The second floor was straightforward by comparison.
"No structural work upstairs," Klein told Joe. "Strip the old wallpaper, repaint, refinish the floors. If the kitchen and bathroom fixtures are past their useful life, replace them — mid-to-high-end brands, nothing flashy. Overall style: clean, modern, comfortable. Bright where possible."
Joe walked the second floor with his tape measure, making notes, getting his bearings. When they came back down, he closed the notebook, worked his calculator for a minute, and looked up.
"For what you're asking — especially the ground floor, the materials and the custom woodwork — it's not cheap. And rushing it means overtime." He held up one finger. "One week. Both floors, complete, cleaned. I happen to have a crew just finishing another job, so I can move them over immediately." He named a price roughly forty percent above market rate. "That covers all materials, all labor, expedited fees, and I personally supervise the whole run. Minor issues after completion, I warrant for a year."
Klein pulled out his wallet, counted a deposit in cash, and put it in Joe's hand.
"One week. Full payment on inspection if it meets spec. Here are the keys — I only care about the result."
Joe weighed the stack in his palm and smiled. "You've got a deal, Mr. Liu."
Klein drove the F-150 to a large home improvement superstore first.
He worked through the list efficiently: bedding, towels, bath mats. Kitchen basics — pots, a pan, a cutting board, starter seasonings. A vacuum cleaner, trash cans, laundry basket, the miscellaneous infrastructure of actually living somewhere. A basic household tool kit.
The back seat was loaded by the time he left.
He drove into Brooklyn's Chinatown next.
It had a different character than the Manhattan version — more lived-in, less touristic, the kind of neighborhood where the shops had been there for thirty years and weren't trying to impress anyone. Klein slowed down and read the signs until he found what he was looking for.
Huang's Incense, Candles & Paper Crafts.
The storefront was old, the sign faded in the right way. Through the window he could see shelves packed floor to ceiling — incense, candles, paper crafts, deity statues, Bagua mirrors, wooden swords. The air inside carried a layered smell of incense and old paper and something faintly herbal underneath.
An elderly Chinese man sat behind the counter under a desk lamp, repairing a paper lantern with focused patience. He looked up at the door chime, assessed Klein in one glance, and switched to Mandarin.
"What are you looking for, young man?" Heavy Cantonese accent underneath.
"Quality talisman paper — the real kind, not the mass-produced shelf stock. Cinnabar. And proper brushes for talisman work."
The old man pushed his glasses up and gave Klein a longer look. Then he turned and pulled several boxes from the back shelves.
He opened the first one. The talisman paper was cut uniformly, the texture consistent, with a faint grassy smell that the cheap stuff never had. The cinnabar sat in a small porcelain bowl — dark red, dense color, unmixed. The brushes were wolf-hair, plain bamboo handles, but the tips gathered cleanly.
"These work," Klein said. "Ten sheets of each. More cinnabar." He looked around the shop. "Do you have a compass? Brass, functional. And a wooden sword — not decorative. I want old jujube wood, good weight."
The old man moved around the shop with the unhurried efficiency of someone who knew exactly where everything was. The jujube wood sword he produced was clearly aged — dark grain, dense, heavy in the hand in the way that meant it had grown slowly. The compass was brass, needle sensitive, workmanship plain but adequate.
"A few copper incense burners as well. Small, quality. And a couple boxes of good incense."
The old man assembled everything on the counter and began calculating.
"Opening a business?" he asked, not looking up.
"Small consultancy. Related work," Klein said, keeping it vague.
The old man didn't push further. He wrapped everything in old newspaper, packed it into a heavy-duty bag, and slid the change across.
"Good materials. Use them properly."
"Thank you."
Klein stopped at the fabric shop next door and bought several yards each of dark green, navy blue, and near-black cotton-linen blend. He wasn't going for traditional Taoist vestments specifically — he wasn't affiliated with any lineage and wasn't going to pretend otherwise. But a few well-cut robes in these materials would read as intentional without making claims he couldn't back up.
Last stop: a stationery shop a few doors down. He placed a business card order.
Plain white card stock. Two lines on the front:
Meridian Paranormal ConsultancyKlein Carter
On the back: a hand-drawn minimalist Bagua pattern, and in small text underneath: Private appointments only. Serious inquiries only. A new anonymous number he'd set up that morning.
Clean. Minimal. Said exactly what it needed to.
The truck bed was stacked by the time he pulled out of Chinatown. Klein checked it in the rearview mirror and let the satisfaction of a completed checklist settle.
One week for the renovation. Then setup. Then open.
Meridian Paranormal Consultancy. Serving a city that had more genuine supernatural activity per square mile than anywhere on earth, and a population of millions who desperately needed someone who actually knew what they were doing.
He started the engine and drove toward Empire State University.
[End of Chapter 19]
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