Black Magic by Russell James

flurry of activity to re-invigorate the exterior, the place seemed dead. Andy made plenty of passes through the town square all day and was now positive it had never been open, nor had he seen the owner.
    As if on cue, Lyle Miller stepped out of the front door with a jingle of the little bell on top. He had on a black long-sleeve shirt reminiscent of pirate garb, the kind of shirt a magician would wear on stage. He looked over at Andy and their eyes locked. Lyle smiled and waved, but both gestures were cold, calculated. Even from across the street, Andy could make out a ring with a large blue stone on one of Lyle’s fingers.
    Lyle disappeared around the shop corner and into the alley. He emerged a minute later at the wheel of a jet black Cadillac Eldorado, convertible top retracted. He drove off down Main.
    A chill shivered up Andy’s spine. He twitched at the top of the ladder and grabbed the lamppost for support. That guy gave him a serious case of the creeps.
    He shook it off. A mysterious shop and black clothes. All the type of hype a magician would spin to create an aura. The guy will be making balloon animals at birthday parties next week and selling Magic 8 Balls in his shop.
    He climbed down and tossed the ladder in the back of the town pickup truck. Bigger fish to fry today, as they say. Today was Dump Day, after all.

Chapter Fourteen
    The Elysian Retirement Home day room stank Monday morning.
    At least it did to Dolly. It wasn’t rotten like a bad banana or an open can of rancid tuna. It smelled clean. Too clean. A fake floral smell with an antiseptic aftertaste. As if it had worked hard to cover a host of scents no one wanted to acknowledge; the reek of soiled bed linens, the shuddering stink of vomit, and above all the musty smell of death. Before she had to live here, Dolly tended her own fragrant flower gardens where blooms sent out the bouquet of new life each morning. The day room’s smell was just the opposite, a cover for life slowly winding down.
    Nurse Coldwell bustled around the room from corner to corner like one of those robot vacuum cleaners. She gave each resident a cursory inspection and flagged attendants to assist those in need.
    Dolly felt good this morning, which made her feel awful about her son’s last visit to see her. She wished amnesia rode tandem with the bouts of dementia when they galloped up and trampled her brain, but it did not. She remembered every confused, embarrassing moment from her son’s visit. Andy was a saint for never bringing those times up, pretending he was the one stricken with amnesia.
    Her friend Walking Bear was up early this morning. His dry, gray hair was swept back in a ponytail. The sun backlit his profile and his prominent nose. Pronounced bags under his eyes gave him a very somber air, not that his brown, weathered face ever broke into a smile.  
    He had his usual chair. He positioned it to face the big picture window overlooking the center’s patchy grass backyard and the small pond beyond. Hummingbird feeders hung from the roof’s overhang and the brightly colored birds hovered around them for quick sips of sugar water. His gaze never wavered from the birds.
    Walking Bear claimed he was an Anamassee, an obscure tribe without casinos whose dwindling membership still lived in south Florida. The name on his room chart was Walter Connell , but he only answered to Walking Bear. Dolly didn’t know his history before he came to the home years ago, and he didn’t volunteer it
    Dolly took a seat beside him. “Good morning!” she sang.
    Walking Bear gave a curt nod and kept his eyes on the birds. Dolly had learned not to take offense.
    “What do the birds tell you this morning?” she asked. Walking Bear claimed that even through the glass the animals, few that there were, relayed news of the natural world to him.
    “It is all in balance this morning,” he said. “Light and dark, sun and moon.”
    “Sounds perfect,” she said. Walking Bear gave the