The Talent Spotter

Total Eclipse of The Heart is playing and I tense up. Fucking hate this. Here I am riding shotgun in an Uber, gliding through the streets of downtown Washington, listening to the guy driving this Lexus going on about the Nationals’ chance this year and that comes on low in the background. Why do I hate it so much? Because of a prophesy. A prophecy that I will die with that as my soundtrack. So I’m talking to him, trying not to piss on his fire too much because as a Cubs fan I know all about disappointment but also worried we’re about to get T-boned by a truck or something. It doesn’t happen. My skin crawls anyway.

Hyattsville. I get out just before he gets started on what used to be the Redskins and take the steps to my 1 bedroom apartment happy to put this day behind me. ‘Rate me 5 stars please” his parting shot.

The day isn’t over. Because there’s still Facebook. A slew of unchecked emails that I’m hoping are spam mostly. I really have to raise my prices for the consultations. And fuck. Where is it? Here comes the dance of the wandering key. As I attempt to rummage every pocket in my jacket and trousers with a bag over my shoulder and a sheaf of folders nestling under my left armpit. It ends as it usually does. Files on the steps and the house keys in the first place I looked. So focused on consultations and so scattered everywhere else.

“Lemme give you a hand” It’s Marjorie, the girl in the downstairs apartment. Balletic and coordinated where I am not, mopping up the files and notes, keeping them straight as I open the door, sweeping a pile of envelopes that look ominously like invoices and bills and assorted bad news out of the way as I wrestle my way in, brushing the wall for the light. That fucking song. I need a quick-

“Did you hear there was another stabbing in Georgetown, Mo?” asks Marjorie behind me, gathering envelopes. I had. Third in a month. Same as the other two. No leads according to WOL. I prefer talk radio since the prophecy. Marj doesn’t have to do this, to be so friendly. But I’m the sort of guy who has a lot of friends. “Mo, I was wondering…” and this is how it starts. But first let me tell you a bit about my downstairs neighbour. Two years ago a cleaner scraping by until suddenly she just changes tack. Gymnastics. Within 18 months she’s knocking on the door of the US National team. A once in a generation rise of a raw talent. It’s a short career. She might get a shot at Tokyo but that’s it. That’s her destiny now. No money in it and it’s a good thing I wasn’t expecting any that day 18 months ago when I took hold of her hand and saw it spread out in front of me playing up her arm like a hologram movie. She could win gold, that’s up to her. She was also my first, after myself.

It started with a dream. I woke up between the bed and the bookcase, disorientated, afraid and excited. Straight out of the blue, after 4 years in my new country making do getting guns pointed at me in service stations and dealing with racist lowballing tippers at Founding Fathers Restaurant, I had a prophecy in a dream. Good news bad news. You know the bad news and so does Bonnie. The good news was what it revealed about myself. An older me arrived from the future in the dream and told me I had a talent. I took my hand across a table at Founding Fathers and told myself that I had a talent. This talent. The ability to take a person’s hand and with a little concentration see their best future. The thing that they had a hidden talent for. Marjorie was just right there, outside, scrubbing away at a tag on the fence.

She thought I was crazy of course. Overtired, hungover. Actually being me, just hungover. Then someone in a club made a comment on her dancing and she thought why not? 1 Oscar nomination, 4 Billboard top 100 entries, 1 kid fast tracked towards the NBA, one CIA recruit, one published author plus a lot of ordinary people working as mechanics or in advertising agencies.

“Mo? Are you Okay?” Back to the present. It turns out that Marjorie has been making friends of the male type. She’s wondering if I’ll read her boyfriend. It’s awkward but I’m in a hurry. I say I will. She’s thankful, clapping her hands together and bouncing on the spot, all sweet cheeked smiles and happy energy like she was afraid I’d say no. I close the door and her silhouette shrinks out of view in the window. I reach for the single malt.

I wake in the armchair late again, wintry sunlight pouring in through the open blinds and the brunch programme on the television blaring. Bottle of 18 year Islay nestled next to me, empty and upside down. It must’ve taken more than usual to chase the adrenaline out of my system from hearing that song. But it’s back to work again today. I wrestle on the cycling gear and helmet, a quick check of the tyres and I’m heading down 38th, towards downtown.

Washington’s a pretty run of the mill place if you don’t like your pleasures political. Clean and scholastic with places like the Smithsonian with a small hub of entertainment in pockets like Georgetown. The White House looked further away than I thought it would from the gates and the other monuments a bit smaller. I didn’t bother with a tour and haven’t looked at it in months. The others here seem to thrive on the quiet. If you want noisy then NYC is only 3 hours on a train after all.

Right turn down North Capitol…

When I arrived 4 years ago and quietly overstayed my visa I thought I’d made it. But boredom set in. And trying to make ends meet in a house with a dozen others from Europe and the East took the shine off. The dream, my ability, allowed me to gradually move on my housemates until It was just me. The last one had left six months ago. But her departure was one I hadn’t wished. Hence the drink I guess.

And here, on the edge of Chinatown, my office…

As I pull up on the bike I see that there’s a small queue of a couple people. Word of my ability has spread slowly by word of mouth. One of them, middle aged, Chinese probably, approaches wordlessly as I unlock the door. He’s smartly dressed in a grey-brown suit topped off with a fedora. Slightly built but moving with a smoothness defying the overall look. A young Chinese boy, maybe 5 or 6 is holding on to his left hand.

The other, a woman in her early thirties, pretty but tough looking. Immaculate shoulder length hair that’s been dyed blonde. Fiddling with a small rolled up wad of well used looking fifties while navigating through an App on her iPhone that had a lot of green in it. She waits in the small reception area of my discreet wood panelled two room offices. The sort of place you’d miss really. Advertised only by my number: 88A.

The kid’s called Chao. His grandfather introduces himself as Mister Lin. Standard stuff. Kid’s showing now aptitude at school. He heard that I can tell them what the kid can do. I can of course. Fee is a grand, payable up front. Mr Lin hesitates and then pulls out a leather wallet and starts peeling out the notes. When he’s counted it and then I’ve double counted it, the money goes into a security box. Because though I might be operating illegally I still like to keep up appearances. Mister Lin is directed to go sit outside. He protests but I need to concentrate. I’ve had walkouts at that point before, even after payment. Crazy really. That said I’ve also had to give free readings to the brats of some of Downtown Washington’s rougher types too. Price of admission. I take the kid’s hand in my left and roll up his sleeve to the elbow with my right and tune all the noise out. The cars going past, a female voice outside holding a conversation, birdsong, somewhere construction very faint. The kid’s nervous but quiet. His dark brown eyes regarding me with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Maybe excitement. It takes a couple of seconds at first but then the images form at arm’s length, a flickering animation above his upturned wrist that only I can see. The room around us melts away as if slipping out of focus. In kaleidoscopic colours the boy’s life flashes forward and back as if trying out different scenarios. Beatings from a younger, darker haired version of the grandfather, presumably the kid’s father. I don’t need to see that. An older version of the kid now. Two paths. First one he’s holding a pistol standing over a body, face downturned. I sense it’s the father. Prison, more beatings. Much later a criminal running gangs. The other timeline, a talent for art, for fixing things. Good with his hands at first. College scholarship and long career teaching art, life drawing, sculpture. Good but not great but preferable to the other.

I tell this to Lin. Pick the boy up some paints and modelling clay. He’s artistic. You’ll see the aptitude right away. Disappointment on his face. They already know the boy likes drawing. He won’t amount to much, never achieve fame. Kid’ll lead a quiet life of desperation maybe but they dodged a bullet. The father definitely did. They leave quickly. The grandfather’s demeanour tells me perhaps that first vision is on the cards after all.

The woman tells me she’s a high class escort. A politician’s plaything. She wants to know what she should be doing next because her career’s winding down. Washington’s a competitive place; always in election mode. Always looking for the next thing. Offers me three hours of her time as payment and I’m in the middle of showing her the door when she digs out a brown envelope and pushes it into my hand. She’s not happy at the refusal but her curiosity has the better of her.

The vision comes on strong right away. Maybe my most famous case in a couple of months. Using her knowledge of politicians and where they live she becomes a burglar. An excellent one. An aptitude for picking locks and getting into buildings. She’s resourceful and gets nicknamed “Catwoman” after her penchant for jewellery. It’s unclear if she even gets caught. She certainly gets wealthy. I sense she’ll appreciate knowing this and as I don’t much care for politicians I tell her. She kisses me on the cheek and floats out. She tells me she thought she’d end up working in her sister’s organic produce shop near the Smithsonian Zoo and prefers this.

11am. Right on cue a knock on the door. It’s Fizzy. Fizzy is PA at a small legal firm in 92-102. She’s also my published author. A bespectacled 40-something brunette smuggling grey under layers of plum colouring woven into a serious looking bob, she always drops by with an extra coffee from Busboys & Poets. We chat briefly. She’s working on a second book. She’d hoped being published would be a ticket to wealth but it just seems to be more dollars for the IRS. I sip a Latte that feels more like an Australian Flat White in a lurid cyan-orange Keepcup as she paces in front of the open door regaling me about her stressful Friday morning in the office, a little portly maybe, but younger looking than her passport would suggest virtue of a restless energy she has about her. Dressed in charcoal female jacket with below knee shirt and white cotton shirt. She knows I’m illegal. She worked it out and doesn’t care. She knows I don’t like her smoking too but again, she doesn’t care.

“Fucking Vogelstein is looking to have the AMV class action brought forward to throw us off. It looks like another weekend gone before I even got to live it” Puff. “Fuck, Mo, it’s been four straight weeks now since I seen my little girl. Skype’s not the same.” It usually goes like this. Fizzy’s such a careerwoman her ex up in Jersey got uncontested custody of their daughter after he was the one that bailed after she became a recluse writing book number one. She leaves as my desk fan in reception chases out the tobacco smoke, a long day ahead. Proof that my talent is a mixed blessing.

Through the window I follow her as she heads back up to Goldsmith & Basinger’s. Washingtonians making their way back to their offices after brunch, grey clouds gathering from Chesapeake Bay. Out of the corner of my right eye I spy a telltale movement as someone breaks off from the crowd and approaches my door. A couple of seconds and a knock, then they try the handle and let themselves in.

He’s in front of me now. Filling the doorway. A male, early to mid-twenties. Red cheeked, short cropped military looking hair. Maybe six-one, brown leather jacket, white t-shirt and jeans atop worn brown leather workboots. “I’m Nate. Are you Mo? Marj mentioned to drop in.” Nate takes me a little by surprise. I was expecting Marjorie’s boyfriend to be black but this guy looks more like a Klan member. “Yeah, Hi. I’m Mohammed.” I offer out my right. He shakes it. Over firm grip and for a brief moment my hand feels very small indeed.

“Marj told me about your talent. I was hoping you could do the same for me. But I only have about two hundred bucks…” He tails off, looking down at my 170 centimetre frame with a shrug and the apologetic blue eyes of a hustler. I’m going to let it slide. I let it slide. “That’s Okay, Nate. I owe Marjorie a favour. Take a seat.” My next scheduled appointment is a kid from one of the local Jewish families at 12, so I have about 15 minutes to do this.

I ask Nate to sit opposite me and he does, removing his jacket and placing it on the back of the chair, his large frame occupying the wooden chair across the table. He wears a watch on his right hand and he begins removing it before I tell him he doesn’t need to. A silver piece with many dials on the front, expensive looking. He lays it out carefully, face upwards next to his arm and places his right arm, palm upwards across the table. I take his hand in mine. Once this was awkward but now I don’t try to put too much thought into how odd it feels. I just want to concentrate. I tune out the noises outside, the muted conversations, a dog barking, a rumble of traffic and the distant clatter of footfall. My focus is on Nate and the energy coming from him. At first nothing, which makes me uneasy. The unease, because something about Nate doesn’t seem right to me. He’s looking up at the doorway above me to my right. And then I start to get something. Nate has a talent alright. I see guns. He’s already a very good shot at distance. He knows this, he practices. But it’s more. Still the images seem reluctant. Like my talent doesn’t want to show me. I will myself to be open to it. Reluctantly, peeling like a layer, the vision playing in hologram up Nate’s arm grows clearer and takes on more vitality.

I see the white house, a flurry of cars, security. Something wrong, concerned expressions. Panic. I see a prone figure on the ground and nearly gasp. I do flinch and Nate notices but stays quiet. His talent. Nate is fated to assassinate the president of the United States. But the vision forks in two. Another prone figure in a park, surrounded by grass and blood. My blood almost snap freezes when I realise that I’m witnessing myself bleeding out. People run to my aid, but I’m gone. Lobotomised. A clean hole in my forehead oozing blood as fast as my failing heart was pumping it. I feel it instinctively. If I tell Nate his talent. He will kill the president. And if I don’t he’ll kill me first.

I feel sick. I think I’m actually going to vomit. “What is it?” asks Nate, concerned. He stands up in his chair to come around and help. Here it comes. A little gulp and acid comes out of my nose and into my hands. Holy fuck.

Vrrrrrrt-Vrrt-Vrrt-Vrrt. Vrrrrrrt-Vrrt-Vrrt-Vrrt. Vibration from Nate’s jacket. He’s getting a call. And then the ringtone starts to kick in and I think I might just die right now. That unmistakable piano.

“…Turn around…”

“Marj, can I call you back?”