Forty years of dust and grime, forty years of pain and sweat, forty years of hopes and dreams, forty years of Vegas history—and I had swept it all away with the stroke of a pen. A matter of dollars and cents, the decision had been easy to make. Living with it, however, was a different matter.
Extraordinarily tall, beautiful women in heavy makeup and little else dotted the backstage area, each encircled by friends, family, and adoring fans clever enough to talk their way in. I noticed Zoom-Zoom Zewicki orbiting GiGi Vascheron, the star of the show. No wonder he had disappeared from the stage so quickly.
Shorter women in costume also hosted clusters of partiers. The show photographer darted in and out, memorializing the event for posterity. Everyone talked in hushed voices. If anyone smiled, I missed it.
The few men who danced in the show weren’t visible. Neither was Dimitri Fortunoff.
Nobody’s eyes met mine as I gently pushed my way through the crowd. However, I felt the daggers hurled at my back, and I didn’t really blame them. In their shoes, I’d hate me, too.
I found my conjurer in his dressing room hiding from reality.
“Well, if it isn’t the grim reaper,” he growled when he noticed me filling his doorway. “Did you come to gloat, or are you just slumming?”
A tall man with a barrel chest, droopy features, hangdog eyes, and a down-turned mouth, dressed in a poorly fitting tux, Fortunoff looked more like an undertaker than an entertainer. Slumped in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, a plate balanced in his lap, he eyed me as he forked in a bite of chocolate cake with one hand. The fingers of his free hand worked a coin over and under, from thumb to pinkie, then back again.
A number of plastic glasses dotted the desk and shelves. Plates with partially eaten cake stuffed the small trashcan in the corner.
“Looks like you’ve had a party.”
“A wake.”
“The world moves on, Dimitri.” Mesmerized, I watched the coin dance between his fingers. “The Big Boss is spending millions refurbishing this place, turning it into Las Vegas’s first eco-friendly, totally green hotel.”
“Eco-friendly in a town known for depleting all the available local natural resources… an interesting concept.”
“We like to appear to do our part.”
“An illusion.”
“You should know,” I fired back. “Besides, I’ve heard you’ve moved on.”
“Yeah? How so?”
“Rumor has it you’re the Masked Houdini.”
A magician who hid his identity while exposing famous illusions for a national television audience, the Masked Houdini had aroused the ire of illusionists far and wide. In fact, when we announced he would be doing the Houdini Séance on Halloween, several death threats had appeared in my office—some for me, some for the Houdini. The police were unable to trace the notes, but we’d heightened security as a precaution.
“The rumor is just that, a rumor. No truth to it,” Dimitri intoned. His eyes held mine briefly, then skittered away.
“Right. Truth or not, somebody obviously believes it. I wouldn’t take the threats lightly.” This was old ground for us, but I felt the need to cover it once more.
“I’m touched by your concern.”
I might have imagined it, but I thought I caught a glimpse of a grin lift one corner of his mouth, then vanish.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I said. “I’m just covering my ass. If the Masked Houdini doesn’t show up on Halloween, I’m toast.”
This time I was sure I saw a smile.
“Did you bring me a present?” Dimitri tilted his head toward the hat under my arm.
“Not me,” I said as I thrust it at him. “A Ferengi.”
Dimitri raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t ask. The UFO folks… ” I trailed off, figuring that was enough of an explanation.
He took the hat. His brows creased into a frown when he felt the weight. Reaching in, he pulled out, of all things, a rabbit, surprising us both. “Cute, but trite, don’t you think?” he scoffed.
Snow white, his black nose flaring excitedly, the poor creature looked terrified. Reaching to pet it, I noticed something tied to its dainty, jeweled collar.
A note.
I unfurled it and my blood ran cold.
In red lipstick, someone had scrawled DIMITRI FORTUNOFF MUST DIE.
Dimitri paled. He dropped the rabbit as he fell back in his chair, grabbing at the bow tie knotted around his neck.
I snagged the bunny just before it hit the floor.
“Water. I need water.” Dimitri’s face was now turning crimson. “I can’t breathe.”
“Molly,” I screamed, shouting for Dimitri’s assistant, as I put down the bunny. She hadn’t been in her cubicle when I’d walked by earlier, but she had to be close by. “Molly!” I knelt by Dimitri and managed to get his tie unknotted and his collar loosened. I was opening my mouth to shout again, when the girl materialized in the doorway.
“What happened?” Molly asked, looking flustered and out of breath. Trim and sturdy, she had an athlete’s body and an efficient manner. Her dark hair was cut in layers and styled to look unkept. Concern clouded her brilliantly blue eyes as she looked first at Dimitri, then to me, then back again.
“He’s just had a shock. Get some water, would you?”
Dimitri gulped air. When Molly returned with water, he gulped that, too. His normal coloring slowly returned, and his breathing settled back to a steady pace until a sheen of sweat was the sole remaining evidence of his panic attack.
“Are you okay?” I asked, when I thought he could answer.
“Fine.” He pushed himself upright in the chair and set about retying his tie. “Well, as fine as anyone could be after having their life threatened.”
I sat back on my heels, my knees pressed together. “I found using Thumper as a delivery vehicle particularly menacing, didn’t you?”
He gave me a sneer. Molly hid her smile behind a dainty hand.
I pushed myself to my feet, then realized the bunny was nowhere to be found—he had escaped in the commotion. “Molly, you better go find that rabbit. He’d certainly liven up the show, but I’m in enough trouble with the girls already.”
She glanced at the magician, then bolted.
“Do you want to cancel tonight’s show?” I asked, turning my attention to Dimitri. “We really should call the police.”
“And then what?” Dimitri mopped his brow with a multicolored scarf, then tucked it back up his sleeve. “All the other threats have been false alarms and the police have found nothing.”
“You have a point. They haven’t been successful with the notes delivered to my office addressed to the fool who hired the Masked Houdini—which, by the way, would be me. I’ve increased security. I don’t know what else to do.”
“You’re getting notes, too?”
“Just lucky, I guess.” Hands on my hips, I tried to look stern. “Seriously, I think you should cancel the show.”
“No.” Dimitri looked adamant. “The show must go on.”
He didn’t smile, so I don’t think he meant that as a joke.
“Well then, come on.” Grabbing Dimitri’s hand, I gave him a tug—neither of us was particularly eager to cancel the final performance in a forty-year run. “This is your swan song. Make the most of it.”
“I wish you hadn’t put it quite like that.”
“You’ll be in front of a packed house,” I said as I brushed myself off, then straightened his tie. “What could possibly happen?”
***
The mood in the front of the house was even more somber than backstage, if that was possible. Patrons filed into the theatre—the most important among them following the ushers to long, communal tables placed perpendicular to the stage that sat six per side. Guests of lesser importance were left to fend for themselves. If any of them wanted a beverage of choice, they had to get it themselves at the bar window on the left side of the theatre, the queue for whic
h already snaked halfway across the large room.
Statuesque women greeted each other with hugs and air-kisses. Some cried while their escorts shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Nobody smiled when they looked in my direction.
I felt like a creep.
Unaccustomed to being in the midst of so much hostility, for a moment I was flummoxed. Casting my eyes around the room, I finally spied a safe haven—a small gaggle of elite magicians. Purportedly the members of the Magic Ring—a secret ruling society within the mystical arts community—I had checked them into the Babylon yesterday and taken charge of their VIP stay.
“Mr. Mortimer.” I greeted the man who had made all the arrangements for the group. “How are you enjoying Vegas so far?”
“It’s been lovely, thank you,” Mr. Mortimer said, his eyes lighting up when he saw me. “And this show is a particular treat.”
A short man, almost as big around as he was tall, Mr. Mortimer had dancing eyes and a quick smile. A ring of snow-white hair circled his otherwise bald head. The buttons of the silk vest stretching across his blossoming midsection looked ready to burst, but he appeared unconcerned.
“We were so sorry to hear the show is closing,” he continued, clearly unaware he was talking to the harbinger of death. “It’s one of our favorites—a Vegas institution.”
“Where are you sitting?” I asked.
He consulted his ticket. “Table Seven.”
“Me, as well. May I show you the way?”
We worked our way down to the front and took our seats as the lights dimmed and the orchestra played the first chords of a lilting tune. The curtain parted and the company of clothed dancers, male and female, took the stage in a rousing cabaret number. The audience, many of whom were former dancers, whistled and clapped for their compatriots. When the topless ladies, or the nudes as they are referred to in the business, sashayed onto the stage, the admiration of the audience grew louder. Some of the women smiled, but most stayed in character.
Despite having seen my share, topless shows remained a mystery to me. First, the women weren’t even buxom. With the shortest of them measured at five foot ten and none of them weighing more than a hundred and thirty pounds, how much bust could they be expected to have? Of course, my initial expectation had been they would all have been enhanced like most of the strippers in town, but that was not the case. A sort of weird reverse discrimination prevailed in Vegas: The very best showgirls had to be au naturel. I bet those women’s boobs were the only natural things left in town. Heck, even the grass outside the Wynn was plastic.
Wishing I had taken time to wait in line for a drink, but worried I might not have lived through it, I sat back, tried to relax, and watched the show. At the completion of several rousing dance numbers, each punctuated by the appearance of the nudes, the curtain fell on the first act.
After a brief moment, the curtain again parted. The scenery had disappeared. A large rectangular wooden crate resembling a phone booth with a glass front and sides stood vertically in the center of the stage. Shiny brass angles attached along the edges with neat rows of rivets, held the box together. Although it was hard to tell, I thought the crate was full of water.
Mr. Mortimer and his friends gasped in unison. Leaning over, he whispered in my ear, “That’s Houdini’s Chinese Water Torture Cell.”
“Houdini? Like Harry Houdini?”
Mr. Mortimer nodded. “I can’t imagine where Dimitri got it.”
Our eyes shot back to the stage as Dimitri Fortunoff appeared, clad only in old-fashioned swimming attire. Molly and several of the dancers accompanied him. The magician waved to someone off stage, then glanced up as a block and tackle descended from the rafters. It bore a wooden plank, cut with two round holes.
“Is this part of his normal act?” one of Mr. Mortimer’s compatriots asked.
“Not as of a month ago,” I replied, a ball of dread growing in my stomach.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Dimitri began. “As you all know, tonight is our last show and I’ve been perfecting a special escape for you.”
When he paused, you could hear a pin drop.
“Harry Houdini, widely considered the best of all time, developed the escape I am about to do for you. First, my ankles will be placed in this stock.” Dimitri held up the wooden board and removed an open padlock, which released the two halves, allowing it to be positioned around his legs.
An assistant then bent, threaded the padlock through two D rings, one on each half of the stock, and snapped the padlock closed.
“Thank you,” Dimitri said to the girl, then continued. “After volunteers from the crowd have checked all the apparatus thoroughly, I will be lifted and lowered headfirst into the chest you see here, which is filled with water. My beautiful assistants will then padlock the top in place.”
A nervous murmur rippled through the room.
“You must be convinced the chest is nothing more than it seems, that I have not tampered with it in any way. Now for the volunteers.” With one hand shielding his eyes from the lights, he looked over the crowd. His eyes came to rest on our table. Pointing at us, he said, “You. All of you. Would you be so kind?”
Catching my eye, he shook his head at me, so I remained behind as the magicians at my table filed onto the stage. Zoom-Zoom appeared from backstage and joined them, even though he hadn’t been called.
Dimitri didn’t seem to mind. As he watched, the men examined every pane of glass, every nook, every cranny of the chest. When they had apparently satisfied themselves, Dimitri asked them, “Could you see any alterations in the chest that might explain an easy escape?”
Each of them shook his head. “We could not,” announced Mr. Mortimer in his stage voice—apparently he’d been voted the group’s spokesman, as the others remained silent, merely nodding their agreement.
“What about you?” Dimitri pointed to one of the magicians who looked most unhappy at being singled out.
A hawkish man with angry eyes, he glared at Dimitri. “If this box has a trick, I do not know it.”
“Why don’t you ask Mr. Houdini?” Before the man could answer, Dimitri turned to address the crowd. “Some of you may be too young to remember the acclaimed mentalist, but may I present The Great Danilov.”
The crowd clapped politely as Danilov took a bow, and shook Dimitiri’s hand. After a whispered exchange with the magician, Danilov hurried offstage.
“Or you?” Dimitri pointed to Dr. Zewicki. “You claim to talk to the dead. Maybe Mr. Houdini will speak to you.”
“Doubtful. No one ever said he was murdered,” Zoom-Zoom hissed as he ducked backstage.
The other magicians filed after Danilov and retook their seats as Dimitri announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, these men are part of an august group of magicians. If they can’t see how I perform this escape, then it must be a very good trick indeed.”
“I have a really bad feeling about this,” Mr. Mortimer again whispered in my ear as he settled himself in his seat. “It’s long been believed the secrets of the chest died with Mr. Houdini.”
“Could Mr. Fortunoff have a new trick up his sleeve?” I asked.
“There are only so many ways to get out of a chest filled with water that’s locked from the outside.”
I didn’t like the hint of impending doom in his voice. I fought with myself. I wanted to stop the whole thing. But what if he really could get out of that contraption? He wasn’t suicidal, as far as I knew, and I was in enough trouble already. Against my better judgment, I decided to let the show go on.
We watched as the assistants first checked the shackles and tested the block and tackle. Then they helped the magician as he was lifted, then lowered into the tank. Quickly the women lowered the lid and snapped several padlocks in place around its edge, effectively securing it to the chest—with Dimitri clearly visible inside.
I held my breath as the assistants drew a curtain around the chest and left the stage. Apparently the rest of the audience felt as I did�
��they didn’t move. Not even a whisper broke the silence.
An eternity passed. Then another.
The audience grew restless. Nervous whispering buzzed.
Finally someone shouted, “It’s been too long. Somebody get him out of that thing.”
Other voices joined in agreement.
“Come.” Mr. Mortimer ordered as he rose to his feet and grabbed my hand, pulling me with him. His friends fell in step behind us as we started for the stage.
We had made it to the first step when Molly ran out from stage left. Her face was stricken, streaked with tears.
“Oh my God! He’s dead!”
Chapter Two
“KEEP everybody back!” I shouted to the security guards who rushed from their post by the entrance as I yanked the curtain aside. I didn’t wait to see if they could follow orders. Photographers rushed in, flashbulbs popping. On the stage, people formed a ring around the Houdini water box, paralyzed, frozen with horror. Dimitri floated in the water. He didn’t move.
With one quick glance, I located a sledgehammer resting against the side wall just off the stage, probably put there by the magician as a backup plan.
“People, stand back,” Mr. Mortimer shouted.
Adrenaline spiking, I swung the hammer at the glass. A spiderweb of tiny cracks formed, but the glass held. I raised the hammer to swing again, when the weight of the water broke the weakened glass.
The rag-doll body of Dimitri Fortunoff washed out at my feet. Apparently he’d made it as far as extricating himself from the handcuffs.
Molly immediately dropped to her knees and began CPR. Kneeling beside her I reached to find a pulse. His skin was cold, clammy. My fingers had yet to find the trace of a beat when paramedics shouldered through the crowd and took charge. Within minutes, they had Dimitri strapped to a gurney, a breathing device over his face.
So Damn Lucky (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 3) Page 2