Before I leave, he stops me and holds my hands between his leathery palms. Coquettishly, with his chin to his chest, he looks up at me with friendly yet mischievous eyes. "I have no money, and great-granddaughter education very expensive. Please send friends to me. I read their palms, their backs -- very good price for them." An idea pops into my head (did he put it there?), and I tell him I hope to write an article about meeting him. Overjoyed, he claps his hands and says, "Yes, yes! You write good story. It sell millions of magazines! Many people come visit me! I get new teeth!" He pauses, leans toward me conspiratorially and in a lighthearted whisper says, "You know, I am psychic. I know these things."