by Sage Nyx
“The normal amount,” he answers. “Between now and the week before Christmas, we’ll be a little slower than usual. Once the holiday crowd arrives in town, we’ll be hustling our asses off until after New Year’s Eve.”
“I hope so,” I say. “My new show starts New Year’s Day. We’re sold out already for several of the time slots.”
“That’s probably what the boss man wants to talk to you about,” Seth says. “Mr. Giovanni is hunting for you. Said to tell you to meet him upstairs in his office. He’s been trying to call you and you weren’t picking up.”
I reach into my jacket pocket to pull out my cell phone. My pet snake is curled up around it for warmth. The expression on Jade’s face was priceless when I dropped it into her hand. She won’t be forgetting me soon.
“Fuck! I’ve missed five calls from his office.”
“The boss man doesn’t like to be ignored,” Seth points out as if I don’t know that already.
“I didn’t hear my phone go off,” I explain. “Is he pissed?”
Seth shrugs. “I don’t ask the boss how he’s feeling. You know what I mean? I keep my head down, eyes on my own paper and mind my own business. If I were you, I’d get my ass up there to his office right away. Don’t keep Mr. Giovanni waiting. Ever. Not if you know what’s good for you.”
“You don’t need to tell me that,” I say, nodding in agreement. “I’m heading up there now.”
“Good idea,” he says.
I hurry across the massive casino lobby to an elevator that requires a special key card to open. Once inside, I punch a 4-digit code and then hit the button for the top floor of the hotel. The elevator rapidly ascends causing my ears to pop before the elevator finally stops at the top floor. The doors silently slide open into a luxurious penthouse office.
My shoes make a loud echoing noise as I walk across the marble floors to the reception area. An older woman in her sixties is sitting behind a large mahogany desk in her usual spot.
Marla is her name, otherwise known as the ‘Gatekeeper’. She keeps tight control over Mr. Giovanni’s busy daily schedule. If you want to see the boss, first you must battle your way past Marla.
She takes off her wire-rimmed glasses and glares at me. “You’re late again, Sugar. Mr. Giovanni is on a tight schedule. He doesn’t appreciate his time being wasted. How many times have we talked about this? Showing up late is a sign of disrespect and it won’t be tolerated.”
“I didn’t realize he was expecting me,” I try to explain. “I didn’t hear my phone buzzing. It was in my pocket.”
“That is not an excuse,” she says in a snippy voice. “Have a seat and I’ll tell him you’re here.”
She picks up her phone and whispers into it while I walk over to gaze out the window. The penthouse suite has the best view in Vegas.
Far down below me, the strip is slowly coming to life. At this height, it’s difficult to make out the tiny outlines of the cars zigzagging through the traffic below.
She hangs up the phone. “You can go back now,” she says, dismissing me. “He’s waiting for you in his office.”
I move past her desk and down the long, thickly carpeted hallway to the office of Mr. Giovanni, the owner of the Imperial Hotel and Casino. One of the wealthiest men in Las Vegas and the asshole who owns my life.
Or at least my employment contract for another two years.
He alone has the power to make or break my career.
If he keeps funding my headline show, I’ll soon be a household name with everything that goes along with it…sold out world-class illusionist shows and Christmas television specials.
If he fires me, I’ll be stuck in limbo and unemployed until my contract runs out. I hate the thought of someone else having complete control of my life.
Mr. Giovanni is standing by the window when I walk into his expansive office. He’s wearing a tailored Italian business suit that would cost enough money to feed a family of five for a year.
He turns around when he hears me come in and points to a chair in front of his large desk.
“Have a seat, Sugar,” he says. “We need to have a talk.”
Oh no, we don’t.
I don’t dare say what I’m thinking. Not if I want to keep my job. I take a seat silently and wait to hear what this is all about. He walks over to his desk, picks up a stack of papers stapled together and hands them to me.
“This came in yesterday from our insurance company,” he says. “They’re threatening to drop your show’s liability insurance. They’re requiring us to make immediate changes for our insurance coverage to continue.”
I blink at him in surprise. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. He called me to his office to talk about an insurance policy? That’s a first, and a huge relief. Normally, I’m not involved in the boring, mundane details of my show.
“Changes?” I ask, leaning forward to peek at the papers. “What do they want?”
He flips to the third page in the packet and points it out with a pen. “It’s all listed right here. They thought it might be best if I went over each item with you to make sure you understand. That’s why I’m handling this personally. Then I’ll need you to initial each point to show that you agree and will comply immediately with their requests. I trust there won’t be any issues.”
“Okay, sure,” I say agreeably, nodding. “No problem. Where do I need to sign?”
How bad could it be? It’s not as if I’m cutting my assistants in half with a chainsaw.
“I’m glad you understand,” he says. “Okay, let’s go over each point.” He begins to read, “You must discontinue usage of the following items in your show. This includes both the live performances and rehearsals. The disallowed items include, but are not limited to, firearms, explosives, blow-torches, knives, axes, and chainsaws. They’ve also listed C-4 dynamite here as a preliminary precaution since you haven’t used it yet.” He looks up from the papers and raises his eyebrows at me. “They must suspect the direction you’re heading.”
I toss my set of papers back down on his desk.
“Is this a joke? What the fuck do they expect me to do up there on stage? I’m an illusionist, not a street performer doing card tricks. It’s Las Vegas for God’s sake! Everything is expected to be badass here. I’ve used everything you mentioned except the dynamite. That’s why the show sells out every night. The threat of danger makes it exciting. That’s what sells tickets!”
Mr. Giovanni takes a seat in his chair. He holds onto his expensive desk with one hand and tilts his tall leather chair back while staring at me.
“True, you’re not a street performer doing card tricks now, but you once were,” he says emphatically. “Let’s not forget that. This is not open for discussion. Your show is becoming riskier and more dangerous. Don’t think for a minute I don’t know about the accidents during rehearsals. I have eyes and ears everywhere inside the Imperial. I make it my business to know what’s happening in my hotel.”
“What accidents? We haven’t had any reported accidents. Not even a slip-and-fall.”
He pulls up a video on his cell phone and turns it around so I can see. It’s a short clip of one of my rehearsals. A practice session where something went horribly wrong, and the chainsaw I was using slipped a quarter inch.
Fortunately, a fake dummy was the stand-in for my real assistant. I accidentally sliced open the dummy’s throat, spewing sawdust all over the stage.
“No humans were harmed in the making of that video,” I joke with a straight face.
“This isn’t funny business,” he replies in an icy tone. “You could hurt or kill someone with your foolishness. Your antics are getting out of control with the show.”
“We were screwing around,” I say, throwing up my hands in frustration. “That’s all. I would never do something that might harm someone for real. I’m a professional. It wasn’t an accident. It was a joke.”
It was an accident, but I’m sure as hell not admitti
ng it to him.
When the chainsaw slipped, I was shaken up too. It scared the shit out of me. I’ll never make the same mistake again. I’ve gone over and over the incident in my head, trying to figure out how things went horribly wrong.
“I’m not arguing with you about this,” he says. “It’s bad enough if someone else gets hurt during your show. But if you get injured, the show stops right there. It’s over. I’m too heavily invested in you to let that happen. I’m only protecting my investment, which is you. Make the fucking changes, Sugar. Immediately. I don’t want to hear another goddamn word about it. End of discussion. Now sign the damn paper. I’m a busy man.”
“What do you expect me to do now?” I ask. “The show is selling out every night. The tickets are in hot demand. The crowds come to see me.” I point to my chest. “I’m unique. That’s what they want. Nobody wants to pay good money to see the same old shit they’ve seen a thousand times before. What about the new show beginning on New Year’s Day? I’ve worked on it for months. I can’t throw all that time and effort away.”
Mr. Giovanni spreads his hands out on the desk. In all the time we’ve worked together, I’ve never seen him come close to losing his temper.
Not once.
He’s always calm, collected and in complete control of everything. My gut tells me he would be one scary bastard if he ever lost his shit.
I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be the one to push him over the edge. Not with his family’s history.
“You know how this works,” he says calmly. “The tourists are only in town for a few days. They’ll love anything you put out there. If we tell them it’s a great show, they’ll believe it. We can market your show as a family magic act. Give the families a place to bring their kids. In Vegas, those acts are few and far between. Substitute a few old traditional magic tricks for your blow-torch stunts. Pull rabbits out of your hat. Let someone on the front row pick a card. Bring a kid up on stage. Dazzle them with your sleight-of-hand skills. A few simple changes is all I’m asking for here.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. He’s asking me to give up everything I’ve worked so hard to become.
“You’re forcing me to change the entire show,” I argue. “If that’s what you want, why do you even need me? There are a hundred other guys who can do that kind of silly shit and do it well.”
Mr. Giovanni reaches over and places his monogrammed pen in front of me on the desk with a loud thump. “My point exactly,” he says. “Thank you for pointing it out, so I wouldn’t have to. Put your initials beside each bulleted point and get back to work. You’re replaceable. Everyone is in this town. Even you. Never forget that. There will always be ten people willing and able to take your place.”
“Fuck!” I grumble underneath my breath.
I grab the papers and scribble my initials beside each point then roughly slide them back across the table.
I don’t have a choice.
Given time, I’ll figure something out. No way will I roll over and take this shit lying down.
“One other thing,” he says when I stand up. “How’s your dad doing these days? I heard he has a parole hearing coming up.”
A sudden chill runs down my spine. The way he posed the question tells me he isn’t really expecting an answer. I stop at the door to his office and turn back around.
“Why do you ask?”
He’s never mentioned Dad to me before.
Not a single time.
I was aware they knew each other, but I find it strange he would bring Dad up to me now.
After all this time.
Is this his way of controlling me? Or possibly threatening me? Through my dad?
“I make it a point to know everything about my employees too,” he says with a casual shrug. “In case I need to help them out. Good luck with tonight’s show. Normally I’d say ‘break a leg’ but in your case, I don’t want to give you any ideas. Close the door on your way out.”
He picks up the receiver of the phone on his desk, dismissing me.
I barely nod to Marla when I rush past her desk on my way out of the penthouse office. Stepping inside the waiting elevator, I wait until the doors slide shut in front of me before letting out a loud, ‘fuck!’ where no one will hear.
This isn’t over.
I won’t go back to the street hustler magician I was before.
No way in hell.
Jade
Attending the Call Me Sugar show is an impulsive decision I’m beginning to regret.
Why didn’t I realize everyone else would be dressed up for an expensive night out on the town? The other female guests in the theater’s elegant lobby are wearing sparkly, designer cocktail dresses and expensive Christian Louboutin shoes.
Standing beside them in my discount store black pants, white sweater, and leather boots, I feel shabby and poor.
I’d spent the whole day playing the same slot machine. After making a last-minute decision to use the show ticket, I’d rushed back to my hotel with barely enough time to shower and change clothes, much less do anything fancy with my hair.
After brushing it vigorously, I’d pulled it back into a long, sleek ponytail. One quick coat of mascara and pink lip gloss was the best I could manage for makeup. Compared to my normal daily routine, I’m dressed up.
Oh, well…I’ll never see any of these people again in my life. Why should I care what anyone thinks about my appearance?
Even though it’s chilly December weather outside, I’m wishing I hadn’t worn the heavy sweater. The standing room only crowd in the theater lobby is packed in tightly, causing the room to be stuffy while we wait for the bright red theater doors to open.
To whip up excitement for the show, a digital clock hanging above the doors counts down the time until the theater opens for seating.
Five-four-three-two-one.
The crowd lets out a collective sigh of relief when the red doors electronically swing open. Young male ushers with enthusiastic smiles begin waving the guests inside the theater.
“Come right in,” they call out. “If you have trouble finding your seat, show your ticket to an usher. Watch your step on the stairs.”
I shuffle forward slowly with the packed crowd and study my ticket again.
1-A.
Either it’s a great seat or the worst in the house.
With my luck, I’m probably stuck in a seat with a big pole in front of me I won’t be able to see around. Unless it’s a Cirque du Soleil type show where the performers are hanging from the ceiling. That would be an exciting thrill.
I’m curious about what type of show this might be. The lobby didn’t have any photos hanging on the walls to give a hint. The huge electronic sign on the front of the theater only said Call Me Sugar, which tells me nothing. The show could be anything from a ukulele player to a cake decorating competition.
It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other since it’s free.
When I reach the doors, I show an usher my ticket. His eyes open wide and he gives me a big smile.
“Aren’t you the lucky one tonight,” he says with a sly wink. “You, my dear, are holding the golden ticket.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“You mean you don’t know?” he says, smiling at me. “The first seat in the first row. Best seat in the theater. Follow me.”
He takes me down the red carpeted stairs, unhooks a rope blocking off a reserved section and points to my seat on the first row.
“Enjoy the show,” he says. “I hope you realize what a special treat you’re in for. With Sugar, you never know what might happen. It’s what I love the most about him. Along with those big muscles, sexy tattoos and blue eyes. The man is dreamy.” He lets out a regretful sigh. “Too bad he’s straight. I can always fantasize though. One other thing. A drink is complimentary in this section, so order something large, delicious and strong. Have fun and enjoy the show!”
“Really? A free drink?” I reply with a smile. “Thank y
ou, this is great.”
I settle down in my comfortable seat while wondering what kind of show would feature a man with muscles, tattoos and blue eyes.
Maybe a hard rock guitarist?
A cocktail waitress comes by and after confirming that the drinks are free, I order a glass of champagne. If it’s complimentary, why not? I could get used to the sweet life.
Five minutes later, I receive my champagne and quickly down half of it. The alcohol immediately hits my bloodstream. I wish I’d taken the time to grab a snack before I left my hotel.
I’m a lightweight when it comes to alcohol, and a little goes a long way. My head is already comfortably numb, warm and fuzzy.
The overhead lights in the theater suddenly flicker on and off, signaling the show will begin in five minutes. Glancing around the theater, I notice the seats are almost full. That’s a good sign. The show must be decent to sell out.
A man standing near the corner of the stage seems familiar and I do a double take. His muscular arms are crossed, and he’s wearing an earpiece. I recognize him from the casino last night.
Why would he be here? Apparently, I’m about to find out because he’s spotted me and is heading my way with a grim, determined look on his face.
He squeezes his body in between the front row and the stage until he’s standing right in front of me. I move my legs to one side to give him room.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he says in a firm voice. “I believe you’re in the wrong seat. This section is reserved for VIP ticket holders only.”
“Taken?” I repeat dully. “Oh, I’m sorry. The usher checked my ticket and brought me here. He said this was my seat.”
He shakes his head. “No, there’s a mistake. Let me see your ticket and I’ll find someone to help you to your right seat. The show’s about to begin, so we need to hurry.”
I reach down to pull the ticket out of my cell phone case and quickly hand it to him.
He rubs his chin thoughtfully as he stares at it. “Well, damn,” he mumbles after a moment. “Where did you get this? This ticket can’t be legit.” He rubs it between his fingers to test the paper. “Did you buy it from a scalper on the street? We’ve seen a bunch of fake tickets lately.”