by Dennis, Pat
“Or a rocket scientist either,” Betty affirmed sitting back into the stadium-styled seating.
Music filled the auditorium while a laser light show of red, blue and white beams zigzagged across the stage. The score from Chariots of Fire rose to a deafening pitch. Suddenly, fireworks exploded onstage as a purple fog emerged from the sidelines. Two Las Vegas style showgirls danced across the stage.
The duo wore large, white feathered headdresses that fanned out three feet on each side. Their ensemble was a skimpy flesh colored bikini, covered completely in diamond rhinestones. Their bottoms were adorned with three-foot tail feathers. Their bikini tops barely covered their multiple assets. The two glided gracefully in four-inch high heels and posed dead center on the stage. They positioned their arms in a dramatic fashion and pointed toward the empty space between the two of them.
Tillie leaned over. “Do you think they’re real?”
Betty asked, “Their diamonds?”
Tillie answered, “Their boobs.”
The man behind them must have heard Tillie’s comment because he leaned forward and said, “Who cares?”
The showgirls did a half turn. Their barely covered rear ends became visible to the audience.
“Oops,” Tillie said and pointed toward the artificially enhanced women. “I guess no one’s invented silicone butts, yet. Even with feathers, their rear ends are as flat as a pancake.”
The man crouched forward one more time and whispered. “Like I said, who cares?”
Betty had to agree. Ass or no ass, the women were gorgeous.
White smoke began to swirl around the showgirl’s feet and raced to the ceiling in a torrent, completely shrouding the young women in its wake. A large explosion popped and the white smoke fog seemed to separate. Boris rose dramatically from the bowels of the stage and now stood between the two showgirls. There was another explosion and one of the girls jumped into the air with fright. With his right hand, Boris reached out and caught the heavy headdress as it slipped suddenly off the leaping showgirl’s head.
The audience burst into a round of applause. Boris grinned and gallantly replaced the bulky headwear back on top of the young woman. The two women ran off stage, holding onto their headdresses with both hands as their pink tail feathers fanned up and down.
Boris said, with a flourish and a bow, “Welcome to Boris The Baffler.”
The audience began to applaud again but Boris held his palm upward, signaling them to stop. He said, “Please, there’s no need to show your appreciation. See, I already know what you’re thinking.”
Chuckles, as well as moans, rippled across the crowd. Betty realized that Boris’ charm captivated the audience as quickly as it had captivated her only a few hours earlier.
The showgirls ran back on stage. This time they were dressed in navy blue janitor jumpsuits that were cut off into short shorts and halter-tops. Red baseball caps and stilettos completed their sensational look. They began to set up a row of five metal chairs, center stage.
Boris looked upwards and spoke to the sound booth at the back of the balcony. “Bring up the house lights, please.”
As the lights lit up the room Boris said, “Keep the lights up for the rest of the show. I’ve nothing to hide, although I know a lot of you think I do.” He peered out over the crowd. “I would like five volunteers from the audience. Raise your hands if you’d like to be chosen.”
Tillie jumped up and waved her hands wildly in the air. At least twenty others did the same.
With one hand on his forehead, Boris’ eyes scanned the audience. He selected four other people to join him before his eyes caught Tillie’s. He gestured for her to come onstage.
Although she was the last to be chosen, Tillie was the first to make it onstage. “Should I sit down?” she asked, as she stood next to Boris.
Boris sighed playfully, as if he were eternally bored with his job of being a mind reader and said, “I knew you would ask that.” Tillie plopped herself on the first chair. The other four—a man and three women—soon followed.
From her seat in the audience, Betty recognized the male volunteer. Slevitch was one of Betty’s new passengers who paid in cash. He was also one of the men that she’d asked Severson to investigate. She pointed out that all of her new riders, including the now dead Farsi, were people of enormous size. In fact, they actually looked as if they could be related.
As far as she knew, the sheriff hadn’t been able to find Slevitch to question him. Slevitch hadn’t shown up for his scheduled interview with the sheriff’s department either. Yet, here he was, volunteering to be part of the Baffler’s show. And more surprising was seeing Tillie’s reaction when he worked onstage. Tillie seemed to recoil slightly, as if she were terrified.
Boris’ voice boomed across the theater as he handed a stack of index cards to each of the showgirls. “My lovely assistants, Maddie and Heather, will hand each of the volunteers an index card. But first, I’d like the girls to memorize what is written on the cards.”
The two dancers quickly scanned each of the cards.
Boris asked, “What three words are written on only four of the cards?”
“Tell the truth,” the pair said in unison.
“And what three words are written on the other card?” Boris demanded.
“Tell only lies!” they announced.
“Shuffle them and then give one to each of our volunteers, face down,” he instructed. “I would like each of you seated to refrain from looking at the card that is given to you until I tell you to do so.”
When the two showgirls passed out the final one, Boris turned to the audience and said, “Because we are in a casino, I am assuming most of you know what a tell is.”
His statement was met with “You betcha’” and nodding of heads.
Boris continued, “For those who don’t, every human being has a tell, a small change in their behavior that is easily detected when they tell a lie. It can be a twitch of the neck, a pulling of the ear, or one eyebrow that raises a millimeter at the most. These actions are not noticeable to most people, but are easily noticed by someone trained in this art as I have been.”
Boris began pacing back and forth on the stage. “Being able to read minds isn’t magic. For instance, today I surprised a man in the casino by telling him he was a retired plumber. He failed to remember his union emblem was embroidered on his overalls. I shocked another woman when I read her mind. She was thinking that I,” Boris paused for dramatic effect, “was dressed like Liberace. As if, I hadn’t heard that before.”
The auditorium burst into applause while Betty thought, well that explains that, knowing she was the woman he was referencing.
Boris continued. “Reading minds is merely a skill passed down through the centuries from one generation of shaman to another.”
A man in the front row yelled, “Teach me how to read the dealer’s mind! I’m already down three hundred bucks.”
Boris responded with a smirk. “Actually you’re already down three thousand.”
The crowd erupted into laughter and when it quieted, the man added meekly, “Why’d you have to say that? My wife had no idea.”
Immediately, the woman to his left hit him in the head with her gold spangled purse.
The crowd roared again and Boris offered the man words of comfort. “Don’t worry. You’re going to win $20,000 this very weekend.”
The man jumped up and ran out of the auditorium toward the casino. His wife followed in hot pursuit.
The audience clapped loudly. Boris added, “Alas, I failed to let him know that his win will be when he’s playing Monopoly with his grandkids. But don’t worry. He’ll be ahead by the time he leaves the casino—by three dollars and seventy-seven cents.”
Betty grinned. She didn’t know how much of Boris’ act was staged beforehand, but it was certainly entertaining.
Boris turned away from the volunteers. “I want each of you to read the card my assistants have handed to you. Then, turn
it over so I cannot see which card you have. However, do not show any emotion or reaction to what is on your card. Maintain your best poker face at all times.”
Each of the five participants read their cards. Betty could tell they were doing their best to follow Boris’ instructions. Even Tillie sat stone-faced and erect. In fact, she’d been that way ever since Slevitch walked onto the stage.
Boris said, “By merely watching the volunteer’s facial expressions while holding their hands, I will be able to tell who is lying to me, no matter how good a liar they might think they are.”
Boris turned to one of the senior ladies. He reached down and took each of her hands in one of his. “What is your name, dear?”
“Beverly England.”
“And what do you do for a living, Mrs. England?”
“I’m retired. I live on Social Security, a small investment portfolio,” and then with a hint of embarrassment, “and jackpots from penny slots.”
Boris chuckled. “And your favorite movie star is?”
“Why Harrison Ford, of course. The sexiest man alive!”
Quick laughter shot up from the crowd.
Boris leaned over and took a deep whiff. “Why, Mrs. England, you’ve had a very large margarita for Happy Hour.”
“I’ve had three,” came her huffy response.
“I know,” Boris said, patting her shoulder. “I was being a gentleman.”
Boris stepped over to the next participant, a large, redheaded woman. He took her hands in his and asked, “What is your name?”
“My name is Kelly O’Sullivan,” the middle aged redhead said proudly in a heavy Irish Brogue. “I’m on vacation from the sweetest of motherlands, Ireland herself.”
Although the accent was completely different, Betty recognized the woman’s voice. Kelly O’Sullivan was the same woman who had rescued her from the snow bank. Except when the woman befriended her, Kelly O’Sullivan spoke with a Minnesota accent and her hair was blonde.
Briefly, Betty wondered if she’d hit her head harder than she thought on the snow-covered concrete. It was then Betty noticed Boris’ tell. His normally warm eyes glazed over in ice as he stared at the redheaded woman. He gave her the same, hardened look that he’d shot at the retired Flamenco dancer earlier.
In a stern monotone, he asked, “And what do you do for a living?”
There was a slight hesitation before the woman answered. “I work in a laundry. Nothing comes into me doors that doesn’t go out clean as a leprechaun’s whistle.”
Boris dropped her hands abruptly and moved in front of the next volunteer, Tillie. His demeanor instantly changed and he became friendly. He smiled as he placed Tillie’s hands in his. He asked, “What is your name, sweetheart?”
“Tillie,” she answered.
“And your favorite activity is …”
Tillie’s mouth dropped opened immediately and she quickly shut it, placing one of her hands over her lips. Even from where she sat, Betty could see that Tillie was blushing.
Boris responded gently, “Tillie, we’re all adults here. It’s okay for you tell everyone that your favorite activity is sex.”
Tillie rolled her eyes in defeat. “Whatever.”
A dozen men gave Tillie a standing ovation.
“And your second favorite?”
“Oh that’s easy, scrapbooking.” Tillie beamed and then added, “Of course I don’t keep a scrapbook about sex.”
After the crowd’s laughter died down Boris said, “Actually, I think you should. Now, what do you do for work?”
“I drive a tour bus. Plus, on the side, I sell a wonderful line of make-up.” Tillie leaned toward the audience. “I always have free samples, ladies.”
Boris turned to step toward the lone gentleman on stage; he reached out his hand as a loud clap of thunder roared throughout the hall. Boris spun around quickly and stared up at the sound booth. Betty realized whatever just happened, shouldn’t have.
There was another clap of thunder and smoke flew across the stage while laser light beams dashed randomly and strobe lights pulsated. Finally, there was a loud pop. It was the sort of pop Betty had heard at shooting ranges. The sort of pop that filled the air with the smell of burnt, rotting eggs. The smell of gunfire.
Immediately, Slevitch fell out of his chair, his large body crumbling onto the floor. Even from where she sat, Betty could see the front of his tan shirt was beginning to turn crimson.
To stop from screaming, Betty put her hands to her lips. The gunshot wasn’t part of Boris the Baffler’s act.
Chapter 21
Audience members fled up the aisles and out of the auditorium. Only a few brave souls including Betty and Lori, stayed behind, transfixed by what was happening onstage. Two of the show’s volunteers remained frozen in their chairs. The showgirls had dashed away the moment Slevitch hit the floor. Boris stood in the center of the stage, his eyes scanning the theater, undoubtedly looking for the attacker. If he was a true mentalist, his skills weren’t working very well.
On stage Tillie knelt next to Slevitch. He was still alive. His arm shook as he reached up and grabbed Tillie’s hand. He mouthed a few words and then immediately let go. His arm fell to the floor. Slevitch was dead.
Tillie lifted herself up slowly and backed a few paces from the body. The woman who said her name was Kelly O’Sullivan placed her hands on Tillie’s shoulders. As she did, she positioned her lips near Tillie’s ear and whispered something. Betty watched as the bus driver’s eyes widen.
Tillie’s hands grasped at her stomach, as if in pain. The woman known as O’Sullivan pulled Tillie to a chair and forced her to sit. Then the woman glanced at the stairs where security guards were already blocking anyone from leaving the stage.
Betty’s focus darted between the stage and the balcony. She wanted to keep an eye on Tillie, yet she was on the lookout for another shot as well. She assumed the bullet came from the upper level. As far as she could tell, except for the lone soundman in the booth, no one was up there.
“Should we grab Tillie and run for it?” Lori asked as she clutched Betty’s sleeve.
Before Betty could answer Tom Songbird rushed into the auditorium, pushing his way down the aisle. Severson was close behind, along with several of his men. The sheriff leapt onto the stage and knelt next to the splayed body. He placed two of his fingers on the man’s neck.
“We need to get Tillie off that stage,” Lori said abruptly, and dashed out of her row. She was half way down the aisle when Betty managed to catch her. She stopped Lori and pulled her back into a row of seats.
“We can’t,” Betty informed her, knowing the sheriff would certainly question their motives on getting Tillie away from the crime scene. Even if it were only a coincidence, a person connected to Take A Chance Tours was once again standing next to a corpse.
“The sheriff’s in charge,” Betty reminded Lori. “He’s the one who gets to tell her when to leave. Not us.”
“He’ll listen to me,” Lori said, her breath becoming more rapid.
Betty said, “Not this time.”
Lori relented and sat down again in a seat. Betty sat next to her and turned her attention to the O’Sullivan woman who was now standing at the back of the stage. She watched as the redhead paced in small circles, her hands balled into fists. The woman was mumbling to herself as she occasionally stared at the balcony. Betty knew that Kelly O’Sullivan—or whatever her name was—figured the shot originated from the second level. Just like Betty did.
It was ironic the same woman Betty thought of as a hero earlier was now someone who frightened her. And it was even odder that the woman had spoken to Betty in a Minnesota accent, yet chattered on stage in perfect brogue Irish. And there was no doubt in Betty’s mind that the woman was also the retired Flamenco dancer who’d hit a jackpot earlier.
Just who are you, Lady? And what are you up to? Betty wondered, as she sat in the chair, her forefinger tapping thoughtfully up and down against her lip.
&nbs
p; It took every bit of self-control for Betty to stay put. She too wanted to yank Tillie out of the theater. She could only begin to imagine what the driver was feeling. If the bullet had strayed only a foot to the right, Tillie’s chest would have been the one that was ripped apart.
The sheriff turned to one of his men and yelled angrily, “Check everyone’s ID in this room. Get their names and get them out of here.”
The deputy jumped off the stage. One by one, he interviewed the few audience members that were left. It took him only a few minutes to reach Betty and Lori.
Betty was just about to hand him her driver’s license when the officer said, “I know who the two of you are. You both can leave.”
“Thank you,” Betty said.
As soon as Betty and Lori exited the theatre she saw that Severson’s men were interviewing people. It surprised Betty that one of the men being questioned was Mr. Ogawa. He hadn’t been at the show, yet he seemed to know what happened. When it came to murder, news traveled at warp speed.
Ogawa was pointing toward her. She assumed he was telling the officer he was one of her riders. Or perhaps he was telling the policeman that he was able to cross another item from his 88 Things To Do list: seeing a man shot to death.
Betty shivered at her own dark humor and started to walk out of the lobby when Lori put her arm on her shoulder and stopped her. “Aunt Betty?”
Betty’s ears perked up. Lori almost never used the “A” word unless she was either worried, afraid, or the bearer of bad news.
“What is it?” Betty asked, as Lori stepped in front of her.
Lori’s face was stern. “Maybe we should cut this trip short. We could head back home tonight.”
Betty shrugged, despairingly. “We can’t. We’re scheduled to be here until tomorrow afternoon at two. Besides, we still don’t have a bus to take us back. We can’t ask senior citizens to hitchhike to Chicago.”
“We could charter a plane,” Lori suggested. “It would cost a fortune but considering what our clients have been through ...”
“Most of our clients won’t set foot in a plane. Why do you think they travel by bus?”