The 13th Trump

He was sweating all over her brand new leather chair. Amy had half a mind to make him stand, but he was a new mark and she didn’t want to offend him and send him running. Truth be told, she couldn’t afford to offend him.

“Okay, let’s see what the cards say, Luke.” Amy paused. Shit. Was that his name?

Luke lifted the glass of water to his mouth, took a sip, and set it back down. No reaction. It must be right.

She closed her eyes and shuffled the deck, adding a soft hem and haw here and there. The more she dilly-dallied and feigned concern, the more they seemed to believe her, she’d learned.

But this one wouldn’t be too hard. He looked awful. Probably a heart attack about to happen right in front of her.

Amy shuffled a few more times, allowing a card to flop from her hand at just the right moment.

“Oh, my,” she said. “The spirits really have a message for you.”

“What? What is it?” Luke said. He grunted the words, squeezing wind past his vocal cords. There was most certainly a vice grip on his heart.

Amy flipped the card.

A skeleton holding a scythe, the numeral XIII emblazoned on the top.

The 13th trump card. The Grim Reaper. Death itself.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “You’ve pulled the Death card.”

Luke rubbed his hand across his chest, pressed the heel of his palm into his sternum as if to counteract the pressure. She couldn’t imagine it did much; his hand seemed to disappear into the rolls of fat and flabby breasts. He leaned forward and dragged his other hand across his forehead, slopping sweat from his brow.

“Death? What?” he said, his voice squeaking. “What does that mean?”

Amy flipped a few more cards and laid out a full 10-card spread. She examined the cards, shook her head, and then muttered.

“It’s not good, Luke. The cards are showing me an end.”

Luke pressed his hand against his chest and moaned.

“Are there any relationship problems or problems at work?”

He moaned and shook his head.

“Hmm. The cards don’t lie, Luke. It’s an end to something substantial. A major life change.”

He moaned again, this time his face turning a brilliant red.

“But don’t be afraid, Luke. The end of one thing means the beginning of another. When one door closes, another one opens kind of thing.”

Suddenly, Luke fell forward, his head slamming against the table with a bang. Amy flipped another card, waited, counted to 60, and then held her hand under his nose. No breath. She leaned forward and checked his face. His eyes were wide and empty, staring into the void.

She stood and walked around the table, quickly frisking his body. A wallet in his pocket, an iPhone, rings on his fingers, a gold watch, and a necklace she could hawk for a few hundred bucks. Amy gathered them all, emptied the cash and cards from Luke’s wallet, and tossed it on the table. It landed with a soft thud atop the skeleton.

“Yes, indeed. The death of one thing is the rebirth of another,” she said.

Amy slipped from the tent and across the circus grounds. The air outside was as close as inside her tent, but free of the stench of sweat. Somewhere, a calliope screamed the circus march, out of tune, sharp, and piercing.

Amy landed quickly at the potions tent labelled with an old-fashioned Spells and Magick sign on the front. She poked her head inside and found a blonde girl sitting at a table. Amy pulled a small glass vial from her pocket and waved it.

“Worked like a charm,” she said.

The girl winked. “Pleasure doing business with you.”