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Gypsies of any profession can be loathe to claim their heritage. This is partly because their bad press is legend: There is Georges de la Tour's painting of a man being clutched at by thieving Gypsy women; Gypsy moths are targeted for extermination in the Northwest, and Gypsy cabs are subjects of crackdowns. Gitanes, the stinky French cigarettes, use their name. They are often overlooked in accounts of the Holocaust's victims and are now being deported and legislated against in Eastern Europe. As a result, their behavior is more like that of a secret society than an ethnic group.

Consequently, their neon signs, their handbills and their newspaper listings advertise them as psychics, healers, readers, advisers, possessors of ESP, spiritualists, clairvoyants, palmists, astrologists and tea leaf readers, but none say Gypsy, or even offer last names. (It may also be because fortune telling is a misdemeanor.) Gypsy leaders are also quick to point out that Gypsies are found in all professions. "It's a mistake to assume that Gypsy is a synonym for fortune teller," said Ian Hancock, president of the International Roma Federation, and the United Nations representative of the Roma (as Gypsies are also known).

Even in drawing the distinction between Gypsy and fortune-teller, Mr. Hancock explained why some Gypsies employ themselves as psychics. In India, where the Roma originated, being a spiritualist or psychic is a legitimate profession. When they emigrated about 750 years ago, laws in Europe forbade them to settle in one place, forcing them to develop livelihoods that were portable and offered some protection from would-be persecutors.

"If people think that you have some control over their destiny, then they might be a little nicer to you," Mr. Hancock said. During a recent tour, I visited five psychics, disclosing my purpose after the readings. On the Upper East Side, the Upper West Side and in midtown and the Village, I responded to newspaper listings and handbills, and just walked in off the street. Postmodern Supernatural Soup

Futures are told this way: you ask questions -- "Will I fall in love? Is my mate faithful?" The psychic responds by consulting palm, cards or ball. For the psychic, this has the advantage of signaling your issues immediately, meaning less guesswork. I didn't want to discuss anything I actually cared about so I tried to be elusive: I mentioned a "big change" I would be undergoing this summer. Two different women consulted their cards and pronounced it "good" for me. The most memorable things a Mrs. Susan told me were that I "was basically a good person at heart" (who doesn't think so?) and that the two men in my life were very different. (Married, I can't confess to such an embarrassment of riches, but why would anyone bother with two of the same?)

The rooms they consult in are decorated in a postmodern supernatural soup. Anything goes, including a souvenir snow dome -- crystal-ball sized -- with St. Patrick's Cathedral and the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings trapped within. Green or violet are the predominant colors for curtains, walls, rugs and table coverings. All the practitioners identified themselves as Catholic and displayed Bibles, plaster Virgins and/or Infants of Prague. One managed to work two images of the Last Supper into her cluttered vestibule. All had kitchenettes, and in one, dishes were being done while my life was being examined.

All said they believe that everyone has a sixth sense, and characterized their work as "a business like any other." Sally, whose sign hangs from a fire escape on Second Avenue in Yorkville, even likened it to being a shoe salesman: "We have our good weeks; we have our bad."

Not all, however, would so readily cede their mysteries. One psychic on the West Side, in declining to be interviewed, said, "To be written about diminishes our powers." Not the standard response of a business person like any other.

The Gypsy Tea Kettle on Lexington Avenue and 56th Street, where no tea is served or its leavings read, is a variation on the storefront theme. A man is employed in what otherwise looks like a small second-floor luncheonette. His job is to stand at a glass case that should be filled with gum and candy bars but is empty, take $10 for a 15-minute reading and scribble out a restaurant check assigning the client to a psychic. If the wallpaper isn't flocked, it should be. In the green vinyl booths where you'd expect to snack on a grilled cheese and sip on an egg cream, your psychic waits. Prophesies for Tips

There are about six women in the booths, of varying ages and fashions. Some appear to be Upper West Side New Agers, some older women with foreign accents. They tell the future from a deck of ordinary playing cards. A notice informs the client that the women should be tipped. Some patrons are told to pull from the deck with their left hand. ("It is closer to your heart," one psychic explained.) It's all just south of Bloomingdale's, where instead of fortunes being told, fortunes are being spent.