Magic Mansion (11 page)

The restored ballroom was elegant, from the parquet floor to the leaded glass windows, and although it was lit up rather brightly to facilitate taping, the atmosphere was convivial. Food and drink flowed. Fabian grumbled about the fish that had gone up his nose and the fact that it was ridiculous he wasn’t allowed to call his wife, while across the room, the women hung on Ricardo’s every word like a devoted harem. John couldn’t say he blamed them.

It felt like a party—a late-night party that was winding down, but a party nonetheless. The whiskey was mellow, the caviar was mild, and Fabian’s company was a pleasant distraction. Even better, every now and then the most handsome man in the room treated John to a secret smile. After an hour or so, he’d just about forgotten about the cameras…until Ken Barron went down in a cacophony of shattered glass, and the cameramen swarmed him.

Both Chip and Charity were nearby. Chip reacted fast, kneeling in the spilled drinks without a thought for his Elvis costume. “Dude, are you okay?” Charity thrust her puppet in beside him, as if “Oscar” might be of some help to the situation, and Chip batted it aside with a dismayed, “What the fuck?”

Ken groaned and pushed himself up off the floor, and Chip said, “Oh, man.”

Iain had squatted down beside them, exchanged a few whispers, then shook his head and backed out of the shot.

“It’s fine,” Chip announced. “Just one cocktail too many.”

“He’s drunk?” Jia said.
 

“Not just drunk,” Kevin said. “Wa-sted.”

“When the heck did he have time to drink?” Jia said. “He’s been serving us all night.”

Chip slung Ken’s arm around his chunky shoulders and said, “Okay, buddy, time for bed. Party’s over.”

_____

About damn well time, too. Iain checked his watch. Three-thirty. If Marlene expected him to show up for work even one second before noon, she could come drag him out of bed herself.

A stylist blotted the shine off Monty’s chin while he read through his latest set of lines, and Iain broke another couple of glasses on the floor to ensure the scene of Ken’s drunken accident looked good on camera. He blocked the scene with a few simple directions, stepped aside, and said, “Action.”

Monty stepped up to the bar, squatted among the broken glass, smiled winningly at the camera, and said, “Some party! But what else can you expect from twelve wild and crazy magicians?” He straightened up and strolled to the end of the bar, where the lampshades in the background were now askew, and the set dressers had thrown some couch cushions on the floor. That, interspersed with a few shots of men sipping booze and women laughing, would make it seem like a night at Hugh Heffner’s place, rather than the awkward snoozefest it had actually been.

“The four contestants with the lowest scores in the first challenge think their punishment is over, but it’s only just begun. Tomorrow, they’ll stay behind and clean up this mess while the other magicians relax for a day at the spa.

“And that’s not all. While they’re here slaving away, the viewers at home will be voting to eliminate one player on each team.

“So who’s it going to be? It’s the comedian versus the escape artist on the Red Team, and the ventriloquist versus the femme fatale on the Gold. Cast your votes, and be sure to tune in next time to find out who gets to stay…in Magic Mansion.”

Chapter 12

SPA DAY

Last time, on Magic Mansion….

“Twelve magicians gathered for their first challenge, and street magician Kevin Kazan prevailed, earning him the title of the Red Team leader. Sue the gift shop girl was a surprise runner-up, and now she’s at the helm of the Gold Team.

“The lowest-scoring contestants on each team are stuck cleaning the mansion while the victors enjoy the spoils at a luxurious day spa. But what the magicians don’t know is that one member of each team has been voted off by our viewers.

“I’m your host, Monty Shaw. Stay tuned and find out who will be the first to leave…Magic Mansion.”

____

There were six people in the gold van: the driver, the cameraman, Sue Wozniak, Bev the Math Wizard, Muriel Broom, and Ricardo. “Talk, people,” said an irritated voice through the car’s stereo system. Iain was with them in spirit—via cell phone. Ricardo supposed that raised the count to seven. “Shots of the four of you just sitting there won’t make for scintillating TV.”

“So,” Ricardo said brightly, to no one in particular. “How did you sleep?”

“Like sardines,” Bev said. “There were four beds in the room, and then they wedged in an air mattress.”

It was ridiculous, in this day and age, that Ricardo hadn’t been allowed to share a room with any of his teammates. But he sensed it might veer into damaging territory if he complained about it, so instead, he said, “Oh. Who slept there?”

“I did,” Sue said. “I thought I’d be too excited to sleep anyway, but I guess I was more worn out than I thought. It was no big deal. Kind of like camping.”

There was a long, tedious pause—not because the magicians had nothing to say to one another, but only because the camera was more intimidating than any of them had anticipated. Over the car speakers, Iain said, “You’re killing me, people. Say anything.”

Muriel jerked her head up as if she’d been caught nodding off in class, and blurted out, “I felt that damn dummy looking at me all night,” and Bev, before she could stop herself, whooped in laughter.

It was contagious. The cameraman held steady—maybe he was a veteran at filming reality TV—but the driver did crack a smile.

Once the laughter finally calmed (taking much longer than it normally would have, given the thick level of anxiety in the van), Muriel added, “What’s that thing’s name? Oscar? That means it’s a male dummy. I say it stays with Ricardo from now on.”

The women laughed the rest of the way to the spa. Ricardo did his best to laugh along…though it was hard enough sleeping in the mansion without worrying about glass eyes staring at him in the dark.

In a way, though, wasn’t that exactly what he was already doing? Dummy or not, there was a night-vision camera in every room.

That thought was of no particular comfort.

Iain’s voice broke into the laughter with, “Okay, kids, here’s the deal. We’ve only got this place booked for three hours and setup took up two. It needs to look like you guys are here all day, so each of you will get a separate treatment where we can film you doing a bunch of different spa stuff. The seaweed wrap and the deep-tissue massage will flash the most skin. Then we have an aromatherapy thing and something else with feet. What’s that?” he asked, as if he was holding a phone up to his other ear and having a second conversation…which, probably, he was. “Oh. Reflexology. So decide amongst yourselves who wants to do what, and be ready to strip down when you get here.”

The van, which had just been filled with laughter, went heavily silent once Iain was done talking. Ricardo looked to Sue to see if she thought Iain was actually gone. She shrugged. Then Bev said quietly, “I’d prefer not to get undressed on camera unless I absolutely have to.”

The four contestants bent their heads together to confer. The microphone in the minivan would likely pick up anything they said, but even so, the semblance of privacy made Ricardo feel a bit better. “Okay,” he said, “who wants to do what?”

Muriel said, “The smell of seaweed makes me gag.”

“I’m fine with stripping down,” Ricardo said, “and I’m fine with seaweed. I can do the wrap.” At least he’d get his money’s worth out of the tanning salon by showing off all the time he put in by flashing some skin.

“I wouldn’t mind a massage,” Sue said.
 

Muriel turned to Bev. “Got any problems doing the foot thing?”

“No. That’s okay by me.”

“Then I’ll take the aromatherapy. Done deal.”

They all looked at one another expectantly—and Ricardo felt a surreal moment where he wondered if indeed this reality show was actually happening, or if he’d made it all up in an elaborate dream—and then Sue dropped her voice down to a hint of a whisper, and said, “Girls’ team kicks ass.”

Bev gave Ricardo a motherly sort of smile, then wagged her finger at Sue and said, “Gold Team.”

“Oh. Right.”

Luckily they pulled up to the spa before another spate of giggling ensued.

____

John supposed, were he predisposed to headaches, he would have been suffering one as he stepped out of the red minivan. Marlene had given them four spa treatments to divvy up between them, and Kevin Kazan had turned the simple decision into an ordeal. But he was their team leader, they’d each received their assignments, and that was that.

The gold van pulled up just behind the red van, and John immediately watched for Ricardo’s appearance. He was smiling as he stepped from the van in his midnight blue fitted T-shirt and slim black jeans, and the gold-ribboned medallion he wore around his neck—which he wore well, despite how silly it was. He turned to help the ladies out of the van, and they were all smiling too.

John felt a wistful smile touch his own expression, though it evaporated when Kevin took his place on one side of him and Jia on the other, both glaring out at the world, chins jutting forward, spines poker-straight.

Jia didn’t like being told what to do. Kevin didn’t like repeating himself. Nor being challenged…particularly by a woman.

John couldn’t speak for Fabian, but he personally felt like he was watching a pair of children squabble over who got to play first on the jungle gym.

Marlene Perez climbed out of a much more utilitarian van than the one the Red Team had arrived in. Her black hair was caught back in a hasty ponytail, but her black-on-charcoal sweater set was obviously new, and probably had a designer label sewn inside the collar. When she drew close, John caught a hint of her perfume. She smelled expensive.

“Okay, Red Team, listen up. You’ll be sharing a treatment room with a member of the Gold Team, and we want you to chat. Remember, you’re rivals now.” She led them to a spot off-camera, and said, “We’ll get some shots of you walking in, and then we’ll get you situated in your rooms. Have your talks, then we’ll get back to the mansion location and grab some more ‘domestic’ shots.”

As John strode toward the spa doors, Fabian, beside him, muttered, “And here I thought this would be relaxing.”

John gave a slight nod.

Once John was inside, Marlene caught him by the arm and led him deeper into the building, which was so thick with camera equipment and crew he had a hard time picturing it without all the extra gear cluttering it up. “Here’s the changing booth,” she said, as she steered him into a curtained stall. “Get dressed and meet me in the room across the hall.”

The curtain shut, and John was alone.

It felt good, this moment of quiet, like the gasp of air he’d taken when the lid of the fish tank popped open. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been among so many people for such an extended period of time. It was actually rather thrilling—when they weren’t all sniping at each other and trading attitude.

He hung his new shirt and slacks carefully, and stepped into the disposable thong-like garment. Quick costume changes were no longer a key part of his act, not like they had been in the 70’s and 80’s. Not like Rose, either, who could go through as many as a dozen costumes in a night, and tear them off in two seconds flat without smudging her lipstick or knocking a hair out of place. While John might never have imagined a costume would include this flimsy excuse for briefs, or the turquoise robe, or the bamboo spa sandals, it was exciting to once again be part of an act that required a wardrobe change.

He dressed in the spa gear and stepped out into the hall, where Marlene was jabbing at the screen of her smartphone, deep in concentration. She looked up and smiled. “That color looks great on you. Make sure you pause in the doorway and let the camera get a good shot of it.”

With all the video lighting, the treatment room was glaringly bright compared to the hall, and a pair of cameramen were mashed up against opposite walls with handhelds. Two treatment tables had been shoved side by side, each with a spa technician at its head. But John’s focus narrowed to a single, stunning thing: Ricardo, seated on a table with one knee bent, in nothing but a pair of skimpy disposable briefs.

Ricardo turned. His eyes widened and he hesitated briefly, then gave his showman’s smile, and said, “You opted for the seaweed wrap? It smells a lot better than they said it would.”

Both cameras swung over to John, who said, “I’ve always been fond of the ocean.” He put one foot in front of the other and stepped into the center of the room, moving on sheer instinct, because conscious thought seemed to have fled at the sight of Ricardo.

More specifically, Ricardo’s
body
.
 

John had suspected Ricardo would look good, but even his fantasies couldn’t compare with the reality of those long legs, that sculpted chest. Don’t
gape
, John managed to think (though just barely) and he turned away and looked to Marlene, who pantomimed undressing. He pulled his belt, and allowed the aesthetician to take his robe and guide him onto the table.

“It doesn’t smell like raw seaweed,” said the man who was painting a pale green gel on Ricardo’s back. “It’s mixed with a proprietary blend of essential oils.”

Ricardo and John stared—it seemed impossible not to—and finally Ricardo said, “Nice tan.”

“Actually, no. I’m Chamorro.” Which most people had never heard of—and it was a relief to have something, anything, to chat about. “From Guam. Some Pacific Islander blood, some Spanish.”

“Oh. Really? Because your aunt was so famous, and I don’t remember ever reading about….” Ricardo finished with a sheepish shrug, and John wondered if it was possible the camera was picking up the thick vibe in the room.

He watched his technician mixing a bowl of green gel as an excuse to tear his eyes away from Ricardo’s bare shoulders. “You wouldn’t have. Rose was always supposed to be coy about where she was originally from so she didn’t seem too foreign. It was a…different time.”

“We’ll apply the treatment to your back,” the spa worker told John, “then you can lie down.”