Gemma Guimard was always popular at parties. As soon as someone mentioned she was a clairvoyant, she was surrounded by people wanting free samples. The trick was to offer just enough ethereal vision to turn them into paying customers, preferably high-paying customers, since Gemma had run up some hefty credit-card bills. She would see into the future, but only for a fee.

At her little psychic shop on Bleecker Street, people paid thirty dollars for a five-minute look into their surprisingly standard love lives. The tone of her predictions depended on how pleasant customers were while they waited. If they were nice, she was nice, too, and told them everything would work out precisely as they hoped. Customers who quibbled about the delay, or about the price, got discouraging reports. One guy made a series of cell-phone calls from her waiting room, and Gemma told him he would never have sex again.

Gemma really did have psychic powers, but they gave her a foggy headache, and she had learned to get by without using them very much. Most people were satisfied with the divinations drawn from a few visible clues. To anyone dressed in a black turtleneck, Gemma said, "You are a gifted artist." To anyone over thirty without a wedding ring, "My dear, you've seen a lot of heartbreak!"