A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (77)
“For you? Sixteen thousand dollars, flat.”
“I see.”
“In Amex gift cards,” she said without a trace of an accent, “if you have them.”
Their next stop was an energy healer located a fifty-minute train ride away, in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. Phoebe Lore was a middle-aged Black woman wearing a floor-length tunic and a yellow snapback with the word STONER across the front. She welcomed them into her bohemian-chic studio, which she shared with a tantric yogi. In one corner, a sweaty hetero couple was locked in a tangle of limbs as a man-bunned dude in a leotard coached their breathing.
With its sleek wood floors, exposed brick walls, and patchouli candles, the space oozed upscale chill. A bit of Ricki’s earlier optimism was fading, but she remained undeterred. Besides, since she was a sucker for aesthetics, the carefully curated decor made her feel like she was in professional hands. Ezra and Ricki settled into a suede love seat and took in Phoebe’s advice.
“What you need,” announced Phoebe, “is a magic mirror box.”
“A magic mirror box,” repeated Ezra, massaging a temple.
“I place a mirror in a wooden box, along with something that represents the person cursing you. A photo, a doll, et cetera. Then the mirror reflects that person’s curse back onto them.”
“The curser’s deceased,” noted Ricki. “Can she absorb magic from beyond the grave?”
“Don’t see why not!”
Ricki turned toward Ezra and whispered, “The pearl bracelet.”
“You don’t seriously believe this’ll work?”
“I trust her. Look at that majestic tunic; she looks so authentic.”
“Authentic to what, though?” whispered Ezra. “Biggie’s face is silk-screened on that tunic. All that tells me is she’s representin’ BK to the fullest.”
Ricki blinked. “You know that phrase?”
“I told you, music references, I know.” And then Ezra forgot himself and started talking. Ricki’s presence had that effect on him. “Besides, I helped write ‘Unbelievable.’ I had a dog-walking job over on Fulton around ’92, and I overheard this oversized kid outside a bodega, mumbling bars under his breath. His lyric was Live from Bedford-Stuyvesant, Voletta’s son, but I suggested Live from Bedford-Stuyvesant, the livest one. ’Cause it was braggier.”
“’92?” Phoebe frowned. “You were wordsmithing like that as an embryo?”
“No less believable than a magic mirror box,” grumbled Ezra.
Clearing her throat, Ricki asked, “How long does it take for the mirror to work?”
“At least one month, sometimes up to six.”
“One month?” She tried to stave off rising panic. “We need to break the curse by the twenty-ninth! Do you have a rush option?”
“What, like a mystical FedEx?” Phoebe scoffed. “Sorry I can’t be of help. Love and light, though.”
The last and final stop was a Wiccan in Astoria, Queens. A chipper, extraordinarily pale woman with honey-blond curls, Mistress Jojo was cloaked in dark jeans, a black sweatshirt, and tons of black eye shadow. A pentagram was tattooed on the back of her right hand, and her office was just as goth, with black curtains and black candles.
Ezra and Ricki sat down on oversized black floor pillows. This time, Ricki was out-and-out desperate. She’d broken out in a sweat, and she was chewing the inside of her mouth anxiously. This had to work.
Meanwhile, the small spark of hope Ezra had felt at the start of the day had completely vanished. He just wanted Ricki, a nap, and preferably both, together. The spiritualist thing was an obvious hustle. But they weren’t marks ready to be swindled.
Ezra had always wished he could die like everyone else, to end the grinding repetitiveness of living. But now there was Ricki. He couldn’t imagine life without her. If they didn’t solve this, she’d have only ten days left—and it would end in an early death that he caused, just as surely as if he’d fired a gun or administered poison. The guilt eating away at the edges of his heart was monstrous. There had to be a solve. But this wasn’t it.
“To curse someone, you obviously need magic,” Jojo was saying. “Magic is activated by words and desire. I don’t mean desire in a sexual way. I mean desire as a primal need. The need might be self-sabotaging or dangerous, but it’s very real. The fact that you’ve been immortal since 1928? That’s powerful magic, and as all spiritualists know, self-magic is the most potent. So I have to ask, are you sure your ex-girlfriend cursed you?”
Ezra was tired. And he didn’t love her tone. “Apologies, ma’am, I don’t follow.”
“Maybe you cursed yourself.”
“Respectfully, why would I do that?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice dripped with condescension. “You tell me.”
Now Ezra was angry. He shouldn’t have to prove his story to this cheap grifter.
“This is gaslighting,” scolded Ricki. “Ezra knows what happened to him. He was there.”
Jojo chuckled. “With all due respect, sometimes when we self-sabotage, it feels safer to blame an outside party. It’s easier to process being wronged by a villain, rather than yourself.”