Mind Scrambler Page 5

  I swiveled around, expecting to see Lady Jasmine come waltzing into the auditorium at the very last second. Instead, way off in the distance, over the crest of the tables rising like a terraced cake behind us, through the open doors to the lobby, I caught the briefest glimpse of Katie, standing near the souvenir shop.

  I waved but she didn’t see me. Maybe because I was half a mile away. So I stood up and waved more frantically—like the guy with the orange flashlights who shows the jumbo jets where to park at Newark.

  That was when I saw who she was talking to.

  8

  Jake.

  I couldn’t see much.

  Only that Mr. Muscle Chest still hadn’t found a shirt. Up top, he was bare-skinned and bolo-tied. Even from this distance his shiny black pants looked tighter than the casing on an Italian sausage, which was an image I really didn’t want in my brain right then, but there it was.

  Katie took both of Jake’s hands into hers.

  He pushed her away. Were they having a spat? Interesting.

  “Danny?” This from Ceepak.

  “Hmm?”

  “The house lights are dimming,” he whispered. “Perhaps you should take your seat. Otherwise the people behind us may not be able to see the stage.”

  “Right. Sorry.” I sat.

  “You okay, partner?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked because he could tell something was.

  I gestured backward with my head. “Katie.”

  Ceepak turned around, straining to see what I had just seen.

  “Where?”

  “In the lobby.”

  “Sorry. The ushers just closed the doors. The view is currently obscured.”

  “She was with Jake,” I said. “That dancer we met.”

  “We met a dancer?”

  “He came out to the lobby when we were talking to Rock.”

  “Ah, yes. The muscular young man. I suppose being a professional performer forces one to stay in peak physical condition.”

  Yeah. I noticed that, too.

  “I’m gonna go see her,” I said. “Katie. Right after the show.”

  “Awesome,” said Ceepak.

  “Yeah. She said I should swing by.”

  “Then it’s all good.”

  No. Not really. But, of course, I left out the part where she said she wanted to “talk to me about Jake.”

  The auditorium lights went dark. The audience applauded.

  “Welcome to the Xanadu’s Shalimar Theater,” boomed a disembodied voice. “As a reminder, the taking of photographs and the use of recording devices is strictly prohibited during this evening’s performance.”

  Spotlights started swinging around the curtain. Drums rolled.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, are you ready to be amazed?”

  “Yes!” said the audience.

  “Are you ready to be astounded?”

  “Yes!” The second response thundered even louder.

  “Are you ready to be astonished?”

  “Yes!” Now the rafters rang with it, which was good, because I think the announcer was just about to run out of A words that all meant the same thing.

  “Are you ready to Rock?”

  One more “Yes!” and music started blaring. Disco music. Throbbing, synthetic, steady four-on-the-floor beat. Think “It’s Raining Men” only different. Not better, just different. Seven dancers hit the stage: four girls in thigh-high cowgirl skirts and spangled tops, three guys in bolo ties sans shirts. It looked lopsided.

  Four girls. Three guys. Guess Jake missed his entrance. He was too busy having a romantic tiff out in the lobby with my old girlfriend.

  The seven dancers who had shown up for work did some sort of yee-haw, side-to-side, leg-lifting dance—the kind of hoedown stuff they teach you in kindergarten square-dancing class when you’re too young to realize how stupid you look.

  I almost recognized the tune. “Could This Be Magic?” Barry Manilow, maybe. Definitely not Springsteen.

  More leg kicking, cowboy hat lifts.

  I think they called this “choreography.” Hyper-peppy boys and girls stomping and clomping in a line, grinning and smiling and tipping their sparkling cowboy hats at one another.

  Yippy-ki-yi-yo.

  The girl without a dance partner did her best to pretend she had an invisible friend who knew all the moves.

  At the end of their hootenanny, all seven dancers pointed up toward the ceiling and shouted, “Let’s! Rock!”

  That seemed to be the cue for a smoke ball to explode in front of the curtain—about thirty feet above center stage. When the cloud cleared, there he was—Richard Rock. Floating. He swung out his arms to feel the love and started drifting down toward the stage.

  “There is obviously a crane apparatus of some sort concealed behind the curtain,” whispered Ceepak, eager to explain how the trick was done. “Perhaps a jib.”

  Then there were these other explosions. Three new smoke bombs: One over our heads in the middle of the auditorium, one on either side of the stage. Mrs. Rock and the two kids magically materialized and started drifting down toward the stage as gracefully and effortlessly as magic carpets. I saw no wires. No crane apparatuses. Smoke but no mirrors, except for two billion tiny sequin ones on Mom’s dress.

  “Fascinating,” said Ceepak.

  Yeah. I had to admit: it was pretty impressive. Amazing, astounding, and astonishing, even.

  Richard Rock descended to center stage and stood in front of the curtain. He put his hands on his hips and pretended to be perturbed as his children floated toward him. Richie and Britney were wearing pajamas. The fleecy kind with feet.

  “What? Are you kids still up?” Rock said to his airborne offspring, earning his first family-friendly chuckle of the night.

  Mrs. Rock and the kids made soft landings on the stage and walked over to join Richard. Again, I couldn’t see any wires being unhooked from harnesses, no jetpacks being slipped off. Maybe the kids were friends of Peter Pan and he had taught them how to fly by thinking happy thoughts. Christmas. Puppy dogs. Beer.

  “Where’s your nanny, children?” said Rock, playing the put-upon poppa to perfection. “It’s past your bedtime!”

  “Yes,” said the boy. “Time flies when you’re having fun!” The kid nailed his line and knew it. Soaked up his laughs. Beamed.

  Mrs. Rock propped a hand beside her mouth so she looked like an elegant hog caller. “Nanny Katie?” she cried out. When she moved her left hand up to her mouth, she blinded us with the laser beams shooting out from her gigantic diamond ring. It was so huge, it looked like one of those gumball-machine-sized ones six-year-old girls give out as birthday party favors.

  “Nanny Katie?” she called out again

  “Yes, Mrs. Rock?” said Katie from the back of the theater. Her voice sounded shaky. I figured she was nervous about going onstage. Katie was always kind of shy. Modest. She marched down the side aisle toward the stage.

  Jake wasn’t with her.

  He hadn’t made it onstage to join his bare-skinned brethren yet, either.

  “Take the children up to their rooms, if you please!” Rock said to Katie with a dramatic flourish.

  The boy tugged on the tails of his father’s tuxedo.

  “Yes, Richie?” said Rock, rolling his eyes.

  “Can we fly up to our rooms, Daddy?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Rock, stiffly shaking her head back and forth long after she’d already said her line. Guess she never studied acting. “You’re both grounded for the night!”

  Another chuckle.

  I checked out Ceepak.

  Yep. He was grinning.

  Me? I was trying not to groan. The Rocks’ banter reminded me of the cornball jokes you hear on the Jungle Boat ride at Disney World: “Keep your hands in the boat, folks—the alligators are always looking for a free handout.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Rock, pointing toward his kids as Katie climbed u
p a set of steps and took the two children by their hands and led them offstage into the wings. “How about a nice hand for Richie and Britney?”

  The audience cheered.

  “And Nanny Katie!”

  I would have whistled. Chanted “Kay-tee, Kay-tee, Kay-tee!”

  But I was too busy thinking about Jake. Wondered where he was. It was something Ceepak and a whole bunch of other cops would be wondering in a couple hours, too.

  9

  Richard Rock’s family-friendly show was pretty awesome.

  Over the next forty minutes, he turned a tabby into a tiger, cut his wife—whose name we learned was Jessica—in half, rearranged her body parts and put her back together in this Rubik’s Cube-type deal, caught a bullet fired at him from a pistol with his teeth, walked through a solid brick wall, transported his wife from one side of the stage to the other in under a second, escaped from silk ropes tied around his wrists, ankles, legs, and torso, and made a flock of seagulls appear out of torn-up newspaper.

  He even shot an arrow with a ribbon attached to its tail through his wife’s tiny stomach. She had so much cleavage tumbling out of her low-cut gown it was a good thing Rock hadn’t aimed higher. Could’ve caused a serious silicone spill.

  Ceepak was impressed but reminded me in a whisper that, “Magic is the art of misdirection.”

  And I had thought it was real. You just had to go to Hogwarts and study hard.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I wouldn’t deceive you for the world,” Rock proclaimed from center stage.

  “Actually, just by saying that, he’s doing so now,” said Ceepak, who really enjoyed being able to relax knowing everything he saw or heard in this theater was a lie. Lady Jasmine missed it all. Box 301 was still unoccupied. Even Parker was relaxing. I saw him leaning up against the emperor’s row bar, laughing at the corn popping out of Rock’s mouth.

  Around 8:40, Rock moved into the mentalist portion of his show. He read the minds of two volunteers from the audience: a woman named Jo Karpen and her son Rich. Poor kid. He was so totally busted when Rock revealed the real grade (to the decimal point) on his most recent American History pop quiz.

  I wondered if Rock could’ve also predicted that’s when Lady Jasmine would finally show up?

  While Rock read the Karpens’ minds, Lady Jasmine, a guy who looked a lot like Mini-Me in the Austin Powers movies, another Asian-looking lady, and a knockwurst-necked guy in a black leather jacket, slipped into box 301.

  I was going to tap Ceepak on the shoulder but he was already looking over at the latecomers. He gave me the knowing nod. We were on it. Lady Jasmine was officially being surveiled.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Rock as the Karpens climbed down the steps from the stage, “I hope you and your families are enjoying your time here in Xanadu, a palace more incredible than the stately pleasure-dome the mighty Kubla Khan did decree.”

  Guess Rock and I had the same eighth-grade English textbook. “As you know, when Marco Polo first journeyed into the mystical lands we now call China, he returned with many wondrous treasures. Fireworks!”

  A flick of his wrist, and indoor fireworks exploded.

  “Spaghetti!”

  Another flick of his wrist and a wad of wet noodles fell from the sky, smacking one of the dancers on the top of his head, making him look like he was wearing a mop.

  “Sorry about that, Blaine,” Rock quipped.

  He then tugged at his sleeve, setting up another wrist flick. The three dancers onstage—all guys—covered their heads, not knowing what might come tumbling down or exploding out next. The crowd chuckled.

  “And, of course,” said Rock, milking the moment for all it was worth. “The greatest treasure of them all: fortune cookies!”

  He plucked one out of the air.

  I could feel the crowd heave a collective “Hunh?”

  Now the giant TV screen behind Rock showed a slow-motion shower of cash.

  “You will win a great deal of money,” said Rock, reading the tiny slip of paper from inside the cookie.

  Then he turned it over.

  Several times.

  “But wait—where are my lucky numbers? Wise sages through the ages have told us, the fortune inside a fortune cookie will only come true if the reader plays his lucky numbers in a game of chance! Where are they? Where are my lucky numbers?”

  Ceepak leaned over. “This must be his famous Lucky Numbers illusion,” he said.

  I was sort of thinking the same thing, but Ceepak said it first, so he was still, officially, the smartest boy in the class.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I sensed Lady Jasmine leaning forward in her seat. I glanced over and saw her gesturing for everybody else in her box to settle down and pay attention.

  Rock stared at the cascading cash on the JumboTron at center stage.

  “I’ll bet I could win a whole heap of money if I played my lucky numbers out on the casino floor! But I don’t have any lucky numbers in my fortune cookie.”

  He turned to the audience. The house lights brightened.

  “Do any of you folks have a lucky number?”

  Hands shot up. People started shouting.

  “Hold your horses. I need another volunteer. You there. Yes, you.”

  A woman sitting about six rows back with her husband and kids stood up.

  “Do you have a lucky number, ma’am?”

  “Yes, sir. I sure do.”

  “Have you ever attempted to use it to win money?”

  “One time. The lottery.”

  “And you won?”

  “No.”

  Rock did a comic frown. “You lost?”

  “Yes,” the woman giggled it out.

  “Dang—and it’s still your lucky number?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Me, too.” He flicked his wrist again. Produced a purple-striped poker chip. Moved it artfully across and through his fingers. In the close-up on the TV screen, I could read the center of the chip: Fifty dollars.

  Rock gestured for the woman to join him onstage.

  She giggled the whole way up the steps.

  “What is your name, ma’am?”

  “Cassie. Cassie Hannington.”

  “Cassie, have we ever met before?”

  “No,” she said. “Unfortunately!” Then Mrs. Hannington grabbed hold of Rock’s tux and nailed him on the cheek with a quick but noisy kiss.

  “Please,” said Rock. “Not in front of my wife!”

  Jessica Rock—now dressed in a different low-cut gown more dazzling than all the rhinestones in Nashville—strolled across the stage like Vanna White heading over to the big board to flip a few vowels.

  “Sorry,” said the audience volunteer. “You’re just too handsome.”

  “Ain’t it the dadgum truth?” said Rock. Then he gave her a grin and a wink to let her know he was just joshing her.

  Their whole little scene was playing up on the giant TV screen behind them, which is where my eye always goes in any kind of arena-type situation. Even if I’m at Madison Square Garden and Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band are live onstage, I’m focused on the JumboTron, watching TV Bruce instead of Live Bruce.

  “Very well, Cassie Hannington. You say you have a lucky number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it between one and thirty-six?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Rock disappeared into the wings and returned with a rolling easel that had a white marker board propped up in its tray. Then she smiled and pointed and posed some more.

  “Excellent,” said Rock. “You know, numbers can be dadgum powerful. Now, I know what you’re thinkin’: my cow died so I don’t need your bull anymore. So, I’m gonna prove it to you. Cassie, I want you to think about your lucky number.”

  “Now?”

  “Might be a good idea. We only have this theater until nine-thirty. Then the Rotary Club comes in.”

  The audience laughed. So did Cassie. Then she closed her eyes, scru
nched up her face. Thought hard.

  “Are you seeing your number? Visualizing it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Concentrate on it.”

  “I am.” She squeezed her face tighter.

  “Cassie, I want you to stay here in the theater with my wife.”

  “Okay.”

  “Meanwhile, I’m going out into the casino to make us some money! Jim Bob?” he called to one of the dancers. “To the high-rollers’ room!” He took a step forward. Stopped. “Hold up. Let’s make this even harder. Where’s my blindfold?”

  Jessica Rock whipped out a black hood—the kind executioners wear, only without the eyeholes.

  “Thank you, dear,” said Rock as he slipped the black sack over his head and stumbled around the stage like a blind version of Frankenstein’s monster.

  The dancer took Rock by the elbow, led him toward the steps.

  “Wait a second, Jim Bob! If I’m going to play with the high rollers, I need to look like one.”

  He magically plucked a few items out of the air: A glitzy pinky ring sporting a horseshoe of diamonds. A white rose for his lapel. He slid the ring on his finger. Jim Bob pinned the boutonniere to his tux.

  “All righty. Let’s go win us some money!” Rock followed Jim Bob’s lead and descended the staircase.

  “Can you folks still hear me?” he asked.

  “Yes!” we all said.

  “Good. Means my radio microphone is actually working! And, can y’all see me?”

  The TV screen now showed a handheld shot of Richard Rock moving through the auditorium. I glanced over at real life and saw a camera guy with a cordless portable unit walking backward about six feet in front of Rock. It reminded me of the Letterman show, when Dave leaves the stage to go out into the street to do something wacky with taxi drivers or water balloons.

  “We can see you, Mr. Rock!” shouted one of the kids in the auditorium.

  “All righty then.” He started smacking his lips. “Shoo-wee. My mouth is drier than a tumbleweed outside Amarillo. I need me a drink, Jim Bob.”

  The dancer led Rock out of the side aisle and up emperor’s row. When they passed table 301, Rock froze. Just for a second. Then he strolled past our table and headed over to the VIP bar.