../

The interior of the van is, as expected, dark, despite the daylight outside. It still smells like bleach, too. A rough man with a black hat and a skeleton bandana covering his face makes sure Zandra only looks forward.

"Best taxi in town. Don't need to even call for a ride. It just shows up," Zandra says. She folds her hands across her lap to satisfy the rough man sitting beside her, and to keep a grip over the sleeved sheath of the lawnmower knife.

"I'm glad to see we've worked out a system," a familiar voice says from behind Zandra. He sounds more charred than before, either from stress or indulgence. "These are the best kind of relationships. No phone calls. No words on screens. Nothing traceable. Just a quiet understanding. You're learning. That's why I like you."

We also match in the dramatic flair department. What a team.

Zandra fakes a polite chuckle. "That's what psychics do, isn't it? Telepathy?"

The voice behind her returns the same tone of amusement. "Telepathy."

"If you've got it, you've got," Zandra says.

"And what do you have for me today?"

"Something big."

"I like big things."

Like your opinion of yourself?

"I need to know who you are first," Zandra says. She tries to crank her head around, but the rough man beside her wraps his thick fingers around the back of her neck.

That's not very nice.

"You not knowing who I am is for your own safety," the man's voice behind Zandra says. "Once you know, you can't unknow, and that can lead to complications later. I like you too much for that."

Zandra motions toward the sliding door. "Then let me off here."

"Excuse me?"

"There's no point in me being here," Zandra says. She reaches for the latch on the sliding door. The rough man jerks her back into place.

Out comes the lawnmower knife, or so Zandra tries. She fumbles with the tangle of sleeve over the sheath, unable to draw the blade before the rough man squeezes her wrists together.

If they're going to keep me here, I may as well fuck with them. Always have a plan B. Or, since I can't get the knife out, a plan C.

"Let me out or I'll make this van stop myself," Zandra says in a huff.

The voice behind Zandra sounds amused. "We're done when we're done. You called this meeting, and we're not finished until you tell me why. How do you plan on stopping this van anyway? With your mind?"

The rough man chuckles.

Wait and see, chucklefuck.

"Tell your dog to put his paw away," Zandra says.

The voice behind Zandra whistles silently. The rough man releases his grip on Zandra's wrists.

Zandra pulls out the plastic packet and holds it over her shoulder. "Here."

"And what is this?" the voice behind her says.

"You seem like the sort of person who would know."

Zandra feels the packet lift away from her fingertips. She places her hand back on her lap. A light flicks on behind her, but she doesn't turn her head to see. The light disappears after a couple seconds.

"So you've found a new hobby. Is the psychic business that bad?" the voice says.

I'd like that back now.

"I know where there's a lot more of that," Zandra says.

"Oh?"

"All I need is someone to take it off my hands."

A pause. The crisp crunch of gravel beneath the van's tires fills the void.

"Bullshit," comes the reply from behind Zandra.

"Excuse me?" Zandra says.

Usually, I'm the one calling bullshit.

"Bullshit. You're apparently confused. You've mistaken me for the simpletons you normally associate with to make yourself seem as smart as you think you are," the voice says. "See, this is the problem with people like you. Come from towns like Stevens Point, think you're invincible because you're a big fish in a small pond. Never stop to second guess yourself, because you've never been humbled."

Only half of that is true. There may be plenty of simpletons in Stevens Point, but I am—without needing to second guess myself like some humiliated school kid—exactly as smart as I think I am.

"Well, you're here, aren't you? Are you one of the simpletons I associate with?" Zandra says.

The rough man chuckles again. This time he's silenced with a slap to the back of the head from behind.

"Here's why I call bullshit, Zandra. If you've got a lot more of what's in this bag, then you're already deep enough into this game that you don't need to find—as you put it—someone to take it off of your hands," the voice says. "However, if that's not true, and you're just starting out dealing with product of this sort, then you stole it from someone else, and now you're looking to get me involved so I eat the pudding when the shit hits the fan."

He's not wrong. I should've thought this through more.

Zandra coughs into her sleeve. The fabric covers her disappointment.

"I wasn't counting on you being so...," Zandra starts to say.

"Thoughtful?" the voice says.

"I was going to say skeptical. Maybe cynical."

"Do you really think I got to the point of driving around in dark vans, picking celebrity psychics up off the side of the road, with my own driver and knuckle, by being every bit as gullible as your usual clientele?" the voice says.

"I have no reason to believe otherwise," Zandra says. "You still haven't told me who you are, so I'll assume you've got santorum for brains, like everyone else. That usually works for me."

Also, can I have that packet back now?

Another pause. Another sigh.

"You want to know who I am? I move money where it needs to be," the voice says.

Zandra waits for more. "That's it?"

"You seem a little slow today—concerningly so—so let me paint this picture for you," the voice says. "I make sure money gets to where it needs to be. That you and I met as you were blowing up Gene's gubernatorial campaign should tell you a bit about the places I work in. Put all that together. What do you see?"

Zandra does indeed feel slow today, but she can still paint the picture.

This person shuffles money for politicians. Exactly how, I don't know, but I should've caught this already.

"Does any of your work involve what's in that packet?" Zandra says.

"Sometimes, but only under the right conditions," the voice says. "This is not one of those times. I'm going to assume you stole the product from someone else. Too risky."

"But there's a lot of it."

"So?"

"So you'd be compensated for the risk."

"Then I'd want it all for dirt cheap so I can sell it for just as cheap to someone else. Send that heat somewhere else."

What counts as cheap? Does it even matter? It's not like I paid for any of this stuff.

"Sold," Zandra says. "When do you want it?"

"Soon, but on condition," the voice says.

The van hits a bump.

"I don't like conditions," Zandra says.

"And you're not in a position to negotiate," the voice says. "You want to know why I'm here? In Stevens Point with the little fishes?"

"I'm not sure I care, but go ahead and tell me."

"I'm having some issues in my personal life. Fidelity. Or, to be more exact, the lack thereof," the voice says. The tone drops several notches in severity, flirting with vulnerability. "The other person is in Stevens Point. I know that much. I don't know anything else. I need proof. I need to know what's going on. You help me, and I help you. Neither is in debt to the other."

Zandra nods toward the rough man. "You've got people working for you already. Why not use them?"

"Given the importance of discretion in my line of business, I can't have anyone easily connected to me playing detective. I need distance. Who better to gain information at a distance than a psychic?" the voice says.

I don't have the time for this. Someone sent Glenn to kill Aaron on the Curd Queen, and that someone must know about the drugs onboard. It's a race, and I'm not even at the starting line yet.

"Relationship issues must've been your bread and butter back at Sneak Peek. Why not give it another go, for old time's sake?" the voice says.

They sure were. They were the easiest. If someone goes to a psychic instead of a therapist for their relationship issues, they've already lost the game. The trick was to separate the losers from their money before their exes could.

The same holds true today, too.

Zandra coughs into her sleeve again before saying, "I can do that."

The van hits another bump. The suspension recoils a bit more this time.

"Excellent. Allow me to fill you in on my predicament. Do you know what a concubine is?" the voice says.

It's a word people with delusions of grandeur use to refer to their extramarital relationships. A more middle-class version would be "mistress." Then there's "side piece," a notch lower in the socioeconomic status. At least, I think it's still called "side piece." I wouldn't know.

"Yes, I know what a concubine is. I didn't realize you were dating in the Old Testament," Zandra says with a smirk.

"My concubine, residing in Stevens Point, is cheating on me," the voice says.

That's rich. You cheat on someone with another woman—I'm assuming the source of the voice is a straight man—and you're surprised she's also cheating on you? Takes one to know one, I guess.

"So you're from Chicago, is that it?" Zandra says. "Everyone ships their shit north from Chicago. Been that way since Prohibition. Take a drive north for a nice, long weekend, and then it's back to the Windy City for whatever the fuck it is you do. Cliché, but I like that. Easy to work with."

The van hits a third bump. The vehicle shivers. Zandra hears the driver mutter something.

The source of the voice clears his throat. "Your leaps in logic are admirable, but before I confirm anything, we should toast to this arrangement first. Make it official."

"I don't drink."

"Neither do I. Coffee is my only vice," the voice says. The plastic packet flips onto Zandra's lap. "All I have is your word about the product you're sitting on. Let's see how committed you really are, and whether I can trust what's in this bag."

Zandra stares at the powder. She licks her lips, just once, from side to side.

The rough man next to Zandra takes the packet. He digs in a satchel by his feet for a square of foil folded like a piece of metal roofing, a lighter, and a glass straw. He prepares everything despite the bumpy ride and passes the glass straw to Zandra. All she needs to do inhale and chase the bead that forms after he flicks the lighter beneath the foil.

"Cheers," the voice behind Zandra says. "We don't have time for syringes and citric, so this will have to do."

Zandra sticks the glass straw between her teeth and rubs her palms.

Once more, and then I'm done.

The rough man nods to Zandra, as if to ask whether she's ready.

Zandra pauses.

The poker cards.

It took me this long to remember. I fell asleep on the couch before I could show Chad the poker cards. It was about odds and gods.

Zandra slips the straw out from her teeth. "Not now. I don't want to nod off in here."

The rough man waits to see if she's serious. After a beat, he creases the foil and gently tips the brown powder back into the plastic packet.

"Well done," the voice behind Zandra says. "Either you're smart enough to come up with a convenient excuse or it really is too early for nap time. I'll give you the benefit of the former, because I don't work with junkies. Especially psychic junkies."

The rough man hands the packet back to Zandra. She stuffs it into the deep pocket of her purple gown and tries to laugh off what just happened.

"Sherlock Holmes made it work. Opium and opera," Zandra says with a forced chuckle.

"There's a reason Sherlock Holmes is fiction," the voice says, minus any shred of humor. He shares a few key details about his "concubine." It's enough to get Zandra started.

I find out who his concubine is cheating with, and then he buys the haul from the Curd Queen. Got it.

The van hits another bump. This time, the rattle warrants an, "Are you drunk again?" from the voice to the driver.

"I think we got a flat," the driver says.

Plenty of nails in these unkempt streets. Quite a few outside the gyro restaurant, in fact. It wouldn't be too hard for someone to toss a couple in front of a tire while pretending to rub her ankle on the way into a van.

The van comes to a stop. The rear, passenger-side tire will need to be swapped for a spare.

"You did this, Zandra?" the voice says.

Zandra taps her temple. "Yes, with my mind."

"Why? I thought we were good," the voice says.

"Because fuck you, that's why," Zandra says. She pops open the sliding door. This time, the rough man doesn't stop her. "I'll be in touch."

Zandra finds herself not far from the gyro restaurant where the van originally picked her up. The van stuck to its usual route of circling downtown. Her ankle gives her grief on the two-block hike back to Chad and Bexley. She fingers the packet in her pocket the whole time.

"Everything OK?" Bexley says when Zandra is within earshot.

"Change in plans. We're going to do a little love therapy," Zandra says.

Chad looks at Bexley. "I don't think we need therapy, Zandra."

You two are made for each other, and I'd never punish a psychologist like that.

"But first, the cards," Zandra says.

"What?" Chad says.

"The poker cards. Give them to me. I'll show you what I meant last night," Zandra says and holds her hand out. "I don't want to forget again."