Sharon walked out of the very nondescript building and onto the sidewalk, it's white cement glistening in the sun, as song birds flew high above, casting black shadows, contrasting with the gleam of the sidewalk. She strolled contentedly, looking at the stores and restaurants lining the street. They were selling TVs, radios, dogs, cats, furniture, costumes and the best of all food. The aroma flowing out of the buildings and onto the street creating a pleasing aroma of deliciousness. But Sharon wasn't interested in the food nor the dogs, cats or TVs, instead she was intent on one thing.

She turned onto Hepburn street. On this street were the old rundown shops that no one wanted to own, because they were on the road less traveled by pedestrians and cars, but instead frequented by stray cats and dogs. She walked past former broken down antique shops, pawn shops and many others all beggining to decay, until she reached the one shop still open. Near the top of the entrance there was a pulsing neon sign that said “Psychic.” This was the shop she was looking for. Looking into the window she could see a sign which said “Free consultation inside” and a curtain, blocking the view of the inside of the shop. She tried the door, it was locked. She wondered how to get in, then she noticed the buzzer to the side of the door. She pressed the button.

“Who is it?” asked the woman inside, the intercom distorting her voice.

“Sharon Lambert,” replied Sharon, “I believe that I made an appointment with you.”

“Ah, yes, Sharon,” the woman said straining her voice. Sharon heard pages turning, the old woman was probably looking to see if this was the person who made the appointment.

“Come in.” While the woman said this, Sharon fiddled with her top shirt button, then she tried the door again, it opened.

When she met the woman, she was surprised; she had thought the woman would be old, but the person standing before her was young, most certainly not more than twenty-five. She could easily pass for an eighteen year old any day. Sharon could just barely make out a tattoo peeking out from under the sleeve of the woman's shirt.

“Have a seat,” said the woman, motioning toward two chairs around a table with a crystal ball on it.

Sharon took a seat and examined the room around her; there was a portrait of an old woman wearing a cowl, maybe the woman's mother, shelves lined with supposed mystical items, such as a rabbit’s foot, a bottle marked “Holy Water,” a bunch of herbs and she thought she could make out another crystal ball behind a few of these items, most likely to replace the one on the table if it broke. The walls had a purple curtain hanging in front of them.

“Why have you made an appointment with me?,” said the woman sitting down in the one remaining chair, “Wait, don't tell me,” she lifted her hands to her head and applied pressure to her temples, as if she were thinking deeply or probing the spirit world. “Yes, yes, it's coming to me. It was a great loss, wasn't it? It made you question your place in the world.”

“Yes,” said Sharon, “My pet fish died last spring, and I can't get over it.”

The woman looked as if she was about to laugh, but somehow was able to hold it in. Sharon acted like she didn't notice.

“It is deaths like these that bring us to know more about ourselves. But I can't get a good reading, it seems your aura is blocked. Do you know what might have caused it?”

“No.”

“Things like breaking up with your boyfriend, having an argument, or being just plain sad, or angry can block your aura.”

“I had a fight with my dad recently. He said I should stop acting so childlike, that I should grow up and get a life...
That I should stop crying about my goldfish,” Sharon tried to shed a tear, but only manged to let out a whimpering sound. She wondered what the woman was thinking. Was she thinking that she was childish like Sharon said her dad had thought? Probably, but the woman wasn't going to pass up a client; that is one thing Sharon knew.

“Yes, yes, things like that can certainly block your aura. So, in order to unblock your aura, I'm going to need you to meditate,” She handed Sharon a pamphlet with a person sitting cross-legged fingers in the “O.K.” formation. The cover said, “How to Meditate,” and as a subtitle, “Why Meditating is Important."

Laura looked up from the pamphlet and at the woman who was staring at her intently. She then realized that she didn't know the woman's name. “What's your name?” She asked.
“Madame Sandinista,” the woman replied.

It was certainly a mystical name, she stuffed the pamphlet in her pocket for later use.

“Done looking at that?” asked Madame Sandinista.

“Yes.”

“Good, and in order for me to continue, I need $200.”

“What for?”

“Well these things take time and in order to help you on your way to inner peace I need to light a candle to help me connect to the spirit world. It's really complicated. All in all it will take five days; so you're getting a great deal: only 40 dollars per day. I would jump on a deal like that, if I were you.”

“It does sound pretty cheap, so how do I pay?”

“I accept credit card, cash, checks, social security numbers and any food stamps you may have.”

Sharron’s suspicions had been confirmed, this was a scam. “Thank you,” she said and promptly stood up, “But I'm not interested.”

She could see the look of panic in Madame Sandinista's eyes, “Don't leave,” she said standing up with a burst of energy, “I need the money! And if your not going to go through with it, I want my pamphlet back!”

Sharon took out a few dollars and the pamphlet, handed them to the lady and promptly walked out, fiddling with her top button. Instead of heading to the building she came out of, she headed toward a very tall building with the words “Hammond and Co. LLC.” in bright red letters for the city to see.

When she entered the building, she walked past the receptionist, it was a new one.

“Who are you?” the receptionist said, stopping her.

“I'm Sharon Lambart.”

“Who are you here to see?”

“I'm here to see, Mr. Dunmar.”

“A Mrs. Lambart here to see you,” the receptionist said in a cherry sweet voice, quite different from the one she used with Sharon, into the phone.

“Send her on up,” said a dull, gruff voice with a small hint of enthusiasm.

“Dunmar is on the 5th floor, the 1st door to the right. You can't miss it.”

Sharon already knew this, but she didn't say anything. She headed up to Dunmar's office.

“It's so nice to see you,” said Dunmar, when she finally got to his office, “So, what do you think of her?”

“I think she's an annoying, to-sweet-for-her-own-good woman.”

“I see you've noticed the new receptionist,” he let out a small laugh, “What do you think about the psychic?”

“I think she tried to scam me.”

Dunmar's eyes sparkled with excitement, “That's great! Let's see the evidence!”

Sharon took the small button-like camera off of her shirt and handed it to Mr. Dunmar.

“This is going to make my clients so happy,” he said in a somewhat sing-songy voice.

He put the camera in a projection device. On the projector screen they saw the ground and then the chair, and finally Sharon's lap. They could hear the woman's voice but there was no clear image of Madame Sandinista.

“We can't use this for evidence against her,” said Dunmar to himself, then talking directly to Sharon, “Back to office work for you.”

Sharon would have to sit at a desk, again. At least field work had been fun.