Betrayed!: The 1977 Journal of Zeke Moorie

by Bill Doyle

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. “I guess—”

  “Good, you’re in charge of the lights,” he barked.

  I fumbled for a response and looked down at Richard, who was now resting on a stretcher. His beet-red face was screwed up in pain, and the emergency team had placed an oxygen mask over it, but he managed to whisper, “The show must go on.” He gave me a small smile as they wheeled him away on the stretcher.

  I decided it’d be good for Richard to know his lights were in capable hands. “Okay, I’ll do—” I started to tell Mr. Myles, but he wasn’t listening.

  “Lucy, come with me!” he said and headed back into the auditorium.

  Before leaving, Lucy said, “Zeke, the spotlight operator will move the light where it needs to go. You just have to turn all the lights off except the spotlight, and you’ll be fine.” She turned to follow Mr. Myles and announced, “Fifteen seconds until we go back on the air.”

  I’ll be fine? Less than fifteen seconds, and I had to find the cable for the spotlight, and the lighting booth was full of sand. And I’ll be FINE?

  My heart pounding, I worked quickly. There it was! The cable that controlled the spotlight. I had to remove it from the booth and plug it directly into the wall.

  Just then, I heard the cameraman start his countdown. “And we’re back in 3…”

  Mr. Myles was now standing in the center of the dark stage. I yanked on the cable, it was stuck!

  “2…”

  The show was about to start in the dark!

  Suddenly, the cable came free from the booth—

  I imagined the cameraman silently making a “1” with his finger—

  And I rammed it home.

  The spot sprang to life at the exact same instant the camera’ red light popped on.

  Mr. Myles was normally a blustering, bellowing bundle of nerves, but when he stepped in front of the camera, he became a slick ringmaster.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” he said, oozing charm. “I apologize for tonight’s performance. One might even say it was cursed…” This reference to the Mummy’s Curse brought laughter and applause from the audience.

  Mr. Myles waited for the noise to die down. “And now the portion of the evening that many of you have been waiting for!” He turned toward the other side of the stage. “Frank, if you please!”

  The spotlight in the center of the stage widened, and Frank, the stoop-shouldered security guard, wheeled a cart into the circle of light. On top of the cart was a box that was about the size of a microwave oven. It was made of what looked to be alabaster and was covered in hieroglyphs—the writing of the ancient Egyptians.

  Ripples of excitement washed over the audience.

  “What on Earth is that thing?” A flat voice asked. It was Lucy. Mr. Myles had asked her to sit in the audience during this part of the show.

  “Good question, little lady,” Mr. Myles answered as if he didn’t know her. “The Secret Map Box was found in the innermost chamber of King Tut’s tomb. It was at the feet of the mummy—as if he might wake up at any point and want to look at it. There are hundreds of hieroglyphs on the box, which has five layers that turn. Archaeologists believe that if you line up the hieroglyphs correctly, you will discover directions to a secret section of Tut’s tomb.”

  “Oh, my, how very, very exciting,” Lucy said. It was like listening to a piece of cardboard talk. “What wonders await us in that secret section?”

  “Gold, precious gems—treasure beyond your wildest imagination!” Mr. Myles said. “But first, you have to line up the hieroglyphs on the box correctly. And there are thousands of different combinations.”

  “If only there was a key,” Lucy said.

  “Ah, little lady, there is!” Mr. Myles cried happily. “There is a key that shows how to line up the hieroglyphs. And I will show it to you on one of our programs. But I won’t tell you which one. You have to keep tuning in! So, we’ll see you next week. And if you don’t join us—you know what I say? Tut-Tut-Tut!”

  The audience chuckled and applauded. Mr. Myles made a little bow.

  Finally, the red light on the camera went dark.

  “And we’re off!” the cameraman cried. The entire cast and crew of the show started talking at once, about the power failure, Richard’s bizarre accident, and the Secret Map Box.

  I slumped against the wall and took a deep breath. Wow, show business sure was a crazy business.

  Frank was the only one still working. He wheeled the Secret Map Box past me on its cart. He would lock the box back into its display case and change the combination every night, just to be safe.

  As Frank walked by, I noticed someone had taped a sign up next to King Richard’s booth. It looked like this:

  It must have been taped up by one of the dancers.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Mr. Myles asked, tearing down the sign as he stormed into the room.

  If it was a joke, once again I couldn’t find the punch line.

  The band practicing on the bus

  JULY 15, 1977

  1:50 PM

  We’re back on the bus, heading up to Cincinnati for another show. The landscape whizzing by is starting to look pretty much the same—billboards, cows, fields… and then guess what? Billboards, cows, fields. After a while, everything seems to run together.

  It’s raining buckets outside, so the windows of the bus are shut, making it like a tropical rain forest in here. The heat and the rocking bus have put most of the kids, Mr. Myles, and even Madame Katerina to sleep.

  So things are pretty quiet—except for the six-person band that’s practicing the opening number again and again. Listening to a disco band play without electricity is like watching static on TV. It’s just a bunch of noise.

  Normally, I love music—even though I’ve got no rhythm. It’s the perfect thing for a guy like me who is into mathematical patterns. The bars and notes of a well-structured song shape up into kind of a musical building. In my mind, I can see the logical order of what the next bar or measure should be, like the construction of a skyscraper.

  Here’s how I see music: Beats are the bricks, measures are the floors, and phrases are big chunks of the building.

  The only problem is that every time the musical building starts to go up, Carla, the keyboard player, tears it down. She’s a sweet girl my age who has long limbs and a long, sad face. She keeps skipping measures and throwing off the rest of the band. The other musicians laughed about it at first, but after the fourth or fifth time, they stopped laughing.

  Carla

  “What’s wrong with you, Carla?” the lead guitarist asked.

  “I don’t know,” Carla answered with a shrug. “I guess I miss my friends back in Denver.”

  “Well, you’re not going to make new friends playing like that,” he told her.

  Carla’s dark eyes pooled with tears, and she looked down at her hands.

  “Leave her alone!” I told the guitar player. He looked just as surprised as I did that I had said anything. But I knew what it was like to be homesick and felt sorry for Carla. The guitarist just scoffed at me and said to the rest of the band, “One more time.” They started playing again.

  R.T., who was sitting a few rows ahead said, “You tell ’em, Enigma!” He suddenly flicked a crumpled ball of paper back at me. I reached up to catch it, and it bounced off my hand, into my glasses, and rolled under my seat. As I reached for it, I heard Max chuckle from his seat across the aisle and say, “Good catch, four eyes.”

  But I knew R.T. wasn’t being mean. This is part of what we do to keep ourselves from getting too bored. We talk back and forth in coded messages.

  I smoothed out the long strip of paper and carefully wound it around my scytale to see what R.T. had to say.

  TEC TIP

  HOW TO MAKE A SCYTALE

  The scytale (which rhymes with Italy) was invented in 404 BCE by Lysander of Sparta Greece. To make one, wrap a thin strip of paper in a spiral around a rod, such as a pencil or marke
r. Write your message across the strip. Unwrap the paper. The letters will now look all jumbled up. Send the loose paper to your correspondent, who can then wrap the paper around a rod of equal diameter to the one you used and read your message.

  I had just asked R.T. what he had snuck off the breakfast table this morning. His message said:

  AN EGG! ROCKY EATS EM RAW

  Sylvester Stallone played Rocky in the movie

  He was talking about ROCKY, this movie that just came out. There’s this boxer in it who eats raw eggs! R.T. must have nabbed an egg from Madame Katerina’s food supplies.

  I shook my head, and wound a fresh strip around my scytale. I sent him this message back:

  RAW EGG CAUSES SALMONELLA

  After reading my coded message, R.T. turned around and looked me, mouthing, “Salmonella?”

  I made a face like I was throwing up violently to show him what could happen.

  His eyes widened. He turned back to his pad and started writing.

  I WILL FRIDGE & EAT LATER

  I had run out of strips of paper, so I closed my eyes and listened to the musicians practicing. I could see the musical building almost reach completion—but then Carla would skip the same measure, and the whole thing would come crumbling down. Again and again and again…

  Backstage in Cincinnati

  JULY 16, 1977

  4:25 PM • CINCINNATI, OHIO

  A new city, another museum. We parked our caravan in a side parking lot, watched the guards unload King Tut and his treasures, and got to work setting up our show.

  At least the Cincinnati Museum of Historical Antiquities has a much more updated auditorium than the one in New Orleans. There is even a series of pulleys and levers that can raise and lower scenery. In fact, some kind of Roman chariot complete with six ornamental spears was dangling by ropes from the ceiling. The museum must use that for another show.

  Our show wouldn’t use any of the pulleys—but we did need the electrical system. And that was a dream come true. King Richard, who was still recovering in the hospital down in New Orleans, would have been in heaven!

  On the way into the museum, Mr. Myles smacked me on the back. “Kid, if I had my way, I’d keep you as the head lighting technician,”he said.“But Richard called the union, and his replacement should be here by show time.”

  I decided to get things ready for the new guy. I did some simple rearranging of the cables and everything went perfectly during the test run. When the new guy arrived, I went to find a good spot to watch the show. I was nervous for R.T. Madame Katerina had been visited by her Muse again the night before, and the dance had been changed yet again.

  The dancers had had to learn the new steps in just a few hours.

  By the time I found a seat out of the way backstage, I noticed Madame Katerina was standing nearby. She looked incredibly tense, and I thought about moving, but it was too late. It was a show time!

  I felt a rush when the red light over the camera blinked to life. This time, the local sponsor who introduced the show was an elderly woman. She kept her back incredibly straight, and her icy blue eyes never wavered from the lens of the camera. “Ladies and gentleman, my name is Asyla Notabe. I am a board member of this museum. It is my great honor to introduce the TEENS FOR TUT dancers.” The woman left the stage, the lights on the dance floor exploded, and the music started playing.

  Asyla Notabe

  The opening number was going great, and then Carla skipped the same measures in the music. While I found it really jarring, the dancers covered well. They just jumped ahead in the dance until the music and the steps matched up again. And I didn’t think the audience noticed.

  But Madame Katerina did. I heard her muttering something under her breath, and her hands were clenching her cane so tightly I thought she might snap it in two.

  When the red light went out and the show was over, Madame Katerina looked like an angry storm cloud with arms and legs. “My muse is going to be furious!” she whispered.

  “Good show, Madame Katerina!” Mr. Myles said, walking up to her with his hands out.

  “What do you mean?” she snarled. “That WOMAN and her KEYBOARD!”

  “Oh well. The audience loved the show, that’s all that matters,” Mr. Myles said and rushed off.

  “I’ll show her.” Madame Katerina stalked toward the band. I had to warn Carla to make herself scare. I was rushing ahead of the choreographer—when BLAM!

  “Coming through!” a stout woman from the audience shouted and actually shoved me aside. As I careened off a few chairs and landed hard on the floor, I noticed the woman had a pearl necklace, pearl earrings, and pearls in the tops of her shoes. And then she was gone.

  She must be one unsatisfied customer!

  I got to my feet just as Madame Katerina caught up with me. Together, we made our way toward Carla. She saw us coming. Like a panicked animal, she darted the other way, rushing backstage.

  “You will HALT!” Madame Katerina commanded, and Carla stopped near the hanging set of the Roman chariot. Her eyes skittered around as if looking for an escape. I thought of the tips my cousin Mal, the outdoor survival specialist, had taught me if I ever encountered a wild animal in the woods.

  Carla was dangling upside down!

  Back away very slowly, he’d said.

  And that’s exactly what Carla was doing. Inching her way back, as if hoping Madame Katerina would get distracted by other prey.

  As Carla retreated, something at her feet caught my eye. She lifted her foot to take another step—

  NO!

  —and when her foot came back down, her body shot up into the air.

  Carla screamed.

  A loop of rope had snared her leg when she stepped into it, and then jerked her about 20 feet up into the air amidst the complicated pulley system. With her long hair flopping over her face, Carla screamed again and again, as she frantically tried to get herself free.

  Madame Katerina looked more angry than surprised. “What is the meaning of this? Get down here at once!” The choreographer was acting like Carla had rocketed toward the ceiling on purpose.

  “Carla! Don’t move!” I called up. But the poor girl was too busy screaming to listen to me.

  Carla kept swinging her arms up toward her leg, trying to reach the rope that held her in its grip—and the movement started her whole body swinging. Soon she was ticking back and forth like a giant pendulum on a clock, but this pendulum was speeding up and swinging wider and wider—

  “Oh, no!” the lead guitarist shouted. “The spears! She’s going to hit the spears!”

  And it was true. Carla was getting closer and closer to the tips of the spears from the set. Soon she would smack right into one!

  “Carla!” I had to find a way to get her down. “You have to stop yourself from swinging or you’ll stab yourself!”

  But that just made things worse. Once she saw the spears, she really started to panic, and her body began to swing faster.

  Others had gathered around, attracted by Carla’s screams. R.T. was one of them, and he held a ladder. “Here,” he said and set it underneath the middle of Carla’s arc. He climbed to the top and stretched out his hand but couldn’t quite reach her as she whizzed back and forth. “Zeke, get up here and hold me steady, would you?” He called down. I climbed the ladder with shaky legs. I hate heights.

  “We have to lower her down,” I told R.T.

  He gave me a look that said, No kidding, Sherlock. “But how, when there are so many ropes?” he said “I don’t want to pull the wrong one! It might swing her closer to the spears!”

  “We need help, R.T.”

  R.T. shook his head. “There’s no time,” he said, his eyes locking with mine. “You can do this, Enigma.”

  I looked away from him, frustrated, and tried to make order out of the chaos of the pulley system. Suddenly, I felt my mind let go and enter the Code Zone. And everything made perfect sense.

  “He’s going to jump!” someone scre
amed from down below. And I realized he meant me.

  I stepped off the ladder and grabbed on to the middle rope. There was a click as my weight on the rope caused the pulley to release. As if I were a human sandbag, Carla was lowered to the ground. Max and a few other dancers reached up and gently caught her and lay her on the floor.

  “Oh, my leg!” Carla moaned, clutching the leg that had been caught in the snare.

  As I watched from above, Lucy’s hands flew around the knotted rope. In an instant, she had freed Carla. Without Carla to act as a counterweight, I shot back down toward the ground.

  “Enigma!” R.T. was halfway down the ladder and dove off so that his body was between me and the floor. I crashed into him, bounced off, and skidded across the space on my stomach. My head came to rest just inches from the concrete wall.

  I had the wind knocked out of me and couldn’t move, but I noticed a scrap of paper. It was sitting right in front of my nose and must have been kicked into the corner in all the excitement.

  A few hieroglyphs had been drawn above a bunch of jumbled words. It looked like this:

  I reached for the paper. But before my fingers could close around it, Mr. Myles’s hand swept down and snatched it up.

  “You people have to keep this place clean! Someone could slip on this garbage,” he said.

  What’s he talking about? I wondered as R.T. walked over and gave me a hand to my feet. A piece of paper didn’t send Carla flying up into the rafters!

  “It’s the Curse of King Tut!” the lead guitarist said. And a few of the other kids, who were watching Lucy place a folded jacket under Carla’s head, nodded in agreement.

  “That curse is nonsense!” Mr. Myles said. “It’s an old story I use to fill the seats. Now, someone get me a new keyboard player!”