The Man Who Cheated Death (Vincent Hardare)

by James Swain

  “You shouldn’t have gone in there, Myrtle,” he said.

  Chapter 30

  The Last Show

  Jan sat with her husband in the emergency room of St. Francis Medical Center, staring at the monitors that showed Vince’s blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen intake. Considering that her husband had been buried beneath several hundred tons of rubble for over an hour, he was in remarkably good shape.

  Crystal entered the room with a can of diet soda, and handed it to her. Jan mouthed the word thanks and popped the top. They had been visited by several nurses but had yet to see a doctor.

  “How you feeling,” Crystal asked her father.

  “Never better,” Hardare said.

  They both found the strength to laugh. Jan had seen her husband cheat death on a number of occasions, and always came away from the experience feeling as if she’d gone through it herself.

  “Where are the police?” Hardare asked.

  “Outside,” Jan said. “I already gave them a statement. They’ll probably want one from you later, as well.”

  “I’ll give it to them now.” He started to get out of the bed, and Jan put her hand on his chest, and shoved him back down.

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Yes, I am. We have work to do.”

  “Work?”

  “Yes. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  She placed her hand against his forehead, just to make sure he wasn’t running a fever. His scalp felt perfectly normal.

  “I’m all in favor of getting out of here,” Jan said, “but first I want to know what you’re thinking.”

  Hardare leaned back in the hospital bed and gave them a little smile. “What would you say if I told you I wanted to stay in Los Angeles, and fulfill our engagement at the Wilshire Ebell?”

  She looked at him in bewilderment. “But the spirit show is a disaster. You said so yourself.”

  “I’m not talking about doing the spirit show,” he said.

  “Then what are you planning to do?”

  “We rented the theatre for two weeks, so it’s still legally ours to use. Why not do our Vegas show and bill it as our last U.S. engagement.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. Look, if we don’t do the show, we’re financially in the hole. I’ve already spent our savings on salaries, programs, even tee shirts to be sold in the lobby. If we walk away, the idea of starting our own circus will have to be shelved indefinitely.”

  Jan looked at Crystal. Her stepdaughter was beaming. She looked back at her husband.

  “I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Jan said. “But how do we sell it? There isn’t enough money left to buy a decent sized advertisement in the L.A. Times, let alone run a TV campaign. We can’t fill the Wilshire Ebell for two weeks by word of mouth.”

  “Houdini never advertised his shows. Neither did my father. I think I know how to sell a few tickets.”

  “Wait a minute, Vince. Are you talking about doing the rollercoaster escape to get publicity?”

  “I sure am,” he said emphatically. “Doing escapes is how I made my reputation. They always sell tickets.”

  “But why the rollercoaster escape? Why not something else?”

  “We need something big. The rollercoaster escape fits the bill. We’ll get one of the TV stations to cover it. They always do. Then the newspapers will fall in line. Bingo, free publicity.”

  “But it’s dangerous.”

  “All my escapes are dangerous.”

  Vince was absolutely right. All of his escapes were dangerous. Only this stunt was in a category all by itself. While bound from a straitjacket, her husband would hang upside down from a rope that was tied to the track of a rollercoaster. The rollercoaster would be set in motion, and he would have exactly two minutes to free himself before the rollercoaster passed over the rope, and sent him hurtling to his death.

  “Are you going to use a net?” Jan asked.

  “No net. If it isn’t death-defying, it isn’t worth doing.”

  “Oh God, Vince,” she said. “Haven’t we had enough excitement for one week?”

  “Enough for a lifetime.” He paused. “So, what do you think?”

  Jan drank her soda, and told him what she thought. “All right. It’s a great idea, even if it means you might get killed.”

  “I won’t,” Hardare promised.

  “Good. But I still have a concern. Eugene Osbourne is still running around L.A., and may come after us again.”

  “The LAPD is going to find him,” her husband said. “It’s only a matter of time before they do.”

  “But what if they don’t?”

  “We can always ask the LAPD to protect us,” her husband said.

  “They’ve done that already, and look what happened. I have another idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want to handle security,” Jan said. “That includes the theatre, and wherever we end up living while we’re in town. I know a professional security company in the area that protects foreign dignitaries. I’ll hire several of their people. And I will get a gun. Nothing fancy, a .9 automatic will be fine. If Osbourne rears his ugly head, I’m going to squash him like a bug.”

  “You sound serious,” Crystal said.

  “Dead serious,” Jan replied.

  Her husband could not speak. That was unusual for him, and Jan leaned over the bed and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  “Surprised?”

  “Yes. I thought you were going to tell me you wanted a vacation,” he said.

  “No, Vince, I want vindication. Do we have a deal?”

  “Deal,” he said. “Now, let’s get out of here. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Chapter 31

  Malibu

  Driving out to Malibu on the Pacific Coast Highway, Wondero could not help but stare longingly at the ocean’s gently lapping waves. He had grown up surfing in Santa Monica, and the sound of waves still called him like the sirens in the old Greek myths.

  Malibu beach was open to the public, but the closeness of the homes made it impossible for anyone to reach the precious sand without first hiking for six miles. Wondero had often toyed with the idea of taking a personal day, and spending it walking the entire stretch, just to satisfy his curiosity and see if it was any better than what he’d grown up on.

  Rolling up his window, he quickly fell back to reality. The phone call he’d gotten from Hardare an hour ago had floored him. The detective had checked his anger long enough to learn where Hardare was staying, then told him what he thought of his decision to remain in L.A. while Death was still at large.

  “That’s it up ahead,” Rittenbaugh said. “Nice place.”

  Wondero parked in the driveway behind a mud-caked Bronco with a trailer hitch. He had never quite understood Malibu’s allure, and he supposed he never would. Literally thousands of houses, some as imposing as mansions, others the size of matchboxes, lined the four-lane road like cereal boxes on a grocery shelf. He wondered if Hardare really thought he was safe here, in a place with a major highway for a backyard.

  At the front door a thin Oriental examined their photo ID’s.

  “All right,” he said, ushering them in.

  The Oriental wore a black turtleneck and skintight jeans, no shoes or socks, and did not look armed. As he led them down a hallway, Wondero realized that he made no noise when he walked. Passing a kitchen, they entered a multi-level living area with vaulted ceilings and glossy parquet floors so bright the sunlight seemed to dance on them. The room was sparsely decorated, with a sprawling L-shaped leather couch, plus a few oddly shaped tables and chairs that could have easily been pieces of expensive art. In the room’s center sat a large piece of furniture covered by a white sheet.

  “What’s your name?” Wondero asked.

  “My name is Li,” the Oriental said.

  “Are you in charge of security?”

  “That’s Mrs. Hardare’s job.”

  “Yo
u’re kidding me.”

  “I don’t kid. Please make yourselves comfortable.”

  Li excused himself and left the room. Wondero went to the window and looked out. Somewhere he remembered reading that Jan Hardare had been an instructor at a school for mercenaries, a fact that he had immediately discounted after Death had kidnapped her.

  “Hello, detectives.”

  Wondero slowly turned around. Hardare had appeared out of nowhere, and was standing in the center of the room. The magician’s cheeks were flushed and his brow was glistening.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve been out running…” Wondero said.

  “Not at all. I was upstairs hanging upside down in a straitjacket. But it probably did my heart as much good.”

  Wondero said, “I thought you were going to leave town.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Yes, right after your wife was kidnapped. You told me that if you found Jan, you were going to get out of L.A.”

  “I realize this is difficult to understand,” Hardare told them, “but too much was at stake not to go through with the engagement. Besides, what’s to stop Osbourne from following us? We’re as safe here as we would be anywhere else.”

  “You’re putting your lives at risk,” Wondero said. “Whatever you stand to gain by staying here can’t replace a life.”

  Wondero paused, expecting Hardare to agree. When he didn’t, the detective threw his arms into the air and in frustration said, “Look, do you mind if I speak with your wife?”

  “Go ahead,” said a woman’s voice.

  Wondero again spun around, this time finding Jan standing directly behind him.

  “Where did you come from?” Wondero asked incredulously.

  “Indiana, originally,” she said. “We appreciate your concern, but I think we’re well prepared for Osbourne this time around.”

  “Prepared?” Wondero said in disbelief. “Tell me how you prepare for a sociopath.”

  “I’ll do better,” Jan said, “I’ll show you.”

  Jan gave them a quick tour.

  The beach house was owned by a magician friend who was a successful orthopedic surgeon. The house in Malibu was his weekend retreat, and hearing of Hardare’s troubles, he had graciously offered it because of its elaborate security system.

  The upstairs consisted of a master suite and a gymnasium. There were intercoms in each room, and the windows were wired to a surveillance system that ran behind the walls, and could not be tampered with. If for some reason the electricity failed, the house would convert over to a generator in the downstairs utility room.

  The first floor security was even more elaborate. The windows were also wired, while sonar boxes in each room would alert them if anything larger than an ant made an appearance. To keep his guests entertained, the doctor had built sliding partitions into the walls, allowing not only for a lot of fun, but also a quick escape if there should ever be a fire.

  To further insure their safety, Jan had hired three instructors from her old school; each had fought in at least one war, none of which the United States had participated in. One man — Jan would not say which — had also specialized in “wet work” while employed by the CIA years before.

  Jan left the icing for her husband. They had returned to the living area when he dramatically whisked the sheet off the stage illusion that occupied the middle of the spacious room.

  “This was lent to me by my friends, Siegfreid and Roy,” Hardare said, draping the sheet over his arm. “Harry, tell me what you see.”

  Wondero circled the stand. “I see a square metal cage sitting atop a stand that looks about three inches thick.”

  “Anything else?” Hardare asked.

  Wondero got on his knees and stared beneath the stand.

  “Aren’t they the guys who turn women into tigers?” Rittenbaugh asked Hardare. “My wife and I saw them at The Mirage. They were unreal! They did this one trick with a fire-breathing dragon…”

  “Nothing,” Wondero said. “It looks fair to me.”

  “Good. Now watch closely,” Hardare said.

  Helping Jan into the cage, Hardare shut the metal door as she crouched down inside. Stepping back, he tossed the sheet in the air. As it flew above the detectives’ heads, it opened to its full size and dropped down over the cage, elegantly engulfing his wife in its folds. Without a second’s hesitation the magician snapped the sheet away. Crouched in the cage sat his beaming daughter.

  “Hey guys,” Crystal said.

  “Where did your wife go?” Wondero asked.

  “I can’t tell you that. But I will tell you this. She’s someplace very safe.”

  Wondero hated to be fooled. As the detective got on his knees and began rapping the floor, Rittenbaugh said, “Aw come on, Harry, it’s just a trick.”

  Wondero could not figure out how the trick was done. Stymied, he let Hardare walk him and his partner out to their car.

  “I still think you’re making a huge mistake staying in L.A.,” Wonder said. “You’re a public person, for god’s sake. What if Osbourne slips into the theater during one of your shows?”

  “It’s a chance we’re willing to take,” Hardare said.

  “Look, I know we’ve let you down. Give us a chance to redeem ourselves. Let me post a pair of cops in the lobby and a pair at the backstage door. They can check everyone who comes and goes. It will make Osbourne think twice about sneaking in.”

  “That would be great,” Hardare said. “While you’re offering, do you mind if I ask another favor?”

  “Go ahead,” Wondero said.

  “Wednesday night I’m performing an outdoor escape to help promote the show. Could you send some men for protection?”

  “Consider it done,” Wondero said. “Just give us the location and time, and we’ll be there.”

  Wondero and his partner got into their car. Wondero had a thought, and went back to the front door where Hardare stood.

  “You and your family have a lot of guts,” Wondero said. “Please be careful. I don’t want to see anything else happen to you.”

  “We will,” Hardare promised him.

  Then Wondero got into his car, and drove away.

  Chapter 32

  The Straitjacket Escape

  Osbourne lowered his binoculars as Wondero and his partner drove away. The morphine was wearing off, and his ankle was starting to throb. He gunned the Mustang he had stolen from long term parking at LAX.

  He drove north looking for a gas station, passing the weekend hideaways of the people who really mattered: Cher, Sting, David Geffen, Jack Nicholson, Tom Cruise, and all the other heavyweights. Once, he had dreamed that he’d been invited to a party in Malibu, and spent the rest of the dream driving up and down the highway, searching in vain for the fucking house.

  As he drove, his teeth tore into a baloney sandwich he had made before venturing over to the Wilshire Ebell theatre. In one half-hour period, six deliverymen had come and gone through the backstage door. Against all common sense, he had gone home, put on a drab brown UPS uniform, filled a cardboard box with books and slapped a label on it, then gone back to the theatre.

  Hardare’s crew had been inside, busily uncrating props and doing carpentry work on stage. Osbourne had entered the dressing rooms, searching Hardare’s things until finding a slip of paper in a pant’s pocket that contained the address in Malibu and a phone number.

  At the next gas station, Osbourne went in and purchased a Red Bull. Back in the car, he popped a morphine pill into his mouth, and washed it down. Within a minute he felt relief from his suffering. There was enough morphine in the bottle to last a few more days. Long enough, he thought.

  An hour later, he pulled into the 7-11 a few blocks from his home. A payphone hung on the side of the building. When he was certain no one was watching, he removed the front metal plate with a screwdriver, and expertly rearranged the wires.

  At precisely noon the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “I
have a collect call for Eugene Smith,” the operator said, unaware it was a payphone. “Will you accept the charges?”

  “Of course,” Osbourne said.

  “Please hold.”

  “Hello, Eugene,” he heard D.B.’s familiar voice say. “How have you been?”

  Osbourne knew that the calls from the mental institution were monitored, and chose his words carefully. “I’m all right. I’ve still got that problem I told you about.”