Part XXXVII

PART XXXVII

A day and a half later, I pulled off the 10 where it dead ended into Lincoln Ave in Santa Monica. I headed south. One right turn later I was on Rose Ave, and it took me all the way to the beach. I parked the van and got a few accepting nods from a couple cholos who had their t-shirts tied around their heads to collect the sweat from doing nothing all day. Venice was riddled with gangs. A kind of beach front sanctuary, at least until the sun went down. I opened the side door and let the Old Man crawl under the van and knock out a hairball while I poured him a fresh bowl of water and dropped some potion in.

When the Old Man climbed back out from under the van, he had a limp seagull in his mouth. I could see he wasn't going to be able to jump up with it in his mouth, but I had to let him figure that out before I reached down and he let go. I spread a copy of the LA Times down as a dinner mat and laid the bird on it.

On the paper. I find any feathers in my bed and we'll be done.

The old man purred as I laid the gull on the paper, then hissed and bit its neck. I shut the door so the two of the could have some privacy.

Destiny's address was down the boardwalk, so I mumbled under my breath and set the van alarm. The sun wasn't too bad with the light cloud cover and a nice breeze was coming in from the ocean. I hated heat, I hated the beach and I hated sun even more. I already didn't like California, or anything I'd seen since I'd crossed the Mississippi. But, when in Rome.

The boardwalk was like an outdoor freaks how where the audience meandered through the middle of the exhibits. Since I was walking south, the stores were on my left and the people hawking wears on tables, mats and some just on the concrete were on my right. Everything from incense to handmade jewelery, and a whole lot of bad art. Really bad art. The kind of stuff that you couldn't possibly believe anyone would buy.

I have nothing to say about the large man wearing nothing but a gold leme banana hammock and enough gold chains around his neck to make Mr. T jealous. Even though it was all outside, exposed to fresh air and sea breeze, it smelled of patchouli oil, sage and desperation. The bottom tones were body odor and urine. The high tone was pot.

Even with all of that I still found it fascinating. So like the rest of the tourists, I walked slowly taking it all in, knowing I could leave at any time. Well, I could leave once I talked to Destiny.,

Her place was right on the boardwalk, on the second floor, above a small bar called The Candle. I climbed the stairs indicated by a sandwich board sign with a large arrow under which was written, “The steps of Destiny await you. $20.00 full reading. $5.00 mild assessment.”

I didn't even have to knock at the top of the stairs, the door was propped open with a wrought iron door stop in the shape of one half of a parrot, the relief side, peeling a once colorful paint job. I stepped over the threshold and looked around. Just inside was a shill parlor, replete with round table, covered in multiple layers of fabric and lace, each of differing lengths. Right in the middle of the table was a crystal ball, but hers didn't have a skull in the middle of it. Separating it from the rest of the apartment was a bead curtain hung in a natural doorway.

You can skip the circus Aubrey, I'm in here.

I pushed through the bead curtain, laid eyes on Destiny for the first time. To say that Destiny was pretty would be a waste of adjectives. To say that she was gorgeous would too. She was an ideal representation of everything that made men kill each other, and a few women too, one had to surmise. She belonged in Paris where they kept the perfect gram. It struck me as odd that I was having these thoughts, because Destiny was looking at me from behind a canvas she was painting. I could only see her face. When she finally stepped out from behind the painting, her body didn't disappoint, and it was covered with baggy jeans and an over-sized mens button-up dress shirt that was spattered with dried paint.

Shouldn't you at least look the part?

Oh, the first client won't wander in for another two hours. Perks of my gift. I hope you don't mind. I didn't think you'd care.

It's fine.

I walked toward her and the canvas.

Can I take a look?

Destiny stepped back and shrugged.

Sure, it's not finished though.

I walked around and took a peak. It was awful. I don't know much about art, but it was bad.

I know, I know, I should just give up, but I find it calming.

I didn't say anything.

I'm actually psychic Aubrey.

Oh yeah, sorry. I'm sure you'll get better.

We decided the art discussion was not going to go anywhere, so she made some tea that tasted like grass and we sat out on her small two chair balcony overlooking the boardwalk.

Why do you live here? Seems an odd choice.

Not really, I guess the French Quarter in New Orleans would have the same effect, but I hate humidity.

What do you mean?

Just look out there Aubrey, what do you see?

A lot of lonely desperate people.

Exactly, it's like white noise. Anybody that tries to find me through this soup is going to have a hard time. Too many emotions, running 24 hours a day. Keeps people like me safe. Sort of buries the transponder as it were.

Fair enough.

So Aubrey, before we go any further. I have to tell you that It's not your fault.

What isn't?

My death.

Destiny took a sip of tea and looked out toward the ocean, perfectly content with hers.