by Claire Kane
“Can I throw money at them?”
Lacey laughed, and Victor did a brief, overblown parody of a male revue dance, causing Lacey to laugh even harder, despite the blush it forced.
Her laugh was interrupted by a duo dressed in matching white T-shirts emblazoned with “Free Felix and Charly.” A redheaded woman with dark roots thrust a flyer at Lacey. “You’re not going to watch The Zigmund and Ross Show, are you?” she asked with a challenging glare.
“Actually, I am,” Lacey said lightly, maneuvering Nainai’s wheelchair around the woman. Just to be polite, she accepted the flyer as she passed, and paused to examine it. It displayed circus cats with bloody wounds. Blinking, she scrunched her face at the sight.
The redhead’s companion, a guy that looked to have escaped Woodstock, stepped forward. “Like what you see?” he practically growled, jabbing a finger at the photo of the big cats. Lacey started, momentarily dazzled by the light sparkling from the gems, including a ruby the size of her eye, virtually dripping off his fingers.
She recovered quickly and blurted, “Of course not.” The last thing she needed, right now, was a confrontation. She wanted time to look around before the show. Still, she couldn’t help but add, “But these aren’t Felix or Charly.”
The bejeweled hippie raised his brows at her, asking, “Does it really matter?”
“Well, sure,” Lacey stammered. She glanced at Victor, standing to her left, as if he could somehow support her. He shrugged.
The redhead crossed her arms. “It’s never okay to cage an animal.”
“They aren’t caged,” Lacey said. “I have it on good authority that they live with the magicians in a fancy suite that’s the size of a mini mansion. They walk freely and eat well.”
“What you call a mini mansion is their cage,” the redhead retorted, her face flushing dark enough to match her hair. “They need to be in the jungles of India, not here in a capitalistic Vegas show as a spectacle for Americans’ shallow entertainment.”
The hippie dude’s eyes flicked to the press pass hanging from around Lacey’s neck, and he nudged his partner. “Like, good luck changing this chick’s mind. She’s already bought and paid for by the entertainment industry. Check out her necklace. KZTB Seattle.”
The woman glowered. “You should be doing a report on animal abuse, or else you’re part of the problem.”
Nainai fluffed what little white hair she had with a look of irritation. “I have a date to see Ross,” she blurted. “And my purse is loaded with dollar bills. Let’s go!”
“We do have to go.” Lacey tried to pass the flyer back, but neither protester would accept it. Huffing, she pushed her grandmother forward to continue toward the glittering, grand entrance, only to find that the animal rights people stepped into her path.
“Excuse me,” she said, flatly. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”
“You think just because you’re with the media that you’re someone special?” the redhead asked. “You’re actively contributing to the problem by refusing to see it. I bet you’d do the same thing if we showed pictures of people torturing human babies, because you’d point out that some of them live in nice places too, wouldn’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?” Lacey retorted, her hands tightening on the wheelchair grips.
The woman sneered and took a menacing step forward.
“Hey,” a man called from the side. “I’m going to have to ask you two to leave. Again.”
Lacey turned toward the newcomer and sighed in relief at the sight of a bald security guard in a dark blue shirt and matching ball cap, sporting a handheld radio receiver on his shoulder. Stitched into his shirt pocket, in cursive, was the name “Konski.” The guard interposed himself between Lacey and the activists, and held both hands out wardingly. “How many times do I have to tell you you’re not allowed to harass customers? I’m authorized to order you to cease and desist, and to leave casino grounds.”
The hippie got in the guard’s face. “Dude, we’re not on casino grounds. So back off, huh? Just chill, man. We’ve got a Constitutional right to be here.” To Lacey’s surprise, the long-haired twenty-something shoved the security guard. The guard rolled his eyes, but waved for Lacey and Nainai to pass.
The hippie shoved him again, and the security officer responded by grabbing his arm and twisting it around behind the hippie’s back in one, swift motion, before dropping him to the ground and kneeling on his back. “You wanna try that again, Neiburg? How many times have you and I done this dance?” the guard said calmly into his ear. The hippie—Neiburg—struggled, and his lady friend protested, but it was clear that Konski would be getting his way this time.
Lacey nodded a quick thanks to the guard, then hurried on with Nainai.
“Sheep!” Neiburg called behind her. “You’ll regret it! You think that casino will keep you safe? You’re walking into the devil’s own den! You’re killing Felix and Charly! What goes around comes around!”
Was that a threat? Her blood starting to boil, Lacey paused for a breather, smoothing her long dark tresses.
“It’s okay,” Victor said, soothingly. He looked down at her with his iridescent blue eyes. “Don’t let it get to you. You’re here on assignment. Remember that.”
She let out a sigh. “You’re right. I’m not going to be guilted or taunted into changing my mind. I’m doing the right thing, either way.”
“Yes, you are.” Nainai said. “Now hurry up. These George Washingtons need a warm home.”
That brought an unexpected smile to Lacey’s face. “Okay, Nainai, but for the thousandth time—Zigmund and Ross are not strippers.”
“I’ll see about that.” The elderly woman had a coy glint in her eyes.
*
The interior of the building was decorated much like the outside, and the ceiling had been painted to look like the sky; not unlike the ceiling at the Forum Shops, it cast sunset hues of pinks and oranges. An artificial moon—probably a projection, if Lacey had to guess—moved leisurely across the “night sky,” while exotic music played from hidden speakers, mingling with the festive noises of a thousand gaming machines, and the tinkling of jackpots. Lacey coughed a little on the wave of stale smoke that washed over her and wrinkled her nose as she looked around for signs to lead her. She noticed a directory map near the entrance, and quickly memorized the path to the Grand Theater. That done, she wheeled Nainai toward the showroom, Victor groaning the entire time.
The theater was a technological wonder. Lights sprouted from the walls like bouquets of metal roses. A group of stagehands tested smoke generators and lasers, while others checked on the eighty-foot-wide screen behind the stage. The stage itself had been inlaid with multicolored LED lights that were doing a choreographed dance to music blasting from speakers the size of Volkswagens. The theater sported arena-style seating, sloping down from the back of the theater, and sporting several extra-wide center aisles through the ground-level seating. Though the bleacher seats around the stadium were nothing exceptional, every seat on the main floor was a powered recliner with a pair of cupholders that could probably handle a gallon milk jug. A hiss from above startled Lacey, and she looked up to see a fine mist descending toward her. It smelled of oranges. A moment later a second spritz came, this time bringing the scent of pine. Lacey breathed deeply through her nose, and smiled.
“So, Disneyland rented space in Vegas, huh?” Victor said, eyes narrow as he scanned the room. The demons were relatively few here, thankfully, and while several gave him baleful glares, none of them bothered him. He wasn’t sure how much worse things would get once the show started, though. As if to answer his question, a cluster of serving girls in tiger-skin bikinis filed in through doorways scattered around the theater and moved into the already-sizeable crowd. Those on the ground floor carried silver buckets of ice to various seats. Victor brushed their minds and gleaned that some patrons had pre-ordered their drinks, and would expect them cold and ready upon arrival. He shuddered at the darkness
that seemed to crowd around the women; he could tell most of them were just doing what they considered a job, but most of them also felt trapped by something they couldn’t place.
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to stay, Lacey,” he said, leaning over to her. “And if I did, I’d probably ruin the show for you. I just… I can’t stand seeing people being used as objects. It reminds me too much of…” He trailed off and looked away. Lacey’s breath caught, and she remembered the time she’d found Victor, gray and shriveled in the middle of a trap laid by a man who helped run a prostitution ring in Seattle. The trap had been quite graphic. Lacey quickly dismissed the memory, forcing a smile.
It’s okay, Victor, she thought to him. I understand. I’ll call you when we’re done.
“Thanks, Lacey,” he said. “Enjoy the show.” His tone was anything but convincing, but she knew he was sincere.
“Wait!” She moved to grab him by the chest of his T-shirt and her hand went right through him. She flushed slightly, then settled her hands in front of her. “I was just wondering: do you think you can interview Chanel Lockhart in the meantime? You know, the entertainer who I told you had died.”
“I can try,” he said, looking put out. “I can’t make any promises.”
“Come on, who better to interview than the victim herself?” Lacey stared hard at him. “You have to do this for me. We’re a team.”
He smiled at that in amusement. “Is that what we’ve become? Like a mystery-solving duo?”
“Well, yes.” She nodded. “But I prefer something more sophisticated, like investigative team.”
“I’m not just your guardian angel. I’m your partner then.” He smiled bigger.
“Yes. We’re partners.” Her eyebrows pressed together as she begged, “Please do this for me.”
“Like I said, I’ll see what I can do, but no promises. This is all still new to me. There are rules that I don’t even know about.”
“I understand,” she said. “Just try for me.”
Without another word, he vanished.
Lacey inhaled, trying to get her mind back into the fun she’d had since leaving her motel, but she couldn’t fully manage it, knowing how it affected Victor. It was easy to ignore what she couldn’t see, but ever since Victor’s mind had linked to hers, following his murder, she still got... impressions… of what he saw and felt, even when he wasn’t deliberately broadcasting his thoughts to her. Suddenly, the glitz and lights seemed dimmer; fake, like a five-year-old wearing a bed sheet and trying to convince you he’s really a ghost.
“Get me on that stage, Lacey,” Nainai said. “My time has come!”
The reporter-turned-private investigator faked a smile, and wheeled her grandmother down the long ramp to the seats shown on their tickets. She had no idea how she’d help Nainai to her seat if she had to swim through the sea of people that had shown up to watch. She wished she’d known how popular the show had been; she might have skipped the bus tour and come straight here.
Lacey thanked her lucky stars when she reached the place her tickets called for. The space was an aisle seat near the front, where one of the recliners had been removed to make space for wheelchairs. “It was nice of Cathy to think of that,” she said to Nainai. “I guess this makes up for the cheap motel she got us. We’ll be able to see everything from here.”
“I want to be able to see everything from up there,” Nainai said, jabbing a finger at the stage. “Did I ever tell you about that time when I was a girl, in China, and was on the national gymnastics team?”
Nainai had never actually been on the team, but she had tried convincing Lacey of it at least one other time in the recent past. And so, in the interest of being a good granddaughter, she smiled, patted Nainai on the arm, and allowed the old woman a chance to spin her tale while they waited for the show.
The swollen crowd made Lacey cagey, and she caught herself stealing glances behind her, using the mirror in her compact, a trick she’d learned from… investigating (she refused to call it “stalking”) … people. She was grateful, as the lights dimmed for the pre-show, that she was no longer able to see most of the five-acre audience. Waitresses continued bustling about, and Lacey remembered dressing not unlike them during her recent—and blessedly short—stint as a model. She grimaced at the memory of the grueling, and sometimes humiliating photoshoots, glad she hadn’t gone into something more… adult. She had no idea how women could stomach it, but figured it was their call to make. Instead, she turned her attention back to the stage, with all its garishness, and tried to let herself get caught up again in the excitement of Vegas. She actually flagged down one of the serving girls and ordered drinks for herself and Nainai.
When the pre-show ended, the real fireworks began. As in, actual pyrotechnics on the stage, causing Lacey to jump and Nainai to whoop and holler. A pair of tigers—one ridden by a man in a dark silk shirt and leggings, burst through the smoke, and onto the stage, and exclamations rose from the audience.
Lacey spun at a roar from behind and found a four-hundred pound black-and-white striped cat charging down the center aisle, pursued by a dark-haired man in a form-fitting, tan leather suit with more sequins than Lacey’s old prom dress. The man tackled the tiger from behind, and man and beast tumbled the rest of the way down to the stage. Just before they hit, the tiger literally threw the man up and onto the stage, where he landed in a graceful tuck-roll, coming to his feet just as the tiger leapt up beside him. He gave the tiger a rough, one-armed hug around its neck, and the tiger ran a tongue the size of the man’s head along the performer’s face. Lacey winced, wondering whether the entertainer had lost any skin to that “cat kiss.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” an announcer boomed, “will you please welcome to the stage, Zigmund and Ross!” The audience burst into applause and Nainai seemed intent on screaming herself hoarse. She grabbed Lacey’s arm, bouncing up and down in her chair like a lovesick teenage girl seeing her favorite star in person for the first time. “Come give me a kiss, you tigery studs!” she called.
Lacey doubted the performers could hear her, but she blushed anyway. “Nainai,” she muttered through the side of her mouth. “Show at least a little dignity.” Her grandmother scoffed.
“Thank you,” the man in tan said, with a thick, German accent, as he stepped forward and raised an arm over his head. “It’s so wonderful to see you all here tonight! I’m Gerald Zigmund.”
“And I am Pietr Ross,” another man said, as he strode up next to his companion, his long, golden hair bobbing. “And we intend to show you all the absolute best time of your lives, tonight.” The crowd went nuts and, despite her expectations, Lacey was stunned at the deafening volume. She was amazed that a show still in its infancy had been able to draw such numbers.
“Now,” shouted Zigmund, “who’s ready for some magic?”
The audience cheered again, and music thumped through the speaker system, laser lights and LEDs pulsing in time. Lacey wished she’d had the foresight to bring earplugs (and, maybe, sunglasses), but she grinned and bore it anyway, if only for Nainai’s sake. As the show proceeded, however, she had to admit the guys were pretty good. Watching them stick their heads between toothy jaws freaked her out—especially given the incident from 2003 with the tiger who dragged his master halfway across the stage—but the performers were clearly professionals, and she could tell they had a bond with their animals she couldn’t understand.
The illusions, the lights, the smoke, it was all intoxicating in its own way. Her imagination played with the thought that black magic could explain their illusions, even though she wasn’t yet a believer. Eventually, Lacey just gave in to the show and let herself enjoy it. The final trick, however, sent a little shiver down her spine, as Zigmund mimed summoning demons from the underworld, only to find it was really Ross and Felix rising out of the floor amid the smoke and flame. Notwithstanding the production was very entertaining.
The evening produced one final surprise, however, that really cau
ght Lacey off guard. A group of people stood up, suddenly, only a few rows in front of her. They faced the audience and began unrolling a banner. In moments, Lacey could make out the words, “Karmageddon’s Coming For You,” in red-painted lettering in the style of smeared blood. At once, the group began chanting. Lacey squinted at the protesters, then groaned. Neiburg The Hippie and his female companion were right in the middle of the group, and seemed to be the cheerleaders for the whole thing. They began chanting wildly, screaming things like “Don’t support animal abuse!”
Lacey rolled her eyes, and said, “Not them again.” She glanced around, wondering what was taking security so long. Soon, the nearby crowd began booing in response. Zigmund finally seemed to notice the disruption and paused, mid-act. Lacey watched as the man paced the stage, making terse, frustrated gestures. Ross, however, never let his smile waver, and continued to keep the audience enchanted with his tricks and illusions.
“Don’t support animal abuse! Karmageddon’s coming!”
“Ladies and gentleman,” Zigmund finally said into his little microphone headset, “I am sorry for the rude interruption. Security is already on its way and should be out here any moment now. Any. Moment. Now.” After a surprisingly long pause, a half-dozen uniformed men with tasers and pistols burst from backstage, and started fighting their way through the audience, and toward Neiburg and his friends.
The chanting continued louder, spit flinging furiously from Neiburg’s lips. Lacey crossed her arms, sighing in agitation. Then the chant changed to something eerie, that made her sit up straight. “Chanel was first! You’re next!”
“They’re saying Chanel... right, Nainai?” Lacey leaned over to her grandmother who was quickly making spit wad missiles for her straw.
