Superstition
by
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Breakfast was two chocolate donuts I bought on the way home from Borys’. Over a second cup of coffee and a cigarette, I decided to go down to the Village and find Maria Polska, another of my psychic contacts. I looked at the clock. 10:30—early enough to get to the Village before Maria vanished to wherever she spent the rest of her life. I got dressed, grabbed the FedEx envelope, and left the flat. On the subway, I remembered I would be expected to give Maria a donation for her services. I jammed my hand into my pocket and pulled out a thin packet of folded bills—a couple of ones, a ten, and a twenty. No fives, which was usually what I gave Maria. I slid out the ten, folded it, and put it into another pocket—remembering that I still owed her a five for the last reading on Crater. Approaching Washington Square, I saw there were more people there than I had seen in a while. It was a spring day and warm enough to be comfortable outside in the sun. In addition to tourists, there were workers outdoors for a break or early lunch, enjoying the sunshine. At first, I didn’t see Maria in her usual spot. A couple of street musicians had settled there, accumulating a small audience around them. Some were dancing, but most of the onlookers were just twitching or shaking in time with the infectious beat. I felt like joining them, but remembered I was on a mission. I continued walking and looking around. Then I saw a small group of people surrounding the bright red Gypsy bandanna I recognized as a part of Maria’s costume. Maria has been working Washington Square for many years. She came from Omaha, where her name had been Janice Johnson. She told me she knew from an early age that her destiny would lead her to New York. In the 60s, she came to the city and became one of the hippies that tourists went to see in Washington Square. She played the tambourine, dropped LSD, and hung out. When the free food and crash pads became scarce, she realized she had to figure out how to earn a living with no job skills. After thinking about it for a while, she realized she was born with one. She possessed extraordinary ESP that gave her insight into the minds and thoughts of others. She had a vision one night that told her what to do. Instead of going to her waitress job the next day, she toured the thrift stores and put together a Gypsy Fortune Teller outfit that looked like it came from a 30s Hollywood musical. She said her destiny was to make a name for herself—and she did. Janice re-christened herself Maria Polska. She believed she had a spiritual link with the Polish Jews who perished in the Holocaust. Her vision told her to return to the Square and pass among the people telling fortunes. Her standard fee was $5—the same today as it was in 1975. She lives in a rent-controlled apartment, and her quota for each day is $70. When she reaches it, she leaves, returning home uptown. She must be in her early fifties now, and the role and costume have come to look natural. She’s become like the Arch. Mothers have told their children that if they ever go to NYC to look up the fortune teller in Washington Square. They find her, and the tradition continues. She’s a success story, an authentic clairvoyant who earns a decent living without trickery. I know she’s real because info I have gained from her has proved out, one way or another, in a number of my cases. She knows that I have earned money on several cases I took to her, but never asked for a cut. I waited on the periphery of the group surrounding her—a bunch of post-teenagers in clothes that were too big. Looking like circus clowns themselves, I heard some joke at Maria’s costume. I could tell they thought she was some kind of actor or fake. They were smirking and sniggering. At first, none of them wanted to have their fortunes told. Then, Maria reached out and took the hand of the guy who was clearly a leader in the group, loud and brash. She held his hand for a few moments looking into his eyes, which focused his attention on her. I was close enough to overhear. “You dream of death,” she said. Instantly, his face changed. He looked stunned. Seeing his transformation, the others quieted down. As I watched Maria, she looked up from his palm and into my eyes. “Fear not, the death is not yours—even though it seems to be.” She looked back at the young man. Despite her words, I saw fear creep into his face, and so did the others. For an instant, he forgot he was the wisecracking leader. “Not mine?” he asked. “You enact a death in your dreams, but it belongs to another. It is too late. You cannot change it. The death has already taken place. But, do not be afraid. When you awaken, you will be alive.” For some reason—maybe she saw me out of the corner of her eye—but, at this point, she turned her face in my direction, looked into my eyes again, and repeated her last words: “You will be alive.” The guy had started to sweat, but it wasn’t from the warm spring sun. “I…I will still be alive,” he stammered out. She looked back at him. “You will live.” “How much do I owe you?” “Five dollars.” “Wow!” He pulled a roll of bills from a side pocket in his oversize pants—he had to bend down to get deep enough to find it—and flipped through the cash, finally peeled off a five and gave it to her. “Thanks a lot.” Exclamations of wonder and awe arose from the guy’s pals—more about his reaction in suddenly changing character than Maria’s skills. Now, I could see, they were ambivalent—more curious than before, but fearful also of crossing the threshold into the unknown. “You must leave me now. I have to speak privately to this man. When I have finished with him, you may return.” She turned from them, and looked at me. “Hey, cummon. Do like she says.” The leader, still with a slightly dazed expression on his face, moved away and his coterie followed, one or two looking back at Maria in wonderment. “Maria, I need your help again.” I pulled out the folded up ten and gave it to her. “Thank you, Carlos. Now show me the photograph.” Did she know I brought the photograph because of her clairvoyance or because that was my usual habit? It didn’t make any difference, the effect was the same. I gave her the FedEx folder. “It’s inside.” Maria opened the folder and took out the photo—handling it only by the edges. She looked intently at the photo for a while, turned it over and studied the back, then resumed looking at the picture itself. “This woman will draw you back, and her fears will become yours.” “Is the shadow in the photo the man I seek? Is he the father of the child?” “You seek not one parent, but two.” “What do you mean?” “Not only the father, but the mother as well, is among the missing. If you find one, the search for the other will become dangerous for you.” “How?” “The answer lies in the legend” “The legend?” I was becoming more confused. Her cryptic pre-comprehensions, I knew, must reveal some kind of an occult vision that was not directly descriptive. I recognized from past experience that she was probably telling me something important that I could not receive from any other source, but the challenge was to try to figure out how it fit into the puzzle I was trying to put together. The things Maria told me were not really pieces of the puzzle, but, often, only clues to how the pieces fit together. “Any more?” I asked. “That is it for now. You will be back for more before you leave.” “Before I leave? Where?” “To the desert. Now I must go.” With that, she returned her attention to the kids who were still milling around just out of earshot. She beckoned them to come to her side. My reading was over, and it was time for Maria to continue working toward her day’s quota.
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About the Book
Carlos, a psychic detective from New York City, is drawn into the case of a middle-aged Scottsdale woman seeking the identity of her missing father. In touch with the dead, Carlos soon learns that the case is far more complicated. His investigation leads him to Superstition Mountain in Arizona and into real and psychic dangers that a series of dreams warn him about. Staying in a beautiful home in Scottsdale that he calls the “Palace,” Carlos gets a taste of “the good life” unlike his flat in New York. His hostess shows him a series of old photos that offer a path into events at Superstition in 1942 and trigger premonitions of violence threatening Carlos’ life. Several hiking trips into Superstition to “The Massacre Grounds” put Carlos in danger of rattlesnakes, a Native-American Thunder God, and mysterious snipers. Treasure seekers, a sinister Native-American factotum, a scary plane trip, a nighttime visit to a cemetery, spirits wanting their deaths expiated, and a newspaper reporter all become critical factors in Carlos’ search. In discovering the identities he seeks, he also finds that the dead can have a power over the living that cannot be resisted. To resolve the mystery, Carlos must remake the past, and restore lives shattered by meaningless death.
About the Author
I was born in Denver, Colorado in the early 1940s. My family was very poor, and I was the first who had the opportunity to seek advanced education. I quit school after the 9thth grade and worked in the real world for over a year. It was a sobering experience, which led me to re-enroll in school and work at my classes. I discovered that I could learn in school and be a good student. I ended up, by geographic accident, at Cherry Creek School in Englewood, Colorado. In its very early days, then, it soon developed a reputation for academic excellence, from which I benefited. Due to the diligence and dedication of two of my teachers there—Genevieve Wilson and Maxine Brandt—and because by that time I had become a straight “A” student, I applied for admission to a college and for a scholarship. I got both. After that, I learned that schools, education, and learning were my métier. I attended Western State College of Colorado and the University of Denver for my undergraduate studies, and Western State College of Colorado, for my M.A. degree, and went on to doctoral studies at the Universities of Colorado and Denver. It was, again, my great fortune to have ended up at an institution (Western State College of Colorado) where there were outstanding professors—Dr. Ted Johnson and Dr. Martin Hatcher—in my fields of study,Theatre, Speech, and English. So, despite the fact that the school was/is relatively unknown and small, I got an excellent education for both my B.A. and M.A. degrees. In the late 1960s, I taught 7th through 12th grade (English, Spanish, Drama, etc) at the Cripple Creek (Colorado) School District. In the early 70s, I taught at Colorado Mountain College (English, Interpersonal Communications, Drama, Spanish). After a few years of teaching, which I loved, personal circumstances led me to seek another career, and, so, I began work as a freelance writer. For the next 25 years, I wrote professional and academic papers, articles, books, etc. I began writing local history books in the late 1970s in Denver, Colorado, and have continued doing so to recent years, when I wrote about a true murder mystery that took place at one of California’s missions in the mid-19th century. I’ve published one psychological mystery novel and am about to have published a second. In mid-1980s, I began to get interested in computers and began an ongoing learning project, because, in addition to writing, it has been about the only marketable product (besides bookkeeping-accounting background and knowledge) for job seeking. For the last ten years, I worked as a Financial Officer for a county food bank. From that position I was (involuntarily) retired. I am now re-starting my teaching career and continuing my writing career. I live on the Central Coast of California, in a small village in the coastal range about 30 miles from the Pacific, with 12 cats. I love to read history, biography and classical literary works. I am in the process of converting all of my books into electronic versions so I can easily market them on the Internet.