Things Not Subject To Gravity - Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Monday afternoon, Dee was on his way to the appointment with "The Oracle". The address he was given by message happened to be near his hotel, so he decided to indulge in a constitutional*. The air was sweet and warm springtime sunbeams lit the road. The lovely stroll brought him close to the alley he had visited the previous day.
He took a peek and noticed two rascals had chosen the place to get a little privacy and have a beer together. The young man sat on the ground, his clothes ragged and the word troublemaker written all over his face, while the lady stood. She was smoking hot, with dark short hair, sexy shorts and curves in all the right places. Although her tattoed back was turned to him, Dee recognized her as the waitress from Cafe Palermo—Vito's daughter—the one he was forbidden to talk to. He took notice of the scene with the intention to figure the young man's background as soon as possible.
The old beggar stood at the opposite corner, facing the main road. Something was off about him. To avoid being spotted, Dee kept walking on the curb on the other side and checked on him using his peripheral vision.
The self-proclaimed fortune-teller had big dark circles under his dead eyes. His face grey, his mouth twisted in a sour line, he pleaded nonsensical words, adding a touch of madness to his already miserable condition. Obviously, he was unable to attract any positive attention or possible clients.
Dee wondered how he could've even considered the possibility of such a charlatan being a reliable source. However, he excused himself by assuming that, to have certainty, one needed to consider and evaluate each possible lead. Nothing could be left to chance.
"...My Lord. Forgive me!" the old man pleaded on the verge of weeping. "You chose me to serve you and I was your Judas! You already knew! I beg of you, my Lord, don't leave me! Let me be your messenger again! Keep shining your divine light on me, don't...!"
As Dee kept going, the mortified voice was engulfed in the city's noise, and he was relieved to find he couldn't hear it anymore. That Bible-thumper couldn't have anything to do with Sybil Vain. Despite the rumors about The Oracle's mental instability, Vain needed to be cunning and reasonable to hide so well. He had to be calculating and scheming in the shadow, in other words, someone like him.
When he finally reached the Studio, at the third floor of an anonymous business building, Dee had to provide his personal information and show his face to a camera before hearing the metallic sound of the lock. Once he set foot inside, the door shut down automatically. The Doctor didn't like to be confined, and he liked even less the idea that, if the unpredictable were to occur, he wouldn't be able to get the door open.
Nevertheless, he took off his trench—a Burberry of course—and hung it on the coat stand. Black leather gloves still on, he placed his briefcase on the coffee table and sat on the couch in the left corner. That seat faced both doors and granted a clear view of the whole room. Dee picked up a magazine and glanced at the wall clock, which showed 3:45 pm. He was fifteen minutes early, as always. With the hint of a smile on his lips, he put his left ankle over his right knee to give off a relaxed and confident vibe.
The waiting room was small but well furnished, private and cozy. Serene pistachio walls, furniture in light shades of walnut wood, a fair selection of gossip magazines, and lush potted plants suggested a female touch. On the door to the next room, a golden plaque read "The Oracle."
Faking an interest in the featured article of the magazine he'd picked from the end table, Dee couldn't focus on the words. Behind his collected exterior, he couldn't shake the feeling of being in the wrong place. Flourish writing and lack of discretion were not what he would've expected from Vain.
Moreover, knowing he couldn't leave easily made him nervous.
Five minutes to 4:00, a lean and elegant client came out of the study. As he crossed the waiting room, his practiced fingers buttoned up the jacket of his tailored, dark-grey suit. He stood at the coat rack and pulled up the hem of his left sleeve to check the time on his Rolex watch—the gold splendidly standing out against the white cotton of the shirt. Then, he picked up his black overcoat and carefully slipped it in, adjusting the collar in the end. His movements felt a bit stiff and his hands were slightly trembling, yet his eyes sparkled with determination. He had the face of someone who just received a deal package, containing some pretty awful news as well as ready-to-use, customized solutions.
Dee had already figured that The Oracle's consultations would not match his rational logic. As the rich man approached the exit, the lock of the main door clicked. For a moment, the Doctor imagined taking the chance to escape. However, with the tip of his fingers, he adjusted his glasses and kept on his fake reading. He listened to the echo of the steps resounding in the corridor until they disappeared in the silence.
The lock didn't click back.
Surprised, Dee lifted his head, just in time to meet eyes with the unpredictable.
A punk had stepped in and shot a fiery gaze at David's questioning stare. He was in his mid-twenties, way too skinny, with deep brown eyes that had dark circles under them, a full beard and long messy hair, wore a discolored t-shirt, torn in several places, and a pair of dirty jeans, oversized and ripped too much and in the wrong way to be considered fashionable. His clenched jaw made it clear he was bursting with tension like a bomb ready to explode.
As if his appearance wasn't disturbing enough, he happened to be the very same guy who had sat in the fortune-teller's alley, drinking beer with Vito's daughter.
Restless like a caged animal, he eyed The Oracle's door like he was ready to scream at anybody who would come out, but he couldn't be an unsatisfied client. He was too nervous and unfamiliar with the surroundings. It was obvious that he had never been there before.
With ironically perfect timing, the secretary walked out and gave them both a surprised look.
"Good afternoon gentlemen, may I ask your names and the purpose of your visit?" she started with a well-trained gracious voice.
"As I said before, I'm David Green and I have an appointment with Sybil Vain," Dee replied giving her a charming smile.
"Me too," the punk barked.
"I see. As far as you're concerned, Mister Green, you may go in. I will take care of the rest." She shot a pleased look at Dee and a nervous glance at the unwelcome visitor.
The Doctor nodded, laid the magazine aside and stood gracefully. After taking a moment to adjust his suit, he picked up his briefcase and walked into the study. Right away the door shut behind him. Poker face on, he sat in a sienna leather armchair in front of a mahogany desk. Though utterly displeased by the first thing he noticed, he refrained from staring at The Oracle and kept as nonchalant as one could be in his first visit.
"Welcome, David. If I may call you so." A mellow voice caressed his ears.
"You may call me as you please." Dee's gaze slowly took in the surroundings—warm ocher walls and wood furniture with ethnic decor, covered in esoteric ornaments and flowers. After a full circle, his eyes fell back on the graceful figure sitting in front of him. "Are you Sybil Vain?" he asked calmly.
"Indeed. I am, and it's a pleasure to meet you." A smile brightened her beautiful face.
"I regret to say this, but you don't meet my expectations."
"You're not the first skeptic I've encountered. Therefore, I'm neither surprised nor upset with your statement. If you'd allow me, I'll make sure to prove my worth with my abilities." There was a calculated break, and the next words made it clear the atmosphere had chilled. "What is your issue, Mister Green?"
Dee kept up his polite façade. "Don't misunderstand me, but my issue is the way you look. You see, I was told otherwise."
"Don't I live up to what you've heard?" Her manicured fingers ran through perfect flowing red hair.
"Hardly, the truth is you're far beyond," complimented Dee.
"You flatter me. Well then, how about giving me a chance? We could start from—"
"The thing is," he interrupted her raising his right hand. "You are a woman."
She blinked but kept her composure. "If you have a prejudice against my gender, I'm afraid it will be difficult for me to help you."
"This is nothing personal, nor discriminatory against you, your gender or your career, but I had it on good authority that Vain is a man."
At that moment, Unpredictable burst into the room. He was followed by the voice of the secretary piling up an endless list of excuses toward her boss. The punk slapped his hands on the desk. The mahogany surface vibrated and a white petal fell from the lilies.
Oracle Lady didn't falter. A faint smile curved her lips as though she knew what was going to happen and was prepared to deal with it.
For a few moments, Unpredictable and the woman stared at each other, still like statues. Then, he lowered his gaze to examine whatever laid on the polished surface of the desk. Beside the vase of flowers, there were divination tools such as a tarot deck and a pendulum, a stack of files regarding clients or payments, and a lit oil burner that gave off an intoxicating sandalwood scent.
The punk walked around the table glaring at a book, which happened to be under the woman's pretty hand. He brought his eyes back to hers trying to intimidate her but, again, she didn't flinch.
"Tell me, sir, what do you seek? Are you in need of a consultation with Sybil Vain?" she asked polite and professional.
He snorted. "I want the book."
"Oh my, this is just a cheap novelette for ladies. I doubt you would find it an interesting read and even if you sell it, you wouldn't make more than a dollar." She smiled charmingly and kept a relaxed, open posture.
"Do you have any other books here?" he asked, huffing.
"Actually, no. As you can see this is not a bookstore. Anyway, if you want me to comply with your request, I've got two conditions. First, answer one simple question. Second, you'll leave without causing any further commotion." While she spoke she handed him the book, yet she didn't let go of it. "Didn't Isaac tell you to call before coming?"
"Sure as hell he did," the punk hissed, yanking their bone of contention.
Without a second thought, Oracle Lady let go of the book. She nodded and waved at her secretary, who dashed to open the door. Her cool gaze followed Unpredictable as he quickly walked off. Dee tapped his gloved fingers against the armrest while the metallic sound of the lock echoed from the waiting room.
When silence fell, the woman took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. She ran a hand through her hair, and her alluring green eyes returned to focus on her client, but he'd already lost interest in her.
In normal circumstances, Dee would ask the woman how she managed to keep her cool when facing a potentially dangerous intruder, and he'd make sure she knew Isaac—the old fortune-teller who lived in Palermo's alley. However, coincidence wasn't an option in his well-ordered universe, and his instinct told him he had no time to spare in pointless questioning.
If Oracle Lady and Isaac were cover-ups, playing according to a script, both were dead ends. With his temper, Unpredictable wasn't fit for the role and looked more like a courier. It was highly likely he worked for Vain too.
Dee simply took his leave with the made-up excuse of a forgotten, impending meeting. He didn't forget to give the woman a little sting though. He left his business card and a message for the real Sybil Vain. There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. (John 4:18)
A few minutes later he was hiding among people on the sidewalk while tailing the punk, who walked on the other side of the road.