Nearly Departed, Max Schlienger [the gingerbread man read aloud txt] 📗

the office door, which opened to reveal both Harding and a man whom Dennis had never seen before. Harding was lean and fair, with a gaunt frame and a receding hairline. He was rather spry for a man in his mid-seventies, and the knowing glimmer in his pale blue eyes did quite a bit to offset his moderately frail appearance. The other man was a stark contrast, with dark skin and eyes, and a closely-trimmed mustache that was shot through with coarse gray hairs. He appeared to be in his late fifties or even older, but the way he moved showed a rippling of muscle beneath his collared shirt.

“I’ll be in touch,” the man said to Harding. He looked briefly at Dennis, who had the strange feeling that he had just been scrutinized in much greater detail than the passing glance had implied.

Once the man had left, Harding stepped forward. “Dennis, I’m glad to see you. Sorry about the delay.” He gestured back at his office, and Dennis stood to accept the invitation.

“That guy didn’t look like one of your clients.”

Harding closed the door behind them and locked the deadbolt. He didn’t answer until he had almost reached his chair, situated behind a large brown desk. Even under the man’s light weight, it creaked and groaned loudly. Dennis moved to sit opposite him, his own chair mute.

“They’re patients, Dennis, not clients.” Harding put on a pair of large glasses with thick lenses, which only intensified his grandfatherly appearance. He blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted, and then peered at Dennis with interest.

“Okay, well, he didn’t look like a patient, then,” Dennis said. Harding waved a hand as though brushing at an invisible fly, and let out a snort that was both irritated and dismissing.

“He’s nobody of importance. A retired detective with a vendetta. Don’t worry,” Harding said, cutting off Dennis’ next question, “it has nothing to do with you. You’re not doing anything illegal.”

“Actually,” replied Dennis, “I was going to ask if you were in trouble.” He smirked at the slight confusion on the other man’s face. It was true enough that Dennis had been plagued by a measure of uncertainty about his portrayal of Darvyn September. Harding had suggested it upon hearing of Dennis’ past attempts at confidence schemes, and had needed to convince Dennis of the legality of the concept. He had explained that because Dennis would be receiving no money from the people he visited, he would be well within the boundaries of the law. Whether or not that detail was true was something that Dennis had never been entirely certain about, but he went along with it nonetheless.

“No, no trouble, just a former patient of mine with an overactive imagination,” Harding explained. “She made all kinds of outrageous claims about her daughter seeing ghosts, so now the girl’s uncle – that’s the cop you saw – thinks I’m behaving inappropriately.”

“Are you?”

Harding’s mouth tightened until he seemed to realize that Dennis was joking. Then he smiled, and shook a scolding finger across the desk. “You would do well to watch your tongue, Dennis, or I just might!” He added another jerk of his fist for good measure, and then leaned to open a drawer in his desk. “Now, you have spoken to six people, two of whom have made appointments, and one who actually showed up. Sadly, I can only pay you for results, which currently nets you fifty dollars.” He placed an envelope on the desk, which Dennis reached forward to collect. Inside, he found two twenties and a ten. Hardly enough to necessitate an envelope, Dennis thought. Harding sat back and clasped his hands. “And how did your little excursion go last night?”

Dennis shook his head. “She’s not coming, sorry. Not unless you start offering a dating service for the departed.”

Harding arched a bushy eyebrow. “Really? I was under the impression that she was a sure thing. Such was what you led me to believe, anyway.” Dennis shrugged.

“She sounded desperate over the phone, but in person she didn’t seem like she’d be interested. She just wanted someone to play pretend with her.” He scratched his neck idly, mentally preparing for the explanation which Harding was certain to offer. As expected, the man began talking almost immediately.

“Those who look for reinforcement for their delusions are very often the ones who are least convinced by them. They’re not interested in shifting their beliefs, only in perpetuating the fantasy. It lends excitement to an existence which may be lacking in it.”

“Oh, she was definitely looking for excitement,” Dennis replied, remembering the lustful way in which the woman’s eyes had followed him. “Just not the kind that I wanted anything to do with.” Harding smiled with a mixture of sympathy and amusement, and nodded once.

“Well,” he said, looking around at nothing in particular, “I suppose that’s it for this week, then. Do you have any appointments scheduled?”

“They’re consultations, not appointments,” Dennis replied with a sarcastic smirk. If Harding noticed the mockery, he didn’t show it. “No, I don’t have anything, but I’ll let you know if something comes up. It’s not like I’m running short on business cards.”

“I assume you’re discreet with them,” Harding said. “It would hardly fare well for either of us if you mentioned the nature of our arrangement.”

“Don’t worry, Sam, I can hold my tongue when I need to. I’m strictly professional.”

Some internal thought flashed past Harding’s eyes, and his head tilted as though the force of its passing had pulled him off-balance. “Actually, Dennis,” Harding said, tapping his chin with a knuckle, “perhaps a different approach would work.”

“What do you mean?”

Harding smiled again, and Dennis bristled. The man was acting more like a father than a friend at this point, which left Dennis feeling uncomfortably young. “Your current method doesn’t seem to be be having much of an effect lately. I’m merely suggesting a change of tactics.”

“Uh huh,” Dennis replied, a touch irritably. “What is it that you ‘suggest’ I do differently?”

Harding