The Man Who Cheated Death (Vincent Hardare)

by James Swain

  The Professor’s eyes grew wide behind his thick glasses. “Then be careful! California is filled with gullible people. They may start a religion after you.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” Hardare said.

  The Professor leaned halfway across the table, giving him the most incriminating of stares. “You’re going to do it?”

  “Yes,” Hardare said.

  “How many people did you say this madman has killed?”

  “Too many,” Hardare said.

  “Then do what you have to, and stop worrying about your goddamned image,” The Professor growled. “You’ve been given the opportunity to do some good. If this is destiny, then follow it.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The officers of the Academy rose, one by one shook his hand, and filed silently out of the room. Wilson stayed behind, and placed his hand on Hardare’s shoulder.

  “Feel better now?” he asked.

  “Much,” he said.

  Chapter 7

  KOLL

  Standing behind a glass wall, the sound technician raised his arm. Through a speaker he said, “Kenny, you ready? Okay. Five… four… three… two…one… you’re on the air.”

  “Good evening, and welcome to tonight’s show. This is Kenny Kitchen, coming to you live on L.A.’s most progressive radio network, KOLL. This is The Midnight Hour, and tonight’s topic is parapsychology, our special guest renowned magician and psychic entertainer Vincent Hardare. Welcome to our show.”

  “Thanks,” Hardare said, sitting beside his bearded host in a cramped room surrounded by coffee cups and perforated acoustic tiles. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”

  “Tonight we’re going to be discussing the hidden powers of the mind, and how psychics like Hardare help police departments across the country. In a few minutes our phone lines will be open, and we’ll be taking your calls, and maybe do a little mind-reading over the air waves. Are the juices flowing, Hardare?”

  “I’m psyched,” Hardare said good naturedly.

  A grin broke across Kitchen’s face. “Terrific. We’ll be right back.”

  A jarring commercial filled the studio, and Kitchen switched off his microphone and fished a cigarette out of the breast pocket of his faded denim jacket. Short, pudgy and balding, Kitchen had managed to parlay his one single attribute — a deeply rich mid-Western baritone — into an entire career, and his late night talk show was a counter-culture institution over Los Angeles airwaves.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, lighting up, “how do you plan to pull this off. Stooges?”

  “Too obvious,” Hardare said, being purposely vague. Kitchen was an amateur magician who had once visited him backstage at Caesar’s. Before the show, Hardare had told him what he was going to do, but not how, and Kitchen continued to plug him for details.

  “You mean it’s not a set-up?”

  “That’s right. Anyone can call in.”

  Kitchen took a big sip of coffee. “I give up.”

  “I’m going to wing it.”

  “You’re what..!” Kitchen stared through the soundproof glass partition into the next room where Detectives Wondero and Rittenbaugh were gulping down coffee to stay awake. “Do L.A.’s finest know that?”

  “Not unless you tell them.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Five seconds,” the sound technician said.

  “That never stopped me before,” Hardare replied truthfully.

  “This is The Midnight Hour,” Kitchen intoned, turning his mike on, “and our topic is parapsychology. Our guest is Vincent Hardare, who will soon be starring in his own show at the Wilshire Ebell. Hardare, you’ve used your psychic abilities to predict newspaper headlines, sporting events, even disasters. But now you’re onto something different.”

  “That’s right. I’ve offered my services to the L. A. Police to help them track down a serial killer who calls himself Death.”

  “Any results so far?”

  “Two nights ago, I correctly predicted Death’s latest murder while appearing on the Tonight Show. I’ve also given the police several significant leads, and I’ve been told that they’re close to breaking the case wide open.”

  “I realize your work is secretive, but can you tell us how?”

  “Any well-trained psychic can pick up important pieces of information,” Hardare said, reading from the script he’d prepared. “For example, I’ve been able to determine that Death is a converted left-hander.”

  Through the glass partition Hardare saw Wondero nod his head and silently mouth the word, “Good.”

  “Still, how can a single piece of information bring the police any closer to a solution?” Kitchen asked.

  “Everything is connected, Kenny. With each new piece of information the police are able to draw a sharper composite of our killer. Eventually they’ll know enough about him to make a positive identification.”

  “In-ter-est-ing,” Kitchen said, stretching the word to sentence length. “We’re going to open our phone lines up. The number is 473 - KOLL. Call if you have a question, or would like Hardare to pick your brain.”

  The six phone lines in front of them lit up simultaneously. Kitchen slid a notepad in front of Hardare and scribbled on it with a pencil.

  Ready?

  Yes, Hardare wrote.

  Kitchen punched in the first line.

  “You’re on the air. Go ahead.”

  “I’d like to ask Mr. Hardare a question,” a young woman said, her voice practically drowned by static.

  “Miss — turn down your radio!” Kitchen implored.

  “Sure.” The static disappeared. Nervously she said, “Mr. Hardare, can you actually read my mind?”

  “Of course,” Hardare said. “What’s your name?”

  “Melody, and I live in Westwood and work at…”

  “Melody,” he interrupted, “I want you to concentrate on a number between one and fifty. Now, to help me get a mental impression of the number, make it have two odd digits. Got one?”

  “Wait…okay. I’ve got one.”

  “Think hard… harder… I think I’ve got it.”

  “You do?” Melody squealed breathlessly.

  “Yes. The number you’re thinking of is 37.”

  “Oh my God!” she shouted over the airwaves. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “I just do,” he replied.

  Melody started to babble. Kitchen drew a ? on the pad.

  ! was Hardare’s reply.

  Come on, Kitchen wrote. How?

  Think it out, Hardare wrote.

  Applying magician’s logic, Kitchen quickly reconstructed the effect, and realized that Melody really only had three choices. On the pad he wrote, What if she’d picked 35 or 39?

  No one ever does, Hardare wrote.

  “Thank you Melody,” Kitchen said, punching in another line. “You’re on the air.”

  “My name’s Mike, and I think Hardare is full of crap.”

  “Even morons are entitled to opinions,” Kitchen said, starting to disconnect him.

  “He can’t read my mind,” Mike said belligerently. “Come on. I’m daring you. Take your best shot.”

  “Okay Mike,” Hardare said. “I want you to concentrate. Now close your eyes. Think hard.”

  “I am! I am!”

  “Think hard… harder.” Hardare paused. “You want me to tell everyone what you’re thinking of? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. There’s isn’t an intelligent thought in your funny shaped head.”

  “HEYYYYY!!!!”

  Kitchen disconnected him, punched in another line.

  “You’re on the air.”

  “I am? My name’s Odette and I’m calling from Venice. My sister and I are telepathic; I mean, we always know what’s on each other’s minds.”

  “Telepathy is common among siblings,” Hardare said.

  “Could you try to read my mind? I know it will work. I have a deck of cards my sister and I alway
s use.”

  “Tarot or regular playing cards?”

  “They’re regular.”

  “Okay. Take five cards from the deck. Turn them face up, and tell me their names.”

  “Okay. King of Diamonds, Three of Clubs, Jack of Hearts, Six of Spades, and the Seven of Hearts.”

  “Place the five cards in a face-up row on the table, King of Diamonds closest to you, then the Three, the Jack, the Six and the Seven. Have you done that?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good. Now take your right hand and pass if back and forth over the row of cards.”

  “Should I close my eyes?”

  “No, keep them wide open. Now, bring your hand down on top of one card in the row. Have you done that?”

  “Yes,” Odette said hesitantly.

  “Look at it. Now concentrate.”

  Her voice was trembling. “I… am…”

  “The Three of Clubs.”

  “That’s it!” Odette screamed. “Oh my God… Oh my God…”

  Kitchen shook his head in bewilderment. Hardare wanted to scold him; like so many amateurs, Kitchen had not bothered to thoroughly study the classics and familiarize himself with the principals that had been fooling audiences since the beginning of time. Odette had picked the Three of Clubs because she had no other choice. On the pad he wrote, Dai Vernon’s Inner Secrets, page 19.

  Kitchen tore the sheet off the pad and stuffed it into his breast pocket. “Thank you Odette,” he said.

  Hanging up, he punched in another line.

  “This is Charlene — the button lady!”

  Button lady? Hardare scribbled.

  “Hello, Charlene,” Kitchen said impatiently. On the pad Kitchen wrote Speed dial.

  “Hi, Kenny. And hello Vincent. May I call you Vincent?”

  “When,” said Hardare.

  “Oh, you’re just adorable. I saw your show in Vegas and just fell in love with you.”

  “What’s the question,” Kitchen said impatiently.

  “I wanted to ask Vincent if he could see into the future.”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  “Well, there’s something I’ve always wanted to know. This might sound crazy —”

  “Not from you,” said Kitchen.

  “— but can you tell me when I’m going to die? I know it sounds, well morbid, but I’m just…”

  “Dying to know,” Hardare said.

  “Yes!”

  Kitchen elbowed him in the ribs; this was dangerous ground, and not an avenue he wanted Hardare to pursue. Next they would have mothers calling in asking if he could speak to their dead children.On the pad Kitchen wrote NO.

  Hardare drew a line through it.

  “Concentrate,” Hardare told the button lady.

  “I am,” she said.

  He waited two beats. “I see it clearly.”

  Her voice was trembling. “You do? Oh I don’t think I can stand it. You must tell me.”

  “Charlene, you will die… on a Wednesday.”

  Kitchen exploded with laughter. He punched in another line.

  “Even soothsayers have a sense of humor,” he told his listeners. “You’re on the air. Go ahead.”

  “I have a request for Mr. Magico,” a man’s voice said.

  “And what is that?” Kitchen asked.

  “I want him to tell me how Lorraine died.”

  “Excuse me,” Kitchen said.

  “He knows,” the caller said.

  Hardare froze. He had heard that macabre voice before.

  It was Death.

  Harry Wondero could not have mistaken the look that spread across Vincent Hardare’s face on the other side of the glass. To his partner and said, “Tell them to get a goddamned trace!”

  Running out the door, Rittenbaugh decorated himself with half a cup of coffee. Over the speaker Kenny Kitchen said, “One last chance, friend. What do you want?”

  “I want Hardare to tell me how Lorraine died,” the caller said.

  Hardare stared through the glass, obviously lost. Wondero hesitated, his mind racing. Earlier, Hardare had said he could not erase the image of the women’s dangling head from his mind, and when Wondero had pressed him, Hardare had described her face as best he could. Young, pretty, short blond hair. Death killed his victims a variety of ways, but the knife seemed to be his preference when they were pretty. A fatal stab through the ribs into the heart.

  Wondero grabbed a pen from the sound technician. Holding it in his clenched fist, he committed an imaginary act of hari-kari. Hardare nodded his head.

  “Goodnight sweet prince.” Kitchen put his finger on the button, and Hardare grabbed the DJ’s arm.

  “You killed her with a knife,” Hardare said. “You stabbed Lorraine in the heart.”

  Silence. Then their caller said, “I’m impressed.”

  Wondero waved his arms, wanting Hardare to stall.

  Hardare gave him the thumbs up.

  Hardare thought back to his encounter in the desert with Death. He’d been able to get under the killer’s skin by taunting him, and he decided to try that approach again.

  “Satisfied?” Hardare asked.

  “Not really,” Death said.

  “You’re hard to please.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You must have had a rough childhood.”

  Over the line came the horrifying sound of a woman’s tortured screams. Before the sound technician could intercede, the screaming was abruptly cut off.

  “That was a tape I made of one of my victims,” Death said, breathing heavily into the phone. “Want to hear some more?”

  “No,” Hardare said, growing unnerved.

  “I didn’t think so. Let me tell you why I called. I think you’re a fake. The police are just feeding you information. But I’m willing to give you another chance. Do something really amazing. Wow me.”

  “Like what?”

  “That’s up to you, Mr. Magico. Goodnight.”

  The line went dead.

  “We’ll be right back,” Kitchen said.

  Wondero entered the sound booth, his mouth twitching in agitation. Rittenbaugh followed him in, his necktie dripping coffee, and squeezed it dry while standing over a wastebasket.

  “He was calling from a payphone. We just missed him,” Wondero said.

  “What do you want me to do now?” Hardare asked.

  “Keep doing what you’re doing,” Wondero said. “Did you hear his voice? He’s totally unnerved. He’s going to slip up, and when he does, we’re going to catch him.”

  Hardare nudged Kitchen with his elbow. “Kenny, do you mind if we keep this up?”

  The DJ nervously wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “This is getting pretty hairy. This guy is so tightly strung he makes Charlie Manson sound tame.”

  “You can’t stop now,” Wondero implored.

  “Is Vince’s call. He’s the one sticking his neck out.”

  Hardare took a deep breath. Wondero had told him that Death went on rampages, and would kill again soon. He remembered an old proverb from his youth. He who saves a single life, it is as though they’ve saved the entire world.

  “Let’s do it,” the magician said.

  Chapter 8

  Mind over Matter

  The detectives left the sound booth. As the sound technician counted down, Kitchen said,” Okay Vince, we pretend that he never called. Understand?”

  “Got it,” Hardare replied.

  Kitchen flipped his mike on. “We’re back with Vincent Hardare, and I must say I’m impressed; I didn’t think it was possible to read minds over the airwaves, or predict the future.”

  “That was nothing,” Hardare said. “Kenny, I want to show you the real power of the human mind. I want all of our listeners to turn up their radios. Do it right now. Fill your apartment or house with the sound of my voice. Make it loud.”

  He paused for a beat, and said, “Now I want everyone listening to say a single word aloud. Believe. Can you say it? Believe.
If you believe that by putting your energy into something, it will work, then say that single word. Believe.”