She was around thirty, with black hair, blue eyes, pleasant features. She was wearing an Army suplus camaflage jacket, purple pants, a red bandanna with little astrological symbols all over it, lizard-skin boots, and a side-arm holster with a .357 Magnum in it. She was carrying a zebra-striped carpet bag, stuffed to the gills with assorted gizmos I couldn't begin to guess the function of. She looked about herself, then at me. "The spirits are restless tonight. Let's burn rubber."
We climbed into my jeep, and headed back toward the city. As I approached the freeway ramp, she said "Better stick to the streets - the freeway's jammed."
"Where'd you hear that? There aren't any traffic reports this time of day."
She smiled.
I drove past the on-ramp.
Eventually, we reached Ramona's driveway. As I skidded through the flower bed, she turned to me and frowned. "Something's wrong. I'm having trouble reaching my spirit guide."
"Would you settle for a map of Napa Valley Wineries?"
She narrowed her eyes a me. Suddenly, dark clouds started forming out of a clear blue sky. Thunder began echoing around us. "Serious events are unfolding here. This is not a time for mockery."
"Hey, y'know, you really take yourself soooooo seriously. Why not come inside, have a belt or two, we'll put on a little Grateful Dead, and you'll loosen up a bit."
She stared at me, looking a bit confused, then climbed out of the Jeep and headed for the door. I followed. I rang the bell. From inside, I heard the French maid call out "Who ees eet?".
"It's me, toots. Open up, we're here to wake the dead."
"Oh, it's YOU. One moment, please." We stood waiting at the door for about three minutes. Then we heard the deadbolt snap open, and the door swung wide. The maid was standing behind it, wearing a baseball umpire's mask and padding. She smiled at me.
I wasn't impressed. "Real cute, dearie, but you didn't think of every- thing!". I smashed my Army boot down on her open-toed fancy French pump. As she hopped off to find the first aid kit, Angel and I headed for the living room to set things up.
She started off by pulling out some incense, lighting it, and placing it on a coffee table in the middle of the room. Then she pulled out a tape recorder and started it. She started walking around the room, arms outstretched, as if she were trying to grab hold of something. Finally, she sat down in front of the incense, closed her eyes, and froze.
As the incense started wafting out into the hall, Ramona stepped into the room. "Hey, what are you guys smoking? Must be some good stuff, cause I just saw the maid wearing a baseball uniform, hopping around on one foot and swearing French obscenities...."
"QUIET, PLEASE!" It was Angel, eyes still closed, body still stiff. "I'm trying to contact my spirit guide, I must concentrate." Ramona and I sat on the couch, watching Angel for some sign of life. After a while, she spoke again. "I've made contact. My guide is a little old Jewish accountant from Brooklynn, New York. His name is Morty. I will turn control over to him. Your conversation is with him, not with me." After a moment, the expression on her face changed to a tired, but hopeful look. Angel cleared her throat, only the voice seemed much deeper now.
"Umm, excuse me, darlink, I'm looking foar Romana DeSwell..."
Ramona cut in. "That's RaMOna!"
"Whateva. I undertand you're lookin' for somebody on my side of the tracks, new?"
"Well, yes. My husband, Harry, has been, um, dropping in around here lately, leaving me with the impression that he's trying to tell me something. But he always disappears again before he spits it out."
"I know just what you mean, I've got a daughter behaves the same way. Hold on a minute, I'll see if I can find him."
All was quiet for a bit, then the room began to grow unearthly cold. The incense began to swirl as if someone invisible was walking through it. The swirling stopped directly in front of Angel. As we watched, white, smokey puffs of gas seemed to form out of the air, and congeal together into the shape of a human being. Suddenly, the shape solidified, and we were staring eye to eye with the late Captain Harry DeSwell. He looked at Angel, then at me. He spoke - "Not bad, for ninety-three bucks and some change, eh pal?"
TO BE CONTINUED...