The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions #2)(54)

“I imagine it’s not all unicorns and rainbows at the neonatal unit. Don’t babies get sick?” I ask, picturing all the crying, and worried parents breathing down your neck. I don’t know about other guys my age, but for me, crying babies are on par with scorpions and snakes.

“Of course. But I can Read them and figure out what hurts.” She smiles again. “And then the doctors will be able to help them.”

“You can Read a baby?” I don’t know why that hadn’t occurred to me before. If that’s the case, then working with babies does sound like a uniquely helpful way to use Reading. Similar to what Liz does with her Guiding of OCD patients, but perhaps even cooler.

“Sure. You can Read many creatures,” Mira says. “I used to Read my cat, Murzik, when he was alive.”

“You could Read your cat?” Now I’m flabbergasted. “How was that? Do they have thoughts, like us?”

“Not thoughts, at least not my old lazy cat. But I was immersed in his experiences, which had something like thoughts in them, only fleeting. In that way, babies are similar. They feel more than think, and when you Read them, you can learn if something hurts or why they’re unhappy.”

“Wow. I’ll have to try Reading some creature. And, I must say, yours sounds like an excellent plan. I hope you get your revenge soon, because this sounds much better than what you’ve been doing.” As I say that last part, I realize I might’ve inadvertently criticized her.

“You don’t say.” Her voice drips with sarcasm. “Helping people is better than underground gambling with monsters?”

“Never mind,” I say, sorry I blabbed too much. “Yes, obviously you’ll be happier once you put that plan into motion. Besides, I assume your gambling days are over?”

“You assume?” she says, finishing her last crepe. “It’s an interesting assumption. But I think we’ve spent enough time talking about me. Quid pro quo, Darren. What do you plan to do after you get out of this mess?”

“I’m going to take a vacation,” I say without hesitation. “Go someplace warm, or maybe travel someplace interesting, like Europe. After that, I don’t know. I already have a job at a hedge fund, but it’s not the kind you described. It’s not my passion or anything like that. It’s just a means to make money.”

“The horror,” she says in mock shock. “Money is the root of all evil, don’t you know?”

“Hey, I’m not complaining. It’s just that you actually want to help people, and you’ve thought about a job that would make you happy. I haven’t thought about that yet. I was thinking about being a detective the other day, but the paperwork and danger might be a drag. Not to mention the very thought of going back to school—”

“You can be a private detective,” she suggests, interrupting. “You can do as much paperwork as you feel like doing—since it would be your own business. And, you can take only jobs that have the amount of danger you’re comfortable with. Wives wondering about their philandering husbands, that sort of thing.” There’s only a little bit of mockery in her voice as she says the word danger.

I stare at her, struck by the idea. “You know, that could actually work. I could even use Reading to help me solve cases. I could be like one of those psychic detectives on TV. Only I’m afraid that taking on boring cases would defeat the original purpose of my enjoying the work.”

She’s about to respond, but the waiter comes again, with a bigger tray this time. He takes what’s left of the appetizers, and we get our plates with the main course.

“That’s called chalahach,” she says.

“Really? It sure looks like lamb chop to me.” I glance down at my plate. “A lamb chop with mashed potato and green beans. How very not exotic.”

“Not exotic? This is a traditional dish from freaking Uzbekistan, or some other former Soviet republic. It’s as exotic as it gets. And the way they make it here is amazing.” She cuts off a piece and puts it in her mouth, closing her eyes in bliss as she begins to chew.

I try it and have to concur. “It’s been sautéed in a different way than your usual lamb chop,” I say.

“Exactly. Also make sure to use the sauce.” She points at the red ketchup-like stuff in a saucer on my plate.

I follow her suggestion and admit, “It’s even better with the sauce.”

“Told you,” she says, wolfing down her chop. “The sauce is Uzbek also. Or Tajik. I’m not sure.”

For the remainder of the meal, we talk about why Russian food is so full of other cultures’ cuisines, and I challenge her to come up with some original Russian dish. I also unsuccessfully try to think of a way to bring up my knowledge of Arkady’s location without ruining our lunch.

“No dessert?” I say when the waiter brings us the check.

“I wanted to leave room for you to try something else,” she replies as I pay the waiter with cash.

“Something else?” I say curiously, rising to my feet.

She gets up as well. “I wanted to get you a pirozhok, this meat-filled dough. It’s definitely, positively a Russian food. They sell them all over the boardwalk.”

“Great, more food, and the street variety to boot. I can’t wait,” I say, teasing.