Beltane, 1999

FIRST ADVENTURE IN THE BENEDICT/DAVID SERIES

BELTANE, 1999

Part 1 of 2

by Kirk Brothers

All Rights Reserved

(Characters copyright 1990 in "Night of the Coven")

"Sucker bets!" scowled the elderly man with gray beard and horn-rimmed glasses to anyone listening in the quiet Greenwich *Village bar. He sat at the corner seat which commanded a view of the small crowd, and the television set tuned to the drawing in the Saturday Night Lotto.

"All these state lotteries are sucker bets!" he went on. A few patrons gave nods of agreement. "They're all based on the laws of probability that make it absolutely impossible for anyone to hit the jackpot by any kind of systematic betting. But most people refuse to us logic, or think about the odds. They like to believe there's some way to beat the laws of probability. It can't be done!"

It was Saturday, May the first, and Stacy's bar was still almost empty. Stacy's was a quiet hangout on West Street by the Hudson River, where the lights of Hoboken reflected on the dark water. There was no jukebox blaring the latest hits, but an upright piano on a tiny raised platform along one brick wall might be used by any one of several young entertainers who occasionally played or sang, polishing their acts and hoping for the big break that would lead them to stardom on Broadway.

Tonight a paper banner bearing the single word, Beltane, and trimmed with balloons, decorated the area where Stacy's offered tables on the open floor--and small booths with high walls, lit by flickering candles, creating dark, intimate nooks for couples who wanted a little privacy from the rest of the crowd.

Benedict sat on the long side of the bar, a couple of stools away from the man at the corner lecturing on probability and the New York State lotteries. A few of the patrons, he noticed, had a ticket or two neatly lined up on the bar, to check their fortune when the machine drew the winning balls from the drum--one man had nearly a dozen.

By the wall on the short end sat a young hispanic--his color- ful shirt open at the collar, and a gold ring in his left ear in the shape of the letter "S". His dark, brooding eyes roved the bar while, incongruously, one hand warmed the bowl of a snifter glass. He appeared to be about twenty-two. Benedict was admiring those smouldering eyes when they looked at him and their gazes locked. Benedict looked away first.

"Almost everybody believes that if a particular number has been drawn many times in the past few months, it's 'hot', and a good bet. They're just suckers. Others believe that if a number hasn't been drawn in months, then it's 'due' to be drawn soon. They're suckers, too. There's absolutely no connection between one drawing and another. Every drawing has exactly the same odds-- more than thirteen million to one that you won't hit the jackpot! But nobody listens to reason! They say, 'well, maybe you're right, but somebody has to win!'"

He snorted again to show his contempt for their intelligence. "The Lottery Commission is the only winner--the money they pay out is what's left after they take the cream off the top, and payoffs just draw in more suckers for the game!"

He was right, Benedict thought, but wished the speaker would change the subject. Benedict got his wish.

"I used to teach mathematics at NYU," said the man, "and you'd be surprised at the reallhy low odds on a lot of unlikely events. That's another kind of sucker bet. I'll show you what I mean--how many people are there here right now? A dozen or two?"

Stacy, tending bar, looked around. "At least twenty--but it's early yet. The crowd will be in later. Why?"

"Well," said the professor, "here's a sucker bet for you. I'll bet that at least two people here have the same birthdate--not the same year, of course. If this population was drawn by pure chance, it's better than fifty-fifty odds that at least two persons in this room were born on the same day of the year--counting February 29 in a leap year as March 1, because that's what it is legally."

Stacy looked surprised. "Wait a minute. There are three hundred sixty-five days in a year--and only twenty people here-- and you bet that at least two have the same birthday? Common sense says you're wrong."

"Naturally," said the professor. "That's why it's a sucker bet. Now, remember, I said your customers can't be here by any kind of collusion. If, say, you were at a convention of Leos, the odds would be terribly high I'd win--you wouldn't take the bet. And if you wanted to choose a particular person out of any group and match his or her birthdate the odds would be much worse. But, granted my conditions--that we have here a random sample of people who've come here totally independently of each other--then, of these twenty individuals, two of them should have the same birthday, though not be the same age."

Stacy was a bluff, stocky man of Celtic extraction with a gambling streak. "Okay," he said. "I'd like to see how your odds work out. But we'll keep it all secret, to be sure it's honest."

He had stacks of small printed cards at the bar, and pencils-- a convenience for patrons who had met someone they wanted to date, so they could write their names and phone numbers to exchange. "How about it, ladies and gentlemen? Each of you takes one of my cards here, and on it write your name and the day you were born. I'll even put in my own for an extra. Then we collect them and sort them out. If two or more match, those people and our professor friend here get a round of drinks on the house!"

There was a pleased murmur at the novel idea: it would pass time and provide an opportunity for small talk, might mean free drinks for two lucky people--and might even stop the old windbag from lecturing on the laws of probability.

It took only two minutes for the cards to be filled in, and Stacy collected them. "Very good, ladies and gentlemen, and please notice that I have nothing up my sleeves except my arms." He joked like a sleight-of-hand artist about to do a card trick. "I'll lay them out here with January on my left and December on my right, and first we'll see how many fall in each month. With twenty-one cards, that's an average of less than two a month."

He looked at the math professor with a sympathetic smile. "Now, our friend here says that with less than two cards average for each of the twelve months, we'll have at least two cards for the same day of the same month. Can our friend here do it?"

The old professor on the corner stool folded his arms and looked nonchalant. "I said the odds were better than fifty-fifty-- I didn't say it was a sure thing," he pointed out.

Stacy was quick to alter his tone. "Quite right," he said diplomatically. "We're just illustrating the laws of probability in an event of chance." He continued to deal the cards, and by the count of seventeen still had gaps representing two empty months. When he came to the eighteenth card and looked for the place to put it, he stopped abruptly with mouth open in surprise.

"Well, I'll be damned! We've got a match!"

The professor smiled courteously. "It surprises most people."

Stacy had picked up the two cards in question. "Who are Benedict and David?" he asked, holding up the little tickets to view. "We have two winners, so let's congratulate them! Born on October 30--making them Scorpios--and if they're like my wife who's a Scorpio, they're hell in bed!" The crowd roared with laughter.

Benedict raised his hand. "I'm Benedict," he said.

The young hispanic with the intense eyes looked with interest across the bar. He raised his hand. "I'm David," he said.

A few minutes later, Benedict and David had drifted across the room to one of the high candle-lit booths, David with a double shot of cognac in his snifter, and Benedict carrying a fresh Gibson. They sat facing each other across the small table: a middle-aged man with scholarly looks, long hair in a pony tail, and a black turtle-neck shirt--and a young hispanic with an open collar exposing the top of a hairy chest.

Benedict saw now that David had an athletic but compact build, like a swimmer or dancer rather than the massive muscles of a weight lifter. Graceful and well-proportioned, he radiated an air of intense masculinity with no need of pretensions. He'd be strong, thought Benedict--he had wiry muscles that would give him surprising vigor and endurance. And what a beautiful face!

David opened the conversation. "Do you come here often?" he asked, and Benedict had to suppress a smile at the time-worn line used so often by so many people seeking an encounter.

"Every Wednesday at eight, like clockwork," he answered. "Not usually on Saturdays because of the crowd--but tonight is Beltane."

"Yes?" said David with curiosity. "What does that mean?"

Benedict was struck by another apparent incongruity--David's speech. It was not the street-wise slang of ghetto hispanics, but carefully chosen and enunciated. It had been Benedict's experience that most young men David's age would have said, "Yeah? What's that, man?" And where did he learn to like brandy in a snifter?

"Beltane is an old word for May Day in pre-Christian scottish calendars. It also applies to the Celtic May Day festival. Stacy apparently picked up the word without knowing its source. Beltane is also a holiday in my old church."

"What church is that?" asked David, raising his brows.

"The Wiccan church. At one time I was a Wiccan priest."

"A priest?"

"A Wiccan priest. A pagan--not a Christian. My wife--my late wife--was also a priestess."

"I've never heard of the Wiccan church."

"I'm not surprised. Wicca is a very old word that over the years has been modernized to the words 'witch' or 'witchcraft'."

David blinked, but gave no other sign of surprise. "Are you a warlock?" he asked in a casual tone.

"No. The word warlock usually applies to a satanist--one who tries to conjure up demons. I don't know if that can be done or not, and I wouldn't dream of trying. Since I left the prieshood I am now simply a magician--but I do white magic, not black."

Now Benedict could not refrain from trying to satisy his curiosity. "May I ask, David, where you learned to speak such fine English? I quite expected to be bored with an endless string of monosyllables like 'yeah', 'cool', 'dig it', 'you know', and so on."

David flashed a pleased smile. "I was taught by nuns," he answered. "Up in the Bronx. I finished high school, because my mother always told me, 'David, if you want to get out of this slum and make something of your life, you've got to get an education and use it.' She was right." He smiled ironically. "I'm still trying to make something of my life.

"I've always steered clear of drugs--a lot of my friends are dead already from AIDS they got from sharing needles. I've always worked, but working in restaurants and stores is just peanuts. I want to be an actor. So I need good English. I need to show I'm not just another Borinquen from Whitlock Avenue."

The liquor was making him talkative, and Benedict was a good listener. Now Benedict spoke. "I'm trying to get your vibrations, David--if you know what I mean by vibrations. I can feel the love from your mother--and another woman, perhaps an aunt. But I don't feel anything like a father in your life. Was your mother perhaps a single parent?"

"That's a bullseye." He took another sip of cognac. "When mom was sixteen she was raped by three sailors on shore leave. That was in January, and I was born that October. But she couldn't prove anything, so she just raised me with her sister, like you said. I'm her only child. I never knew my dad, and she didn't, either."

Benedict tactfully changed the subject. "Show business is a tough field. It takes more luck than talent."

"Tell me!"

"Unfortunately, good-looking young men are a dime a dozen on Broadway. I remember an actor who dropped out of the rat race said, 'there's no business in show business.' And I'm afraid the same thing is true for hustling--even worse. Walking the streets looking for a trick with a fortune is like trying to walk the yellow brick road to the land of Oz."

"How did you know I hustle?"

"It's fairly obvious. I can only assume you don't still live with your mother in the Bronx."

"No. I share a pad on West Fourth Street with three other actors. It's a place to get mail and phone calls and sleep--when we're not sleeping out." He smiled suggestively.

"You're still young. About twenty-two?"

"Twenty-four."

"You look younger."

"Yes." He grinned. "I almost said, 'yeah'. I talk like that with a lot of johns I'm cruising. My looks make it easy for me to score, and I can play any role the john wants." He took a sip from the snifter and continued to unwind as he talked. "Some johns want a cute boy to fuck--or to suck them off. I don't like being a bottom man, but I'll do it for the money. I really like being the stud and making the john be my slave. A lot of johns like punk-kid types. Tough. You know what I mean. The young S/M Master to whip them." He was now making direct eye contact. "I enjoy S/M scenes most of all--I always have. I do a good job of whipping a guy's ass," he said, giving Benedict a fixed stare. "And all the rest of the kinky stuff. I'm a really good Master."

Benedict was friendly but noncommittal. "How often do you hustle?" he asked.

"Whenever I need money," he answered frankly. "Most of the time. I'm not gay--like I said, I'm a stud. I like to sleep with women too, especially if they pay me. Does that surprise you?" He took another sip of brandy from the snifter. "How old are you, Benedict?"

"Forty-eight. Old enough to be your Dad. Twice your age."

"Forty-eight isn't old. I've been with a lot of men in their sixties. That's what they said--I think one was at least seventy."

"We all need love--at any age."

"I know. I do, too. But you know what it's like being a Scorpio. Sex is almost the same as love. And the only time I don't think about sex is when I'm asleep."

Benedict laughed. "You're refreshingly honest. You're also a nice guy." There was no interest in his tone.

"But you don't want to take me home. Why not? I know you like my looks. I could read your beads when you looked at me across the corner of the bar."

"Then you have some ESP yourself."

"You mean psychic? Maybe--my aunt had the power. She used to tell fortunes in the Bronx. She was real good some days. Other days she wasn't so good, so she had to fake it."

"That's the problem with ESP. It's not fully reliable and controllable for most people. I'm trying to develop my own ESP by self-hypnosis so I can call on it when I need it, and be sure I'm getting accurate impressions."

"Can you teach others to do the same thing?"

"That's what my spiritual work is about. To promote occult study in the right way, with the right information and guidance." Benedict paused, and then changed the subject again. "You know, David, I could use a young man in my shop. Someone to learn not only the business aspects, but someone to study with me and learn the Craft, as we call it. Someone to be like a son to me. If you ever decide to quit show business, and working the streets, I could offer you a steady job--and a home, if you're interested. Maybe even sex, if you want it. Think about it."

David nodded, but returned to his own topic of conversation. "So why don't you want to sleep with me tonight?"

Benedict took time to choose his words carefully. "Partly because my feeling for you is emotional more than simply sexual. My wife and I always hoped we might have a son. If we had, he would be about your age--and I hope might have some of your good qualities. And partly because of the difference between sex and love. And partly because I'm not really gay, either--though I might go that way for the right partner. You are certainly a young man I could take as a gay lover, and be truly proud of. We witches believe in free love in any form. But it must be consensual.

"If I pay you to have sex with me I'm bribing you--that's a form of coercion. You don't really want to do it, but you'll submit to something you don't really want under coercion of a bribe. Witches may be either gay or straight, but white witches never have sex by coercion. To us sex is a religious ritual--even heavy S/M fits into my religious practices."

At that moment a young man with dark red hair entered the bar and looked around for someone. When he spotted David in the booth he hurried over. "David," he said in quiet urgency, "I've been looking for you. You got a call nearly an hour ago. Your mom's in Jacobi Hospital--the emergency room--she was in a social club that caught fire."

David's face was a mixture of disbelief and shock, and Benedict immediately covered his eyes.

"I'll take the IRT up," said David, rising and shoving his drink away from him. He turned as an afterthought to say something to Benedict, saw the hands over the eyes, and started to leave.

"Wait, David!" said Benedict in an urgent tone, "give me ten seconds more." For some reason they could not explain later, David did not move or speak--nor did his companion.

In ten seconds Benedict opened his eyes. "She'll be perfectly all right," he said calmly. "She was hit on the head, but she wasn't burned."

David looked at him wordlessly, and left without a farewell. As the two walked across the floor, Benedict heard the young red- head ask David, "Who's that?"

David's voice answered, "Just a guy I met who says he's into witchcraft." And then they were out of earshot.

Benedict finished his Gibson, and then raised the snifter to his nose. He savored the aroma of the fine cognac before taking a drop or two on his tongue. A half hour later he rose, left a tip on the table, and walked home with a pensive expression on his face.

"Home" to Benedict was on Christopher Street--an old five- story brownstone he had inherited. It had a street-level store- front, protected by roll-up burglar gates, and four floors of rental apartments above that provided his primary income. His own living quarters were behind the shop, and in the full basement below. Lettered on the glass door was the single word, "Benedict".

The Colonial-style shop window with dozens of small panes of glass displayed a variety of exotic-looking wares--colored silks and candles, dried flowers and costume jewelry, crystals and charms. A large black cat with yellow eyes purred contentedly behind the glass. A few feet behind the cat, a life-size plastic skeleton grinned at passersby.

He let himself in and went through the long shop to the bed- sitting room behind the drape at the rear. The room was comfort- ably, if sparsely, furnished in a style of fifty years past. At one end stood a sofa-bed flanked by book-cases holding lamps--all originally stylish, but now showing their age and wear. On the opposite end were two clothes closets, one in each corner--in between which stood a television set and stereo system on rolling stands. A comfortable but well-worn recliner chair and a few cabinets completed the furniture.

After hanging up his coat in the left-hand closet, Benedict switched on the television, then walked back to the big eat-in kitchen to make a cup of instant coffee and cut a slice of banana bread. He carried his snack back to the sitting room to watch television before going to bed. There was a story he hoped would be on the late news, and it was a brief report--an early evening fire in a Puerto Rican social club in the Bronx.

Fortunately, only three died. It looked like arson, and the club owner, Juan Lopez, blamed it on either drug addicts from adjacent burned-out buildings, or a gang called the Sting Rays. Several of those in the crowd that evening were members of a rival gang called the Barracudas.

Benedict opened the sofa bed, slid naked between the sheets, and mused on the news report before falling asleep.

BELTANE, 1999

Conclusion

by Kirk Brothers

All Rights Reserved

(Characters copyright 1990 in "Night of the Coven")

Benedict had once been a Wiccan Priest, but had never had a physical church or coven of disciples. Each Monday, however, he and his Priestess wife had held open meetings in a rented room in a non-denominational gay church, and he still continued his group teaching after her death. His shop was closed on Wednesdays, when he gave psychic readings all day, and taught private students by appointment. He found Wednesdays particularly tiring, and had formed the habit of dining out, and then dropping in at Stacy's to relax, as an alternative to another evening alone at home.

So it was that the next Wednesday evening, after trying a new Chinese restaurant, Benedict strolled over to Stacy's for his usual two Gibsons, and carried his first drink over to the booth where he and David had talked. He waited calmly, but expectantly.

At about eight-twenty he straightened up and turned to face the entrance door, moving the candle to the end of the table where it would be more quickly seen. As though it had been timed, the door opened and David entered, with a dark-haired middle-aged woman in a simple black coat, and a gray cloche hat that almost concealed the white of a bandage around her head. David peered directly at the booth, saw the candle with Benedict waiting behind it, and steered the woman across the floor to the booth.

"Mother, this is Mr. Benedict. Mr. Benedict, this is my mother, Mrs. Martinez."

Mrs. Martinez greeted him in English--not as perfect as her son's, but quite understandable. Benedict had risen and gestured to her to take a seat. He waved to the only waitress working on Wednesday evenings. "Does your mother drink anything?" he asked David.

"Cognac in a snifter, like me," said David. He sat beside his mother, across from Benedict's seat. Benedict smiled to himself as he understood the origin of David's unusual preference in liquor.

"Two cognacs in snifters, please," said Benedict to the waitress, "and an extra dry Gibson--gin--straight up."

Mrs. Martinez pulled off her coat, revealing a simple blue dress, and got settled comfortably. David opened his jacket but kept it on. The waitress arrived with their drinks, and departed with a twenty-dollar bill to make change.

"I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Martinez," said Benedict sincerely, "and to see that you appear to be in quite good health after your close call. But I believe that you have a problem of some kind, and for some reason have chosen to speak to me about it. What is troubling you?"

"David told me he met you last Saturday night. He said you have the power. That when you heard his friend tell him I was in the hospital and had been in a fire, you closed your eyes for ten seconds and told him I would be fine--that I had been hit on the head, but not burned. And all this was true, Mr. Benedict! So I also believe you have the power, as my own sister had the power. David sometimes seems to me to have hunches, the flashes of ideas, and he has read much astrology in magazines. He might have some of the gift my sister had. She and I raised him ourselves--I was not married, you understand. I am not even sure who David's father was."

Benedict nodded without speaking. The waitress came back with change, and Mrs. Martinez waited for her to leave. Benedict used those seconds to study David's face. He noticed again those dark, intense Scorpio eyes, now looking directly at Benedict with an expression of trust.

"But I do have a problem, Mr. Benedict. About the fire last Saturday. You see, I cannot remember about the evening--not since the blow on my head. The doctors all told me I might have died from it."

"So you had a fortunate escape."

"I believe it. In the hospital they shaved my head to treat the injury, but last Saturday my hair was very long. I did not have time to style it for the evening, so I pulled it into a bun under my hat. That is where I was hit, with my hair like a pad protecting me a little, just an inch from where it might have killed me! I was very fortunate."

She frowned as she spoke. "But all the time, while I cannot remember, I have the feeling that I must remember! I feel that something happened to me that I must know about. But my mind is a blank. I remember that we went to the club, my boyfriend and me. It is just for Borinquens, you understand--not a fancy place like this here. Borinquen is a word we use ourselves for a Puerto Rican--like you have slang words."

"I understand."

"I went with a man I have known a few weeks. He is a nice man, I think. He wants to go back to San Juan, and wants me to go with him. He goes to the club often, and when he invited me, I said yes. It is--was--near Soundview Avenue. Do you know that area?"

"I seem to remember it from many years ago."

"It has changed."

"Yes."

"To get to the club you must enter from an alley-way on the left side--between buildings. And inside, to--" she paused, "--to wash your hands, you must go back to the door near that alley and then to the rear of the building."

"Inside or outside?"

"Oh, inside."

"Go on."

"And when I was inside and had a drink, which was not as nice as this one, I wanted to wash my hands. So I went back toward the washrooms, and then I remember no more."

"You woke up in the hospital?"

"Yes--Jacobi. And David was there and told me about meeting you, and you telling him all about it, and so I said I must see you, too." She took another tiny sip of the cognac. "You see, Mr. Benedict, I want to remember. I know it is important. I try to remember, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot. I remember nothing--nothing at all."

Benedict nodded sympathetically. "The harder one tries to make oneself remember, the more one forgets--sometimes. But," he added, "there is a way that sometimes helps you remember what you have forgotten."

He slid the tall, thin candle to the middle of the table, in front of David and his mother. "All you need do is to focus your mind on the idea of relaxing. You can help yourself relax and focus your thoughts by looking at one spot. Like a crystal ball-- or this candle flame."

His voice now took on a subtle hypnotic sing-song tone. "Let your eyes focus easily on the flame of this candle. Don't strain your eyes to keep it sharp and clear. It's perfectly all right if it begins to get a little hazy and blurry and fuzzy." Now his voice was a monotonous drone. "And if you find that your eyes begin to get a little tired, looking at the bright flame of the candle, just let your eyelids get heavy, and droop, and start to close. When they want to.

"If you want to shut your eyes, be sure the eyelids are relaxed. So relaxed. So comfortable. You might feel like letting your mind drift and wander." His voice was a soft chant, subtle and suggestive. "You don't bother to think about where we are. If someone starts to talk or sing or play a piano, that's just not important to you. You're so relaxed you could just let your mind drift off--as though your mind is separated from your body. Or that you don't have a body at all. You're all mind and no body. You're drifting off into a deep, restful sleep."

And so Benedict talked. The woman's eyes had closed and her breathing became slow and deep. Benedict, when he saw that Mrs. Martinez was in a light trance, turned his attention away for a moment to say something to David. And then he saw that David was in a hypnotic trance as well.

His voice was now more normal, but quiet and soothing. "Mrs. Martinez," he began, "of course you can hear me perfectly well. You can also hear everything else going on in this room if you want to, but you really don't want to--it's just not important to you.

"I'd like you to make believe that we're going back in time-- would you like to do that? Good. Let's go back to last Saturday. The afternoon. You remember the afternoon, don't you? Your boyfriend has invited you to go to the social club tonight. Do you remember?"

"Yes, I remember." Her voice had a sleepy tone.

"And so you are getting dressed to go out. Which dress will you wear to the social club tonight?"

"My good blue dress."

"And which coat will you wear to the club?"

"My best black coat."

"And which hat will you wear?"

"My nice gray cloche."

The same clothes she's wearing tonight, said Benedict to himself. "And now your boyfriend has come to take you to the social club. What time is it?"

"Eight o'clock."

"And how will you get to the club?"

"Walk."

"That's nice. Now you've arrived at the club. What time is it now?"

"Eight fifteen."

"Can you see the way down the alley to the entrance?"

"Oh, yes."

"Is it dark?"

"There are lights."

"Good. And now you go inside the club, and which way do you go now?"

"To the right--to the front, where the tables are, and the entertainment."

"Good. And you and your boyfriend have drinks?"

"Yes."

"What do you drink?"

"I have a rum and cola, and my boyfriend has whiskey and beer."

"Do you see anyone you know? Does your boyfriend see any friends of his?"

"Oh, a few hellos. No business talk, you know."

"Yes. And now you want to use the washroom, is that right?"

"Yes."

"What time is it now?"

"Nine-fifteen."

"What do you do? Where do you go?"

"I go back toward the door where we came in. There I keep going straight back, instead of turning left to go outside again. The washrooms are straight ahead of me."

"So you are going back to the washroom. It is nine-fifteen, last Saturday night. Now time is slowing down, slowing down--and everything is very clear in your mind. Tell me everything you do, and everything you hear, and everything you see, and everything you feel. You are back there where it happened, when it happened. You now see and hear everything you saw and heard then--but everything is happening very slowly. Very slowly. Tell me what it is."

"The women's room is on the right. I make a mistake and turn left, toward the men's room. There is a furnace there, and a man lighting it, I think. He looks up and sees me."

"And of course you see him, too. What happens then?"

"There is a footstep behind me. Someone hits me from behind."

"So you feel the blow on the head--but it does not hurt you now, does it?"

"No. I know only that I am hit."

"Now, the man who is lighting the furnace. Do you see his face now? Can you describe it?"

"Oh, yes. It is Juan Lopez, who owns the social club."

"You are sure? You are not mistaken?"

"I am sure. He owns many buildings in the Bronx. He is what you call a slumlord. I do not think he is a nice man."

"Have there been other fires in his buildings?"

"I have heard so."

"That is very interesting. Now, Mrs. Martinez, it is time for you to leave the past and come back to the present time. But before you wake up, I would like to ask you two questions about your son, David. Was he born in Puerto Rico or here?"

"Oh, here in Manhattan," she answered.

"And do you remember what time he was born?" he asked. "If you wish to remember, you will."

"Yes. It was early afternoon. Now I remember--it was very close to two-thiry, within a minute on either side."

"Thank you. And now, when you wake up, you will feel very refreshed and relaxed in every way--much better than before. But you will not remember anything we said with the candle, or this long talk. David, you will also forget the candle, and everything we have said.

"But when you open your eyes we will talk, and I will give you a recipe for a potion to take at bedtime to help one remember. David, you will take your mother home on the subway so she will be safe, and you will see that she makes up the potion as I tell you.

"Then she will take it as I tell her to, and when that happens her memory of last Saturday will quickly start to return. And then you and she will call the police and tell them everything she has remembered.

"Now I'm going to count from one to three, and when I reach the count of three you will both wake up, feeling very refreshed and relaxed, but you will not remember anything we have said with the candle. You will then leave for the Bronx. One. You're starting to wake up. Two. At the count of three you'll open your eyes and feel fine.

"Three. The harder one tries to remember, the more one tends to forget. But there is an old potion I have often used to help one remember. Here is what I would suggest. --Is anything the matter, Mrs. Martinez?"

"I must have imagined it. The candle looks much shorter than it did just a second ago."

"The light in here is deceptive. Here is the recipe, and it will be easy to remember. When you get home, boil a half-cup of water, and stir in a spoonful of honey. Add the juice of half a lemon, and sprinkle it with nutmeg. Stir it until it is cool enough to drink. Take a teaspoonful every half hour until your memory starts to return. It can start to work with the very first spoonful. If you remember anything you believe might help punish whoever started the fire that killed three people, call the police and tell them what you remember. Do you need to write down the recipe?"

"No. My sister used to make it for coughs."

"It works for that, too, without the nutmeg. Nutmeg is an old remedy for poor memory."

"I will try it," she said. She stood up, saw her glass with the unfinished cognac, picked it up and drained it at a single gulp. David had not touched his. She picked up his glass, also. "We mustn't waste," she said, and tossed that off as well. "Will you take me home, David?"

He rose to help her put on her coat. As he did so, Mrs. Martinez spoke directly to Benedict. "Mr. Benedict," she said, "I feel your potion will help me, and I thank you so much. And I want to tell you one thing. Mr. Lopez, who owned the club where the fire was, says it was started maybe by addicts who take over empty buildings and do their drugs there. I want to say to you that my son David has told me has never used drugs, and I believe him. He is a fine young man, my David, like you are, Mr. Benedict. He says he likes you. I hope you will be like a father to him."

Benedict had no answer to this, but cleared his throat as Mrs. Martinez and David slid out from behind the table. They waved a final goodbye at the door.

Two days later Benedict saw on the news that police in the Bronx had arrested one Juan Lopez on charges of arson and murder, in connection with a fire the previous week. Lopez, who had been under suspicion from the night of the crime, had reportedly con- fessed to starting the fire to collect insurance benefits, and he implicated an accomplice. The break in the case was credited to an eyewitness who had been given a near-fatal blow on the head and left to die in the blaze.

The following night Benedict broke his usual custom, and returned to Stacy's. It was just a week since he had won a free drink and met David. In his coat pocket were two sheets of paper neatly folded--each one printed with the familiar wheel of astro- logy, each of the twelve segments labeled and many filled with handwritten symbols and mathematical abbreviations.

He sat at the bar this evening--where he had been sitting a week ago when he first admired David's beautiful face across the corner of the bar. He sipped a Gibson and kept an eye on the door.

It was ten o'clock when David entered, this time in a pair of tight jeans and a black leather jacket--the uniform, Benedict knew, of the S/M crowd. A pair of handcuffs was held by the left shoul- der strap. Benedict wondered idly how much of David's clone cos- tume was just show for a customer's benefit. David seemed to be looking for someone. When he saw Benedict he walked over to shake hands, and sat down on the next stool.

"Mr. Benedict!" he exclaimed. "I'm happy to see you again, and tell you how grateful my mother and I are."

"Thank you, David," he answered. "And, by the way, it's not Mister Benedict--just plain Benedict--it's my religious name. I rarely use my legal name any more."

"Oh."

"And I broke my usual rule when I came here tonight--it was a kind of ESP experiment."

"What kind? What were you trying to do?"

"To see if you'd be in to look for me."

"Funny you should say that. Earlier I thought I'd drop by to see if you were here. Then I remembered you told me Wednesday was your usual night--that you didn't come in very often on Saturdays. I wasn't going to walk all the way over to the river for nothing-- and then for some reason I decided you might be here."

"Then it was a successful experiment."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll explain it to you sometime. I've brought you a little gift. You remember your mother told me you had read a lot of astrology in magazines."

"Yes. Some of it is okay, but I think most of it is crap."

"I couldn't express it better myself. You see, all those articles are based on just the Sun sign--where the Sun was in the Zodiac when you were born--and everything else is ignored. A real horoscope considers the specific degree and minute of your Sun, the Moon and the eight other planets, in relation to a specific point on the earth at a specific moment of time.

"It's a complex bit of mathematical calculations, giving a precise map of the earth and Zodiac which is absolutely accurate from the scientific viewpoint. The conflict between astrology and science is that we interpret the map as a metaphysical symbol--not just physical reality.

"You were born in New York City on October thirtieth, nineteen seventy-four, very close to two-thirty in the afternoon."

"How did you know that? I've tried to find out, but no luck. Once I asked my mother what time I was born, but she couldn't remember."

"Well, call it a little white magic. But, believe me, it's the right time."

He reached into his pocket withdrew the two folded sheets of paper, and selected one. "Here's a gift from me to you--your own personal horoscope. It's good enough to read your life destiny in its many possibilities--though your free will is a major factor in making your choices. Keep it and learn how to read it--I've kept a copy in my own files. I won't try to read it for you here and now, but if you're interested in studying with me, I'd be glad to teach you astrology, so you may cast horoscopes yourself."

David was studying the chart with avid interest. "I wish I knew what it all means," he said.

"In time you will," answered Benedict. "Well, that's what brought me here--to give this to you. And it's also what brought you here--to pick it up. I'll be leaving now, since I open the store tomorrow at ten."

"I'll walk with you, if you don't mind."

"I'd really like your company."

They left Stacy's together and started up Christopher Street. A half block from the bar, a car carrying a group of four teenagers swung into the curb beside them, and the gang piled out with yells of derision.

"Hey, faggots!" cried one of them. "Why don't you get the hell back to fairyland where you belong?" The group carried beer bottles and looked mean. There was not a policeman in sight. The gang closed in.

David had quick reflexes. With a practiced move he assumed a crouch with arms raised and bent curiously at the elbows and wrists. Then he moved, so fast it seemed almost a blur to Benedict. The edge of one hand cracked across a throat. Then his stiff fingers jabbed another face near the eyes. His right foot went out behind him, catching one young man on a kneecap. Then the leg swung forward, and the knee jabbed into another's groin. David was calm and unhrried. In ten long seconds it was all over, and the four "fag bashers" lay on the sidewalk, moaning and helpless.

"I didn't learn that just on the streets, Benedict," he said. "That was a little Kung Fu, too. I've studied the martial arts for defensive fighting, and it helps me as an actor in moving, too." He stepped over one of the prostrate men while Benedict walked around them. The two resumed their walk up Christopher Street.

"You know, Benedict," said David, "my Kung Fu Master talks a lot like you at times. Almost religious."

Benedict listened attentively as David continue to talk. "Can I ask you one question about my chart?" he asked. "When I was a kid, the thing that bothered me most was never knowing my Dad. I thought I'd gotten over that when I grew up--but since I met you I've had that same feeling again. The men I've been to bed with have never done a thing for me emotionally. But I feel something very emotional for you, and I've only seen you--just to talk--three times. Does anything in my chart explain that?"

"It's partly in your chart, David," said Benedict, "and partly in my chart. Your chart and mine, read together and looking at aspects between them, are an astrological powerhouse. I've been studying our charts together because I've felt the vibrations between us, too. I've learned a lot about both of us, David.

"In fact", he said, drawing the second folded slip of paper from his pocket, "I have a copy of my own horoscope here, in case someday you'd like to compare your chart to mine. Why don't you keep them together?" He handed it over to David, who opened it briefly and gave a quick glance at the chart. "Would you like to know very quickly what our charts say about you and me--as a team?"

"Very much."

"Well," said Benedict, "to begin with, you're not a hustler pretending to be a sadist--you're a sadist pretending to be a hustler. What you like is the rough, raunchy action with you as a total top man over an older bottom man. The money your johns pay you is just the frosting on your cake."

There was a pause. "I guess you're right," admitted David.

"Second, I'm not a bottom man or a masochist--nor am I gay. It's conceivable I could switch, but it's not likely. And one thing for sure is that I could never pretend to be your slave for an hour or so of fantasy--for either you or me.

"But I can offer you something far better--and far more fun for you than just fantasy, I think. Witches are usually straight, but we may be bi--as I realize now that I am--or gay, and witches may use sex in any form as a source of psychic energy. Even heavy and raunchy S/M, especially if they are bi or gay. Sex has been used for centuries by every witch--or tribal shaman in the old times--in many rituals for magic purposes."

"I don't understand."

"It's not necessary that you do--yet. You don't need to accept my beliefs. But for sex magic to work the passion must be absolutely real, not make-believe. It's the reality that makes the magic work, not the other way around."

Benedict stopped moment and looked directly into David's eyes as their gazes locked once again. "So, I will gladly submit to you for any kind of sexual perversion you would really enjoy inflicting on me--twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for as many years as we live--if you happen to find me physically attractive."

"Wow!" said David. "That's a heavy proposition!"

He mused as they continued walking. "I've been thinking a lot about what you said--about coercing me with a bribe. I think I see what you mean. When I do what a john wants just for his money, he's the Master and I'm his slave. I have to do what he wants--not what I want. What I need is someone who'll be my slave for real. And if he's my slave, why should he pay me? He's my property, so it's my right to do anything I want to him--anything, any time--as long as it's safe--and sexual."

Benedict said nothing, and David talked on. "I guess I really want a lover who's my sex slave, just to please me--but I want a Dad, too. Can a Dad be a slave to his son? Can he be my teacher and friend when I need him for that--and then let me whip him and humiliate him five minutes later if I want to? I'll have to think a lot about that."

When they reached Benedict's shop and home, David made no move to go inside, but he looked at the window with interest. "Now I know where to find you if I need to," he said. Then on a sudden impulse he embraced Benedict as hispanic men embrace each other in public.

"I'll think about everything you've told me," he said. "About studying with you and working for you, and the rest of your offer. You've mixed me up a lot, and I need time to figure things out. I have a funny feeling about you, though--it's like I've known you all my life instead of a week."

"Perhaps even longer than this life," said Benedict with a smile. He gave David a final hug and released him. "Blessed be, David," he said.

"Good night, Benedict," answered David. "I'll see you again."

THE END