fact that Ms. Sarinsky is an old woman and her health is poor and this isn't exactly business hours. Just come right in. And talk to me. I'm Ms. Peabody, from the Neighborhood Legal Coalition.And just for starters, I'd like to see your credentials."

Stepovich could feel his guts sliding down his legs.Ed didn't look like he was doing much better. He bobbed his head several times, and Stepovich had the feeling he would have whipped off his hat if he'd been wearing one. Ed crabbed into the room past her,and Stepovich followed him reluctantly, feeling as if he were walking into a lion's den.

Blankets and tapestries and woven stuff draped the ceilings and walls, giving the small room the feeling of a tent. Every color in the world seemed represented, with reds taking dominance. The stuffed chairs had feet carved like paws, and overflowed with cushions just as the several small tables in the room looked as if they were tottering under their burdens of bric-a-brac. Patterned carpets of various shapes and piles were layered underfoot, contributing to Stepovich's feeling of uncertain footing. Of Madam Moria there was no sign at all.

"Now, Mizz Peabody, I can see you're upset, and I think that really if we just talk, you'll find there's no basis for it." Ed began placatingly. Too placatingly. Stepovich watched Ms. Peabody's hackles rise.

"I believe I asked for your credentials," she observed icily. She looked from Ed to Stepovich sternly.Ed made a show of reaching inside his jacket. In fora dime, in for a dollar, Stepovich told himself, and flashed out his badge.

"Officer Stepovich, ma'am. I'm in charge of this investigation. Ed here is just my man. If you've got any quibbles with the way it's been conducted, I'm the one you need to talk to." He flipped the case shut,hoping she hadn't had time to get his badge number.

"Quibbles!" She puffed up like a blowfish. "Quibbles are not what I have. Officer Steppopick. What I have are grievances. Have you ever heard of entrapment? Of harrassment?" She paused. "But those are just small potatoes compared to the fact that I called (he police department today, and they had no record of any ongoing investigation, or any officer in charge."

Stepovich was suddenly sure that the mild indigestion he'd been experiencing was now a full-fledged ulcer. He made the tiny hand motion he'd always made when he wanted Ed to go first around a corner or check out an entryway. But this time he made it toward the door. Let Ed get the hell out, they'd have nothing to connect a retired cop to this. Ed took a step, but not toward the door. Closer to Stepovich. Leaning toward him, shaking his big stupid face like a mournful jackass and saying softly, "No way,buddy."

"Yes way, buddy."

Stepovich looked at Ms. Peabody, who was glaring triumphantly, like a vulture who'd found a dying mule in the desert. "Wait a minute," he said. "We have to talk."

"You can talk to me," she snapped. "I'm going to-"

"Wait," he repeated, putting as much force into it as he could. Before she had the chance to speak, he grabbed Ed's arm and walked him into a corner by a hanging tapestry of a green owl and a red raven standing over a wounded knight. "Listen, idiot," he said. "You got a pension to think about. I can-"

"You can get your ass fired, buddy. I'm not going to let you play lone wolf and pay for my screw up."

"Wolf?" The voice was,high and querulous, a granny wakened from her nap by noisy children. Fora moment, it seemed sourceless. Then the tapestry twitched, pushed aside by the tip of a questing metal rod. Both he and Ed instinctively stepped away, going into defensive postures, before recognizing it as the end of a cane. A woman slowly shouldered her way past the heavy hanging, revealing a doorway behind it. She was old, but vitally alive, her alertness independent of her failing senses or stiff body. Her dual canes, one black and twisted wood banded with iron, the other burnished aluminum, thumped her slowly into the center of the room.

"Ms. Sarinsky, as your volunteer advocate, I have to insist you let me handle this," Ms. Peabody advised her sternly. "Actually, it's better if you say nothing at all to these persons," she added in a condescending undertone.

"Madam Sarinsky," the old woman shrilled imperiously. "I am Madam Moria Sarinsky, seer of the unknown. And I know what is best here!"

Stepovich thought Ms. Peabody looked as ruffled as a church soloist who'd lit into the wrong selection."For the sake of preserving your legal rights, I advise-" she began again, but Madam Moria Sarinsky lilted her black cane and made a shooing motion as if the legal advocate were an annoying chicken.

"It's different now," she said, not explaining, but dismissing. "I did not see the Wolf before. I thought it was only this old grey Badger, trying to dig me out.Go on, go on, girl, you can do nothing here. You. Young man." She waved a cane at Ed. "Clear a chair for me. No, not that one, stupid. Any fool could see it has a wobbly leg. That one. Hurry up."

Stepovich was torn between watching the vanquished Ms. Peabody gather her briefcase and leave,and watching Ed meekly obeying the old crone.

"… she obviously doesn't understand what you're doing. Which means she hasn't been properly Mirandized, and nothing she says can be legally used. And when the time comes, I'll be a witness to that.So if you think-"

"Yes, yes, yes," Madam Moria intoned testily. She pointed the twisted black cane at Stepovich. "You. Shut the door."

And he did, giving Ms. Peabody just time enough to get through it. He turned back to find Madam Moria settling in the chair with various small hisses and groans. She thumped a cane on the floor until Ed got the message and placed one cushion where her slippered feet could reach it. Then she breathed noisily through her nose for several more moments while she settled the folds of her gown around her. Dressing gown was too poor a description for that brocaded and embroidered marvel. Her slippers matched it, for god's sake. When it was arranged to her satisfaction, the old woman lifted her head and fixed her gaze on Stepovich. "So, Wolf. What have you come to ask?"

Maybe next year's power suits would be lavish brocade bathrobes. Stepovich started to pull up a chair,but she pointed imperiously to a cushion near her blue-veined feet. He sat. Better to go with it than to lose it.

He looked up into her eyes. They were dark and old, the browns sort of leaking into the whites and staining them. And if she wasn't at least half blind,he'd eat his badge. Blind. But seeing him, too, in away that put the creeps up his back. He cleared his throat and heard himself say, "I want to know who killed Cynthia Kacmarcik."

He heard Ed shift his weight in a chair at this novel mode of interrogation. So did Madam Moria, for she lifted her aluminum cane and pointed it at Ed commandingly, "You. Go to the kitchen. Make tea. You keep an old woman up late, you have to care for her throat. Go."

Ed stood reluctantly. "How do I know where the tea is?" he demanded.

"Dig for it. Badger. Dig. Hurry up. And mind you steal nothing, or I shall know!" she called after him as he blundered off through the tapestry she'd emerged from. Ed dismissed, she leaned closer to Stepovich. Her blind eyes swam over his face. She reached out a bony hand, and startled him by gripping his hair. It was all he could do to keep from jerking free.

"Someone has her," she whispered. "Just like this. She'd like to be dead, poor Cynthia would, but someone won't let her go. Am I right, hmm?"

Stepovich's throat went dry. Her pale old tongue emerged, wet her withered lips, and the fingertips of her free hand. She rubbed the spittle together on her fingers as if listening to it. "A little boy is in it. A nasty little boy, who hides behind Her skirts after he's done his dirtiness. But it would be a mistake to go after just him. He's only a puppet, you know. But he's a puppet with a knife, so don't turn your back until you've cut his strings. Hmm?"

He could hear Ed clattering cups, heard water run into a kettle, but the sounds seemed distant: Not muffled by the hangings and the apartment walls, but distant, miles away, like dogs barking outside a village or the creak of cart wheels over a bridge. She wasn't seeing him with those rheumy eyes, but she was seeing something and he couldn't break away from her gaze.

She flicked a handkerchief in his face, and he never even flinched. "Here's a scent for you. Wolf," she told him, and there was a scent to it, like cheap macho cologne, all musk and sharp with no sweetness. He breathed it in and it seemed to vanish from the air around him even as a part of him vowed not to forget it. The handkerchief, too, vanished, as if it had never been.

"You could hunt with the Raven on your shoulder. But this Wolf always wants to hunt alone, doesn't he?The Owl could give you eyes in the night, but you think you've eyes enough, don't you? And the little one, the Dove who could coo secrets to you? Him you'd close your jaws on with one great snap. Stupids. Four great stupids, the lot of you. The world cries out for heroes, and what are we given? Three scatterbrained birds and a mangy dog."

She released his hair with a final shake and leaned back in her chair, breathing heavily. She half-lidded her eyes. Stepovich felt as if a great pressure had lifted from him. Someone made a peculiar scratching sound right outside the door, but before he could react to it,Madam Moria lifted her head. "I don't care!" she cried out defiantly, and he wasn't sure if she addressed him or not. "I'm too old to fear you, you patchwork demon! Run and carry tales! You're not the only one who can tattle little secrets!" Her voice seemed to catch on the final words, and she leaned back suddenly in her chair with a wheezing sigh. Her shriveled lips sank in on themselves, her eyes faded deeper into blindness.

"Madam Moria?" he ventured.

She took in a deeper breath, blinked several times. She reached for her black cane, thumped it weakly on the layered rugs. "Where is that tea?" she demanded, but her demanding now seemed more piteous than imperious.

"I'll check on it," Stepovich told her, and started to stand up, but Ed was pushing the tapestry aside with his back and ushering in a small tray. It was silver, the etched pattern old and lovely under the patina of years. A fat ceramic pot sat on it, and beside it an elegant cup of fluted bone china. None of the items matched, yet they obviously belonged together just as old friends do.

"Pull up… that table. Any table." She seemed suddenly a very old woman in a way she had not before. Stepovich didn't even smile as Ed carefully poured her tea and offered her the cup. She took it,and though her hand trembled, not a drop escaped as she raised it to her mouth and noisily sucked at it.

"She tell you anything?" Ed asked in an undertone.

Stepovich shrugged. "Not really," he answered, and wondered why it felt like a lie.

Ed went into a heavy crouch beside her chair."How about it. Madam Moria? Can you tell us anything about Cynthia Kacmarcik?"

"I can tell you she made better tea than this! Who taught you to put water only warm on the leaves?Better the steam stands out a foot above the kettle before you pour it! Tea like this, Cynthia would pour on the floor!"

"But can you tell us…"

"Young man, I am tired. You think an old womanlike me, she can stay up all night and talk and not be tired? Stupid. You want to know more, you come back another time."

"Maybe you could just-" Ed began, but Stepovich shook his head at him silently. Ed got the message and rose.

As they turned to the door. Madam Moria thumped a cane on the floor. "Fifty dollars!" she said, when Stepovich turned back. "You think I do a seeing for free? No! Fifty dollars. Wolf."

Ignoring Ed's incredulous look, Stepovich gave her the twenty-three he had in his wallet. She took it disdainfully. "Next time you come, you bring the rest.Or I will tell you nothing at all. Nothing at all."

They were in the Cadillac and headed back to Stepovich's before Ed spoke, "Not healthy," he observed, shaking his head.

"Well, she's pretty old," he conceded.

"Not her." Ed snorted in disgust. "She's a healthy as a horse, behind the phony wheeze of hers. Hell, that cast-iron teakettle of hers must weigh twenty pounds. If she's hefting that every day, it's probably as good as a Jane Fonda workout. Her hair hasn't even gone grey.No, I wasn't talking about her. I mean you."

"Me? I'm not sick. A little indigestion now and then, but you show me a cop who doesn't get an acid stomach, and I'll show you a cop who's too dumb to be scared."

"Naw, Mike." Ed gave a sigh. "It's the way you're living. It's starting to bug the shit out of me. At first,I thought, well, it's just going to take him a while to get used to things. But it's been more than a while,and you just aren't adapting."

"What the hell do you mean?" The sudden anger he felt was unreasonable in its intensity.

"I mean like that kitchen of yours. It doesn't look like you live there. I mean, it's more like you're camping out for the weekend, and expect to go back to Jennie and the kids next Tuesday or something."

"I don't like clutter."

"The hell you say. I'm not talking about clutter.I'm talking about having something besides ketchup in the cupboard, or more than three forks in the drawer. When's the last time you bought a carton of ice cream, or ate some meat that didn't come out of a can? You don't even have a real salt shaker, only those cardboard things from the store. And I'm talking about having books. You used to read all the time,in the break room. And I'm talking about the way you fall asleep on the couch most nights rather than go to bed and admit you're sleeping alone. And why you're sleeping alone, I don't know. And-"

"Ed. Give it a rest, okay?"

"I've given it a rest too damn long. You can't just put your life on hold. You got to-"

"Look." Stepovich was having trouble keeping his voice level. "You've made your point. Let it go. I know you're my partner, and-"

"No, Mike. I'm not your partner. And that's another thing. Who's your partner is that big green kid who isn't learning a damn thing because you aren't bothering to teach him. 'Cause you think maybe he isn't permanent. Well, you ignore him long enough,he damn sure won't be permanent, because he'll be dead."

"Let me off here," Stepovich's words were cold and hard.

"Oh, fuck you," Ed replied unhappily, and drove the rest of the way to his apartment in silence.