Death Song (Tales from the Tarot)

2. Charlie

Chapter two

Charlie

R ain spatters on the pavement as I make my way down the street, heading for the building the gala is being held in. Or, trying to find it at least. Finn sent me the address and gave me a description of the place, but none of the numbers or names on the buildings I’m seeing are matching up to what he’d texted me.

I’m looking for a place called The Pinwheel Club.

I see no building called The Pinwheel Club.

I do see a bunch of closed buildings with their open signs turned off and their windows darkened. There’s a bunch of boarded up places across the street, but none of them have any names on them. While there are enough vehicles parked along this street to let me know that people are gathered somewhere, I can’t find that place they’ve all gone.

Even Google was confused when I typed the name into the browser, giving me all sorts of results to buy pinwheels. Definitely going to fuck up my algorithm with that search, I foresee a shit ton of ads for pinwheels popping up on my social media in my near future.

As the wind whips through the dimly lit street, I grab the hood on my oversized green knit sweater and pull it up onto my head. At least this thing is doing a great job of keeping me warm while I’m out here stomping around in puddles on my hunt for the venue. Beneath it, the crisp white button down I threw on earlier is staying dry at least. Unlike my pants. This tight pair of dark wash jeans are starting to stick to my legs like glue with the rain soaking into them. The motorcycle boots on my feet were a good call though, I think, given the weather. I did drive around the block a few times in my car before giving in and parking along a side street in favor of trying to match numbers on foot. Through the rain spattering on the windshield and the whoosh of the windshield wipers, I could hardly see any of the numbers on any of these buildings.

If I don’t find it soon, I’ll have to head back for my car and wait for Finn to respond to the numerous texts I’ve sent him, asking him where the hell I’m supposed to be going.

Or maybe I could ask someone. There aren’t many places along this strip of brick fronted buildings, but across the street, a sign above a door catches my eye. Through the rain, I can’t quite make out what it says, but the lights inside are on, glimmering like a beacon in the darkness. Decision made, I rush across the street, splashing in puddles as I go, until I reach the brass handled door. With a sigh of relief that I’ll soon be dry, I push open the door and step into whatever place this is.

“Welcome to The Magic Shop,” a voice calls out from beyond the front door, and as I push my sweater hood off my head, I take stock of where I’ve ended up.

A bookstore? I think? Though the smell of old paper meets my nose, there’s also a hint of spice and something else I can’t quite place lingering in the air. Ahead of me stands a man at a counter littered with loose papers. He smiles at me warmly from beneath a strange top hat, and I return the friendly greeting with a slight wave and a hello.

“We have never met before,” he calls out, sounding quite excited about it. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I am called The Owner.”

“Your name is The Owner?” That’s very strange, but given that I’m in what appears to be a bookstore called The Magic Shop, it could make sense. Maybe the magic in the shop’s title refers to the ‘magic of reading’ or some marketing shit he’s come up with to sell a book or two. Clever, if true.

“Yes, that is what I am called. And you are?”

“I’m Charlie.”

“Delighted. What brings you here this evening?” he asks, as I wipe my wet boots on the rug by the door.

“The weather,” I respond with a smile. “I’m looking for an address and it’s pouring outside. You’re the only place open around here.”

“Ah, yes. It’s a bit wet out there. Come in and warm up, perhaps I can be of assistance.”

I do as he says, moving from the front door once I’m certain I’m not tracking water behind me, and making my way over to the counter. This place is actually quite huge now that I’m getting a good look at it. Behind The Owner’s spot at the counter, shelves filled to the brim with books and assorted papers head off into the distance, but that’s not all. The more I look around me, the more things become clear. Glimmering crystals and potion vials that look like they’ve been plucked right out of some movie set sit among the books, and I’m starting to realize that maybe this place isn’t quite just a bookstore after all. I can even see a small coffee and snack stall sitting in the space, but it appears to be shut down at the moment. I wish it was open. I could use a coffee, that’s for sure. I’m shivering a bit from the cold outside and I’m always in a perpetual state of exhaustion. Sometimes filling my body with as much caffeine as I can handle without getting the shakes is the only thing that can get me through the days. Shitty deal that it’s closed.

“You’re looking for a location?” he asks, drawing me out of my wishing for coffee and into the present moment.

“Yeah, I’m supposed to be at this art gallery benefit thing in some building down here called The Pinwheel Club,” I respond. “None of the numbers or names on these buildings are matching up with my directions though. Am I even close?”

I pull out my cellphone and see that Finn still hasn’t texted me back. With a sigh, I scroll up past the unread messages to find the address I was given. Turning the phone around, I hold it out to the man behind the counter, who glances at it, then meets my eyes with a smile.

“Ah, yes. You are close indeed. It is around the corner,” he offers. “The sign on the front reads ‘Edgemont’ though the venue contained inside its walls is indeed called ‘The Pinwheel Club.’ It is a common mistake. Why the new owner has failed to make that correction and clarification is not known to me.”

Well, that would have been nice to know before I ventured out into the rainy, wet evening. I sigh, putting my phone back into my pocket. “Thank you. That helps a lot.”

“Can I be of help in any other way?” The Owner asks with a smile. “I have to think you were drawn here for a reason. All beings that walk through my door come seeking different things and I am always able to provide them.”

Drawn here for a reason? The rain and the inability to find a building. That’s it, that’s all. “I don’t think so?”

The Owner tilts his head to the side slightly as he looks into my face like he’s trying to figure something out. Silence lingers between us for a few moments before he smiles again and raps his knuckles on the top of the counter. Before I can even figure out what’s happening, he’s ducked below the counter. There sound of items being shuffled around meets my ears, and when The Owner rises again, he holds in his hand a small black box.

“What’s that?” I ask, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he opens the flap holding the box closed and pulls out what looks like a deck of cards. They’re all black, but as he shuffles them, I can see hints of color peeking through on each of them and my brain quickly starts to figure out what they are. “Tarot.”

“Indeed,” The Owner says, splaying the cards out towards me. “Indulge me for a mere moment, if you will. Pick just one.”

“Why?”

“Oh, who’s to say the reasons? You are brought here to seek information, and I am compelled to offer you this gift. Perhaps it is as simple as that.”

Compelled. Yeah, I know a lot about that feeling. I’m already running late, a few more moments won’t hurt I suppose. Reaching forward, I run a finger over the edges of the cards in his hand, stopping when one of them feels… right? It feels like the one I should pull out, though I can’t explain why. Gut instinct, I guess. I slide it from its place and The Owner makes quick work of putting the rest of the deck to the side.

Turning the card over, I take in what’s printed on it, fingers shaking a little bit as I see the card I’ve chosen. The figure taking up much of the space on the card is a skeleton in armor sitting atop a white horse, a flag printed with what appears to be an ancient depiction of a white rose in his hand. Towards the bottom of the image lay the dead and dying bodies of people of a bunch of different ages, while the image of a woman appears to beg for mercy from a kneeling position in front of him. My blood runs cold as I read the word printed beneath the horse’s hooves.

Death.

“Am I dying?” I squeak out, staring at the card. “Is that what this means?”

“Oh! Hardly. I mean, yes, our physical bodies are all dying in one way or another, but Death is an exciting card to have drawn. In the tarot, it means transformation. A rebirth. The ending of one so another may begin.”

Rebirth. Transformation. I can handle that. Much better than death and doom. Unless… “The ending of what?”

“I am unsure,” The Owner says. “A thought, perhaps. A way of living. A relationship or a career, maybe? It is not for me to say what this represents for you, but know that only by letting go of the past can you move forward into what the universe has laid out for your path.”

Absolutely vague, just the way I like it. I sigh, looking from the card to The Owner who gave it to me as I take stock of all the things that could change in my life. Colin leaving was a change, but that was months ago. These dream paintings were also a change, but once again, they started a while ago. Maybe the change that’s coming is the end of my sleepless nights. That would be lucky. I’d welcome that ending, that’s for sure. I can’t think of anything else in my life that is needing a shift into something else though, so I’ll hold onto the hope that this card means my dream paintings will stop soon.

“Keep it,” The Owner says, placing his hand on the card as I move to give it back to him. “It is yours to have. Think on it, and when transformation comes, lean into the new path it pushes you towards.”

“Thanks?” I slip the card into my pocket alongside my phone. “I should get going though. I appreciate the directions.”

“Always. I am always here, should you need me again.”

I nod, then make my way to the door of the shop, head filled with thoughts and wonderings about this change that’s supposedly coming. I reach the door and grab the knob, giving it a turn before pushing it open and revealing the rain outside.

“Charlie?” The Owner calls out from behind me.

I turn in the doorway to face him, cocking my head to the side in question.

“Chamomile and valerian root tea could be better,” he says, with a knowing smile and a strange twinkle in his eye from beneath his top hat. “For your sleep and your health.”

“What?” I sputter, stunned and confused as to how he knows about my issues.

Instead of offering any explanation, he simply nods then leaves the counter to head off into the depths of the narrow aisles beyond. I watch him disappear from view, my heart racing in my chest and the tarot card a heavy weight in my pocket.

“There you are,” Finn says, offering a tense smile as I step into the venue, rain soaked and waterlogged. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“If you’d check your phone, you’d see I was on my way. Not my fault that the Edgemont isn’t the name I was given.” I grin and give him a nudge in the side with my elbow so he knows I’m just playing around. His brain has been overloaded these past few weeks leading up to the gala and forgetting to tell me the finer details of the night is understandable. I made it here in the end, and that’s what counts.

Finn’s face falls a little bit, and he pulls his cell phone from the pocket of his suit jacket. He scrolls through things on his screen, then sighs. “Fuck, Charlie. I’m sorry. I forgot the name on the building is different. It’s been a busy night and Bowman has been crawled up my ass about you coming.”

“Why’s he care so much?” I shrug off my sweater and hand it to one of the attendants at the door with a sheepish smile. The thing weighs a ton now with all the water it’s soaked up, and while I had intended to wear it all night, I can’t be dribbling rain everywhere.

“Oh, you know how he gets. He probably has some buyer clamoring to meet you or something. Schmoozing with the rich elites is the name of the game.”

Ugh. Yeah, it is. Sadly, they are the ones with the money to buy my work. I’ve avoided meeting a lot of them, preferring my own company over being in their presence, but tonight I suppose I’m on display. They aren’t all horrible though. Finn himself comes from money as old as the earth is and he’s been a fantastic friend to me over the years. There’s also an older gentleman named Richie who owns a couple of my pieces. He came into money through a massive lottery win and carries himself with the grace and poise of a drunken frat bro. I love his honesty and his unwillingness to kiss ass to some of the upper crusties I know are inside.

“Is Richie here?” I ask as Finn leads me down the hallway I assume acts as the pinwheel’s handle.

“Of course he is. He’s had his eye on one of your pieces all night long. The one with the neon cats spray-painted on those ancient pillars.”

I know the exact one. As I’d done it, I’d sort of had Richie in mind, and I’m pleased to see I was on the mark. And hopefully, on the money. While art is my life’s work and creating things is a passion, what I earn is what helps keep me going. That someone as interesting as Richie is willing to buy what I'm selling makes it even better.

Finn leads me into the main room of The Pinwheel Club and the space almost takes my breath away. The centre hub is dimly lit and is absolutely crowded with people moving around the small tables that fill the space. A small string quartet plays in the middle on a brightly lit circular stage, the notes meeting my ears over the din of conversation. Beyond the hub are five rooms that appear to stretch out from the centre, and I can see what The Owner meant by the space being like its namesake. I’m not sure what lies down each of the spokes, but I have to assume that is where some of the art for sale hangs.

I catch Richie’s eye as I make my way into the centre hub, and he waves from where he stands alongside a couple of other men I don’t know. He points at the painting Finn mentioned and mouths the word “mine,” and I grin, nodding back.

“Oh God, here he comes,” Finn mumbles beside me. “Brace yourself.”

“Oh, I see him.” Bowman Hollings, the owner of the gallery and someone who commands attention wherever he goes sweeps through the crowd of people, smiling at everyone he passes. I don’t have anything against him, not really, other than the fact that when he’s around money he becomes insufferably schmoozy and fake. The Bowman I know from my time as an artist-in-residence, the one with the paint spattered jeans and the perpetual stubble on his chin, doesn’t match the one that sidles up to me freshly shaved in a tailored suit.

“Charlie Polston,” he says, holding out a hand towards me. “So glad to see you.”

I take his hand in mine, giving it a shake. “Good to see you, Bowman. Fantastic turnout tonight.”

“It is. Do you have a moment?”

I nod. I have nothing but moments tonight, though I’m already starting to grow sleepy. It’s been a long night already and that I’ve just arrived with many more hours of this to go eats at me. I stifle a yawn as Bowman gestures like he means for me to follow him behind then takes off through the crowd.

“I’ll get you a drink,” Finn murmurs into my ear, giving my arm a squeeze. “You’re gonna need one, I bet.”

I’m not sure that alcohol will help beyond making me even more drowsy, but I thank him anyway then head off in the direction Bowman went. Weaving through people, I offer smiles I hope appear friendly to as many people as I can before finding the galley owner on the opposite edge of the circled space by the mouth of one of the long hallways that lead off like a spoke. He’s chatting with a man standing in front of one of my paintings. The man has his back to me, but as I stare at the back of his blond head my heart starts beating a rabbit pace behind my ribs. I step forwards as Bowman gestures frantically for me to join them, my feet feeling heavy and my lungs squeezing breath through me as I stare.

And stare.

And stare at the blond man’s head.

“This is the artist, Charlie Polston,” Bowman announces as I step forward more, moving closer to the blond man. Like a moth to a flame, I find myself drawn to him and him alone.

Then, he turns around and I nearly fall over in shock.

I know this angled face.

I know this smile.

I know him.

I know.