Psych: Mind Over Magic

by William Rabkin

  But Fleck’s golden touch didn’t seem to give him a thick skin. The Internet was filled with stories about the mogul’s revenge on people he felt had crossed him. He’d been sued several times for hiring private investigators to dig up dirt on reporters who got too close to him.

  “Where’s the downside?” Shawn had asked when Gus told him what the research had dug up.

  “Let’s see,” Gus said. “We’re getting into business with a man who is famous for targeting people who let him down.”

  “And who does he hire for his targeting?” Shawn beamed, clearly feeling he’d bested Gus’ logic on this one. “Private investigators. Which means us. So either we find the green guy and we’re heroes to the boss, or we don’t and we’re searching for dirt. Either way, we’re looking at a long-term business prospect.”

  “You think he’s going to hire us to dig up dirt on ourselves?”

  “That would be silly,” Shawn said. “I figure we can do each other. And believe me, I can give him lots of hot stuff about you.”

  Gus might have continued arguing against the Vegas trip if the door to the offices hadn’t banged open just then. Henry Spencer stood in the doorway, red faced and breathing hard. He looked like a cartoon bull who was about to turn into a steam engine in order to flatten the matador.

  “What have you done?” he demanded. “Are you so thoughtless, so selfish, that you casually ruin other men’s lives just for fun?”

  “You used to be a cop,” Shawn said without even blinking. “You ruined people’s lives for money. Doing it for fun is much less selfish than that.”

  Henry’s hands twitched as if he wanted to put them around Shawn’s throat. Then he dropped them to his sides. “All I asked was for you to deliver a present to my friend Bud’s bachelor party. You didn’t even have to say a word. Waltz in, waltz out; night’s over.”

  “I’ve never been much of a dancer,” Shawn said.

  “Why did you have to tell Bud that Savonia was cheating on him?”

  “Savonia?” Shawn asked. “An entire country was cheating on him?”

  “That’s Slovakia,” Gus said. “Or Slovenia. I can’t keep the two of them straight.”

  “Apparently a problem you have in common with the bride,” Shawn said.

  Henry turned an angry eye on Gus. “Don’t think I don’t blame you for this, too. You could have stopped him.”

  Gus knew he couldn’t have, and he knew Henry knew it, too. But all that knowledge couldn’t spare him from the creeping feelings of guilt.

  Shawn stepped between Gus and Henry. “I don’t know what you want from me. I just saved your buddy from ruining his life with a woman who was cheating on him with his best friend.”

  “And tore his heart out,” Henry said. “He’s been lonely forever, he finally meets this lovely woman from Eastern Europe who turns his life around, and you smash it into pieces. Now he won’t even return my calls. Worse, I think he’s so angry, he turned his fiancée in to the feds—when I went down there to look for Bud, there were ICE agents parked outside. And Lyle, poor Lyle . . . I tried to talk to him and he just drove away. When I followed him, he went straight to a mental hospital. I think you gave him a nervous breakdown. And all I wanted you to do was deliver one lousy gag gift.”

  “If it means anything, we didn’t do that, either,” Shawn said. “If you want it back, you’ll have to retrieve it from evidence. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a flight to catch. Be sure to lock the office when you go.”

  Shawn marched out the door and Gus followed quickly. But even knowing the trouble he was leaving behind, Gus had gotten onto the Allegiant Air flight with a large set of reservations, which could have been a problem because it was nearly more weight than the thirty-four-seat MD-80 could carry.

  He grew warier still when he noticed the cab driver was having a lengthy, quiet conversation on his cell phone, and that every time he listened to the person on the other end, he was staring back at them in his rearview mirror.

  “Is something wrong?” Gus asked the driver, trying to keep the quiver of fear out of his voice. Ever since he saw Casino, he’d had an irrational fear of being vised to death and buried in a hole in the Nevada desert. Now he was beginning to worry that the fear wasn’t irrational after all.

  “No wrong,” the driver sang out as he accelerated through a red light and across eight lanes of cross traffic. “Very, very right.”

  “But you were supposed to turn left back there,” Gus said.

  The driver said nothing, just stomped on the gas and wove through the cars ambling up the strip.

  “Shawn, do something,” Gus whispered urgently.

  Shawn pressed the button on his door, rolling his window down a couple of inches. “I am,” he said. “I’m enjoying the ride.”

  “But he’s not taking us to the right place,” Gus hissed.

  “That depends on whose definition of right you’re using,” Shawn said. “By the way, you might want to hold on.”

  “Hold on?” Gus asked. “Why?”

  The driver had drifted all the way into the far-right lane, his tires almost scraping the curb. The pedestrians who had spilled off the overloaded sidewalk were leaping back into the crowd. The driver took a quick glance at the road in front of him and yanked the wheel hard to the left. Cars slammed on the brakes as the cab screamed across four lanes of traffic, flew up over a divided median, and zoomed through the four opposing traffic lanes.

  When the cab had come to a stop and Gus dared open his eyes, he found they had pulled into a porte cochere built to resemble the entrance to Klaatu’s flying saucer. A handsome blond man in a silver space suit was opening his door.

  “Welcome to Outer Space,” the cabbie said.

  “But we were supposed to go to Frontage Road,” Gus objected.

  “Change of plans, Mr. Guster,” the driver said.

  Gus stared at him. “How do you know my name?”

  Shawn shoved Gus toward the door. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

  Gus wanted to stay in the cab and demand to be taken to their destination, but the seat was so worn and polished by the thousands of butts that had sat on it, he slid out under the slightest pressure of Shawn’s hand. If the space doorman hadn’t caught him, he would have landed on his butt.

  “What’s this all about, Shawn?” Gus demanded.

  “I’m guessing a hundred-dollar tip,” Shawn said.

  Before Gus could demand clarification, Shawn nodded at a large man in an indistinct suit, black sunglasses, and white earpiece. The casino security agent walked quickly to the cabbie’s window, exchanged a word or two of pleasantries, and slipped a small sheaf of bills to him.

  “What’s going on?” Gus said.

  “The driver’s phone call was from the dispatcher,” Shawn said. “I couldn’t hear the whole thing, but he was apparently calling the entire fleet looking for the cab with us in it. He’d gotten orders to redirect us to Outer Space.”

  “But who?” Gus said. “But how?”

  “You forgot ‘but why,’ ” Shawn said.

  “I didn’t forget. I was working my way up to it.”

  “ ‘But who’ has to be Benny Fleck. No one else knew we were coming into town. Or even that we exist. ‘But how’ most likely involves some new technology such as the telephone.”

  “Okay, now: But why?” Gus said.

  “He didn’t feel like waiting in his office for us.”

  “He couldn’t call your cell phone?” Gus said.

  “He couldn’t,” Shawn said. “I’m sure Fleck hasn’t dialed his own phone in years. But he certainly could have had one of his assistants do it if the venue change was the only message he wanted to send.”

  “What other message is there?”

  “That this is his town, baby,” Shawn said. “And we’d better know who we’re working for.”

  The security guard waved at the cabbie, and the car peeled off in a cloud of exhaust. Before it settled, an Asian s
pacegirl in a silver minidress materialized in the smoke.

  “Mr. Spencer? Mr. Guster?” the spacegirl asked, although there didn’t seem to be any doubt in her voice. “Welcome to Outer Space. Mr. Fleck would like you to meet him in the Dark Side of the Moon.”

  “Is that the space-facing side of Earth’s only natural satellite or the multiplatinum album by Pink Floyd?” Shawn said. “I only ask because I don’t know if we need to board a spaceship, or just inhale heavily.”

  The spacegirl flashed them the same smile she would give to a nickel-slots player who spilled his free rum and-Diet Coke on her while trying to cop a feel. “The Dark Side of the Moon is Outer Space’s premier dining establishment, offering fresh fare prepared by Izgon Zubich, one of America’s hottest new chefs. I’ll be happy to lead you there.”

  “Lead on,” Shawn said.

  The spacegirl took off at a pace a racehorse might have envied, negotiating her way around the throngs of tourists and gamblers like a pinball zipping around the bumpers.

  Gus was torn between wondering how anyone could move that fast on heels that high and wishing she’d slow down so he could see a little more of the casino. What he did see was everything he would have dreamed of when he was thirteen. The ceiling was an intense field of brightly burning stars, planets, and asteroids. At first he thought it was a static light display, but he quickly realized that it was all moving slowly, as if he were on a spaceship cruising through the galaxy. Every once in a while, the universe would freeze, then start to spin, and then the stars would expand into streaks of light before settling down to reveal a different quadrant of space. Gus recognized the effect as a knock-off of the hyperspace jump from the first Star Wars, but it was thrilling to look at nonetheless.

  The ceiling only set the tone for the rest of the décor. Like the best casinos in Vegas, Outer Space carried its theme down to the tiniest details, and here everything was designed to look like the inside of a spaceship. The cocktail waitresses were all spacegirls like the one they were following, and the drinks they served came in lidded “zero-gravity” glasses. The dealers were made up as aliens with giant eyeballs bouncing from stalks attached to their foreheads. Gaming tables looked like the control panels for the various incarnations of the starship Enterprise—ten-dollar minimum tables mirrored the now-cheesy bridge from the original show, while higher denominations upgraded the look through the subsequent series and movies. And the cashier’s cage was set up as an airlock, which not only added visual verisimilitude to the place but forced anyone who felt like cashing in their “plasma credits”—which in any other casino would have been called chips—to stand in a long line and wait to be cycled through the multiple doors. Even the carpet was woven to look like a metal grid, under which was a terrifying plunge to the hundreds of lower decks.

  Wherever Gus turned, there was something he wanted to explore in greater depth, but the spacegirl kept marching relentlessly ahead, and he knew that if he took his eyes off her for more than a brief moment, she’d become indistinguishable from her hundreds of hardworking space sisters.

  Finally their space guide came to a stop outside a solid slab of polished steel. A giant triangular crystal stood beside it, but aside from that, there was no sign suggesting there was a restaurant here, no menu, not even a door.

  “ ‘And if the dam breaks open many years too soon, and if there is no room upon the hill, and if your head explodes with dark forebodings, too,’ ” the spacegirl said with all the passion and enthusiasm of a near-retirement Disneyland Jungle Cruise operator warning of the dangers of a hippo attack.

  Before Gus could ask how they were supposed to get in, the spacegirl took a small flashlight from a metallic stand by the steel slab, clicked it on, and shone it through the crystal. As it passed through the prism, the light fragmented into a rainbow, and when it fell on the steel, the slab rolled silently into the wall. “ ‘I’ll meet you on the dark side of the moon,’ ” she said, then turned and walked away.

  “That’s a catchy jingle,” Shawn said. “Much better than ‘Have it your way.’ ”

  Shawn and Gus stepped into the restaurant, which had been designed to look like the surface of the moon, and to feel like it, too, apparently; Gus’ oxfords crunched on gray lunar pebbles as they made their way to the one occupied table.

  Benny Fleck sat by himself at a four-top in the center of the deserted restaurant. He stood as Shawn and Gus approached, which Gus could tell only because his head was suddenly a little lower than it had been.

  “Gentlemen, I hope you don’t mind the small detour,” Fleck said. “While I was waiting for you at my office, I realized we could all use a good meal. And there are things here you will want to see eventually.”

  Fleck gestured for Shawn and Gus to take their seats, then climbed back into his own. Gus resisted the sudden impulse to peek under the tablecloth and see if he was sitting on a booster.

  “We appreciate the faith you’ve put in us, Mr. Fleck, and we want to assure you we will find your Martian,” Gus said. “And if by any chance we don’t, we want to assure you right now it’s not through any lack of desire or willingness on our part.”

  Fleck waved off Gus’ preapology. “I have full confidence in the two of you,” he said. “I’ve had a chance to look into your careers, and I’m convinced you’re the right men for this job.”

  “So you had us checked out,” Shawn said. “I have to say I’m a little disappointed.”

  “I do my research on anyone I hire,” Fleck said. “It’s one reason I’m a success.”

  “I have no doubt of that,” Shawn said. “I just wish you had come to us to do the checking. We could have offered extremely competitive rates.”

  Fleck studied Shawn closely and decided he was joking. He let out a short laugh, then slapped his hands together sharply. The resulting clap had all the force of a pair of wet tissues colliding, but before the speed of sound would have allowed the sodden thud to travel all the way to the kitchen, three spacegirls appeared at their table, each one lifting a silver platter holding an enormous lobster surrounded by a colorful array of deep-fried vegetables. The spacegirls deposited the platters in front of the three of them, then disappeared back wherever they’d come from.

  “I hope you don’t mind I took the privilege of ordering for us,” Fleck said.

  “Not as long as you take the privilege of paying,” Shawn said. Gus kicked him under the table.

  “If I didn’t, it would just appear on your expense report,” Fleck said with a smile. “I’m cutting out the middle step.”

  “Expenses, yes,” Shawn said. There was a hint of a self-satisfied smirk tickling the corners of his mouth. Gus gave him another swift kick, and it disappeared before it could do any harm with their new employer. “We will of course try to keep them to a minimum. Although if we have to personally visit your client’s home planet, that might run into some dollars.”

  Shawn picked up a nutcracker shaped like a ray gun and snapped one gigantic lobster claw in half, then noisily sucked out the meat. Gus took advantage of the moment to shift the conversation to actual business.

  “It might save us time and effort in our investigation if you could share with us whatever you know about P’tol P’kah,” Gus said.

  “Mmmph,” Shawn agreed, gesturing with the piece of shell whose previous occupant was crammed into his mouth and preventing him from forming syllables.

  “I’m sure you’re familiar with his recent career,” Fleck said, then waited for a response.

  Fortunately, Gus didn’t spend all of last night Googling Fleck. He’d spent some time looking up the magician as well.

  “I guess we know as much as any layperson,” Gus said. “Which is to say not much at all. We know that eight months ago you opened the Starlight Theater for him here in the casino, and that he’s played to packed houses ever since. Aside from that, it’s mostly what we—and the rest of the world—don’t know that’s so interesting. P’tol P’kah has never given a si
ngle interview. He’s never been photographed without his makeup. No one even knows his real name.”

  “Unless, of course, P’tol P’kah is his real name,” Fleck said.

  “In which case I know where he is,” Shawn said. “Tracking down his mother and father so he can kill them.”

  This time Fleck didn’t spare the effort to convert his faint smile into a laugh. “You say he’s never been photographed without his makeup,” he said. “And that’s how his story is generally reported. Right now, I’m not convinced that’s the absolute truth.”

  “You mean you think there are photographs of him without makeup?” Gus could feel the excitement rising in him, but he tried to tamp it down. He still remembered the bitter disappointment he’d felt when, after years of desperately wanting to see what the members of Kiss looked like without the face paint, he finally did.

  “I mean I’m not sure anymore that he’s wearing makeup,” Fleck said.

  “If he’s on the run, that’s probably a safe bet,” Shawn said, dragging a piece of bread through a deep dish of melted butter. “Pretty hard to stay inconspicuous with a complexion like that.”

  “I mean when he’s on stage,” Fleck said.

  Shawn and Gus allowed themselves to exchange a quick glance to see how the other was taking this statement. It seemed like a bad idea to laugh in the face of a paying client, especially one with a history of ruthlessly destroying anyone he felt had disrespected him. But neither of them was sure what their option was.