“Sometimes. Now you know what happened that night in front of the condo when two people lost their lives because of an ex-husband’s jealousy. You will never be able to forget it. But it’s a gift as well.”
“How is it a gift, when you can experience something like that?”
“It’s a gift when you can tell a frail, terrified old woman who’s had nightmares for years that her beloved husband did not die in pain and wasn’t afraid because he was alone. It’s a gift when you offer peace of mind.” Her smile widened. “A piece of mind.”
I considered it. “Maybe that’d be all right.” I sat up slowly, steadying myself against the floor. “I need to leave. But I want to come back . . . talk to you more about all of this.”
She watched me stand up, noted my unsteadiness. Refrained from suggesting I wait. “Where are you going?”
“Cemetery,” I said. “There’s someone I need to visit. To tell her I know the truth.” I glanced back. “That we know the truth. Finally.”
She nodded. “Peace of mind.”
I paused in the doorway, stretching open the screen door. “Never found a man who could understand you, huh?”
“Not yet.”
“Yeah, well . . . my wife didn’t understand me, either. Maybe it’s better if we stick to our own kind.”
“Maybe,” she said thoughtfully, climbing to her feet. She paused in the doorway, caught the screen door from my hand as I turned to go. “Excuse my bluntness, but, well . . .” She plunged ahead. “You’re bitter and burned-out, and dreadfully out of shape. Now that you know what you are inside, what you can do, you need to clean up your act. It takes every piece of you, the”—she paused, smiling—“magic. You need to be ready for it.”
I grimaced, aware of my crumpled shirt, stubbled face, bloodshot eyes, the beginnings of a potbelly. She wasn’t ultrafit because she was a narcissistic gym rat. It was self-preservation in the eye of the hurricane.
I turned to go, grimacing. “Yeah.”
“My name, by the way, is Sarah. Sarah Connor.”
I stopped short and swung back. “You’re kidding me.”
Color stole into her cheeks. “I take it you saw The Terminator.”
“Hell, I own the movie. On DVD.”
She thought about it. “I guess if your name isn’t Arnold, we’ll be okay.”
I laughed. “No, not Arnold. That I can promise you.”
“Well?” she asked as I turned away again. “What is it?”
I threw it back over my shoulder as I reached my little sidewalk. “Clint East—”
“No!” she interrupted, wide-eyed. “Really?”
“Just East,” I said. “But the guys in the department, well . . .” I grinned. “They called me Woody.”
Sarah laughed aloud.
As she closed her door, still grinning, I stuffed hands in my pockets and went whistling next door to mine, feeling good about myself for the first time in months.
Special Surprise Guest Appearance by . . .
Carole Nelson Douglas
Ex-journalist Carole Nelson Douglas is the award-winning author of forty-some novels, including nine fantasy and science fiction titles. She currently writes two realistic mystery series with light fantasy content. Good Night, Mr. Holmes introduced the only woman to outwit Sherlock Holmes, American diva Irene Adler, as a detective, and was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year. The series recently resumed with Chapel Noir and Castle Rouge, a two-book vampirish take on Jack the Ripper. Douglas also created hard-boiled feline P.I. Midnight Louie, whose part-time first-furperson feline narrations appear in sixteen novels set in contemporary Las Vegas. Cat in a Neon Nightmare and Cat in an Orange Twist are the latest titles. Douglas’s short fiction has appeared in seven The Year’s Best collections.
She collects vintage clothing as well as stray cats (and the occasional dog) and lives in Fort Worth, Texas, with her husband, Sam.
Magic is a man’s game,” he told the reporter for the Las Vegas Review-Journal who sat beside him in the audience. “In this town, for sure,” she answered. “Except for Melinda at the Venetian, a female illusionist has never headlined in Vegas before. That’s why I’m interested in your take on this one.”
His “take” on this one was he could take her or leave her, and she had left him, long ago, not on her terms.
“Even you must admit,” the reporter said, eyeing him slyly, “that her Mirror Image trick is a winner.”
“It’s all mirrors,” he answered, snorting ever so slightly. No sense in demeaning his own act while dismissing that of a rival.
Rival?
Chardonnay LeSeuer was one of those tall black women with a whole lot of cream in their coffee. Looked like a freaking supermodel. Now she was “Majika” and making hay by playing both the sex and the race cards: not just the second woman ever to headline on the Strip but the first black magician.
She was also an ex-assistant he had sent packing years ago for packing on a bit too much poundage. Sure, she looked pretty sleek now, but usually it was all downhill with women once the weight started piling up. How was he to know she’d get over putting on fifteen pounds because her kid had gotten that annoying disease? She’d missed a lot of rehearsals with that, too.
Time had added assorted swags and sags to his six-foot frame as well, as if he were an outmoded set of draperies, but his magician’s costume could be designed to hide it, as did the ignominy of a custom corset that doubled as a handy storage device for assorted paraphernalia that shall remain nameless, at least to readers of the Review-Journal.
“Actually,” he added, trying to sound affable, “I haven’t seen this infamous Mirror Image trick yet.”
“Why do you say infamous?”
“From what I’ve heard, it smacks more of a gimmick than legitimate magic.”
“Aren’t all magic tricks a gimmick?”
“Please. Not ‘tricks.’ It makes magicians sound like hookers. We use the term ‘illusions.’ We are frank about what we do, but we don’t debase it. There’s a fine line.”
“And how has Majika crossed over it?” the reporter asked, pencil poised. She was a twenty-something twerp with an overstudded left ear and an annoying manner, as if she knew something about him that he didn’t.
By overstepping her bounds, he wanted to snap. Instead, he displayed that mysterious and vaguely sinister smile that was pasted on billboards high above the Strip and had been for fifteen years. It was pasted on his face now, too, thanks to Dr. Mengel. “We’ll find out tonight, I’m sure.”
Marlon Carlson sat back in the seat, startled when it tilted back with him. The damn Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino had gone first-class in designing a house for this upstart woman. He’d had an exclusive gig at the Oasis down the Strip—as Merlin the Magnificent—for years, but the fact was the joint was getting a bit tacky. Every older stage show seemed shabby after Cirque du Soleil had hit town. That was the trouble with Vegas: it took millions to set up a theater specifically for a designated show meant to run for decades . . . and then the star got millions, too.
Refurbishing in midstream was the name of the game, and he was getting tired of it. He was getting tired, period, especially of the cosmetic surgery that had tilted his eyes to a Charlie Chan slant and drawn his neck skin back like a hangman’s noose. At least he had never looked as artificial and aerodynamically taut as the eerily ageless Siegfried and Roy. Yet. And at least he didn’t have to work with cats, animals almost as annoying as the clichéd rabbit. He understood that Majika still resorted to producing the expected (another word for rabbit) in the illusion trade.
When he couldn’t help shuddering at the indignity of resorting to the rabbit, which was literally old hat, the snippy young reporter had the gall to ask if he was cold, like he was somebody’s Uncle Osbert instead of a first-rank stage magician at the top of his game.
He forced his attention to the stage, where the woman who now called herself Majika, slim and limber in spangled leopard
leotard, was going through the motions of various sleight-of-hand illusions.
She was slight of form again, he noted nostalgically. Always a looker, but not very cooperative. Usually, his assistants considered it a signal honor to sleep with him. Well, maybe it was a less signal honor these days, but it was still a tradition.
She had no real assistants, except for various members of the audience she called onstage.
That’s what was wrong with magic shows nowadays. They had all gone over to the proletariat. There was Lance Burton with his kiddie brigade at the Monaco, as if magic were still something meant to amaze and amuse the preteen set instead of a multimillion-dollar con game with almost 40 million tourists a year to milk and bilk. There was, until recently, the afore-considered Siegfried and Roy, in their off-hours breeding rare albino lions and tigers and, perhaps someday, even some bloody bears. Oh, my. All for the good of the planet and mankind.
All Merlin the Magnificent did was mystify and collect his millions. At least Majika had no politically correct cause on display along with her lean form and her skimpy magical prowess.
His nose wrinkled despite itself, quite an achievement given his last surgery, as she coaxed a shy, fat middle-aged woman in a (sigh) floral-decorated sweat suit from one of the first rows of the audience onto the stage.
The usual cabinet had been wheeled center stage by the black-clad ninja stagehands. They came and went like ebony fog, no posing, no muscle-flexing. In fact, there was something weirdly boneless about their silent, supple forms, like electric eels gone upright. Frogmen in wet suits, that’s what they evoked in their shiny spandex jumpsuits covering head to toe to little finger. Disgusting.
This time the eternal magician’s prop was presented with the mirror in plain view on the outside front, even framed in ornate gilt wood, as if it were made to hang on a wall. The simpering cow from the audience, obviously a plant, was finessed into the cabinet by the door swinging open on a dead matte-black interior.
Once the dupe was inside, the shadowy ninjas sprang from somewhere to spin the cabinet sideways. Majika stood proudly edgeways behind it, her figure as sleek as a diver’s.
To the uneducated eye, the cabinet looked no more than two inches wide, like an ordinary mirror frame. Please! Marlon was getting a headache.
“How does she do that?” the reporter was whispering, nagging in his ear.
“Mirrors!” he snapped.
But he wasn’t sure. How irritating.
The frogmen spun the cabinet . . . once, twice, three times.
Its side profile was always as black and narrow as a dagger’s, and Majika made sure to stand behind it fully visible, as if it were really that thin an edge.
He rapidly calculated angles, checked the wings and floor for hidden mirrors.
The audience gasped.
. . . for out of the narrow edge of the dark mirror the woman in the gaudy sweat suit stepped, blinking as if emerging from the dark.
“My goodness,” she murmured like the tourist born she was.
What a stooge! So annoying as to appear absolutely natural. He wondered what casting director Majika used.
The lithe magician gestured the woman to stand at her right side, then nodded to the dark men to spin the mirror again.
And this time the very same image of the sweat-suited woman stepped out from the other edge of the mirror. Majika moved between them, her own figure reflected to infinity in the bland mirrored face of the cabinet front.
The split images of the woman from the audience eyed each other and then began addressing each other.
“You can’t be me.”
“You must be me.”
Twins. Simplest trick in the book. One backstage waiting to go on, the other planted in the audience. What a sucker ploy!
“How’d she do that?” the reporter prodded, her pencil waving in his face.
Watch the fresh peel, baby!
He leaned away from the unwanted contact. Twins, he was about to say when Majika waved the two women together and they slowly converged until they melted into each other and only one stood there, looking like she needed to be pinched to wake up.
“How’d she do that?” the reporter persisted, insisted, as that ilk will.
“Mirrors,” he said shortly, rising so he could beat the rest of the audience to the exit doors. It was hard work. They were all standing, blocking the rows and the aisles, giving Majika a standing ovation for the final illusion of her act. He didn’t even glance stageward to catch the vaunted final fillip of the show: a white rabbit pulled from a black top hat that moments before had been flatter than a Frisbee. Even flatter than the edge of the spinning mirror.
“Chardonnay,” he greeted Majika when she finally returned from the multiple bows to her dressing room, which he had managed to enter as if he had appeared there by design. It stank of opening-night floral arrangements, but the show had been running for eight months.
“Merlin,” she answered. “I mean, Marlon. Dare I ask how you got in here?”
“Started early, honey. Shut the door. We have things to discuss.”
She obeyed, just as she had when she needed the paycheck.
His confidence perked up. He was the maestro, she the upstart. “That mirror thing is a fairly effective trick,” he said, smiling. God, it hurt.
“Works for me.” She sat at her dressing table to swipe the glitter highlights from her face.
He wished she would wipe off that new expression of elegant self-satisfaction. Or had she always looked that way?
“Seriously,” he added, “I think you might have something there.”
“Really?” She spun toward him, barefaced, looking as taut as a teenager.
He blinked like a tourist in the limelight. Something was wrong here. Unfair. Why should she be slim and unwrinkled when she’d passed off his babe-scale years ago?
“So how’s your kid?” He had searched for the given name and given up.
“He died.”
Silence always made him uncomfortable. He supposed firing her in the middle of that medical melodrama could have made it hard on . . . someone. He didn’t like to hear about people dying. He never knew what to say, so he said nothing.
She seemed to expect no less from him. “So, did you like the show?” she asked.
“What’s not to like?” Everything. “Glad you made such a great . . . comeback. You look terrific.” Spoken softly, like an invitation.
“Thanks. It’s good to see you again, too.” She seemed pleased that he was here.
Oddly, that cheered him. He hadn’t realized he’d needed cheer until now. “Really?”
“Well, you are the maestro. I’m flattered that you bothered to see my show.”
“It’s that Mirror Image trick that’s the draw.”
“Illusion,” she corrected as swiftly as he had corrected the reporter.
She leaned an elbow on the dressing table, then her chin on her fist. Her image reflected to infinity behind her, thanks to the room’s traditional parallel aisle of dressing table mirrors. It was all done with mirrors, and he was never done with mirrors, for he saw himself, small and wee, in a tiny corner of the reflected room behind her. His trademark mane of hair, now a dramatic white, was mostly extensions now. He was the sum of all the parts of his former illusions.
His heart fluttered. This moment was important. He knew it. For her, for him. He couldn’t tell for which one it was more vital, just as one couldn’t tell the twins from the Mirror Image illusion apart, even when they merged at the end.
“It’s twins, isn’t it?” He spoke without wanting to, hungry, urgent, worried.
“No, not twins.”
“Not twins?”
She smiled gently, as at a slow-witted child. “This is something totally new, my illusion.”
“Nothing’s new in magic. Nothing! It’s the same dodge and burn the photographers use to enhance photographs, only it’s performed on the audience’s eyes instead of a negative.”
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“Dodge and burn,” she repeated. “I like the way you put that.”
“Listen. I’m curious as hell, and I admit you’ve got me wondering. I really want to know how you do that.”
She was silent. Signature illusions were a magician’s bread and butter, big-time.
“A million dollars,” he said, unable to stop himself. “I’ll give you a million dollars if you show me the secret of that trick.”
His words had surprised her as much as they had him.
“A million dollars.” She savored them like bittersweet chocolate. “A million dollars would have saved Cody’s life.”
“Cody?”
“My son.”
“Oh. Sure. Sorry. Sorry about that. So the disease, whatever, was terminal.”
“Then it was. Not now.”
He didn’t know what to say, so he left his offer hanging there.
Apparently, she saw it still twisting in the wind. “You have to promise not to tell anybody.”
“Sure. I mean, no. Not ever.”
“And you can’t use it yourself without paying me a . . . royalty.”
“I wouldn’t want to use it. I mean, I’m not a copier. Haven’t ever been. I just want to know.” He realized this new, unexpected need was the deepest he’d felt in some time. “I don’t understand it. It’s not magic like I know it. I need to—”
“I understand need,” she said, cutting him off as if uninterested in the sudden flood of genuine feeling that engulfed him. “I’ll show you how the trick works.”
“A million dollars,” he repeated, awash in a foreign wave of gratitude.
He really had to know, more than anything in his life. What life? It was all magic show. She’d probably give the million to some foundation for the disease that had killed her son. So he’d have helped her, after all. Life was strange, but magic was even stranger.
It would be quite an event. She would only reveal her illusion by using him in it. He was to be the stooge hauled from the front rows of the audience. His hotel and her hotel had agreed to copromote the onetime union of two major Strip magicians as if they were world-class boxers having a ballyhooed rematch.
Murder by Magic Page 3