The Diviners (The Diviners 1)

“It’s his company. Why shouldn’t he do as he sees fit?” Evie said.

The disgruntled man waved for an usher. The girls immediately quieted and tried to look innocent. The newsreel ended and the picture began. Metro presents Rex Ingram’s production of Vincent Blasco Ibañez’s literary masterpiece THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE flashed upon the screen and they fell silent, held rapt by the screen’s glow and Rudolph Valentino’s beauty. Evie imagined herself on the silver screen kissing someone like Valentino, her picture in Photoplay magazine. Maybe she’d live in a Moorish-style mansion in the Hollywood Hills, complete with tiger-skin rugs. That was what Evie loved best about going to the pictures: the chance to dream herself into a different, more glamorous life. But then the film came to the scenes of war. Evie stared at the soldiers in the trenches, the young men crawling across the rain-soaked no-man’s-land of the battlefield, falling to explosions. She felt dizzy, thinking of James and her terrible dreams. Why did they haunt her? When would they stop? Why did James never speak to her in them? She’d give anything just to hear his voice.

By the end of the picture, they were all misty-eyed—Mabel and Theta cried for the dead movie star; Evie for her brother.

“There’ll never be another like Rudy,” Mabel said, blowing her nose.

“You said it, sister,” Theta purred as they stepped out into the late-afternoon sun. She stopped when she saw Evie’s angry face. “Whatsa matter, Evil?”

“Sam. Lloyd,” Evie growled. She took off at a clip toward a cluster of people who were watching a three-card monte game.

“Who’s Sam Lloyd?” Mabel asked Theta.

“Don’t know,” Theta said. “But I’m pretty sure he’s a dead man.”

“Watch the Queen of Hearts, folks. She’s the money card.” Sam arranged three cards on top of a cardboard box, moving them around so quickly they were a blur. “Now, sir, sir—yes, you. Would you care to wager a guess? There’s no charge for this first round. Just to show you it’s an honest game I’m running.”

Evie turned the box over, upsetting the cards and the money. “Remember me, Casanova?”

It took Sam a minute, but then he smiled. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite nun. How’s the Mother Superior, sister?”

“Don’t you ‘sister’ me. You stole my money.”

“Who, me? Do I look like a thief?”

“And how!”

The crowd watched the argument with interest, and Sam looked around nervously. He snugged his Greek fisherman’s cap low over his brow. “Doll, I’m sorry you got fleeced, but it wasn’t me.”

“If you don’t want me to call a cop over here right this second and tell him you just tried to take advantage of me, you will give me my twenty dollars.”

“Now, sister, you wouldn’t—”

“I pos-i-tute-ly would! Do you know the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult?”

“Yeah, I know it, but—”

“You can find me there. You’d better bring me my twenty bucks if you know what’s good for you.”

“Or what?” Sam taunted.

Evie spied Sam’s jacket draped across a fire hydrant. She swiped it and slipped her arms through the sleeves.

“Give that back!” Sam growled.

“Twenty bucks and it’s all yours. The museum. See you soon-ski!” Laughing, Evie ran down the block.

“Who is that?” Mabel asked once she’d caught up and they’d ducked into a cafeteria.

“Sam Lloyd.” Evie nearly spat the name. She told them about her encounter with him at Pennsylvania Station, about how he’d kissed her and picked her pocket.

Theta sipped her coffee, leaving a perfect red Cupid’s bow mark on the white ceramic cup. “He looks like he could make off with more than just your twenty dollars, if you catch my drift. You better keep an eye on that one, Evil.”

“I don’t have enough eyes to keep on that one,” Evie grumbled.

“Go through his pockets. See if you can find your money,” Mabel suggested.

“Why, Mabel. What a spiffing idea! Is that what the progressive education of Little Red Schoolhouse has taught you?” Evie rifled through the jacket’s many pockets, but she found nothing except a collection of lint, half a roll of Lifesavers, and a colored-pencil postcard of mountains and tall trees. Something had been scrawled in Russian on the back of it. She knew she could try to read any of the objects to find out more about Sam Lloyd, but it wasn’t worth the headache. She’d trust that he’d come looking for the coat. It was September, and the weather would turn soon enough.