Black Magic Woman by Justin Gustainis Page A

furrow appeared between Susan Mackey's bushy eyebrows. "Sorry?"
    "Sit a while, I mean. Come on in the living room."
    The condo's living room was done in earth tones, the furniture mostly the comfortable variety of Scandinavian modern. Once they were both seated, Susan leaned forward and said, "As I told you on the phone, I've got another job that would seem to need your, uh, talents. Are you interested?"
    "That depends on the job, as always. The Devil—or, I should say, the Goddess—lives in the details. Is this gig like the last one?"
    "In some ways, but on a bigger scale."
    Libby thought for a moment. "What was the name of that old fraud in Cleveland? Sister Meredeth, or something?" There was amusement in her voice.
    "Mother Josephine," Susan said. "You may not recall her too well, but I bet she still remembers you—not to mention that séance of hers we sat in on."
    "You'd think someone who claims to call up the spirits of the dead would be prepared for a.real ghost to show up."
    "Apparently not, judging from the way she ran screaming from the room." Libby studied the other woman for a moment. "You know, Susan, I sometimes wonder what the other folks at the Society for the Advancement of Rational Thought would say if they . knew you sometimes debunk spiritualist scams by hiring a real witch."
    "You're down on the books as a 'consultant,'" Susan said with a shrug. "As long as I get results, nobody's going to ask many questions about the exact nature of the consulting." She fiddled with the latches on her briefcase for a moment. "Besides, we're not opposed to spirituality, on principle, or even to belief in the supernatural. We're just against those who use beliefs in such things to exploit gullible people."
    "And that's what you've got this time? Another con artist?"
    "This guy is to con artists what Houdini was to magicians— the creme de la creme. Or maybe creme de la creep is more like it."
    "So what's his particular angle?"
    "That," Susan said, "is something I think you should see for yourself."
    * * * *
    Many small, independent movie theaters have been driven out of business by shopping mall megaplexes, pay-per-view cable, and DVD players. Some of these former dream palaces have been torn down, while others have been converted to other uses—like the one in New York's East Fifties where the marquee now proclaimed "Tommy Timberlake Ministry," and, in smaller letters, "Healing, Testimony, Prophecy."
    On the way in, Libby and Susan passed a table holding a tall box that read "Donations," guarded by a large man who looked more like a bouncer than a deacon. Since everyone filing in ahead of them seemed to be dropping in a "voluntary" offering, the two women each put in a few dollars. They did not want to draw attention to themselves.
    The inside of the theater had probably not looked this good since the place opened in the 1940s. It had been extensively refurbished, with an eye towards opulence rather than good taste. However, the large placards bearing biblical quotations were not part of the original decor, nor was the giant cross that dominated the stage. The starkness of the plain, black cross was offset by the many large potted plants that were arranged around it.
    The place was rapidly filling up, but the two women were able to find seats together about halfway down the middle section. The chairs were luxuriously padded and extremely comfortable. "Nearer my God, to Thee" was playing softly over the theater's sound system.
    A woman with severely permed blonde hair, wearing a blue dress of elegant simplicity, was working the room. As she made her way around the seated crowd, she waved to many and smiled at all. Periodically she would pause to speak to someone in one of the seats for a minute or two before moving on.
    "Who's that?" Libby asked.
    "Winona Timberlake, the Reverend Tommy's wife," Susan said quietly. "Sort of a combination warm-up act and mistress of ceremonies. She does this meet-and-greet thing before