Kapper walked along the row of bars, stepping off the curb from time to time to avoid the overflow, late evening crowd on the sidewalk.  He hated those places, hated the booze, and the people—all of it.  He didn’t need the high; he needed to think.  He had to walk to think, and this is where he ended up—on the south side strip of garishness.
        He was tempted to go into a little place that looked quieter, to get a soda or something, but he fled at the interrupting thought and picked up his pace. 
        Eventually, when the bars ran out, he stepped back up on the sidewalk and kept going.  Nathanson had hidden the cash somewhere, and he had looked everywhere he could think of, and found nothing.  And damn—Nathanson had the indecency to die.
   
It wasn’t exactly legit money, but he had a right to it.  There was no sense wasting it, having someone else find it, or worse—no one ever finding it until the end of time.  Maybe by walking and thinking, he would come up with a new idea, a new place to search.  Nathanson had a brother or cousin or something, but he lived out of town somewhere and probably knew nothing.  So, Kapper walked and thought.
   
After a while, he came to a neighborhood of small houses, no streetlights, few lights on in the houses, and the rain began.  Neither the place nor the rain was as distracting as bar row had been, but he still had no new ideas.  A few houses in front of him he saw a neon sign, flickering on, then off, then on again as he approached. The sign was multi-colored and said: “EADINGS.”  He chuckled out loud, filling in various letters, wondering if it was done on purpose to attract attention, or if it was simply neglect.  READINGS.  Another come-on he disliked, but it was raining. And Nathanson always said that if they were psychic, they’d know he wasn’t going to go in.
        Funny.  And just for that reason, Kapper turned at the short sidewalk, walked up the single step and knocked on the screen door.
        The door behind the screen immediately opened, perhaps before he knocked.  He expected an old woman in a gypsy headscarf, but he got an even older man, in a worn and stretched-out cardigan. The old man was nearly bald, his face and hands wrinkled, but his voice was strong.
        “Come in out of the rain!”
   
Kapper stepped inside.  This time his expectations were met, with the round table and the tablecloth and the single muted light hanging above the table, but there was no crystal ball and no deck of cards.  Just two chairs on opposite sides of the table.
        From someplace in a dark corner, the old man produced a small towel, and Kapper wiped his hands and face with it.  The old man sat in the upholstered chair on the far side of the table, so Kapper’s choices were limited to the straight-backed chair opposite.  He sat and found it to be completely uncomfortable: hard seat, hard back, no armrests.  He speculated that guests weren’t meant
    
(top of page)

 to stay long. That was fine, because his pants and shirt were wet.  
        The old man said, “You’re seeking something.”
        He thought that was beyond obvious, but said only, “Yes.”
        “Tell me about it.”
        “My friend, ah colleague, hid some money we were to share, and he died unexpectedly.  I can’t find it.  I want you to ask him where it is.”  Kapper smiled, but the old man’s expression remained serious.
   
For nearly a full minute they sat in silence.  Kapper realized he had forgotten to ask the price, and he decided that it was just about time to go, get away from this silliness, this waste of time.
        The old man sat with his hands on the table, fingers intertwined.  “I can do that.  If you find it, I want 20%.  If not, then $10.”
        Trusting soul, he thought.  “Okay, done.”  He waited for some incantation, some hocus-pocus, something, but other than closing his eyes, the old man didn’t move.  Kapper tried to get comfortable in the chair and it creaked a bit, but the old man’s posture didn’t change.
        Several minutes passed.  Kapper pushed himself forward to the edge of the chair.  He was about to tell the old man he was leaving.  
        The old man slowly unwove his fingers and laid his hands flat on the tablecloth.  “I found him.  Nathanson. Eric.”  
        Kapper shivered slightly.  “I didn’t tell you his name.”
        “No matter.  I found him.  He is dead, as you said.  But he can’t tell you where the money is.
        “He won’t? Why not?”  
        “No, he can’t.  This doesn’t work like people think it does.”
        “Well, you made it work somehow.”  Kapper stood up, put his hands palms-down on the table and looked at the old man.  “What’s the problem?”
        “I can’t control how they are.  On that side, Nathanson is as he was when he was six years old!”
    
Kapper left a $20 on the table and stepped back out into the rain.
                                                                          NN
    
    
                       About the Author
     
        SIG member Robert Weisz has been very happily retired from the telecom industry for nearly ten years.  His first publication was in a high school literary magazine in the second half of the last century.  He has been writing ever since.
        He has won First and Second places in Calliope’s fiction contests and at www.toasted-cheese.com.  He wrote a chapter in a soccer referee anthology about the humorous experiences he’s had.
        Of his current project, he says, “My fantasy novel is on hold at the moment—it’s not writer’s block—it’s what I call a ‘draft stopper,’ in the middle of Draft #2.  When the Muse strikes, I work on short stories and a memoir.”