Elizabeth Basque - Medium Mysteries 01 - Echo Park (6 page)

Apparently, he did want this party, so he changed the subject. “If you don’t want to heah the noise, you could lower them onto into the patio outdoor down below. I happen to know those tenants ah on vacation.”

I nodded, but made him wait for me to finish my smoke. We got both the generators going, with extension cords coming inside. These ghosts would have plenty of electricity for a party.

It was going to be a party to remember.

Chapter Nine

For the first time in a long time, I fixed myself up for a social event.

I stood at my front door like the Hostess with the Mostest, dressed in a floor-length purple silk caftan that was trimmed in delicate gold braid. I had slipped on elegant gold metallic sandals. I had my hair up, I had makeup on and I had little gold hoop earrings in my lobes. I wore perfume, a spritz or three, from a vintage bottle of Shalimar that had been sitting on my mirrored dresser tray, just gathering dust.

I felt excited, even pretty. It was a party at my house. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had had one.

Mack’s friends floated in, one by one. Common courtesy went both ways, I figured; they could have come down from the rooftop. Perhaps they sensed where I was, waiting at the front door, even if it was closed.

Anyhow, Mack reluctantly tore his eyes away from me and introduced them one by one. They all smiled and nodded to me, since they couldn’t really shake my hand. I was a little nervous myself, but I tried my best to remember their names.

An old African-American gentleman named Willie entered my home first. He was very dark and handsome, and had a huge smile and perfect teeth. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said. “Awfully kind of you to have us here tonight.” He moved into the living room.

Next came Andy, a smallish guy with a jockey-like cap on his head who reminded me of Roddy McDowell. His beady eyes met mine with a wink and a “Nice to meet ya,” and that was it. He probably knew poker, I thought to myself. He would be good at bluffing.

Michael was young. His tall, skinny frame, with ribs showing through his shirt, revealed severe hunger at the end of his life, which made me a little sad. He had vomit on his shirt and his mouth carried a bit of foam. That was disturbing, but his dark, sad eyes haunted me even more. He forced a smile for my benefit.

“Nice to meet you, Michael,” I found myself saying. He stood out from the rest, as if he didn’t quite fit in.

“
Nice to meet you, too,” he answered politely. “Thank you for having me.” He didn’t seem to want conversation, although for some reason, I did. Mack stood back, nodded to him to go into the living room and invited him to find a seat at the makeshift poker table.

The last spirit to enter my house that night was a gentleman by the name of Frank. Frank wore an old but well-kept three-piece suit; perhaps it was the one he’d been buried in. I didn’t ask; that would have been rude.

Frank did offer his hand, so I offered mine. Instead of the pretend shake, though, he bent his head and gave my hand a mock kiss. “Pauline. I’ve heard so much about you,” he said, gesturing to Mack. “How can I thank you for going to such lengths for us? For, this is indeed a rare treat. Please accept my greatest thanks for your kindness.”

My hand drew up to my throat, a nervous habit. I smiled now, grateful for the acknowledgment. “Why, the pleasure is all mine, Frank. Please make yourself at home.”

Mack was clearly pleased. I could tell he was looking forward to the evening ahead. Of course, he didn’t say it in so many words. I had to settle for, “Thanks, luv,” as he followed my guests, or rather
his
guests, into the living room. “By the way, you look stunning.”

“
Thanks.” I felt a blush rising to my face. I thought of my one amazing kiss with James before he had departed this plain and I knew that there just was no damn way I was going to go there with Mack.

It was a strange and wonderful night.

In a moment of rare compassion for the old Cape Cod Ghost, I had taken some extra steps in an effort to surprise Mack. He’d been trying to hide his enthusiasm, but I just knew that this was an event for the books, one to be talked about for years to come. For whatever spirits remained on Earth, that was.

I’d thought long and hard about how to utilize the generators. Their power was all well and good, but useless if my ghostly guests couldn’t access it.

I decided to hook them up to some electric candles I had. Using a couple of extension cords, I’d set one electric candle at each place on the poker table. This way, my spirit friends could simply touch the candles whenever they needed an electric boost.

Mack was delighted, and it worked well—almost perfectly. Mack and his friends were able to maneuver their cards and chips. The clink of chips commenced. The cigars were lit, the faux candlelight and drinks, although untouched, set the perfect mood.

Except for one thing. Neither Mack nor I had thought of it. When they were all seated and ready to go, they glanced around at me as if waiting for something.

“What is it?” I asked, sipping on my vodka martini and freely smoking inside tonight. What was a little cigarette smoke, with all those cigars? I leaned against the hall that led into the kitchen as their faces settled on mine.

“
What?” I asked again.

“
It seems we may have forgotten something,” Three-piece Frank offered politely.

“
Well, I can’t help you with the drinks, as much as I’d like to see all of you drunk in my living room,” I retorted, perhaps a little too dryly.

Mack’s friends mumbled among each other now, unwilling to ask for anything more from me.

Mack, of course, spoke up. “We can’t deal the cards,” he said simply.

My jaw dropped.
Of course.
Dealing cards would have taken far too much energy for a ghost. They could move objects, but they couldn’t deal cards or play the piano, complex things like that, not without taking down a transformer in the neighborhood.

I didn’t know whether to be frustrated or honored. After all, who among the living could truly say they had dealt poker for a bunch of ghosts?

I kept my own poker face intact. I wasn’t going to let Mack know I would enjoy this. “Well, boys,” I said dryly as I brought my drink to the table, “I guess all I need is a chair and a chip.”

Yes, I could play a mean game of poker. I’d cleaned many a table in my time, partly due to my psychic abilities. I’d even been asked to leave, because certain casinos I won’t mention thought I was cheating. Hey, a girl’s gotta eat, right?

But those days were long gone, and they had occurred well before I started getting paid for my gifts. And these guys, well, they knew. They knew that I could pick up on emotions, and even thoughts, despite a good bluff. They were on guard.

I shrugged it off and settled for being the House Dealer. We weren’t playing for real money anyhow—what would these souls do with cash? They were happy to feel a little normal for once, and I was glad I could make that happen for them.

“What do you all want to play?” I asked.

“
Blackjack!” Andy said.

“
I want to play Texas Hold’em,” Mack countered, his eyes intense.

“
How about Guts?” asked Frank.

“
High Chicago is my game,” Willie said.

“
Seven-card Stud. I guess? I don’t know how to play the other games,” Michael said softly.

“
You’ll learn. Oh boy,” I said, gearing up. “I guess we will have to play them all. Apparently, you gentlemen each know what you can win at.”

Mack laughed and beamed at me, if ghosts could even beam.

Throughout the evening, my eyes kept wandering over to the kid, Michael. He was watching me, too, I realized, in a way that made me squirm a bit. Once in a while I’d glance, eyebrow raised in a question, over to Mack, but he wasn’t interested in anything but the poker game.

It was fun to see them all touch the electric candles, and use the power to look at their cards, and toss their chips around. This was awkward for only a short while. Soon, they were touching the power with one hand and playing with the other.

Michael seemed the least interested out of all of them in the game. The rest were having a grand old time, using all the old poker hands and playing the different games as they shared gambling stories from their previous lives. Mack was ecstatic about getting a “Dead Man’s Hand,” aces and eights, and winning and taking everyone’s chips.

I kept the cigars lit for atmosphere, and played some good old big band music, mixed with oldies but goodies on my stereo.

“Bless you,” Willie said, when
Blue Moon
, a Billie Holiday tune, came up in the programmed mix.

I smiled at him. I was having a genuinely good time throwing a party for ghosts.

The generators lasted about an hour and a half each, though, so the game lasted only a few hours. Yet, still they hung around, reminiscing about the old days.

I was getting tired, and more than a little tipsy, after a few good martinis. However, there was no way I would retire to my room with strange ghosts in my home, Mack or no Mack. Still the Hostess with the Mostest, I sat in the corner of the couch, my sandals off, and my feet tucked under me, and nursed my latest drink, listening to their amazing stories.

Some of them shared how they’d died, and joked about haunting loved ones or enemies. I knew Mack wouldn’t share his story; he never did. I didn’t even know how he’d died.

I wasn’t surprised, really, when Michael kept quiet as well. He was clearly uncomfortable with the topic. He drew away from the others and pretended to admire some artwork on my wall.

I took this opportunity to try to get to know him a little, or at least try to figure out why he seemed familiar to me.

“
I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” I offered, now standing next to him as we looked at a watercolor of a beach that I had done in college. It was nothing special for him to be staring at. He looked like he wanted to really crawl into the woodwork and get away from me and guarded his thoughts with a strength I did not expect.

“
Uh, yeah,” he replied vaguely. “Thank you for tonight. I know it meant a lot to Mack. And the others.”

“
So, how long have you known Mack?”

He fidgeted, if a spirit could fidget. “Oh, I don’t know, not too long.”

I took a sip from my drink, careful not to spill. The whole apartment was a little hazy now from the cigar smoke. I liked the smell of cigars well enough, but this cloud was a little much. And, was there some kind of vinegar smell? I wondered what that was.

I wanted this kid-ghost Michael to talk to me. I didn’t know why, I was just going with my usual intuition that something was up, something
big
. “Well, I’m glad you came along to the party,” I said, unable to think of anything else.

Mike gave me kind of a strange look. He was about to say something when Mack floated over to us.

“Pauline, my deah, what ah you boring this poor lad with now?”

“
My pathetic watercolors from my squandered college years,” I said.

He sidled up to Michael, who for some reason looked extremely relieved. “Hi, Mack. We were just, um - -”

“Just making civil conversation,” I quipped.

“
Well, much as I’d like to stay, the others have to get going. We’ll just be on our way, then.” Mack nodded to Michael to join Willie, Andy and Frank.

“
What gives?” I asked him once Michael was out of earshot.

Mack gave me a surprised look. “Nothing! I just don’t want you making my guests feeling uncomfortable. Don’t pry, my deah.”

“Methinks thou dost protest too much,” I quoted Shakespeare.

Mack didn’t care what I thought; he rarely did. “And methinks we should get on the road.”

I stood at the door again, this time nodding at all of them in farewell. Mack barely gave them time for a proper goodbye, although they all thanked me for a wonderful evening. All except Mack, of course. He’d felt I owed him this, I knew.

“
All’s well that ends well,” he said on his way out. “See you around, deah.”

Chapter Ten

It wasn’t until the next afternoon that Mack reappeared.

After the “gang” had left, I made myself a couple more drinks while watching late night sitcom reruns and wondering how many other people lived the kind of life I did. I must have nodded off, because I awoke that morning still curled on the couch, my tepid drink just across from me on the coffee table.

It was depressing, really. My life was pathetic. That’s what I was thinking when I downed rest of the previous night’s drink.

I knew that alcohol contributed to depression, but I didn’t care, probably because I was depressed. Just a little something to get me going, I always said. A temporary fix to a permanent problem.