Mind Scrambler

by Chris Grabenstein

  Sam is Samantha Starky, a part-time summer cop up in Sea Haven who’s back at community college for the fall semester. We’ve dated a couple times. Probably will again. We’re at the souvenir T-shirt stage of our relationship; haven’t advanced to snow globes or teddy bears wearing destination-specific clothing. Not yet.

  “You still want to catch the magic show later on?” I asked.

  “Roger that. I’ll ask Cyrus to arrange for our tickets.”

  “Cool.”

  He flicked up his wrist, consulted the Casio. “Let’s reconvene in the theater lobby at nineteen-hundred hours. That way, Cyrus can use us as needed in his heightened security plan.”

  “You really think this Lady Jasmine wants to steal Rock’s secrets?”

  “Doubtful. However, Cyrus needs to appear proactive at this juncture. Remember—he’s only been on the job a few months.”

  That, too, is Ceepak in spades. If you’re his friend, he’s always got your back. Trust me—I know. He’s had mine on several different occasions.

  Ceepak shoved off for his lighthouse adventure and I headed back up the escalator to the main casino floor so I could find a T-shirt shop and head over to the Crystal Palace Tower to finally check out my swanky high-roller suite. To reach my new room, of course, I had to pass more slot machines. Lots and lots of slots.

  So, with a little time on my hands, and one crisp $10 bill in my pocket, I decided to sit down and play. Just to, you know, see what all the fuss was about. I picked the machine I had seen earlier, the one called “Cops and Donuts.” In the next row over, they had these “Wheel of Fortune” machines with a big wheel up top that spun around if you hit some magical combination of letters. It also had sound effects of a crowd chanting like on the TV show: “Wheel! Of! For-tune!” Then the musical bird chirps. I figured this was the Xanadu’s take on Chinese water torture.

  I slid my ten spot into the “Cops and Donuts” bill muncher.

  The illuminated front panel showed a couple of cheery cartoon cops with beer bellies riding in a patrol car and chasing after a burglar who was on foot. In the background, you could see Dunky’s Donuts, apparently the officers’ favorite drive-in dining destination and why they were too obese to climb out of their car and chase the fleeing bank robber on foot.

  This was what they called a 5-reel-and-20-payline machine, because there were five reels depicting stuff like doughnuts, coffee cups, handcuffs, and police badges, and you could play up to twenty lines at a time. All those lines made the video screen look like a blinking EKG. There was also a Donut Eating bonus game that was triggered when three or more “Fresh Donuts” icons appeared on the first, second, and third reels. Having fun in Atlantic City was almost as complicated as calculus.

  I slapped the spin button to play five credits. Stuff spun. Lines zigged. I slapped the button again. Doughnuts whirred by. Lines zagged. A few spin cycles later, my credit balance had hit zero.

  Game over.

  It was like I had fed my money into a soda pop machine, hoping that all the cans in the hopper would tumble out the first time I hit the select button and when, instead, I got nothing for my money, I just shrugged, put in more money, pushed the button again and hoped I’d get lucky. I could have more fun making change at the Laundromat.

  Having gambled my $10 limit, I followed the signs and arrows for the Crystal Palace Tower and walked through an arcade of high-end gift shops. Brooks Brothers. Chico’s. White House/Black Market. I guess if I had hit the jackpot, I was supposed to dress better.

  I ducked into a T-shirt shop. Thought about getting Samantha this “snake eyes” shirt until I realized the single dots of the two tumbling dice were located in the lewdest possible position on the chest. I went with one that said A.C. and hoped that wasn’t supposed to be lewd, too.

  I exited the store and strolled through this indoor piazza that reminded me of Disney World—a bunch of restaurants and nightclubs, all built into a three-story-tall movie set meant to appear like a Chinese village square at sunset. There were golden clouds painted on the domed ceiling and I was surrounded by fine dining options: Panda Pete’s Potstickers, the Pagoda Place, General Tsao’s Chicken Xpress, and Hooters.

  Upstairs, on the second level of the fake village square, I could see a couple nightclubs: Yuk-Yuk-Ho-Ho’s Comedy Club, Pandamonium, and the Forbidden City. Oh, and a karaoke bar. Lip Sync Lee’s.

  I try to avoid karaoke bars.

  Finally, I reached the Crystal Palace elevator bank. Doors slid open on one of the cars and Richard Rock stepped out. He was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled down tight. He carried a plastic shopping bag.

  “Hey,” I said. “How you doing, Mr. Rock?”

  “Sorry. No autographs.”

  Not that I had asked for one.

  Then he was gone.

  I shrugged and stepped into the elevator, which was like that one from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory: all glass!

  I checked out the floor buttons and realized that I would be staying in the penthouse: my floor, number 22, was all the way at the top. I took my time depressing the button so everybody else in the elevator would have ample time to realize just how high of a roller I was.

  My room was pretty awesome.

  A better-than-a-lighthouse view of the boardwalk and beach. I wished I had brought some binoculars. There was a swimming pool about nineteen stories down at this other hotel and even though it was October and no scantily-clad women were lounging in the chairs, let alone tossing off their tops, you just never know when a girl might go wild. My friend Jess has the videos.

  I could see the other high-rise casinos: Bally’s, the Tropicana, Resorts International, Caesars, and Trump’s Taj Mahal. I could also see the foam-rippled Atlantic Ocean, stretching off to the east. The sand down on the beach was clean and white and dotted with a few bright blue umbrellas and cabana tents, not as many as you’d see in the summer, but enough to let me know somebody was out there, breathing in the fresh, salty air instead of the recirculated casino stuff.

  I left the window so I could check out what was in the cabinets surrounding the TV set.

  As Parker predicted, I found chilled champagne in the tastefully hidden fridge. I pulled out a drawer and discovered a basketful of really expensive snack food items in sealed jars. Stuff like spicy cheese stix, gourmet popcorn, teeny cookies, and Toblerone candy bars—all of which cost like fifteen bucks, each.

  On the bed, I counted twelve pillows propped against the headboard. All different shapes, sizes. I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to do with so many. Maybe elevate my feet. I slid open the closet and, as predicted, there were two bathrobes. Plush. Swanky. His and Hers. Or, in my case, His and His Other One. There was also a small safe where I could store my valuables. If I had any, I might’ve used it, too.

  Then I made the mistake of looking out the other window. The one that faced to the west, away from the golden shoreline.

  The one that gave you a bird’s-eye view of Atlantic City’s urban blight.

  Two blocks away from the boardwalk, everything looked like a ghetto circa 1975. It’s where the Xanadu’s bus depot was located, so Ceepak and I had seen it up close and personal when we pulled into town. Shabby homes. Garbage blowing up crackled streets where nobody seemed to live. Liquor and cigarette stores with placards out front proclaiming CASH FOR GOLD, which meant somebody was inside hocking their wedding ring, hoping their luck would change. If it didn’t, there was always a quart of Colt 45 and a pack of Marlboros to ease the pain.

  From my lofty perch in the high-roller suite, I could see this sign on top of what looked like a church or a castle: CHRIST DIED FOR OUR SINS. In Atlantic City, I guess that meant He died so everybody else could sell their gold for cash and hit the slots.

  A cloud blocked out the sun and every drab thing twenty-two stories down looked even drabber. I turned away and, now that the room was a little darker, I could see a red light flashing on the phone on the bedside table.
<
br />   Meant I had a message. Probably Ceepak. Reporting in on that view from the lighthouse.

  But he would have called my cell.

  I scanned the icons over the top rows of buttons on the phone. It was almost as complicated as playing “Cops and Donuts.” Housekeeping. Spa. Room service. Parking. Golf. Golf? Messages!

  I depressed the messages button, put the phone to my ear, and awaited further instructions.

  “You have—one—new message,” said the friendly recorded lady. “To hear your new messages, press two.”

  I did as pleasantly commanded.

  “First new message. Received today at—four—thirty—five—PM.”

  I checked the high-tech digital alarm clock on the bedside table. Ten minutes ago.

  “Hey, Danny.”

  Katie. Meant she had forgotten my cell phone number. Erased it from her memory—literally. When they do that, it’s definitely over.

  “Hope I’m not bothering you.”

  Katie didn’t sound like Katie.

  “I was just wondering . . . if maybe you could come see me tonight. After the show. When the kids are asleep. I need to talk to you. About Jake.”

  Great. It was the Call.

  I heard someone yell, “Katie?” in the background. Female.

  “I found something.”

  “Katie?” The woman again.

  “I gotta go,” Katie whispered. “Oh, we’re in room AA-four.”

  I jotted down the number on the little Xanadu notepad near the phone.

  “Thanks, Danny.”

  And those were the last words Katie Landry ever said to me.

  7

  “Relax, guys. Enjoy the show.”

  So said Cyrus Parker when Ceepak and I reported for duty at 1900 hours—better known as 7:00 PM. or “an hour before the show actually starts.”

  I, however, was having a hard time obeying Parker’s orders. I couldn’t relax.

  Not when Katie wanted to see me after the show so we could talk.

  About Jake.

  “You sure you’re covered?” asked Ceepak.

  “Roger that,” said Parker. “Called in my whole crew. We’ll have twenty security guards positioned throughout the theater. We’ve also organized a dedicated TPZ camera to be locked on box three-oh-one in emperor’s row, right where Lady Jasmine and her posse will be seated.”

  “TPZ?” I asked, because somebody had to.

  “Tilt, pan, zoom. Here you go, guys.” He handed us our tickets. “You boys are in three-oh-two. Right next to our person of interest.”

  “Mr. Parker?” A very officious guy clutching a hardcase clipboard strutted across the lobby.

  “Yes, Mr. Zuckerman?”

  Zuckerman was probably thirty-five. Had that cue ball sheen of scalp showing though his shaver-shorn hair, the kind of ’do that looks like it’s spray-painted on your skull skin.

  “You’re certain we’re secure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What about dogs?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Have you swept the theater with bomb-sniffing dogs?”

  I tried not to grin. Was Rock’s magic show really that bad? A bomb?

  “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.