invisible waves as she floated by. A black sundress that dipped low in the back exposed her shoulders and her arms, which were as round and white as birch logs. It also revealed a flock of tattoos, including two great eyes, one on each shoulder blade: the Eyes of Horus, the all-seeing, the eye of the mind, from Egyptian mythology. Over one arm, the woman had flung a black shawl with pink and crimson roses embroidered on it. She looked like a plump gypsy matriarch. Bountiful, not fat.
Stella wanted to know more; her own psychic had been falling down on the job. Lacey was polite. She took Marie’s card and gave her one of her own.
“You’re the one. Of course, ‘Crimes of Fashion.’ I read it all the time. I’m thinking about that column on nuances. It had a psychic strain to it, I thought.”
“That’s what I keep telling her,” Stella said. “Nuances.”
“Could be. I’m feeling a lot of vibes in here,” Marie declared. “Y’all feel them too?”
Lacey looked at Stella, one hundred and ten pounds of quivering vibrations. “Oh yes, I can feel them,” Lacey said.
“Y’all should really focus on your spiritual plane,” Marie said to Lacey. Stella lifted her eyebrows and nodded.
“I am curious about the Eyes of Horus,” Lacey said.
Marie beamed. “I thought y’all’d never ask.”
“Watching your back, I bet,” Stella said.
“Exactly, sugar. Some psychics receive impressions in their chest or their stomach or the head, in the third eye. With me it’s always been the shoulders. Don’t ask me why. Just vibrations hitting me in the shoulder blades, first the right, then the left. Like someone tapping my shoulder to get my attention. The Eyes of Horus are always watching for incoming pulsations.”
Marie made her way to the counter and ordered a large latte and a gooey chocolate brownie. She was an impressive work in progress on her way to becoming the Illustrated Woman. A story behind every little picture.
“Maybe she’d be good for a column,” Lacey said.
“You already have something to write about.” Stella swirled the coffee in her cup. “This coffee tastes kind of like a rubber retread that you see on the highway.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I usually get a Coke. You know, ‘Coking and smoking.’ ” That was what stylists called break time, though it sounded sinister and illegal to Lacey.
“You’re trying to quit anyway,” Lacey said.
“Listen, about Angie, I don’t even know where to start. Stella, are you listening to me?”
Stella was ogling a guy who had just ambled in the door. He was Stella’s type all right: long blond curls, five-day beard, motorcycle jacket and helmet, about thirty, on the thin side. A beautiful Cupid gone bad. He had a slow lazy smile that he directed past Lacey to Stella, who sent back a suggestive smile of her own and a wink.
“You’ll think of something, Lacey. You’re basically a good, decent human being,” Stella said. “In spite of yourself.”
Lacey jerked the table and slopped her coffee onto the marble top. “I am not. I need to be left alone.”
“You don’t mean that.” Stella stood. “You want a refill?” She followed the silent mating call of the bad-boy blond to the counter. “I bet he’s got a nice bike.”
“You’re only interested in his pistons.”
“You see right through me, Lacey. You’d make a great detective.”
A few minutes later, Stella came back with a bagel and refills. She announced that she and one Bobby Saratoga, he of the motorcycle, would be meeting the following day to take in a bluegrass concert at Glen Echo Park. Lacey was dumbfounded. Damn those Pentagon pheromone jammers, she thought.
“How do you do that? My God.” Lacey could see that Stella, punk goddess that she was, had a kind of elfin charm, the crew cut notwithstanding. And her collection of leather bustiers reeled men in like fish waiting to be hooked.
“Easy, Lacey. I leave my signals on. I don’t turn everything
Stella wanted to know more; her own psychic had been falling down on the job. Lacey was polite. She took Marie’s card and gave her one of her own.
“You’re the one. Of course, ‘Crimes of Fashion.’ I read it all the time. I’m thinking about that column on nuances. It had a psychic strain to it, I thought.”
“That’s what I keep telling her,” Stella said. “Nuances.”
“Could be. I’m feeling a lot of vibes in here,” Marie declared. “Y’all feel them too?”
Lacey looked at Stella, one hundred and ten pounds of quivering vibrations. “Oh yes, I can feel them,” Lacey said.
“Y’all should really focus on your spiritual plane,” Marie said to Lacey. Stella lifted her eyebrows and nodded.
“I am curious about the Eyes of Horus,” Lacey said.
Marie beamed. “I thought y’all’d never ask.”
“Watching your back, I bet,” Stella said.
“Exactly, sugar. Some psychics receive impressions in their chest or their stomach or the head, in the third eye. With me it’s always been the shoulders. Don’t ask me why. Just vibrations hitting me in the shoulder blades, first the right, then the left. Like someone tapping my shoulder to get my attention. The Eyes of Horus are always watching for incoming pulsations.”
Marie made her way to the counter and ordered a large latte and a gooey chocolate brownie. She was an impressive work in progress on her way to becoming the Illustrated Woman. A story behind every little picture.
“Maybe she’d be good for a column,” Lacey said.
“You already have something to write about.” Stella swirled the coffee in her cup. “This coffee tastes kind of like a rubber retread that you see on the highway.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I usually get a Coke. You know, ‘Coking and smoking.’ ” That was what stylists called break time, though it sounded sinister and illegal to Lacey.
“You’re trying to quit anyway,” Lacey said.
“Listen, about Angie, I don’t even know where to start. Stella, are you listening to me?”
Stella was ogling a guy who had just ambled in the door. He was Stella’s type all right: long blond curls, five-day beard, motorcycle jacket and helmet, about thirty, on the thin side. A beautiful Cupid gone bad. He had a slow lazy smile that he directed past Lacey to Stella, who sent back a suggestive smile of her own and a wink.
“You’ll think of something, Lacey. You’re basically a good, decent human being,” Stella said. “In spite of yourself.”
Lacey jerked the table and slopped her coffee onto the marble top. “I am not. I need to be left alone.”
“You don’t mean that.” Stella stood. “You want a refill?” She followed the silent mating call of the bad-boy blond to the counter. “I bet he’s got a nice bike.”
“You’re only interested in his pistons.”
“You see right through me, Lacey. You’d make a great detective.”
A few minutes later, Stella came back with a bagel and refills. She announced that she and one Bobby Saratoga, he of the motorcycle, would be meeting the following day to take in a bluegrass concert at Glen Echo Park. Lacey was dumbfounded. Damn those Pentagon pheromone jammers, she thought.
“How do you do that? My God.” Lacey could see that Stella, punk goddess that she was, had a kind of elfin charm, the crew cut notwithstanding. And her collection of leather bustiers reeled men in like fish waiting to be hooked.
“Easy, Lacey. I leave my signals on. I don’t turn everything
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