section7mfu | "Now do you believe?" ~for the PicFic Tuesday challenge 10/15

Napoleon Solo and his Russian partner, Illya Kuraykin were winding down from their brief assignment in Veracruz, Mexico. They were there in search of a purported lab, manufacturing heavy duty drugs for distribution in the United States, but it somehow turned out to be a red herring.

No lab, no drug dealers of any major repute, at least in this town. There were others no doubt, dotted across the country, but none were believed to have been as large an operation here in along the coast in Veracruz.

“Well there are times we get bad intel,” Illya said as he sipped his cup of coffee. The two men were seated at an outdoor cafe, enjoying the view and a late lunch before heading off to catch their flight back to the States.

It was a puddle jumper as Solo called it, a Cessna out of a local airport taking them to Tampico to refuel and from there they’d head across the border to Galveston Texas. Lots of flying time on this one…. Once there they’d catch a flight with one of the larger carriers at Scholes Airport back to New York. Waverly wouldn’t be happy their time had been wasted, but it wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last.

Illya caught a glimmer in his partners eyes, as he looked up from his cup. “What are you seeing?”

“Just an dark-haired woman who’s panhandling. She looks like a gypsy.”

At that moment, the woman dressed in brightly colored clothing approached their table.

“Señors, read your palms...tell your fortunes?”

“No thank you Señora,” Illya answered.

Napoleon held up his hand, “Wait a minute chum, this could be an interesting diversion. We’re in no rush, so why not?”

Illya thought about flashing the man with his patented stare but decided not to bother as it would do no good. Once Napoleon had made up his mind, there would be no changing it. He would pass on the fortune telling himself, but supposed it might be interesting to see what nonsense she would conjure up for the American.

“Fine, but please take it with a grain of sodium, as it will most likely be mere charlatanism and nothing more.”

“That’s a grain of salt partner mine, “Napoleon winked. “And you who have gypsy blood coursing through your veins, poo-pooing your own people? I’m shocked.”

“Trust me, she is not one of my people my friend. My gypsy heritage is of the European Rom. This woman is most likely steeped in a background of shamanism and the native traditions of the Central American Indians, or most likely just simply chicanery.”

“Ahem….” the woman cleared her throat. “Do not be so quick to belittle the ways of my people. We are quite good at curses as well...and I went to college, by the way and have a degree in the study of the tribal societies of Central and South America.”

“Apologies, I did not intend to insult,”Illya backed off, though he wondered why she was panhandling, since she had such credentials and was not teaching in a classroom.

“May I ask then Madam why you are doing this?” He asked her.

“A study, shall we say, in human nature.”

“Really?” Illya sounded a bit sarcastic.

“All right, how do we do this?” Napoleon smiled, distracting her from the conversation with his partner, sensing the Russian was about to say something they’d both regret.

“First the money.” She held out her palm. “Five pesos Señor.”

“I thought you were doing a study?”

“I still have to eat don’t I …”

Napoleon dug into his pockets, coming up empty-handed. “Hey partner, could you loan me the money, I only have big bills in my wallet,” he shrugged, raising his eyebrows innocently.

This time Kuryakin did not hesitate giving his partner that icy stare of his. “How convenient.” he mumbled as he reached into his pocket, pulling out the coins and handing them to the woman. “I will add this to the tally of what you owe me.”

“I thought I settled up with you last payday?” Napoleon said with a tinge of suspicion in his voice.

“Nyet.”

“Are you sure?”

“Da…”

Solo knew it was pointless trying to argue with a man who possessed an eidetic memory. Illya was probably right.

“Señors, please?” The woman was becoming impatient. She could have taken off with the money, but she was honest and would give what was paid for….though these two men were chattering like a pair of old women and costing her money. She needed to get moving and work the crowd.

“Sorry, “Napoleon charmed her with his smile, instantly seeing its effect on her.

She handed him a deck of tarot cards, telling him to shuffle them before handing them back to her and she proceed to lay the cards, one at a time in the shape of a horseshoe, putting a total of fifteen cards on the table.

Her face remained expressionless, until a tattered blue card appeared from the deck, the last to be put down. It was the image of a skeleton holding a scythe.

“La Muerte, Señor...death.”

“Of course it had to be the death card,“Napoleon tried not to laugh, thinking Illya was probably right after all.

“Oh Señor, this is not good. Your life is in danger.”

He looked across the table at his partner who was covering his mouth as he snickered.

“Please, I need to see your mano? Which one is the hand you use?” She asked.

“The right.” Napoleon sighed; this was not as fun as he’d thought it would be..

“Ah, the left hand is what you're born with, and the right is what you have accumulated throughout your life. It is the non-dominant hand that will then be your future life hand.”

Solo continued smiling, turning on the charm as he reached out his left hand to her as requested.

“I hope you have something a little more concrete to tell me.”

“We will see, once I have a look at the lines on your hand.” She responded with a flirtatious smile of her own.

“Ah, your hands are very smoothe, a sign that you do not live a hard life.”

He cocked an eyebrow at that, wondering what a hard life really meant? If having no home life, constantly being threatened, and having too many close calls with death were easy...then he was a monkey’s uncle.”

“Soft hands also signify sensitivity and refinement.”

That statement made Napoleon give his partner a haughty stare.

“Please proceed….umm. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. My name is Napoleon, Napoleon Solo.”

The woman actually blushed, falling prey to the Solo charm.

“My name is Carmelita.”

“Soooo charming Carmelita, what else to you see in my palm?” He leaned his chin bemusedly on his right hand, resting his elbow on the table.

That question called her back to the task at hand, and she looked again at his hand.

“There are four lines I must look for, the heart line, the head line, the life line and the fate line ...not everybody has the last one. First the heart line….ah, you are a romantic Señor Napoleon. See this here, just below the index finger...it tells me you have a very strong love life, but I sense a sadness, a lost love perhaps. It touches your life line which tells me your heart breaks easily. The line is wavy meanig - many relationships and lovers, absence of serious relationships. There is a circle on your line that indicates sadness…”

That struck a chord with him, thinking of his Clara… “Can we skip that and move onto the next?”

“Very well, I look at the head line now.”She traced her finger across his palm. “This represents a person's learning style, communication approach, intellectualism, and thirst for knowledge. A curved line, which you have, is associated with creativity and spontaneity, while a straight line is linked with practicality and a structured approach. Your head line is short, which means you prefer physical achievements over mental ones.”

Napoleon caught Illya looking at his own palm and watched as the Russian tried to trace his own head line, no doubt, his was long and straight… He snickered at that thought. “Carmelita my dove, you still haven’t told me what I’m in danger from, or why for that matter.”

“Soon, soon. Now the life line. This begins near your thumb and travels in an arc towards the wrist. It reflects health, well being, and major life changes. It is here I see the danger, Señor. You must beware black-haired girls, else they will cause your death.”

“That’s it? That’s all you can tell me?”

“I am afraid so. The reading is done as you have no fate line,” she leaned forward, touching her hand to his chest for the briefest of moments.

“Buena suerte Señor Napoleón,” she whispered, and disappeared into the crowds of people milling along the street.

“Well that was really eye-opening and full of generalities. I told you so, “ Illya jabbed.

Napoleon suddenly reached up to his breast pocket. “Son of a bitch! She stole my wallet!”

“So one of her predictions came true after all…. beware black-haired girls.” Illya tried not to laugh.

Suddenly there was a rifle repeat and a bullet ricocheted against the wall behind them, sending both agents diving for cover.

“Hmm, maybe this is the second half of her warning?” Illya called out.

“Let’s hope not, “ Napoleon answered as he crawled on his hands and knees to the interior of the café, followed by his partner.

They leaned against the wall with their Walthers drawn and ready while the patrons cowered in fear behind the counter.

“I suppose this really does not count as a prediction, since it is more routine for us, is it not?” Illya asked.

Napoleon shrugged as he stood, aiming where he’d seen the muzzle flash and hitting their would-be assailant. He watched as the body of a dark-haired girl with a rifle fell from her vantage point on a balcony to the street below.

“Ooookay,” Solo mumbled as he dusted off his suit.” So still think the fortune teller was a fake partner mine?”

“I stand corrected,” Illya said, accepting a hand up from the American.

"Now do you believe?" ~for the PicFic Tuesday challenge 10/15

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