by Ivy Pochoda
We were reviewing the uniforms of the cocktail waitresses. The designer had taken a nineteenth-century Russian dress and crossed it with cancan outfits from the Moulin Rouge. With the hemline raised by nearly a foot, the overall effect was of a peasant costume run through a shredder.
“These crinolines look a little limp,” I said, fingering the built-in petticoats underneath the dresses. “If you want that bunny tail look, you should starch them or attach some wires.”
“Sure,” Sandra replied distractedly.
“And as long as you’ve got good servers who aren’t going to spill drinks on themselves, the fabric should hold up perfectly. It’ll even absorb stains.” I let the pop-music polyester slip through my thumb and forefinger. “But, I’d advise you to forbid smoking in these. A little ember, and they’re gone.”
“Right,” Sandra replied. The crisp tone that she used when discussing Winter Palace matters was gone.
“But these stockings,” I continued, “these you’ve got to change. You can’t protect stockings from rough corners and cigarette ash.” I stretched the fabric of the black lace nylons so that Sandra could see their faults. “A snag in the wrong place, and these will disintegrate and curl away from each other.” Through the synthetic spiderweb, I caught Sandra’s gaze. She was peeking at me. She squinted slightly and then looked away. I continued pointing out the stockings’ flaws.
“My advice would be to get solid hose with the lace pattern printed on them. Get something like they use in musicals. That stuff is really sturdy but also breathable.” I folded the stockings and placed them in the clothing pile. When I looked up, Sandra was staring at me.
“Is something wrong?” I asked, strumming the stockings so they twanged like an out-of-tune banjo.
“Wrong? No, of course not,” Sandra said, recovering herself. “I just had a question for you.”
“A question?” Sandra was usually so businesslike that she moved through sessions with her employees without pausing for air.
She took a little breath, “You’re married to the magician, right? The one who works at the Castaway?”
“Why?”
“Well,” Sandra began, “people are starting to talk about him.”
“They are?”
“He’s making quite an impression up and down Fremont Street,” Sandra explained. “His show is incredible.”
“Really?” When I had seen Toby’s show, his magic had not been anywhere near as incredible as it had been in Intersection.
“Haven’t seen his show?”
“Once,” I answered. “But it’s probably changed a lot since then.”
“Well, you don’t know what you’re missing. He works the tables and—I won’t lie to you—the ladies like a pro. Slick as can be.”
“He works the ladies?”
“I wouldn’t exactly say that he’s flirting. But it’s something in his eyes. Something intense, like he’s trying to look through us.”
“Us?”
“Well, he doesn’t look at the men that way. In fact, not many men come to his shows. It’s pretty much an all-female audience.”
“Really,” I said, trying not to sound surprised.
“And those eyes of his—they can just drill into you, like he’s trying to dig out your thoughts, you know?”
I knew. I knew the probing, questioning stare that tried to work its way into the corners of my mind. I was surprised that he unleashed it on others.
“What a catch,” Sandra said with a wink. “Most magicians are—you know—unattractive,” she added with a whisper. “But yours—”
“Toby.”
“Yeah, Toby—he’s not just good-looking, he’s—” She stifled a laugh. “—enchanting.”
“Oh, really,” I said, smiling.
“I’d always imagined magicians were weird and kind of awkward. You know, like the kid who sat in the back of the class and played fantasy role games or whatever. But not yours. I mean, between shows, all the ladies want to buy him drinks.”
I shook my head, remembering the lonely man I’d found sitting in a corner booth in Tonopah.
“I’ll admit that even I offered him a cocktail.” Sandra laughed. She waved her pearly manicure in my direction. “I’ve been in this town my whole life, and I’ve never seen a magic show like his.”
“How many times have you gone?”
“Just twice,” Sandra answered. But twice seemed to have been enough for her to fall under the new powers of my magician. “And it made me wonder what it’s like.”
“What what’s like? Living with a magician?”
“No,” Sandra whispered, leaning in close, “sleeping with one.” She recoiled, as if she’d shocked herself with her curiosity. “Growing up in this town, I’ve had singers, race car drivers, boxers, even a member of Riverdance. But never a magician.”
I’m not fond of discussing my personal life with close friends, let alone with acquaintances. My childhood taught me to take my heart off my sleeve and bury it. But now I needed to claim the magician as my own, trap him in my web of description and detail. “Well,” I began, searching for a suitable metaphor, “it’s a bit like sleeping with an octopus. You know, many hands and one mouth. He can be everywhere at once while being right there in front of you.”
“An octopus?” Sandra gasped. “I’m not sure whether that excites me or disgusts me.”
“Take your pick. Many women would kill for an extra pair of arms.”
Sandra squinted, puckered her lips, and nodded in conspiratorial agreement.
I knew she wanted all the details, but I preferred to keep to myself how Toby’s hands flew across my body in a maniacal sign language. When I could have sworn that he was massaging my shoulders, suddenly he was tickling my toes. And when I looked at my toes, I noticed that his hands had moved to my hair. And all the time it appeared that he hadn’t taken his lips from mine. Sometimes he managed to make the bed vanish as if we were floating toward the ceiling in an erotic levitation. Sometimes the ceiling itself seemed to disappear and the room flooded with the sky. After it was over, after my magician’s hands, which had doubled and redoubled as we reached the finale of our private magic show, had collapsed onto the sateen sheets, I woke up to find the remnants of his conjuring pressed into my body. I found coins on my inner thighs, poker chips on my lower back, the jack of diamonds stuck to my left buttock.
I wasn’t sure that Sandra would appreciate the combination of magic and sex, so I told her what I thought she wanted to hear.
“Wow,” Sandra breathed when I had elaborated on several of Toby’s more impressive manipulations. “You are a lucky woman.” She readjusted her jacket. “I think I’ll go down for a vodka. Coming with?”
I looked at the tiny gold wristwatch dangling on Sandra’s wrist. The scrolled hands told me that it was before eleven. “I’ll pass.”
“All right,” Sandra answered, sounding a little deflated. “But maybe I’ll see you this evening?”
“This evening?”
“At the Castaway.”
“Sure,” I said, “I’ll check it out.”
I left Sandra’s office, navigated my way through the well-secured administration wing of the casino, and onto the gambling floor. The tech men were testing the sound system. The music was just loud and snappy enough to maintain the players’ enthusiasm without agitating them. The soundtrack was a hybrid of Russian folk songs and Muzak. Unmuffled by the jangle of spinning slots, the clatter of roulette wheels, or the shouts of gamblers, the sound of synthesized zithers blared through the pits. I walked past the craps tables, examining the skirts I had commissioned to protect the carpet from the more aggressive dice throwers who took running starts and whose stiletto-heeled girlfriends jumped up and down, tearing the pile with their shoes. Examination complete, I headed to the exit, past the Revolution Bar, where hipsters were encouraged to drop money on aristocratically priced drinks while contemplating the ironies of the Winter Palace.
Out on the S
trip, the heat reminded me that I hadn’t been properly outside in more than thirty-six hours. I was starting to lose track of the day and of the time. Despite the temperature, I was hungry. In fact, I was craving a steak—a flat, greasy diner steak. There was a joint just off the Strip I hoped would offer low-key relief from the elaborate Vegas buffets. I was tired of big spreads where cold cuts cuddled up to sashimi, dim sum next to seared quail. But worst of all, buffets sapped my hunger before I even sat down. Overwhelmed by choice and fearful of making a poor selection, I became a grazer, sampling drumsticks and spring rolls to see whether either was worth adding to my tray. By the time I reached my seat with a plate of food, I was unpleasantly full.
The Red Rock Diner offered a steak dinner that got cheaper as the hours got later. At 11 A.M. the price of a well-flattened sixteen-ounce sirloin with “any sort potato” had risen to four dollars from its low of three dollars, 2 A.M. to 6 A.M. At noon, the trampled steak had hit $5.50. During the dinner rush, it would peak at $6.75, before plummeting at 10 P.M. to $4.50, and then back to its 2 A.M. low. Before I sat down, I spun one of the vinyl-covered stools at the lunch counter. It creaked and wobbled until I stopped it with the weight of my body. The Red Rock’s chrome decor was tarnished by a layer of grease from the grill. Years of fry fat, cheese oil, and burger juices settled over the counter, napkin holders, seats, and silverware, giving the restaurant a speckled sheen.
“Steak dinner,” I said to the waitress when she appeared in front of my stool. I was busy finding hidden patterns in the Formica counter and didn’t look up.
“So you know, we don’t do rare, medium rare, anything like that,” the waitress said to my bowed head. “We just do steak.”
“That’s fine.”
“And the potato? You want fries?”
“Anything else? Can I have baked?”
“Baked?” the waitress snorted. “It’s only eleven. You got a while?”
I found it—a widespread pattern of larger and smaller rectangles, each unit of the pattern containing twenty-eight shapes. Task complete, I looked up.
“Yeah?” the waitress asked, casting around the nearly empty diner for someone more important. “Maybe you do have all day?” she said, tapping her nails on the counter. “So—fries, or what?”
She was younger than her voice and wore a mint green uniform that she probably expected to fill out one day. And even though she’d bleached away some of her dyed-black hair and scrubbed the goth eyeliner from her eyes, I recognized her.
“Greta?”
The impatient tapping of her nails ceased. “What?”
“Greta. The girl from Intersection. You were at the magic show.”
“Greta?” the waitress repeated loudly enough for the other two diners, and probably the guy in the kitchen, to hear. “Greta,” she said again. “Intersection?”
I stared at her. “Sure, Intersection.”
“Never been there,” she said with a click of the tongue. “So who is it you want me to be?” Her eyes narrowed fiercely.
“No one,” I said, deciding to humor the teenager. “Fries will be fine.”
“Fries?” she repeated, letting her mocking smile salt her words.
“Yes.”
She made a note on her pad. “By the way, my name is Paula,” she added with a flick of her name tag and a familiar smirk that intimated, as it had before, that she just knew better.
“Okay, sure,” I said as she went into the kitchen to relay my order.
The air conditioner hummed weakly as I counted the minutes until my lunch arrived. Finally, the cook slammed his hand onto the small bell and slid my steak to the newly christened Paula, who thrust the plate in front of me with an arrogant thump.
“Can I have a cup of tea, as well?”
“Hot tea?” she snickered, lifting her eyebrows and betraying her age.
“You’ve never heard of drinking hot tea on a hot day?”
“Never.”
Greta took her time getting my cup. She chatted with the cook and wiped down the far end of the counter. When she finally returned, I had grown tired of looking for a way to hide the fries. “When you’ve got a minute, I’ll take the check. Thanks.” I watched amber tentacles spiral out from the tea bag and into the cloudy water.
“When I’ve got a minute,” Greta said with a look around the empty diner. Then she cast an eye over my plate. Devoured steak. Untouched fries. “Why’d you order them if you didn’t want them?” she asked.
“It was simpler,” I replied.
The other two diners dropped their money on their table and left. When the door shut behind them, Greta came over to me.
“So, is all you do hang out in diners?”
“I do a lot of things,” I said.
“Like follow around that magician?”
“We’re married.”
“Oh,” Greta snorted, not quite believing me. “He still doing the lame show?”
“It wasn’t lame.”
“Whatever.”
“Well, he’s got a permanent gig.”
“Where?” Greta asked, looking away, trying to hide her interest.
“Here.”
“In Vegas?” Her eyes lit up. “For real?”
I nodded.
“’Cause since I got here, I’ve been looking—”
“The Castaway.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s on Fremont Street.”
“That’s not the good part of Vegas.”
“He’s pretty much the biggest thing on that side of town,” I said, echoing Sandra.
“Sure.”
Greta walked away, forgetting my check. At the far end of the counter, she picked up one of the greasy chrome napkin dispensers and used it as a mirror to reapply her lipstick.
“The check,” I reminded her.
She clicked her tongue against her teeth and then dropped the check in front of me. “So, is he still looking for an assistant?”
“I don’t think so.”
“’Cause I’d be perfect.”
“Toby doesn’t use assistants.”
“He will.”
I shook my head and didn’t answer.
“If he’s gonna be big, he’s gonna need an assistant. You’ll see.”
“Greta—”
“You said the Castaway?”
“Aren’t you a little young to be hanging out in casinos?”
“Don’t you get bored of hanging out in diners?”
“Not really,” I said, overtipping her before walking out the door.
Day passed into night, but the interior of the Winter Palace registered no change. The lighting was planned so that the patrons would not notice the hour. Inside the casino, it was always mid-afternoon. After Toby’s first week at the Castaway, his contract had been expanded to include a six and an eleven o’clock performance in addition to his nine o’clock spot. So, after consulting my watch to make sure I would avoid the crowds in front of the Treasure Island waiting to watch the naval showdown between the buccaneers and the British, I began the long walk to Fremont Street, where the glitz of the Strip gave way to pure gambling grime.
Once called the “Glitter Gulch,” Fremont Street was the birthplace of Vegas, but unlike the popular casinos on the Strip, Fremont’s were free of special attractions and prom-night themes. They stood, like over-the-hill athletes, content to remind the rest of the city how great they’d been without making any effort to regain their former glory. The only nod to the once-spectacular Glitter Gulch was a strip club by that name offering free entrance, free table dances, and eight-dollar bottles of Budweiser.
The magician was leaning casually against the door of the theater when I entered the casino. He was wearing a suit I had never seen before—a green silk blend with a gangster gleam.
“I was wondering when you’d make it past the door,” he said.
“It seems like I’m the last woman in town to fall in love with your show.”
Toby r
aised his eyebrows.
“Sandra,” I said.
“Oh,” the magician replied. “I’ve been drawing a different sort of crowd lately. Not a conscious decision.”
“And I hoped I was the only woman inexplicably drawn to you.”
Toby leaned forward so his thin lips brushed my ear. “You are. The rest come for the show.”
I pulled back and scanned the room, looking for the women Sandra had described.
Suddenly, Toby smiled broadly, and the corners of his mouth jutted dangerously toward his cheekbones. “Pick a card,” he said, fanning a deck in front of my face.
“No thanks.”
“C’mon, pick a card.”
“No,” I said. “Try it on someone else. Anyway, I thought you didn’t do card tricks.”
“Okay, then,” my magician replied, “I’ll pick one for you.” He inched a card out of the deck.
“I’ll choose my own, thank you.” I wiggled a card out from the far left of his fan. Nine of clubs. I replaced it in the deck.
A bell rang in the distance. “Oops, out of time,” Toby said, putting away the deck. “Show’s about to start.”
“But my card,” I said, grabbing Toby’s sleeve as he slipped into the theater.
“I thought you weren’t interested.”
“Of course I’m interested.”
“After the show,” Toby promised. “You’ll get your card after the show. And about the women—for that, you’ll have to wait and see as well.”
I ordered a vodka tonic from a passing waitress. When she returned, I took a generous sip, exhaled sharply, and entered the theater. Inside, I found Sandra and a friend of hers, a bar manager at Circus Circus, already seated in the back row. Sandra shushed her friend as I approached.
“What?” I asked when their giggling had subsided.
“Nothing,” the friend squealed.
“Trina, remember Mel?” Sandra said, jabbing her companion under the collarbone. “She’s Toby’s wife.”
“Toby? Who’s Toby?” Trina said.
“The magician,” Sandra whispered in a stagy voice, and the two of them burst into fresh laughter.