by
I was enjoying the darkness of my combination office/living room when my phone rang, but in the occult detective business you had to be available. Producing a magenta glow in the palm of my left hand—a gift and sometimes curse from a nameless horror from the stars—I lit an Old Gold cigarette from my cigarette box and answered the phone.
“Cavendish here, your nickel.”
“Hello? Mr Cavendish? Oh this is such a frightfully bad connection!” complained a female voice at the other end.
“Whoever you are, I can hear you okay. Who am I speaking to?”
“Pamela, Pamela Coleman Smith.”
I had heard of her. After a brief click, the static noise ended on her end.
“There,” she said. “I can hear you now. We have a mutual friend in Zoe Churel.” Zoe was a conjurer acquaintance of ours.
“What can I do
