EDWARD D. HOCH
“SO YOU’RE A performance artist?” the Las Vegas reporter asked. Wanda figured he was about twenty-one, probably on his first assignment covering the more bizarre aspects of Vegas nightlife.
“That’s what I am, Sonny,” she said, taking her costume out of the closet.
“Name is Rick Dodson,” he said softly.
“Yeah, Rick. You’re a handsome young man. This is for the Vegas Weekly?”
“That’s right.”
She peeled off her blouse and jeans. He wasn’t the first man to see her in her underwear. “I have to dress while we talk. Hope you don’t mind.”
He moistened his lips but kept a firm grip on his pencil. “No. Go ahead.”
“What was it you wanted to know?”
“Is Wanda Cirrus your real name?”
“It is now.” She held the costume up to the light, inspecting it for stains.
“Are you married?”
“Not now. Not for years.”
“As a performance artist, do you feel you’re closer to the artistic world or to show business?”
“When I’m performing in a museum it’s art, when I’m in an Off-Broadway theater it’s show business. What more can I say.”
“What is it here in Vegas?”
She slipped into the snug red and black cat suit, zipping it up the front, and pulled up the hood to cover her hair. Then she slipped her feet into the shiny black boots and picked up the black gloves and blindfold for later. She pressed the button to arm the apartment’s security system and replied, “I don’t know. Why don’t you come along tonight and decide for yourself?”
COVERING HER COSTUME with a long cape, she talked about performance art as she led him downstairs. “It only dates back to the 1970s, really. It was an outgrowth of the so-called happenings during the sixties, when I was still a child. These usually were collaborative efforts involving a company of performers in a non-structured theater piece. Members of the audience were invited to take part, and there was often a good deal of nudity involved. In the mid-seventies some individuals or smaller groups began to appear on stage. A few became quite well-known in places like New York and San Francisco. I remember a woman who daubed herself with paint and rolled around nude on a canvas. She even sold some of the resulting paintings. I believe there’s a man in New York today who sits on a ladder eating the Wall Street Journal. He’s also been known to crawl through the Bowery wearing a business suit. There’s usually an implied message of some sort in performance art.”
“What is the message in your piece?”
She gave a little shrug. “Chance. One writer viewed me as a personification of Lady Luck.”
At the car she suggested he follow along in his vehicle. “It’s not far.”
Ten minutes later Wanda pulled into the parking garage at one of the older hotels, just over the city line. Rick followed along as she led the way through the lobby to a private meeting room that had been converted for use as a bar and casino. A tall man with a mustache was waiting for her at the door. “Hello, Wanda. How are you feeling tonight? Black or red?”
She laughed, handing him her cape. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Who’s this?” he asked, indicating the reporter.
“Rick Dodson from the Vegas Weekly. Rick, meet Judd Franklyn. This is his operation.”
The two men shook hands. “Doing a little story about us?”
“Well, about Miss Cirrus.”
Franklyn slipped his arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Sure, you can tell what she does. But call it a performance. Don’t mention the betting aspect. I don’t want the Gaming Commission after me.”
“All right,” Dodson agreed.
“Between ourselves, they know what goes on, but we can’t be too blatant about it. We don’t run ads. We depend on word-of-mouth.”
“I understand.”
Judd Franklyn looked Wanda up and down. “You’re in great shape, girl. Go out and do your stuff.”
“Nobody’s called me a girl in twenty years.” She slipped on the black gloves and followed him to the platform, still carrying the blindfold. The hood was in place over her hair and neck. The clinging cat suit was basic black, but with red lightning bolts that gave her the appearance of some sort of comic book superhero. Miss Roulette, perhaps.
The platform indeed was a huge roulette wheel, its diameter almost equal to a boxing ring. Close to a hundred players were crowded around it. Wanda stepped over the numbered slots to a small turntable at the center of the wheel. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Judd Franklyn announced, “it is my honor to present the famed performance artist Miss Wanda Cirrus as the human roulette ball. She will blindfold herself, and while the wheel spins clockwise her little turntable will move in the opposite direction. She will roll off the turntable and reach her hands into one of the numbered slots. You have one minute to place your bets.”
Wanda smiled at them and pulled the padded blindfold over her eyes. Then she crouched down, linking her hands around her knees, and waited. Almost at once the turntable began to move. She knew the wheel itself would be spinning, too. After several seconds, when she started to grow dizzy, she pitched forward off the turntable. As she hit the padded wheel itself her two hands shot out blindly, clasped together, and found one of the numbered slots.
“Twenty-nine black!” Judd Franklyn called out.
As the wheel slowed its spin Wanda pulled the blindfold from her eyes. “It is fate,” she told them with a graceful bow. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
Dodson was waiting for her in awed amazement. “How often do you perform?”
She gave him a smile as she pulled back the hood from her head. “Every fifteen minutes from nine till midnight, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights. The wheel action doesn’t stop, of course. When I‘m not on they use a white volleyball.”
“That’s unbelievable! Is this the wildest thing you ever did?”
Wanda shrugged. “Once at a performance art festival in Boston I stayed curled up in a birdcage the entire day. And I crawled naked down a tube filled with glop. It was supposed to depict my birth. When I turned forty I decided it was time I kept my clothes on.” Remembering when she changed into her costume, she amended, “At least some of them.” She wondered why she was telling him these things that she’d never told anyone else.
“Is this sort of work profitable?”
Wanda shrugged. “I make a living. Off-Broadway I get a percentage of the gross. They work it a bit differently here, but it still depends on the business my performance brings in.”
He watched her for the next hour, every fifteen minutes, as she rolled in a ball off the revolving turntable and stretched out her hands to blindly find one of the slots. Seven red, one red, twenty-two black, eighteen red.
“Thanks for your help,” he told her as he left.
“I’ll watch for your article. If you need anything else, give me a call.”
The rest of the night was routine. Thirty red, double zero, two black, seventeen black, another seven red, thirty-six red, eleven black, twenty-one red. Thirteen performances in all, nine to midnight. Five black, seven red, and the double-zero. Seven odd, five even. Only one repeat. She liked to keep track of the numbers and colors, seeking a pattern that didn’t exist. The big betting always came at midnight, her final performance, when Franklyn raised the limit from five hundred to five thousand.
She performed again on Friday night, and this time after her ten o’clock appearance one of the bettors who was having a good night wanted to buy her a drink. “No thanks,” she told him. “I get dizzy enough doing this routine thirteen times a night.”
“How about after you knock off at midnight?”
She looked him over more closely. He was probably in his early forties, about her age, “Do I know you from somewhere?”
“Sam Dole. I’m here often. You maybe noticed me in the crowd.”
“Maybe,” she agreed, wondering what
he wanted. Maybe he just liked the way the black and red cat suit fitted her body.
“So how about that drink?”
“Why not? It’s Friday.”
“I’ll meet you in the parking garage right after midnight.”
“What’s wrong with the bar here?” she asked.
“They probably don’t like you drinking with the customers.”
She thought about that and decided Judd Franklyn might find cause for complaint. “OK, the parking garage it is.”
The next number she hit was a zero.
BY TEN AFTER twelve she was out of the hotel, walking toward her car in the garage. Her hood was down and her costume covered by the cloak. She wasn’t looking for Sam Dole but she knew he’d be around.
“Wanda?” a voice spoke her name, quite close.
“Hi, Sam. I thought maybe you found something better to do.”
“Not a chance. Want to go in my car or follow me?”
“Where to?”
“I know a little bar outside of town.”
“I’ll follow.”
He avoided the Strip, where the midnight traffic made it seem like high noon, and headed instead out the route 15 expressway to Enterprise, just south of the airport. The bar he chose was called the Landing Strip, a small place by Vegas standards with only a dozen slot machines along one wall. At this hour there were just a few customers at the bar and the tables were empty. Wanda had never been there before. When the bartender brought their drinks Sam Dole came right to the point. “How’d you like to make some money?”
Wanda smiled at him. “I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve heard those words in my life. Look, Sam, I’m no call girl. If you’re looking for one, you’re in the right town but I’m not one of them. I’m a performance artist, period.”
He reached across the table to touch her hand. “I’m not talking about sex. Just listen to me, will you?”
Glancing around to make sure they were out of the bartender’s line of vision, he took something from his pocket. “Put this on.”
It was a blindfold with an elastic band that went around the back of the head, just like the one she wore in her performance. “What’s this all about?” she asked, but slipped on the blindfold as he requested. She realized at once that part of the inner padding had been cut away, leaving only a black gauze covering over her eyes. From the front she appeared blindfolded, but in actuality she could see quite clearly through the gauze. She took it off almost at once. “If you think I’m going to spot certain numbers for you, you’re crazy. It wouldn’t even work. When I land on that padding and stretch out my hands to a winning slot, there are only a few within reach.”
“Not a certain number, just a certain color. The colors alternate from black to red around the wheel, except for the zero and double zero spots. So no matter where you land and reach out your hands, you’re never more than one—or two at most—away from a red number. With this blindfold you could pick red every time, or black.”
Wanda snorted. “And end up buried out in the desert somewhere. Judd Franklyn is no dope, you know.”
“I’m not talking about winning fifty grand a night or anything like that. Franklyn has a five hundred dollar limit anyway, except for your midnight appearance. But if you picked blacks or reds in a pre-arranged rotation for your thirteen spins, at even money that would mean winnings of six thousand for the first twelve and five thousand for the last spin. That’s eleven thousand for the night. We’d give you three thousand a night, nine thousand a week.”
“Who’s we?”
“I can’t win it all myself. I’d need a partner making some of the bets. If it works out we can keep at it.”
“In Vegas that’s small change.”
“It adds up.”
Wanda shook her head. “Not me. Get someone else.”
“Someone else? There is no one else. It’s your act!”
“Look, Sam, I don’t know you. I never saw you before tonight. Why should I trust you and go along with this harebrained scheme?”
“Think of it as another performance. It would even top what you’re doing now.”
“No.”
“Here’s my phone number. At least think about it over the weekend and give me a call.”
FOR SOME REASON she kept the card and did think about it. On Saturday night she went to see the Blue Man Group at one of the casinos on the strip. They were the best known of the performance artists and sometimes she envied them for their success. Maybe she needed some partners. Thinking about Sam Dole, she finally decided that what he’d said about another performance was right. It was still her creation, whether or not she could see through the blindfold. “Just one night,” she told him over the phone. “This Wednesday. I‘m nervous about it.”
“Beats spending the day in a birdcage.”
“But it’s a lot riskier if Franklyn finds out. Make sure he doesn’t.”
“Don’t worry. We’d better not talk or see each other again until afterward. This is what I want you to do. Just colors, because they’re easier than numbers to see accurately through the blindfold. Forget the zero and double zero because you may not land near enough to them. Pick the colored slots in this order for your thirteen appearances. You’d better write them down. Red, red, black, black, red, black, red, black, black, red, black, black, red. That’s seven black, six red. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t see you Wednesday night. Thursday night I’ll be in my car behind the Landing Strip at midnight to give you your cut and talk about the next show.”
“I don’t work Thursday,” she reminded him. “We can make it earlier if you want.”
“No, midnight’s best for me. I’ll see you then.”
Wanda hung up, wondering what she was getting herself into.
ON WEDNESDAY JUDD Franklyn greeted her at the door as he always did. “Good to see you, Wanda. Feeling lucky tonight?”
He’d never asked her that before. “What good does it do me to feel lucky? I don’t bet.”
When she mounted the turntable at the center of the wheel at nine o’clock, she glanced casually around at the faces in the crowd. At first she didn’t see Sam Dole, but after she donned the doctored blindfold she spotted him with a short young woman who was making a bet. Then she crouched down as the turntable started to spin. She rolled off the padded wheel and stretched out her joined hands. Just ahead of her was eighteen red. She didn’t even have to cheat.
There were the usual cheers and groans from the players, and then applause as she took her bow and promised to return in fifteen minutes. She didn’t see Dole, but she assumed he or his friend had collected their winnings. The evening went along routinely after that. Once around eleven o’clock, between performances, she went to the bar for some tonic water and found herself standing next to the young woman who’d been with Dole.
“Having any luck?” she asked casually.
“Off and on,” the young woman replied. “You do this for a living?”
“I’ve had some Off-Broadway gigs and I was at the Brooklyn Museum last year. Performance art is hard to define sometimes. This is my first experience as a human roulette ball. I suggested it to Judd and he bought it.” She drank a bit of the tonic water. “What’s your name?”
“Minnie Brewer. And no jokes about a short beer. I’ve heard them all.”
Wanda chuckled. “Do you come here a lot?”
“This is my first time. I heard about your performance and I had to see it for myself.”
“Well, I’m on again in a few minutes. Good luck with your betting.”
This time she had to slide a few inches to hit the proper color, but it was hardly noticeable. By midnight when it was time for the five thousand dollar limit, she didn’t see Minnie at all. But Dole was in the front row of bettors, looking pleasantly surprised when thirty-six red came up. It had been a good night for them both.
On the way out she saw the reporter, Rick Dodson, lingering at the bar. “
When’s the story running?” she called over to him.
“Soon as I can get a good angle,” he told her. “My editor was hoping for something a bit sexier.”
“I’ll perform nude next week if it’ll help,” she said and kept on walking.
She slept late on Thursday morning and woke up remembering she had to meet Dole that night. For a few minutes she considered forgetting about the whole thing, letting him keep all the money. But she’d earned her part of it, why not collect? Driving out to the Landing Strip a little before midnight she decided she’d take the money this one time and give him back the blindfold. She’d experienced the rush of it and needed no more.
Dole’s car was parked near the back of the lot and she could see him seated behind the wheel. She opened the passenger door and slid in beside him. “It went smoothly, but that was the last time. Pay me off and I’ll say goodbye.”
When Dole didn’t answer she thought he had dozed off waiting for her. She gave him a jab to wake him up and that was when she felt the knife in his side, buried up to the hilt.
WANDA LEFT THE car quickly, pausing only to wipe her fingerprints from the door handle. If Judd had found out about the scheme, she could be next. She could be in big trouble. She drove to her apartment and went quickly inside, remembering to enter the code and disarm the security system.
They found his body about an hour later, and it was a story on the morning news even before they’d announced his identity. Wanda spent most of Friday debating whether she should show up for her performance that night or hop the next plane back to New York. She wanted to get out of town fast and forget the whole thing, but fleeing might appear to be the action of a guilty person. And Judd paid her for the week on Fridays, when he could calculate the handle for the three nights she worked. She hated to leave without her week’s pay.
So she showed up as usual on Friday at quarter to nine. For once Judd wasn’t at the door to greet her, and the bartender pointed toward his office. “The cops are questioning him about that killing.”
“What killing is that?” Wanda asked innocently.
“Fellow named Sam Dole, a small-time operator from back east. He tried to shake down some Atlantic City casinos and they think he was trying something out here that got him killed.”
Show Business Is Murder Page 4