Yum. A cold and probably soggy ham sandwich. It'll go great with this burnt coffee. The plastic sandwich-wrapper makes that satisfying ripping sound I love so much when I peel it open.
"You goin' pay for that?" asks the clerk, with one eye on me and the other distracted by the baseball game.
"I did," I look up at him. "Remember?"
He turns his full attention to me. His face is all screwed up.
"You did?"
"Yeah," I take a bite out of the sandwich. "Just earlier, when I paid you for a box of reds, which I'm still waiting for, by the way."
His eyes glaze over as the memory suddenly enters his mind and he remembers.
"Oh yeah," he says, still looking halfway drunk. "Here." He hands me the cigarettes and turns back to his TV. "Have a nice day."
I smile and walk out of the stop-n-shop, into the busy city, with a soggy sandwich, burnt coffee, and a box of cigarettes.
It's 8:00 a.m. which means in a couple of hours the cleaning lady's going to walk into that hotel room and scream bloody murder when she finds it full of... well... bloody murder. Meanwhile, I'll be here, 20 miles away from it all, with the pretty girl who's walking toward me now -my new client, Chesta Bukee.
Miss Bukee's some kind of Afrikan royal something or other, whose family moved here years ago due to the civil unrest in their country. The girl's gorgeous and she knows it. Dark skin. Green eyes. A body that's probably categorized as a leading cause of global warming. And she's got more money than she knows what to do with. I heard she's got hand-picked tailors on staff who make her clothes for her. All her bags and shoes come directly off the runway. Haven't even hit stores yet. Of course, it doesn't mean the rich bitch is without problems, otherwise, she wouldn't be coming to me.
"Mnimi?" she asks as she reaches me. I stuff the rest of the sandwich into my mouth and smile, sticking a hand out to shake hers. She looks at my hand with disgust and shakes her head softly.
"So?" I say. "I assume you know the drill."
She opens her bag and pulls out a white envelope.
"A thousand now, all Twenties. A thousand when the job is done."
I smile and take the envelope. "Who's the target?"
"First, Timothy," she says, then taps her phone a few times and pulls up his picture, "My boyfriend."
"Oh yeah," I say looking at him. He's a big, good-looking fella. "I know him."
She gasps and her eyes go wide.
"Isn't he the good guy in like every single teen-vampire movie ever?"
She stares at me like I'm an idiot. Probably cuz I'm an idiot.
"Okay, sorry," I say. "And what is it you want him to remember. Or is it forget? Did you cheat on him? Is that it?"
"No!" she says. "Nothing like that. Our relationship is basically perfect. We're supposed to get married this weekend. Daddy's going to fly him and his entire family to our country for the biggest ceremony they've ever seen. His mother's been so excited about it all, she won't stop calling mine. The problem is his sister, Taryn."
"Uh-oh," I say. "She doesn't like you?"
"Taryn loves me," says Chesta, "Which is why she told me the truth about Timothy. Something I'd suspected for some time now. He's gay."
"Oh! Okay, let me stop your right there. I can't make him straight. That's not how this works."
"Stop talking and listen!" she says. "I don't want you to change him like that. If he's gay, he's gay. That's that. Problem is, he doesn't know I know, and Taryn says he's going to break up with me because he can't bare having to tell me and my family. He never did like all the paparazzi anyway, and once we get married it'll be worse and I guess he's afraid they'll expose him and make a whole big deal out of it."
"I can see it now," I say. "Afrikan Princess Marries Minister's Gay Boy from Brooklyn."
"Exactly," she says. "But that's not all. Taryn's the only one he's told. He hasn't come out to the rest of his family yet."
"Ooh. And why not?"
"His dad's a Southern Baptist Minister. They'll disown him."
"So you want me to... What, exactly?"
"I want you to make him think he's already come out to me. Once he's comfortable with that, I want you to make his father think he already figured it out on his own, and that he's quite alright with it."
"Hold up," I say. "You want me to change the man's entire philosophy on homosexuality?"
"Why's that a problem?" she says. "I heard you tell people you can make others fall in love. How's this any harder?"
"That's true," I say. "I do tell people that, but it's because Love is a funny thing, Chesta. It's very relative. See, I can make people remember experiences that elicit pleasurable emotions in their brains. And if I do it enough, they can become chemically addicted to those emotions, and by extension, addicted to whatever - or whoever- it is they think gives them those emotions. That's how I make them fall in love. But this is different. The man's stance on homosexuality is a philosophical one. I wouldn't even know where to start with him."
"Then make him feel it," she says. "Make him feel his son's fear. His pain. Make him realize what his son goes through every day. I don't care how you do it, just make it happen. If the Minister jumps on board, then Timothy will feel accepted and everything else will fall into place."
"I don't know," I say, handing the envelope back. "I don't think I can do this."
She steps back and her eyes narrow.
"You're going to try," she says. "I can pay you more. Ten times what you asked for."
I don't need a calculator to know we're talking about a lot of money. Now, in situations like this, you might wonder why I don't just make my clients think we've already completed the deal and that they were happy with the results. I could get paid and walk away with the money, without ever having to actually do the work.
Here's the problem with that. Whatever this gift is, whenever I use it, it secrets chemicals in my brain which give me a high unlike anything you'd believe. But if I ever feel guilt, the chemicals produced by that emotion don't mix well with the high from my gift, and I end up spiraling into a serious panic mode. I'm talking anxiety attack times ten. It's happened twice already, and both times I was sent to a hospital and diagnosed with heart attacks. It's really a miracle I'm still alive. So yeah, I don't cheat anyone anymore.
"I'd love to help, Chesta, but I think this goes beyond my power."
She nods, straight-faced, and begins to tap on her phone screen.
"I thought you might say that," she says, "Which is why I wanted you to know that I have friends, and this is one of them."
She lifts her phone and shows me a picture of her friend.
"Recognize him?" she says. Of course, she already knew I would. The man on her phone is Osore. He's the one hunting down my kind. There's no point in asking her how she knows him. It won't make a difference. If she knows him, she knows him, and I'm in deep shit.
"Like I said. You're going to try. If you fail, then I'll make sure he knows where to find you. And don't bother trying your tricks on me. I have a gift too. It's called money. There are two dozen hitmen, following you at all times. You'll never see them. They're the best of the best. If they so much as suspect any funny activity from you..."
She tosses her phone up in the air. The second it reaches the apex of its arc, a shot is heard, startling everyone around us, and the phone explodes into a thousand pieces.
"Don't worry about the phone," she smiles. "I have another in my bag."
"Okay, okay, I get it," I stuff the envelope into my pocket. "And what if I actually pull it off? You gonna use your gift to bless me somehow?"
She steps up to me and brings her lips to my ear.
"I'll give you something you want more than money. I know where you can find Unmei."
I fall back, my heart racing at the sound of that name. I point at her.
"How do you know about Unmei?" She laughs.
"Like I said, Mnimi. I have a gift and it gets me what I want. In this case, it was a lucky accident. I have a very special maid, and thank goodness, the girl has a terrible habit of eavesdropping. She was in the room when I was speaking with Tiffany about Timothy. She told me there was someone who could help me with my little problem. After telling me that, she told me how to convince you. Of course, I did my homework and learned a few more things. That's how I got to know Osore. "
"But how could your maid know that?" I ask. "The only people that know about Unmei are-"
Then it hits me.
Chesta smiles and nods.
"Your maid. What's her family name?"
"I think you already know," she says.
Shintaku. This maid is no maid at all. She's a spirit. An oracle. But I bet Chesta doesn't know that. All she probably knows are the passed down rumors about the Shintaku - namely, that they're holders of great secrets. Elite families have employed them under the guise of houseworkers, that they may hear the gossip, learn the secrets from the street-level, and relate it to the masters, providing context both from current affairs and from history.
To the few who know about them, the Shintaku are - in a manner of speaking - masters of gossip. That's the best way I can put it. But to people like me, they're more than that. The spirit of the universe manifests itself in these people. They're neither good nor bad. They just like to cause trouble for the fun of it.
Why this one has given Chesta the whereabouts of Unmei is beyond me. But if it's true, then I really don't have a choice. I have to do this. I have to find a way to change the minister's heart.
"Since the wedding is in less than a week," she says. "We leave this Friday. That gives you four days to do your thing. You can find the Minister in St. Luke's Baptist."
"Four days," I say. "Alright."
She leans in and kisses my cheek.
"You're kinda cute," she whispers. "Maybe after all this, I'll give you a call."