* * * * *
"Don't let the old goat rattle you, Pheola," I said as we rode the
elevator to the penthouse. "He'll try. Just remember, he is the one
who has to say O.K. if we are to give you some training."
Her eyes rolled and she moaned softly, clinging to my arm. "Oh, Billy
Joe!" she whispered. "I _don't_ want to fail you!"
Maragon has some pretty creepy types in his office and the
receptionist that day was no exception. She was one of those twitchy
hyper-thyroid clairvoyants that he likes to test.
"Don't tell me," the receptionist twitched proudly as we came in. "I
know!" She got up from behind her desk and led us to the Grand
Master's private office.
I intended to make her guess whom I had with me, but that didn't
bother her. "Dr. Walter Bupp and Pheola Rountree," she announced
smugly. Clairvoyants live in a condition of perpetual thrill with
their powers.
Maragon's penthouse office has glass walls on two sides. He was
prowling back and forth in front of his desk, sharply lit by the
bright sunlight that streamed in. His gray shock of hair glistened,
and his bushy eyebrows shaded his face. He radiated impatience, from
the grinding of his square jaw to the fists he had rammed into his
hips.
"Lefty," he greeted me, "do they all have to _look_ alike? Where did
you get _this_ scarecrow?"
I could feel Pheola stiffen. I guess no woman, no matter how plain,
likes to be reminded of it.
"Same place you dig up those twitchy CV types you have spooking up
your outer office," I snapped. "There's nothing the matter with Pheola
that three square meals won't cure in a month!"
Maragon grunted. "And just what wonderful power do _you_ have, young
woman, that makes it worth while for the Lodge to fatten you up?" he
demanded.
She had plenty of spunk, I'll say that for her. "I have the power of
prophecy, and the gift of healin'," Pheola said, squinting at him.
He barked a laugh at her and went across the thick carpet to sit in
his swivel chair. It was a beauty of dark green morocco that matched
his Bank of England chairs and leather sofa that was against one of
the walls. "What's your favorite prophecy, young woman?" he wanted to
know.
Pheola smiled over at me. "Oh, no!" I groaned, but she nodded.
"Billy Joe and I are gettin' married," she told Maragon.
"Billy Joe?" he asked, scowling at me across his desk.
"That's me," I said. "Don't ask me where the name comes from."
"I couldn't care less," Maragon grumped. "Is it true? Are you going to
marry this bag of bones?"