Client identified as James Fairview.
I'm Magic - Fairview
Official Journal: File #---7. Part 1
<indent> Okay, seriously. I bet you were expecting some sort of awesome, dramatic entry to a brilliant, cliche mystery story. Fedora hats, cigarette, office with a pretty secretary in stilettos, and Brooklyn accents. Not my scene, man. I mean, what do you think this is, 1950? C’mon dude.
<indent> About two years ago, I got let go from my job as District Attorney. Few things about that: Apparently winning a lot of cases makes a lot of enemies, and also getting sued for character defamation will get you fired. Some idiot at a desk in Pasadena got his panties in a knot and, well, lets just say things got icy quickly.
<indent> Anyway, after I got fired, I found myself living in the city of lovely Deinsport, Virginia. It was the furthest I could get with a $100 dollar one-way bus ticket. It’s an unusually cold town, in more ways than one, and I found that my ripped skinny jeans, Sex Pistols T-Shirt, and destroyed Converse All Stars (vintage 1982!) and studded jacket were not well accepted. Of course, nobody said anything, and I only got the occasional dirty look, but I felt it. Everywhere.
Ice. Freaking. Cold.
“You can’t feel people.”
<indent>Yeah, I can. Emotions, events from their past, hopes, dreams, marital status, sexuality, I know it. It’s often hard to deal with. But it was why I kicked ass as DA and also part of the reason I got sued.
<indent>I also sense... paranormal beings... in the environment around me. Both of these particulars got me hired again. But into a line of work I hardly had anticipated. Paranormal detective.
<indent>I was making mint playing poker in a seedy bar known as Brickston’s. Back room, faded wallpaper, single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Cigars, and local brew. Pretty girl counting cards. Red felt table. I was in the process of screwing over some bearded schmuck for all he had, when this bro I played earlier walked into the room, and puts his hand on my shoulder.
“You’re coming with me.”
“Dude, I’m gonna sweep this guy.”
“Well, you just gave THAT away, so your hand is ruined. Now stop wasting your talent at the table and get over here. We need to talk.”
<indent> I got up. Tip of the hat, and another tip to the card girl. And against my better judgement, I followed the guy out. Great. Some hustler wants to pick a fight with me and I hope to God he doesn’t know any of the people I put away as DA, or the furious bearded man who just learned I was going to win all his chips.
And that is how I met Detective Jonathan Bell.
“What are you doing?” The man sounded like he thought I was cheating. Okay, well, I sorta was. I knew what kind of hand everyone had at the table. Not the specific cards, but I did know if they were good or bad, based on how the players felt.
”I’m winning. Or I was. What do you want, dude.”
“I want to know how you managed to win five games straight without losing a penny. You counting cards? Was the girl tipping you off under the table?”
<indent> I didn’t want to explain this. Nobody believes in this kind of junk anymore.
“I’m magic, moron. Now let me go back and win this.”
He didn’t look like he’d do that, though, and sure enough:
“Not gonna happen, bud. You go in there, that bearded guy uses you for a chaser. Give it to me straight, man, I know you weren't cheating, at least in the traditional sense.”
“You seriously want to know?” He raised his eyebrows slightly and looked me in the eye. Okay, he wants to know.
“I read people. In depth. Like a book. I know that yesterday you had a smoke even though you were trying to quit and I also know that you’re not in a normal line of work. We done here?”
Surprise registered across his face. He wasn’t expecting that. And I felt that too. No reply.
“Look bud. I’m out of a job, and I need cash. I’m good at poker and I could probably win big in Vegas against the pros if I wanted. Cut me some slack.”
He looked at me with- and I know this sounds horribly cliche but I swear it was true and I can’t think of anything else- some kind of strange light in his eye. Before he said it I knew.
He wanted to hire me.