The Tiger Catcher by Paullina Simons

Author:Paullina Simons
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-03-14T16:00:00+00:00

27

Red Beret, Take Two

WAS DEVI PRAK A SNAKE-OIL SALESMAN OR A WIZARD?

Was he inventing tricks to fool a desperate man? And frankly, how hard was that? Before the bell sounds, you’re already down for the count, while the other fighter has fled the ring clutching the victory belt.

It was after eleven when Julian banged on the door of Ashton’s suite at the Covent Garden Hotel on Monmouth Street near Seven Dials.

“Where the hell have you been?” Ashton said, flinging open the door as if he’d been on alert for hours. “I was about to call the police.”

Riley was asleep in the bedroom, so they went up the road to Freud Bar in a concrete basement.

Even if Devi was the great deceiver, what other options did Julian have? Admit himself into Weaver’s sanatorium? Bathe in mud as Riley had suggested, get his grief stung out of him by bees? Join a bereavement group? Dive into online dating as Ashton kept advising?

“I hear you didn’t come to work again today,” Ashton said. “By all means, Jules, make my job harder.”

“I was hungover,” Julian said. “That’s your fault. Too much celebrating. I took a day off, is that not allowed anymore?”

“How many days off is that since January, thirty? And why are you twitching? Is that DTs or something?”

“Course not,” said Julian.

“So what the hell is wrong with your hands? You look like you have Parkinson’s, dude. Or you’re on crack.”

Through sheer will, Julian forced his body into a pillar-like posture. He didn’t want to upset Ashton with the reality of his addiction. His friend had had entirely too much of that in his life. “What do you know about the Hmong shamans, Ash?”

“The who?”

“The Hmong. A mountain tribe from Vietnam.”

“Nothing.”

Julian knew how Ashton worked, so he waited, his hands knotted together. When they were on their second pint, Ashton cleared his throat. “Black Hmong?”

“What other kind is there?”

“Shut up. Many of them were converted to Christianity by the missionaries. Some conflated the New Testament with their ancient shamanic rites.”

“What sort of rites?”

“Ancestor veneration. Healing rituals. They burn a lot of incense,” Ashton said.

“What for?”

“To ward off sickness. To summon the dead.”

“Do they do that a lot?” Julian asked carefully. “Um, summon the dead?”

“Why? Are you thinking of going to a shaman? Sometimes they summon the dead with the help of newborns, I believe. But you can only do that if you’re one of the strongest Hmong.”

“What makes someone a shaman? I mean, how can you tell if someone is a real shaman or—a fake one?”

“Well, I suppose you know because a real one would either heal the sick or summon the dead,” Ashton said. “I mean, that’d be the first fucking clue, don’t you think? His results.”

Too invested to be baited, Julian downed his beer, leaving his hands on the glass to steady them. “Riley burns incense. That doesn’t make her a shaman.”

“Yes, because Riley,” said Ashton, “is not from mystical mountains nor does she act as an intermediary between the spirit and the material world during soul-calling rituals.

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