Mind Scrambler (6 page)

“Mr. Zuckerman,” said Parker, “I was given to understand that the perceived threat was theft of intellectual property, not an improvised explosive device.”

“Wouldn't you rather be prepared than sorry?” Zuckerman sniped.

Ceepak stepped forward. “Sir?”

“What?”

“Rest assured that Mr. Parker has taken every conceivable precaution to insure the security of Mr. Rock's illusions.”

“Who are you?”

“John Ceepak. Sea Haven police department.”

“Who?”

“Friend of mine,” said Parker. “Former soldier. Another set of eyes that will be glued on Lady Jasmine this evening.”

Zuckerman grunted.

“Mr. Zuckerman is Richard Rock's manager,” explained Parker. “Runs a tight ship.”

“I try.”

“We're good to go, sir,” said Parker.

“I certainly hope so,” said Zuckerman. “Hey, you!” And he was off to nag an usher who must've been unpacking souvenir programs the wrong way.

While Zuckerman showed the guy how to do his job, I eyeballed some of the other souvenirs for sale. Sparkly kid-sized cowboy hats. A whole rack of those stringy bolo ties like the one Jake had been wearing when he forgot to put on his shirt this afternoon. A mountain of cuddly stuffed tigers and equally cuddly Richard Rock dolls caged in a glass display case, not to mention autographed portraits of his whole wholesome family. His wife was a very buxom blonde, all cleavage, golden hair, and white teeth. The kids were frying the camera lens with their bright teeth, too. I wondered if they bought tooth bleach in bulk-sized barrels at Costco.

Soon, the lobby started filling up. Hundreds of pumped people, all jazzed about seeing Richard Rock pretend to make stuff appear and disappear. A lot of kids were in the crowd. One boy, about eight, already wore his bolo tie and spangled cowboy hat. They clashed with his New York Yankees Jeter jersey, but what the hey.

Around 7:40, this scrawny beanpole of a guy came tramping into the lobby. He had greasy black hair with two stringy strands dangling down to make a parenthesis on his forehead. Under his bugged-out eyeballs were bags so huge they resembled half-moon water balloons.

“Martini,” he snarled at one of the bartenders serving $10 bottles of Bud and $15 cocktails.

“One second, sir,” said the bartender.

But the guy couldn't wait. “Where the fuck is David Zuckerman?”

“Who?”

“David fucking Zuckerman.”

The bartender poured Bug Eyes a double shot of vodka in a plastic cup, tossed in a lemon peel and an olive skewered on a pink plastic sword. “I'm sorry, sir, I don't know Mr. Zuckerman.”

“He's Rock's manager. He's expecting me. Kenny Krabitz. Tell him I'm fucking here!”

Ceepak, who's basically a thirty-five-year-old Eagle Scout, went over to talk to the loudmouth in the loud jacket.

“Mr. Krabitz?”

“What?” The guy was sucking on the pink plastic sword. Chomping the olive.

“There are children present.”

“So?”

“Please watch your language.”

“What?”

“Kindly refrain from utilizing foul language.”

“Jesus! Fuck you, you fucking fuck.”

Ah, yes: the New Jersey state motto.

Ceepak moved closer. Let the undernourished weedling take note of just how huge and in shape he was.

“I'll ask you one more time to refrain from using profanity in the presence of minors.”

“And who the fuck are you?”

“John Ceepak. Sea Haven PD.”

“Sea Haven? Fuck that noise. Get out of my face, meathead. I'm drinking here.”

“Mr. Krabitz?” Zuckerman returned to the lobby.

The weasely guy slammed back his cocktail. Crunched an ice cube. “So, David—what's the big fucking problem? I thought everybody was happy as a clam over here.”

“Let's take this outside,” said Zuckerman. He put a hand on Krabitz's shoulder, ushered him toward the door.

Ceepak shook his head as he watched them leave the lobby.

“What an asshole,” I muttered.

“Danny?”

“Sorry.”

“Come on, we should go find our seats. The show will start in approximately ten minutes.”

 

 

We followed the crowd into the fifteen-hundred-seat theater, which was set up Vegas-style. Ten raked tiers angling down toward the stage. About two dozen tables on every level—some round, some the shape of cafeteria tables for families and big parties. The place reminded me of Medieval Times, this castle up in Lyndhurst, New Jersey, where you sit at long banquet tables, chomp on turkey legs, swill grog, and watch knights on horseback joust each other down in the arena. In here, they were pushing magical elixirs (most made with vodka or rum) instead of grog. The kids got soda pop in Big Gulp-sized tubs and a magical squiggly straw. I think they glowed in the dark. The straws, not the kids. Unless they ordered Mountain Dew.

Our box seats down in the emperor's row were the poshest in the house. They were banquettes, actually. Padded seats. Fancy fabric. Our table was covered with a cloth. We were three tiers up from the edge of the stage and had our own bar and waitstaff, too. I don't think ordinary people were even allowed to traipse across our quadrant of the carpet without a work visa. Very VIP. Very high roller.

“Drinks, gentlemen?” asked an impossibly well-endowed young cocktail waitress in a red silk minidress and black China-doll wig.

“Do you have grapefruit juice?” asked Ceepak.

The waitress batted her mascara-thickened lashes several
times to ponder his request. It looked like two tarantulas clapping. “I think so. Maybe.”

“If not, cranberry juice will be fine.”

“There's a two-drink minimum.”

“Then make it one of each!” said Ceepak, just to show how wild and crazy he could be.

“Okay.” She looked at me with high hopes that I might redeem our table by ordering something more interesting. Beer. Wine. Sangria.

“I'll have the same thing,” I said.

Hey, when Ceepak's on a “let's-keep-our-heads-clear-so-we-can-do-our-job” jag, I usually play along.

We settled into our plush bench seat. I nibbled the free Chinese snack mix: shiny crackers, sesame sticks, and green wasabi peas. The stage was draped with a fifty-foot-tall red velvet curtain, made even redder by all the red-gelled stage lights aimed at it.

“Curious,” said Ceepak, examining the empty box next to ours. “Five minutes till showtime. No Lady Jasmine.”

The waitress returned. Ceepak and I took our two Juicy Juice glasses each. I saw a bunch of security guys stationed around the perimeter of the auditorium. Two or three on every level. A couple were talking into their sleeves, probably trying to figure out where the heck their prime target for the evening was. I noticed that Parker himself was stationed near the emperor's row bar, rubbing the top of his bald head, staring at the empty box next to ours, worrying about it.

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.

 

 

 

 

 

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.