Y.A.I.W.L.R.
By Paul Stansfield

Doyle sat and watched Mistress Magda go into her trance. So far it reminded him of watching an expectant mother doing her Lamaze exercises; lots of measured, heavy breaths, along with some swaying and head bobs. She'd said it was important for him to keep an open mind, optimistic mind, that the connection would be speeded along that way. So he tried, even if his passion wasn't really into it. Hell, he thought, has it come to this? Am I that pathetic? Paying some woman who's either deluded or a charlatan to put on a little spiritual act in which she tells me, in excruciatingly general terms, what she thinks that I want to hear?

Doyle cut this line of thinking off and once again tried to keep his skepticism in check. He didn't have many concerns now, anyway. He glanced around the room once more. The theme was rather dark and oppressive, not unreasonable, given the room's function. The recessed lights were clearly on dim, and several lamps and candles provided further inadequate lighting. The furniture was old yet ornate, and the curtains were heavy, almost movie theater-like. Various psychic baubles were situated around the room. Occult dolls, incense burners, a crystal ball, a spear, even a shrunken head. And, of course, the requisite bookcase choked with dusty tomes. Although Doyle, with his sharp eyes, noticed that some of the titles weren't exactly appropriate: the 1977 NFL Handbook and a copy of Dr Seuss' "The Lorax" lay next to "The Necronomicon" and the works of Paracelsus and Aleister Crowley.

His hostess herself completed the spooky aura. She was dressed like a gypsy, with the bandanna, big hoop earrings, and a multicolored long skirt and blouse. All she was missing was the wart on her nose. Actually, Mistress Magda wasn't bad looking. Doyle had noticed. Probably in her early thirties, with a pleasant face and a good body as far as he could tell. Manny, who'd referred Doyle to Magda, had hinted that the spiritual guide was willing to explore other avenues as well, if the price was right. More than hinted, to be sure. "She'll read the veins on your dick, if you like," had been his exact words, "like a masseuse who gives you The Happy Ending." Doyle didn't think he'd be asking for that service today, though. Right now the thought of paying a woman to get him off was even more depressing.

Magda's histrionics came to a head. She'd been moaning throughout, but now the sounds were building and becoming more like growls. She started to slap her hands hard on the tabletop, upsetting some of the tarot cards. After a few blows she stopped and fixed Doyle with a piercing gaze.

"Hello. Mr. Murdock, my name is Adlai. I'll be your spiritual guide today." Doyle stared back just as firmly and had to admit that her act was competent. It was sort of hard to put a finger on, but somehow she seemed like a different person. The voice was basically the same, just a little off. It was most obvious in the eyes, he decided. It was refreshing to see her choose not to be hammy, with a sepulcher deep voice and all. But wait a minute. He hadn't told her his last name, and he'd kept a hand on his wallet the entire time.

"Hi, Adlai, how's it going?" He sneaked a look in his wallet, and saw that his driver's license and other photo IDs were still there. How?

"I didn't pick your pocket, Doyle. I've been observing you from my ethereal realm. I know lots about you that this woman couldn't possibly." Here the person talking to him gestured to itself contemptuously.

"Fair enough, doubting Thomas. Your full name is Doyle Bellamy Murdock. You were born on July l6, 1974, in St. Peter's Hospital in New Hope, Pennsylvania at 2:17 p.m. Your mom, Kimberly, was in labor for five hours and you were eight pounds, seven ounces. Your doctor successfu1ly turned you around and prevented you from being breach." Adlai now wore a small satisfied grin.

Doyle's mind raced. "Go on."

"You have a port wine birthmark on your left shoulder, and you're allergic to bee stings and Tetracycline."

Doyle chuckled. "Pretty good. Manny must have told you a bunch. Only you forgot one detail, I'm afraid. I was born at 2:16 p.m., not 2:17."

"No you weren't. The doctor who reported your official time had a watch that was a little slow. Besides, does Manny Ortiz know that you never really understood scientific notation? Or that you like to masturbate to pictures of WNBA players? Or how 'bout that you secretly don't think that Eric Clapton is all that great? And that you had diarrhea during your junior year at school one time, and pooped yourself, and had to throw away that pair of boxers that you were wearing?"

Doyle sat there for at least a minute. He hadn't told anyone about these things, ever. And some of them were things that no one could possibly figure out.