Black Magic Woman Read Online Free PDF Page A

put them on. "Now, we've got some cleaning up to do here— but first, Hank, we better get the local doc to look at that arm of yours. I expect you're going to need some stitches, podner."

Chapter 2
    May is a hot month in Texas, and Walter LaRue seemed grateful for the air conditioning in Quincey Morris's office. "I was wondering about something," he said, settling his bulk into the armchair across from Morris's antique oak desk. "When you file your income tax, what do you put in the box marked 'Occupation?'"
    "Actually, I have a fella who takes care of all that for me," Morris said. The Southwest twang in his speech was slight but noticeable—at least it was to LaRue, who had lived all of his forty-two years well north of the Mason-Dixon line. "I tend to have a lot of deductions—travel, mostly—and trying to keep track of it makes my head hurt. Hell, it's all I can do sometimes just rememberin' to get receipts. But, to answer your question: on my tax guy's advice, I use 'Consultant.'"
    "Not 'private investigator?'"
    Morris shook his head. "That's a legal term, Mr. LaRue, and it's got a specific meaning under the law. The state of Texas, like most places, has pretty stiff requirements for a private investigator's license—you've got to show so many hours of law enforcement experience, and so on. I don't qualify for the license—but then, I can't say that I ever felt the need to."
    "You don't advertise in the Yellow Pages, either." It was almost an accusation.
    Morris smiled without showing any teeth. "No, I sure don't," he said evenly. "I doubt the phone book people have a category that would fit me very well. But there's quite a few folks out there in the world who know what I do. My clients mostly hear about me by word of mouth—as you did your own self. Or so I'm assuming."
    Walter LaRue grunted softly in response. He was one of those big men who always seem untidy. His expensive gray suit had not known the touch of an iron for quite some time, the custom-made white button-down shirt had a button missing from one of the collar points, and LaRue's Hermes tie bore a small stain of what was almost certainly mustard. His hair, which was brown flecked with gray, was carelessly combed and unevenly parted.
    In contrast, the slender, thirtyish man seated behind the big desk was carefully groomed and neatly dressed. Quincey Morris's black hair was combed back from his high forehead. His tropical-weight navy blue suit combined quality fabric with good tailoring. Although Morris didn't really care much about clothing, four years at Princeton had given him conservative good taste in attire. So, every January 2nd, he spent an hour online with the current catalogs from Brooks Brothers and Joseph A. Banks, ordering whatever he thought he might need for the coming year.
    Quincey Morris may have been the only adult male Texan who had never owned a string tie.
    After several moments of fidgety silence, LaRue said, "This is kind of… weird for me. I mean, six months ago, if you'd asked me to predict what I'd be doing today, most likely I'd say that I'd be at my desk in Madison, Wisconsin, running my software design firm. Sitting in Austin consulting a parapsychologist would have been pretty damn low on my list of possibilities."
    "I'm not one of them, either, Mr. LaRue," Morris said patiently. "A parapsychologist—a real one, I mean, not one of the cranks or con artists—is a scientist, someone who studies the paranormal in an organized, controlled way. Now, I do try to keep up with the serious stuff as it's published. That's not hard to do, since there's so little of it. But I don't consider myself any kind of scientist."
    "Then what are you?" LaRue asked with a frown.
    "I suppose you could call me an interventionist, if you need to put a name on it. Let's say I've got a client who's experiencing some difficulty that he thinks is due to some supernatural entity." Morris shrugged. "That turns out to be the case, then sometimes I'm