Pronouncements of money, love, children had come and gone in the back room on Broome Street. The best part was sure to follow when a man in a black broadcloth suit and a threadbare bowler hat burst in on the fortune teller.

To the customer in the chair he directed a terse: “Get out, rube.”

The fortune teller, a dark-eyed beauty with a nose as crooked as her business winked at the shocked woman and flipped her dollar back. It hit the table with a dull clink.

“No charge, lovey. The man here and I have business. See you next time.” After the woman had fled, she smiled at the invader in black and rolled her eyes.

“So, Pinkerton, they’ve got you after will o’ the wisps and faery dust now?”

He sat down in the empty chair. “Brilliant deduction. I see the claims of your skill are not exaggerated.” He muttered, pausing to make a cigarette. “At all.”

“America’s private hard men and meddlers got nothing better to do than fuck me about? Ain’t you got a train car to protect or a payroll shipment to guard, errand boy?” She crossed her legs, and his eyes shot to the pale inch between wool sock and skirt hem. The skin was so pale, so very, very… He stopped himself, put his cigarette in his mouth and lit it to give himself something to do.

“The honorable Anthony Comstock,” He ignored her incredulous snort, “Has created a new division to investigate another realm of moral rectitude. Under these directives, all sorcerers, magicians, fortune tellers…” She gave a loud, theatrical yawn, “…and prestidigitators are subject to our new laws.”

“I don’t know this Comstock. Why do I have to obey him?”

“Because you came to New York City.”

She sighed and nodded. “So? What’s this going to cost me?”

“Not a penny,” The Pinkerton answered, “Just pack up and get out of New York State. We both know you’re phonier than Boss Tweed’s community spirit.”

She smirked. “Might want to be careful, cutey, slagging Tammany Hall like that.”

Stubbing out his cigarette on a deck of old cards on the table, he smiled when she winced. “Just get out by sunset.”

She made a dismissive flip of her hand.

As he got up, she growled low in her chest and her head snapped to the one side. One eye rolled in the socket, the pupil turning toward the Pinkerton like a hunted and terrifying beast. That eye strained so hard that its capillaries began to burst.

“This one’s got an even uglier suit than the last one.” The Beast said.

Her head snapped down, regarding him from under arched brows, her expression becoming menacing and coquettish. Both movements bled past his eyes like mercury and dream time.

“He’s prettier though.” The Coquette answered.

Head snap and the Beast spoke. “They’re all pink on the inside anyway.”

The Pinkerton scoffed. “That’s enough theatrics, now. It’s a little late…”

“He grew up in Mulberry Bend.” Said the Coquette.

“Your boss know he hired a filthy Italian grew up running errands for Tammany Hall?” The Beast growled.

“I like Italians.” The Coquette remarked.

“Now see here, who told you…” The Pinkerton’s voice was shrill.

“Fallen from grace have you?” The Beast interrupted.

“We know what that’s like, poor dear. Can I comfort you?” The coquette purred.

“Shut it, harlot,” Said the Beast, “Make the big men angry, huh? Get your wings clipped? Cast down? Working bitch errands for Anthony Comstock’s newest project? Want to know what he thinks about deep inside?”

“Stop it, I’m getting hungry.” Yowled the Coquette.

The Pinkerton placed one hand on his Navy Colt. “I’ll not have…”

The fortune teller’s neck was straining and her face beat red. Her hands gripped the chair and even her snapping neck and vicious shifts in expression seemed to fight against a body-wide rigor.

“You’ll be having whatever I say.” Said the Beast.

“We don’t like riding in these.” The Coquette smiled and it was a terrible thing with too many teeth. “But it’s better than hell.”

“And we aren’t looking to go back.”

“So we’re going to give you a real reading.”

“Not this other bullshit.”

“So listen closely, errand boy.”

“Fallen angel.”

“Rube with a gun.”

The whispering began to rise in pitch and seemed to come from two throats, neither of them particularly human.

When the Pinkerton left ten minutes later, he had a beatific smile on his face and a spring in his step. Walking south, he headed straight for Mulberry Bend and found the first big tough he could see, a Why-O standing watch for his fellows. The Pinkerton walked up to him and unbelted his Navy Colt, handing it to the shocked gangster. Tipping his hat, the Pinkerton walked away grinning.

The fortune teller was sipping from a small bottle of laudanum and rubbing her neck. A man came out of a hidden room and placed a glass of water in front of her and began to rub her shoulders.

“That was an especially convincing reading, love. You’re a spooky girl.”

She groaned with pleasure and placed her hands on his. “I think it’s time to move on. Back to the frontier. This game is easier in the boom towns.”

“Fair enough. Plus, when they argue we can just kill them and dump them in a hole.” Her husband laughed and she purred with agreement.

“Dump ‘em in a fucking hole.” Muttered the Beast deep inside her.

“Mmm. Hole.” Slurred the Coquette.

“You’ll take just about anything, won’t you trollop?”

“Want me to show you?”

The fortune teller spoke sharp to them inside her head.

“Quiet you two, or I’ll send you back for real this time.”

She sighed and enjoyed the silence and her husband’s strong hands on her shoulders.