Dirty in Cashmere by Peter Plate

darkness. That prophecy is a language which never errs.
    â€œI’ll bet my life on it.”
    â€œIt isn’t your life you’ll be betting.”
    I judged the threat, decided I wasn’t afraid. I put my mind to the task. I searched and searched the gloomiest corners of the spirit world until a sole image was fixed in my consciousness: the Hondurans.
    â€œFollow me.”
    We scampered to the back of the burning bungalow with me in front, trumpeting: “They’re in the laundry room. Break through the door to the kitchen and you’ll find them.”
    The firemen hefted their axes, made short work of the door and disappeared into the flames. A tongue of fire ran up a nearby telephone pole.
    Shaken by the divination’s intensity, I was worried. What if I’d made an error? Those men would perish and I would go to prison. There, I’d fight to keep from getting raped. My dad never talked about it, but mom steadfastly maintained he’d been punked and turned out in the pen. Mired in my anxiety, I didn’t hear the triumphant shouts rising above the fire’s cruel roar. Three firefighters materialized from the smoke, pushing and shoving the two Hondurans toward safety.
    â€œFuck.” One of the cops gawked at me. “You did it.”
    Without saying a word, I pirouetted on my heel and flounced down the street, the tatty Zegna coat hanging from my emaciated frame like the magic cape that it was. A hummingbird streaked past my shoulder, chased by five hypertensive crows. I glanced at Spike’s place. I didn’t see any sign of her.
    Sunrise was an hour away. I wasn’t looking forward to it. I was close to cracking up. The mental strain of this prediction had done me in. But there would be no respite for me. To the contrary. I was back in the saddle again. The days were going to move faster now. Hopefully, I wouldn’t.

 
    THIRTY-SIX
    The news of my exploit had long legs. Saturday morning found me sitting in the basement of the Emergency Management Center on Turk Street. The building was a superstructure with a metallic exterior, tinted windows, and a swooping roof stippled by satellite dishes and transmission poles.
    The basement boasted blue industrial carpeting, embedded ceiling lights, and beige walls, a sickly fifty- year-old white man in a lime green Brooks Brothers suit occupying the room’s other chair. His fingernails were razed to the quick, the cuticles colored with blood. Frowning at his nails, he looked at me, still frowning, the runnels around his mouth deeper than a canyon.
    â€œRicky? I’m Bo Lackner. The director of the city’s disaster containment unit. Thanks for coming. You’ve been highly recommended to us by the new mayor.”
    He was prematurely brown-nosing me. I curled my lip. “I didn’t do fuck all for him.”
    â€œYou predicted the defeat of his opponent. Your reputation is spreading. Everyone knows about your honesty and unerring accuracy. As an oracle, do you make predictions from a need to do good for society?”
    His question was spot on. When I started dispensing predictions for Heller and 2-Time, my motives were selfish. I wanted money. I didn’t understand the consequences of my actions. My interaction with Branch and the circles he traveled in, the corridors of power, allowed me to think in larger terms. The fire on Guadalupe Terrace showed me I had a responsibility to other people. That was part of my accursed gift. I had become an agent for change. I wasn’t a politician. I wasn’t a social worker. Those roles were pieces on a chessboard. I was the chessboard itself. I wore the cloak of prophecy. I no longer catered to the greed of men. I carried the burdens of the city. I was on my way to Jerusalem.
    â€œYeah, I do. But do you know Branch?”
    â€œYes, everybody does.”
    â€œHe wasn’t pleased by the job I did for him.”
    â€œForget him. He’s