Operation Midnight Jazz by Otis Johnson

Operation Midnight Jazz by Otis Johnson

1.               

Santa Cruz, Friday, August 19, 1966

“I can feel you, nigger,” David sneered. “I can feel your mind.”

I could feel his, too. I saw the outline of David’s form, red-hot, enter the back door of the funhouse. I reloaded my .38 and headed in after him. The LSD was peaking, and I sensed others around us–maintenance folks, innocents. David was a glowing red shape behind the winding walls of the funhouse mirror maze. Like The Devil in a tarot deck, he had damned souls, bound in shackles, a chain of wretchedness extending into infinity. The effect was echoed in the mirrors around me, as my reflection was eerily repeated on all sides. Jimi Hendrix’s Hey Joe warbled over the radio from a dilapidated speaker nearby as I crept around the tight carnival labyrinth.

These were the crazy times, again. The war in the jungle. The most dangerous game. I lit up some reefer to calm down.

“Hey, Joe,” asked Jimi, “Where you going with that gun in your hand?”

2.               

San Francisco, Sunday, August 14, 1966

I was at Basin Street West, playing an improvised set on the piano, having the time of my life. The Miles Davis Quartet was coming on later, and I warmed up the crowd. I didn’t mind opening the show for nobody but the waitress and bartenders. I knew the dance floor would be packed by the time I ended my set. It felt good. This was the opposite of the war I’d left behind. This was a celebration of life.

After playing, I had a few drinks with some other G.I.s that made it back home. We agreed that the war in Vietnam was going to get worse before it got better. We were all glad to be rid of it: we had done our duty, and that was that. In the mix, I saw this one pasty ginger cat that I knew I met over there, but I couldn’t quite place. I found myself next to a tall, white broad in a miniskirt with long black hair. I really dug her style.

“I like the way you play,” she said, making eye contact and smiling. You never know how it’s going to go with white people, but she seemed friendly enough .

“I like the way you dance,” I said, smiling back. She had been one of the first people out on the dance floor. She was really good looking and moved well, but there was something else–some people just stand out as important, as soon as you see them.

“Can I get you a drink?” I asked.

“Sure, I’ll take a Tom Collins.”

She pulled out a cigarette, so I lit it with my Zippo. I lit one for myself and got comfortable in the stool next to her. With her relaxed attitude, she might be a working girl. I had a pocketful of tips from playing, so if she wanted to hustle me, I would let her.

“Do you smoke reefer?” She whispered, leaning in close.

“Girl, what you know about reefer?” I laughed.

“I have some good reefer at my place,” she said, with eye contact.

“Let’s go,” I said.

I collected my pay for the gig, and we went outside.

“I’m gonna get us a cab,” she said, “Stand right there.” She motioned me towards a badly lit area between some cars.

She walked into the street and flashed her leg while a cab pulled up. It stopped, and she opened the door for me. I ran and jumped in. The driver looked upset.

“I don’t give rides to…” the cab driver started.

“Hush,” the woman quieted the driver by handing him a ten-dollar bill.

“That’s on top of the fare,” he said, staring at me sullenly.

“225 Chestnut,” she said, dismissing him with a wave.

She kissed me on the ride over.

We got out near a three-story house. A blonde, white dude stood guard out front, smoking a cigarette. She grabbed my hand and walked me to the porch. He looked at her, and she gave him a curt nod as she pulled me in the door, and up the stairs.

3.               

We entered a red-lit living room. On the wall, decadent paintings of French can-can girls were mounted alongside grainy black-and-white photographs of women wearing eye masks and bound with leather straps. Mellow West Coast jazz played loudly from a record player on a side table, to distract us from the sex noises coming from the other rooms. This wasn’t my first brothel, but I could feel really strange vibrations.

Still holding my hand, she led me to a room, closed the door, and sat me on the bed, while she went searching through a drawer. Though muffled, I could hear banging and moaning through the walls. “There’s some whiskey on the table over there. Pour yourself some,” she said, rolling up a joint that I could smell from across the room. I sat on the bed, poured a drink, and sipped it while I stared at myself in a wall-length mirror. A woman as good looking as her would need a mirror like that for outfits, but it could be for watching yourself have sex.

She sat next to me on the bed and lit the joint with a match. She drew smoke in with her mouth and inhaled it with her nostrils, before exhaling a huge cloud. She passed it to me, and I took a big drag. This white girl had good weed. I was getting excited and turned on, looking at her pale thighs. She raised my whisky glass to my lips, encouraging me to have more. It was a bit bitter, but I took a swig.

“Hey, baby?” I asked. “What’s this going to cost me?”

“I didn’t ask you for money. I just want your time. Let’s get high tonight. I mean real high.” She freed me from my trousers, and the drugs started to take hold. I didn’t remember putting on a rubber, but I felt one as she climbed on top of me.

Time seemed to stretch as she moaned and rode me. This wasn’t a whiskey and reefer buzz. Her pale face shifted and melted as she did her work. I started to feel utter terror for a moment, but she leaned and stuck her tongue in my mouth, focusing me back into the present and her wetness.

“Baby, what’s going on?” My voice was slow and too low.

“Shh,” she said, raising a finger to her lips. The motion was blurred, like a double exposure photograph. She rocked her hips, and my worries melted.

“This is really good,” she said, “I’ve never done it with a Negro.” She giggled.

“Is somebody in the room with us?” I asked, feeling the sensation of being watched.

“No, baby,” she reassured me. “That’s just the reefer talking.”

“This ain’t no reefer,” I protested. “You gave me drugs.”

I was seeing things. The lines in the wallpaper should have been straight, but they were jagged and moving, like horizontal hold lines on the television.

“Shh,” she said, and pulled me on top of her.

We moaned and thrashed together, and it was like a wild storm had been called in the small room. The air crackled and smelled like lightning. When I came, I could see through her skin. Her heart was beating, and I could tell she came, too. I could see bright energy flow from her head, down her body, pooling by her pussy, rushing down to her fingers and toes and back up. As our orgasms faded, I touched her chest, and I could feel she was sad. She was afraid of the other people in the room that I couldn’t see.

“Just lie down, baby,” she said. “You’re too high to go anywhere.”

She was right, I was blasted. Whores usually rush you out of the room when you’re done, but she wanted to hang around. I felt too weird to go outside, so I laid back.

“Everybody in the world hurts, Cassandra,” I said my thoughts out loud. “If you open up to it, we all the same. Everybody should do this.”

“You mean we should all fuck?”

“Yeah,” I laughed. “That would change everything, wouldn’t it? But we should all love.”

“I never told you my name.”

“That’s right,” I said. “I’m Joe Morgan. Pleased to meet you, Cassandra.”

“Most people call me ‘Sandra’. Where are you from, Joe?” she asked, cuddling up against me.

“Los Angeles.”

“What are you doing in San Francisco?”

“Hey, is this the third degree, baby?”

“I just let you fuck me. The least you could do is let me get to know you.”

“Okay,” I said. “I just got back from overseas. When I came home, I got in a fight with my dad, so I came up here to stay with my Auntie. It’s fun. I get to play real, East Coast-style jazz, not that California white boy shit.”

“Were you Army? Navy?” she prodded.

“I was in the Air Force.”

“Do Negroes fly?” She asked.

“I seen a horsefly, I seen a housefly.”

“But I ain’t never seen no elephant fly!” She finished the Dumbo quote for me.

We laughed hard.

“What did you do in the Air Force?”

“Air Police,” I recalled. “Chasing down AWOL GIs. Deserters.”

“I bet you were good at it,” she said.

“The very best,” I said. “I’m like a goddamn bloodhound.”

“What made you so good at it?”

“My mama said I have intuition. I could just look through your stuff and learn about you.”

“What can you tell me about me?” she asked.

“You from the South. That’s why you got excited about us doing it. If your daddy found out, he would whoop your ass. You came out here and lost your accent.”

She stared at me for a little while. Sometimes I spook people when I read them.

“I want to try something,” she said, curling up to me. She placed her forehead against mine. Her life played out like a home movie. She fought with her father when he touched her. He beat her up real bad, and she caught a Greyhound to California.

She put her hand on my cheek. “It’s terrible that they sent you over there,” she said. “Those boys just wanted to go home, like you. But you had to fight them and drag them back to the base.”

She had seen my story, while I saw hers. We shared lives for a moment, without even talking. She got up and sat in a chair across the room. It seemed we got too close, too quickly. She had to withdraw.

“How are you feeling right now?” she asked. “Do you think you can make it home?”

I did feel a lot better. Her face had stopped shifting, and the wallpaper lines looked straight. “Yeah, I think I’m okay.”

“I’ll walk you out,” she said, sadly.

“Can I get your number?” I asked.

“No, baby. I’ll find you if I need you,” she said.

I had a bad headache as I walked home. The sun rose and people were headed to work, but I needed my bed. I knew better than to get attached to whores, but I already missed that girl.

4.               

San Francisco, Monday, August 15, 1966

“Boy! Are you awake yet?” yelled Auntie Phyllis.

“Yeah.” The afternoon light hurt my eyes, so I put on dark glasses.

The radio news was blaring on about “The Tarot Killer”. He had claimed his fourth victim in the city. He left fortune-telling cards at the scene of every crime. Nobody could figure out the rhyme or reason. I turned the radio off.

“You out there running the streets? You need to watch out. That white devil is out there stabbing people.”

“If he comes out to my show, me and the niggas gonna beat him to death. He’s a punk. He only kills prostitutes. I played real good though.”

I hugged Auntie, kissed her head, and handed her a wad of bills from my tips last night.

“Did you see Miles Davis?” she asked.

“Naw, I missed him. I had a good night though. I packed that joint. The boy on the drums was from New York. We was outta sight!”

“Can you go to the store for me, baby? We out of eggs, and I need a pack of Winstons.” She tried to hand my money back, but I stopped her. I hugged her again and hit the street. The store was uphill, so I leaned forward and climbed.

A black Ford Galaxie cruised up real slow and matched pace with me. It was two white dudes in suits in front, a third in back I couldn’t see. The back window came down, and a redheaded man leaned out.

“This is a pretty steep hill. Do you want a ride?”

“No sir, thank you. I’ll just be on my way.”

I walked faster up the hill to avoid them. In a car like that, and wearing suits, they were likely cops, gangsters, or perverts.

“Staff Sergeant Joe Morgan,” said the redhead, “Can you spare some time for your country?”

Fucking Feds. I stopped, and so did the car. It was that redheaded cat from the club. I remembered him from Vietnam, but I still couldn’t figure out where I had crossed his path.

“Uncle Sam wants a word with you. Get in.”

If the Feds want me, they can find me anywhere. I knew I might as well get in. As I shut the door behind me, I regretted it immediately. The redhead was putting out bad vibrations.

5.               

They took me to a small house and sat me in the living room. One of the suits, a man with black hair, actually brought me coffee and an ashtray. I had a cigarette while I sat on the couch. The redhead had a bunch of files, which he placed on the coffee table.

“You can call me McCurdy, Mr. Morgan,” he said with a cold, empty smile.

“What can I do for you, sir?” I asked, hoping to get to the point.

“The United States Government has need of your talents.”

“I played piano at the NCO club a couple times. Y’all having an event?”

The third suit, a blonde man, almost laughed, and walked away shaking his head.

McCurdy paused, and let gravity return to the situation. He had the air of a man about to say something heavy.

“You had a nickname when you served in the Air Police. What did they call you?”

“They called me ‘Bloodhound’, sir.” I was careful to keep my tone neutral and polite.

“Because you can find anyone you’re looking for?” he asked.

“Well, I’m not perfect. I was pretty good at it.”

“Why didn’t you re-enlist? If you stayed, you were going to be Master Sergeant.”

“I just wanted to get back to playing piano. I served my country. Can I go now, or am I under arrest?”

“Just another moment of your time, please, Mr. Morgan.”

McCurdy took four photographs from his file and laid them out. Each was a graphic, monstrosity, even in black-and-white. The photos showed four young women, gutted. With my hangover, my stomach quickly turned, and I pushed the photos away.

“Have you heard of The Tarot Killer?” asked McCurdy.

“Yeah, they were talking about him on the radio today,” I said.

“We could use your talents to help locate him. Together, we could put an end to this sicko’s murder spree.”

“No, thank you, sir. You said I wasn’t under arrest?”

“You’re not.”

I got up and backed quickly out of the room. I ran to the store, where I picked up some extra groceries and my Auntie’s Winstons.

6.               

San Francisco, Thursday, August 18, 1969

A few days later, I had a gig at the Boom Boom Room on Fillmore. I figured if the government really wanted to get me, they could find me. For now, I was playing piano. I had a headache all week, so I was drinking and chain-smoking to feel better. I spotted Cassandra in a blue dress, drinking a Tom Collins.

I wasn’t sure I was ready to see her. Sure, she was great in bed, but she drugged me. Somehow, she was part of all this trouble. I focused on my playing. Tonight, I would finish up, and get the hell out of here.

When my set ended, I grabbed my tips, and went straight for the promoter. I just wanted to get paid and beat feet. Cassandra intercepted me, standing in my path.

“Can I get you a drink, Joe?” she asked. “I just want to talk a little.”

I joined her at the booth, having ordered a whiskey and Coke for myself.

“I’ve got a car out back,” she said, “I want you to come with me.”

“Yeah, I’m not going back to that brothel. That place is weird. What kind of place has every room full and doesn’t charge anybody?”

“We can go somewhere else,” she said. She sounded a little desperate.

“What if I don’t.”

“Look. You walked away before, so now it’s my job to get you back.”

“So, you work for that red-haired devil. This a honey pot!” I took a swig of my drink in anger.

“Please come with me, Joe. People are dying, and we could really use your help.” Cassandra reached out and grabbed my hand, and I could sense her fear. She wasn’t only afraid of  The Tarot Killer, but what would happen if I didn’t leave with her. I took a sip to kill time and frowned at her. She cupped her drink in both hands and sat hunched in the booth. I knew better, and yet the forlorn damsel act was working on me.

“You’re saying I can really help stop The Tarot Killer from killing again?”

“Yes,” she said, dark-lashed eyes wide open. “I promise you can use your talent to help stop The Tarot Killer.”

“Fine,” I said, throwing back the rest of my drink and wiping my mouth on my sleeve. “Let’s get going.”

Cassandra didn’t take me back to the brothel on Chestnut, but I’d been to the house she drove me to. It was the spot McCurdy propositioned me at, when he grabbed me off the street. I was worried about being harassed by the redhead and his two goons, but Cassandra calmed me, holding my hand and looking into my eyes. I followed her to the dark house, and she let us in with a key. As we sat on the couch, I was uncomfortably reminded of the photos of murdered women, laid out on the coffee table in front of me.

“So, when are we going to get this killer?” I asked, impatiently.

“Tomorrow, we will begin your training.”

“I have training,” I said, “I know how to find people.”

“This is more focused. Extensive,” she said.

“What happens tonight?” I asked.

“Whatever we want,” Cassandra said, stretching languidly and putting her stockinged feet in my lap.

We smoked reefer in the master bedroom and made love. That’s the best I can describe it. We both knew it was just a situation, but we took care of each other that night. We learned so much about each other by touch, unlocking each other’s pain, and banishing it. When we finished, she put her fingers on my temples and told me to rest. My sleep was black and dreamless.

7.               

San Francisco, Friday, August 19, 1966

Waking up in a strange room was always confusing. The sun shone white through the curtains; I was in an empty, king-sized bed; and my clothes were folded nicely next to me. The sounds of men talking and loudly stamping around were disturbing. I smelled coffee, bacon, and eggs.

Fully dressed, I went into the living room, where McCurdy and the blonde suit were talking and examining a corkboard covered in a map, pictures, and newspaper clippings. Tarot cards were pinned on the board, next to the pictures of the victims. The black-haired guy was outside in the driveway, unloading the Galaxie, and Cassandra, dressed like a secretary, sipped coffee. She greeted me with her eyes; her demeanor told me it was time for business.

“Good morning, sunshine!” said McCurdy.

What an asshole. I had broken out of the military habit of functioning at 7 a.m. At least I was well-rested. Cassandra had somehow gifted me with deep, healing sleep. I took my time making myself a plate of bacon and eggs, then carried my plate and a mug of coffee to the couch.

It was just a little sass for these white people. I was a civilian, and I wasn’t a prisoner. I was an outside consultant about to solve this case for Uncle Sam; therefore, I would not shuffle, nor defer to this redhead asshole like an officer.

I didn’t need to be an oracle to see he didn’t like my attitude. He fumed while I ate my breakfast, then took a long drink of coffee.

“So, the government runs brothels and drugs people?” I asked, turning to McCurdy. “And then gets them to do jobs?”

“You are now taking part in a top-secret program to locate gifted individuals,” said McCurdy. “We believe it is in our power to track down a dangerous killer. With your help of course.”

“Will I be paid for this assignment?” I asked.

“We will make it worth your time.”

“And when we done, we done?” I asked. “I don’t want to be the government’s tracker after this.”

“When we solve this case, you can walk away. Your service record is excellent, and we know we can trust you to keep secrets.”

I got up and paced in front of the corkboard. I looked at the victims, and the tarot cards next to their pictures.

“They all knew each other,” I guessed, waving at the board.

McCurdy shot Cassandra a look. She shrugged and drank her coffee.

“And the killer,” I said. “The little details are easy. That’s usually enough to go get somebody.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to dig much deeper,” said McCurdy, unimpressed. “We want to know when and where he will strike next, and who his next victim will be.”

“So, we are talking about using ‘gifts’, right?” I asked. “Sometimes, I know a thing. If it worked when I wanted it to, I’d be at the racetrack making a million dollars a week.”

Cassandra spoke up. “I can help you focus. You are a powerful clairvoyant and have some telepathy. Eventually, you will surpass me, but for now, you need me to guide you. We haven’t got much time, so you’ll have to learn as we go. We don’t have months to train, so we’ll have to be fast and risky. I’m going to formally introduce you to a tool we have already used.”

Cassandra produced an eye dropper and picked up a bowl of sugar cubes from the kitchen counter.

“This is Lysergic acid diethylamide. To most people, it’s a drug. They take it and see fantastical things, think weird thoughts. To people like us, with gifts, it awakens our potential. Since you used it, have you noticed that you understand more? That your gifts are much stronger?”

Cassandra took a sugar cube and applied a few drops of clear liquid to its surface. The cube stained yellow in the spot where she dropped the acid.

“That shit made me feel crazy. I can work without it.”

“This will grow your talent faster. Don’t worry, I’ll be here to guide you.”

She took the cube in manicured fingers and placed it in my mouth. McCurdy turned on a reel-to-reel player and started recording.

“I don’t like these people here,” I said, pointing at McCurdy and his men.

“I need to stay,” said McCurdy. “You two, beat it.”

I put on jazz music, and Cassandra and I smoked reefer and danced while we waited for the drug to take hold. McCurdy sat at the dining table, watching us. After a half an hour, my watch melted like a Dali painting. I began to feel afraid and out of control.

“Take deep breaths,” said Cassandra. She expertly rubbed my temples to calm me. “Here. I brought a box of things that belonged to The Tarot Killer.”

She opened a shoebox and laid the contents out on the coffee table. There was a shirt, a pair of dark glasses, a comb, and a pack of tarot cards. I put on the glasses, picked up the tarot deck, and started placing the cards down in a row. They seemed to match the cards next to the pictures. They came out in the exact same order.

Gabriela Reyna, 25, Hispanic, Five of Swords, multiple stab wounds

Deborah Lawson, 21, white, Six of Wands, bludgeoned

Chloe Wilder, 23, white, Three of Wands, bludgeoned

Sakura Hana, 30, Japanese, Hanged Man, strangled

So, the cards seemed to determine the method of execution. The killer must have memorized the order of this particular deck. He had to have other decks, including the cards that he left at the crime scenes.

I looked back at the corkboard, and the faces of the victims were pleading with me for justice. My ears rang as their terror filled my mind, and I began sobbing. The glasses gripped the sides of my head painfully, and I ripped them off, though the headache persisted.

“Joe? Joe!” Cassandra yelled frantically. She sat me on the couch and rubbed my shoulders.

“They want my help. They’re crying.”

“No, baby. You’re here with me. Come on back to me. You’re fine.”

“We don’t have time for this shit,” growled McCurdy, his angry face melting.

“We are not going to push him past his limits. You, of all people, should know better.”

McCurdy lumbered away. Cassandra stepped into my line of sight. The acid turned her into a dark goddess. Her hair was the inky as the night sky, with stars like diamonds in a black river that swam around her. Her eyes glowed moon-white with no irises or pupils. She took up the sky, but as she cradled me, my world collapsed back into the room.

Cassandra sat with me and helped me focus my breathing. Soon, I felt that the hard part of the ride was over. I was still under the influence, but I could think more clearly. Now settled, I took a deep breath, and went back to the deck of tarot cards. The deck seemed to be breathing. I placed my hand on it, and it rose and fell, like a sleeping beast, inhaling and exhaling. I turned over the Queen of Pentacles.

“This is a clue about the method of execution,” I said. “It would be better if we had a list of working girls in the area, so I could match this card with a name.”

Cassandra looked at McCurdy, who had moved to the doorway. He disappeared and returned with a shoebox full of Polaroids. I dumped them out on the coffee table.

“Damn, this looks like all the whores in the city. I bet you got files on everybody, you fucking Fed. Do you keep a shoebox of pictures of jazz players? A shoebox of all Negroes?”

“You’d be surprised. It’s our job to know things,” said McCurdy with a smirk.

I sorted through the photos on the coffee table, pushing them around until I found that stood out. Jennifer Ellsworth, 26, white.

“He’s coming after her, next,” I said.

“How certain are you from one to ten” asked McCurdy.

“I’d have to say ten,” I said.

“When will it happen?” asked McCurdy.

“I can’t say exactly,” I said. “Soon, though.”

“I’ll have to put people on her.”

McCurdy used the phone in the other room.

“You did really good, baby,” said Cassandra, holding me.

“I’ll say it’s good when we stop that motherfucker.”

Cassandra and I played house while I recovered from my trip. McCurdy had left us a wad of cash we used for groceries and drinks. That afternoon, I had aspirin, a greasy lunch, bloody marys, reefer, and sex. Later, I grilled some steaks using a recipe from a GI I met in the war. We smoked more reefer, had some wine, and balled some more. This work left me with massive appetites.

After the second dose of LSD, I became aware of my intuition growing stronger. Sometimes, I would hear surface thoughts from Cassandra, or sense random feelings. I observed that the gift, or ESP, as it was called, seemed to manifest in different ways in different people. Cassandra seemed like a healer, a calm presence, with a talent for putting people at ease, quickly. The perfect abilites for a modern Mata Hari.

When I asked about her role in the operation, Cassandra stayed tight-lipped. The way they were using her, she couldn’t have been on the official payroll. She was a tool, and now so was I. This was just another gig, like playing piano. My gig was finding a killer, and her gig was keeping me on a leash.

I enjoyed being with her, but I couldn’t afford to get attached. Still, my heart and mind were at odds. The LSD made me soft, stripped away my defenses. As if that wasn’t enough, contact with a soul that is similarly gifted is addictive. In just a few days, Cassandra and I became bonded, like we’d been to war together.

8.               

San Francisco, Monday, August 22, 1966

Cassandra and I sat in the backyard and watched the California sun set. She was always aware of the movements of the heavenly bodies. It seemed like they influenced her abilities.

The phone rang. Cassandra took the call in the bedroom. After a few minutes, I had the urge to listen at the door. I crept up to listen, but the door opened with me standing there. Cassandra looked irritated.

“Joe, it’s go time. We need to dose you again.”

“What do you mean, go time?” I asked warily.

“We are going to locate The Tarot Killer. We need you at peak strength.” She applied the solution to a sugar cube and shoved it toward my mouth.

“No, woman!” I said, “I don’t need that…”

“Hush.” She stopped me with a finger on my lips. She opened my mouth with that finger and pushed the sugar cube inside. As it dissolved on my tongue, she lit a joint with a match. She pushed smoke out with her mouth and inhaled it with her nostrils. As I inhaled, she started working my pants open.

“Hey, what the hell,” I said.

She looked at her watch.

“We need to hurry. We only have a little time.”

We coupled on the couch, still dressed. When we finished, the effects of the LSD were starting to appear at the edges of my consciousness.

“Go clean yourself up,” she said, running to the bathroom, and brushing out her dark hair.

I went to the other bathroom and ran cold water to rinse my face. As the water poured I froze, staring at my melting reflection in the mirror. I sensed danger, and my hair was standing on end. This wasn’t just the drugs, I felt very bad vibrations.

I heard McCurdy’s voice, and those of the blonde and brunette suits’, along with a female voice I didn’t recognize.

I came out of the bathroom and saw an intoxicated, hippie woman in her 20s, in the living room with the guys. She was falling all over herself. The blonde suit was helping her stay upright. His intentions didn’t seem entirely professional.

“Cassandra, were you fucking in here? It smells like fucking? Who is this handsome negro? Oooh, la, la!” she said, laughing loudly.

The woman was distracting. I struggled to warn everyone there was danger, but she drew their attention.

“Over here, Jennifer,” said the blonde man, taking her to the bedroom, and shutting the door. She giggled loudly.

In the living room, McCurdy and the brunette suit had their weapons out. McCurdy sighted a .45 automatic pistol, while the suit loaded a .38 revolver. A shotgun lay on the table. I reached for the shotgun, but McCurdy slapped my hand away.

“No fucking way, Joe!” He said laughing. “You’ll kill us all with that. We need you to detect the killer.”

“He’s here!” I shouted.

BOOM. A shot rang out, and McCurdy’s man sat back in his chair with a neat little hole under his left eye. The wall behind him was painted red.

The Tarot Killer stood, smiling, outside the screen door to the porch. He was a tall, white man, wearing a dirty undershirt. He was bald on top, with long, scraggly hair everywhere else. He held a long, cowboy type revolver. His features roiled and melted.

 “Goodnight, Peter!” he chirped, and moved out of view.

McCurdy ran out the back. I picked up his man’s .38 and went out the screen door. I heard two loud shots.

The Tarot Killer ran from the side of the house, across the front lawn. I fired two shots at the pale, doubled image, but I couldn’t get a bead on him as he cut through the bushes. McCurdy emerged from the side of the house, scanning the area.

“Get inside!” I went inside the house and followed the sound of sobbing. Cassandra was on her knees in the bedroom, cradling Jennifer’s body. The girl’s hair was matted and stained red with blood. The blonde suit lay dead on the floor, near the broken window. I saw a card on the floor of the room. Perhaps the Tarot Killer had flung it in through the window. The Queen of Pentacles lay a few feet from Jennifer. I heard a car speeding away.

“Sweet Jesus!” yelled McCurdy, arriving the doorway and surveying the bodies in the room.

“I’ll take care of this,” said McCurdy. He handed Cassandra a set of car keys and counted off five bills from his wallet. “Go to Santa Cruz. Get a motel by the beach. When you’re there, call the Chestnut house and leave the number. I could hear sirens coming in the background. “Go, now!”

9.               

Santa Cruz, Friday, August 19, 1966

Cassandra drove the Ford Galaxie fast. I sat low in the passenger seat and stared out the window, where city lights blurred into darkness as we drove through the hills to the coast. The air was crisp from the ocean, and The Mamas and The Papas sang California Dreamin’ on the radio. Once we reached the city of Santa Cruz, she pulled into a motel called The Islander, and I waited in the car while she booked a room. She came back with the room keys but drove us down to the ocean instead.

We stood on the beach and watched the waves crash in the moonlight. Cassandra rolled a joint, which we shared along shared a flask of whiskey, in silence.

The LSD was finally starting to subside, and the breeze was relaxing.

“You all knew that man, didn’t you? He was part of that experiment.” I speculated. The gift enhanced my intuition.

“He was there, when it all started,” she said.

“And Jennifer Ellsworth, and the others.”

“Yes, them too,” she said, avoiding eye contact.

“How did you get wrapped up in all this?”

“I got arrested, trying to buy weed. The judge gave me four years. Mr. White, who ran the program, visited me in jail and offered me a job. The court released me under his supervision. Maybe I should have just gone to prison instead.”

“And the job was… turning tricks on the government payroll?”

“Yeah. We took clients back to the houses and dosed them on LSD. We would let them get all relaxed and see how they would answer questions. Mr. White would watch them through a two-way mirror. He was supposed to be observing or studying something, but he’d just sit there on the toilet, jacking off and drinking martinis.”

“What happened to that guy?” I asked.

“I heard a rumor the government was shutting us down. He went away, but we just kept operating. Then McCurdy took over. The tests started getting really specific. They even tested me under LSD and found out about my gifts.”

“They were looking for people with gifts?”

“And they found some. The strongest one was David Ray Cash.”

“He’s The Tarot Killer?” I asked.

“Yes. They warped his mind. I think they were trying to create some kind of perfect soldier, a killing machine. They thought they succeeded, but one day, he just vanished. He’s angry, and I think he’s going to kill everyone he met in the project.”

“So he’s coming for you, too?”

“He should be. I think he tracked everyone else down who shared his gift. I think we’re all connected, somehow.”

She was right. I could sense he was on his way.

“David Ray Cash,” I said, frowning. “What was he like?”

“He’s an escaped prisoner from Alabama. He hopped a train out here and went on a crime spree up and down the West Coast. He figured out his talent on his own and was already out of control when McCurdy found him. When they brought him on, he roughed up some of the girls, but instead of throwing him out, they kept him, cuz of his strength.” Cassandra took a long drag on the joint and exhaled before continuing. She was on a roll now.

“They trained David to look at the future, and that’s what drove him crazy. He wouldn’t let go of this deck of tarot cards he had, carried it everywhere. They gave him too much acid and it gave him delusions. He thinks if he kills people in this life, he owns them, and they are his slaves for eternity.”

“He got the drop on us because we were distracted. We won’t make that mistake again. We’ll stay alert.” I put on David’s sunglasses, and saw through his eyes, driving, getting closer. The pain caused by the glasses seared through my skull, so I put them away. “What about McCurdy? Do you think he’ll help?”

“I left him a message. If we’re lucky, he’ll get here soon.”

“David is coming for you, he’s heading towards us now. I saw it.” I found David’s deck of cards and drew the next card from the top. A Six of Pentacles. He would attempt to do it by firearm.

“I’m the last of the women he worked with. McCurdy and I are the final few on his shit list.”

“I don’t think he’ll stop killing after McCurdy. We’ll put a stop to this motherfucker. Tonight.”

10.            

Cassandra gave another dose of LSD, to boost my power, and we had more reefer to keep my thoughts calm. Cassandra helped me breathe. Together, we took my racing mind almost to a standstill. I focused on nothing but the exact moment. I sat, calm, becoming emptiness.

An old Plymouth pulled into the parking lot, blaring Paint it Black by the Rolling Stones. A tall figure exited, holding a massive revolver. He stalked up the stairs toward the room, and Cassandra.

I was waiting for his arrival in the Galaxie. I quietly left the vehicle and stalked up behind him. He stood by the window, aiming at Cassandra. I was about five yards away, preparing to shoot him first.

He spun and fired at me. Pain flared in my left arm. I fired as he ran across the balcony. He jerked once, so I must have hit him. He ran toward the coast, right for the Boardwalk.

Cassandra came running out of the room.

“Did you get him?” she asked, “Oh baby, your arm!” She rolled up my sleeve to examine the wound.

“It’s not bad,” I said. I have to catch him.” I ran after him before he got away.

The Boardwalk was closed this time of night, but there were still lights on. I spotted David from far away, climbing the fence. I fired a shot but was sure I missed this time. My depth perception was shit from the drugs. He dropped from the fence and hit the ground running. I ran to scale the fence after him. My left arm bled as I climbed, but the LSD made the pain seem far away.

“I can feel you, nigger,” David sneered. “I can feel your mind.”

I could feel his, too. I saw the outline of David’s form, red-hot, enter the back door of the funhouse. I reloaded my .38 and headed in after him. The LSD was peaking, and I sensed others around us–maintenance folks, innocents. David was a glowing red shape behind the winding walls of the funhouse mirror maze. Like The Devil in a tarot deck, he had damned souls, bound in shackles, a chain of wretchedness extending into infinity. The effect was echoed in the mirrors around me, as my reflection was eerily repeated on all sides. Jimi Hendrix’s Hey Joe warbled over the radio from a dilapidated speaker nearby as I crept around the tight carnival labyrinth.

These were the crazy times, again. The war in the jungle. The most dangerous game. I lit up some reefer to calm down.

“Hey, Joe,” asked Jimi, “Where you going with that gun in your hand?”

“I drew a card for you tonight, nigger,” said David from inside the maze. “The Hanged Man. Isn’t that funny? I’m gonna string you up, just like we do back home in Alabama.”

I saw him and fired, shattering a mirror. The mirrors were messing with my mind, despite my enhanced senses.

My adversary looped a chain around my neck and pulled hard from behind. I struggled for air as he strangled me. I got my footing and pushed him backwards into the broken mirror I shot earlier. He screamed and I got loose, going further into the maze.

As I stood still, I closed my eyes, and opened my mind. The disorienting mirrors were gone, and I saw his form in my mind’s eye, while he navigated the labyrinth. As he stumbled towards me, I heard the screams of the souls he caught. The blonde man, Jennifer, and many more were trapped in his mind, pleading for release. I took a deep breath.

Pointing the pistol into empty space, I squeezed the trigger, knowing exactly when he’d step into the path of my bullet. David collapsed, with a hole in his left eye.

The souls of his victims escaped through the killer’s ruined eye socket.

I could no longer tell what was real, and what was an LSD fever dream. I found myself crouching over his body as if to confirm my kill. An old habit from the jungle. Impossibly, David’s dead hands quickly grasped my head by the sides, and his one eye stared into my eyes.

A thing that was not David attempted to push into my mind. I caught a glimpse of a beast from beyond, that was using David as a vehicle. I instinctively grasped onto what was me: jazz, and war, and a surprising, newfound love for a woman. I held these things close and forced the thing out. Had it not been weakened by the death of its vessel; it might have taken me. As it fled our world, it left me with its name, a sinister hiss in the ether: Leviathan.

11.

Cassandra and McCurdy found me stumbling out of the funhouse. Cassandra got me out of there while McCurdy dealt with the police. Days later, the press ran a story about how the FBI and Santa Cruz Police took down the dreaded “Tarot Killer.”

McCurdy put a tidy sum of money in my pocket, so I took some time to travel to Los Angeles. Cassandra insisted on traveling with me, so I let her. I liked her company, even though my family and friends down there found her strange.

The brothel business came to a halt. Senate investigations were afoot, leading McCurdy to dismantle the operation and burn the records.

Dropped onto the streets as if from the heavens, LSD usage spread like wildfire across town the whole next year. I suspect the powers that be found it useful to addle the minds of the growing anti-war movement.

I tried to get back to playing piano, but I was too useful an asset. If the United States had gifted individuals, the Soviet Union had them as well. The Government kept close tabs on me, until it was time to pull me in again.

Cassandra stuck around, and we were a thing. We were both weird, special, and had a bond nobody else would understand.

* * * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Otis Johnson 2025