Mind Scrambler

by Chris Grabenstein

  “I’ll have a Shirley Temple!”

  “You sure you wouldn’t like something with a little more kick?” the bartender asked.

  “No, ma’am,” said Rock. “This here is a family show.”

  While the audience tittered at that, the bartender handed Rock a tall pink glass with two shiny cherries sticking out on top.

  Rock put the glass up to his hood. Couldn’t drink it through the cloth.

  “Reckon I need a straw,” he said.

  The waitress plunked one into his glass.

  “Thank you kindly.” Rock maneuvered the tube under the front of his hood, took a loud sip. “Ahh! Dee-licious. Now then, it will take a few minutes for Jim Bob and me to make our way over to the Ming Dynasty High Roller Room where the stakes are higher, the winnings bigger. You folks can watch our progress up on the TV screen. To prove that we are not doing this with trick photography, we will be utilizing the casino’s very own, high-tech, tilt-pan-zoom security cameras to track my progress in real time.”

  The giant TV screen turned into a quadrant of grainy black-and-white video images—live, overhead shots from four different cameras positioned above the casino floor and in the corridors just outside the Shalimar Theater. There was a rolling digital time stamp in the lower right corner of each frame. 8:50 P.M.

  “Cassie?” Rock called out to the volunteer onstage.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Keep thinking about your number. Girls?”

  The chorus girls came bounding back onstage like gazelles to join the male dancers already out there, elbows cocked, eagerly anticipating their next hoedown.

  “A little traveling music, if you please!”

  The six remaining dancers launched into a huge production number, lip-synching to a prerecorded track about Lucky Numbers.

  I don’t think anybody was listening to the stupid song or watching the dancers kick and pump, even though two of the girls were more or less dancing with each other since Jake still hadn’t shown up and Jim Bob was escorting Rock out of the theater. All eyes were glued on the TV screen and Richard Rock as he sipped his Shirley Temple, went out the swinging doors, and strolled through the theater lobby.

  I wished I could’ve gone with him.

  The Lucky Numbers song sucked. Totally.

  10

  On the giant TV screen, we could see Rock and Jim Bob in the wide corridor outside the Shalimar Theater.

  They were standing underneath the blinking marquee as all sorts of people straggled past—many of them staring at the strange dude in the tuxedo with a black bag over his head who was being led around by a topless seeing-eye dancer.

  “Show Cassie and the other folks where we are, Fred.”

  The camera whipped around to take in the wide carpeted hall leading off to the slot machines and blackjack tables. Then it zipped back to frame up Rock again as he and his escort walked past all the shops and restaurants Ceepak and I had walked past earlier.

  “All right, Fred. You can go back inside with that thing. Switch to the hotel security cameras, fellas!”

  The TV screen cut to a shot from the ceiling surveillance camera closest to where Rock was walking. When he left its coverage area, the scene switched to the next camera down the line. The whole time he walked, Rock chattered away. I think magicians call it patter.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it was the ancient mathematician Pythagoras who once declared, ‘The world is built upon the power of numbers.’ Tonight, we will put his words to the ultimate test. We will witness just how powerful one number can be!”

  The camera angle switched and he was entering the main casino floor, walking past some blinking slot machines, of course. With that black hood over his head and white rose in his lapel, he looked a little like the Grim Reaper on his way to the senior prom, but nobody seemed to notice. They were all too busy staring at their spinning Sheriff Roscos, General Lees, Daisy Dukes, and whatever else spun on the Dukes of Hazzard slot machines.

  Another camera. Another left turn. This time past the electronic poker machines.

  “Do you believe one number can change your luck, change your life?”

  Onstage, a spotlight swung over to make Cassie the volunteer look like a Bambi caught in the searchlights during a prison break.

  She giggled. Mrs. Rock gestured for her to answer. “I don’t know,” she said, sounding nervous. “Maybe. I guess so.”

  Rock and Jim Bob hung another Louie, the camera switched, and we watched them pass that cocktail lounge where the athletic woman in the too-tight gown was stomping through another Motown hit.

  Thankfully, we couldn’t hear her. Just Rock’s voice over.

  “We’re almost there, ladies and gentlemen. The Ming Dynasty Room! Where the highest of the high rollers win and lose millions of dollars, all on a single turn of the cards or a solitary spin of the roulette wheel. And you know what?”

  “What?” said the volunteer.

  We could see Rock and Jim Bob walk down a carpeted corridor toward an ornately decorated door right underneath a pagoda-shaped arch.

  But Rock didn’t answer his volunteer.

  So Cassie leaned in closer to her microphone. “Yes, Mr. Rock?”

  Mrs. Rock turned toward the wings. Daintily tapped at her ear. It looked like she was signaling to a technician. Audio problems. Where’s the Best Buy Geek Squad when you need them? Probably chatting on their cell phones and drinking Snapple, which is what the clerks do behind the cash register every time I stand in line for thirty minutes, trying to buy a game for my Sony PlayStation.

  A Please Stand By title flickered on the TV screen as Rock and Jim Bob walked toward the golden door. I was assuming it was golden. The security cameras only broadcast in black-and-white.

  The camera angle switched to a view from behind the two guys and we could read what was scrolled above the door: Ming Dynasty Room. A security guard stationed outside signaled that it was okay for Rock and his helper to enter.

  I heard this thump-thump-thump.

  Onstage, the volunteer from the audience was tapping on the microphone. “Hello? Mr. Rock?”

  Next we heard a crackle of static. “I’m sorry. I believe I was in a dead zone there for a second. Can you hear me now?”

  “We can hear you fine,” said Cassie.

  “All righty. We are now in the Xanadu’s world-famous Ming Dynasty Room.” He walked past a bearded man in robes who I figured had to be an oil sheik.

  “Admission to this exclusive gaming den is by invitation only,” said Rock. “However, tonight I have arranged for us to play one fifty-dollar chip on the high rollers’ roulette wheel. The house rules are simple. I can play one number and one number only. I can only play one spin. I cannot play the odd or even, nor the black or red. Just your lucky number. And, for this one spin, no one else in the room is permitted to play with or against me. It’s just us. You. Me. And your lucky number!”

  The camera view shifted to an overhead shot, angled down at the roulette wheel’s green felt betting board. Actually, given the black-and-white camera, the board looked gray. But you could tell by the different shades which numbers were red and which ones were black.

  Rock stepped into the picture: we could see the top of his hooded head.

  “Now then, you said your lucky number was between one and thirty-six . . .”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “As you can see, those numbers are all available here on the roulette table. Please—write your number on the marker board so the audience can see it. I, of course, won’t be able to read what you write because I’m in another room with no video monitors and I have a big ol’ black bag over my head! But, to eliminate any lingering doubts, kindly write your number large enough so the whole audience can read it without the aid of the TV screen. Turn off all the cameras in the theater, gentlemen! Do it now!”

  The camera operators in the Shalimar made a big show of twisting knobs, powering down. On-screen, we were still looking down at
the roulette wheel.

  “Now,” said Rock, “please show everyone your lucky number!”

  Mrs. Rock handed Cassie a thick Magic Marker and pointed at the white board.

  “You want me to write it down now?” asked Cassie.

  Mrs. Rock nodded. Pointed at the marker board.

  Cassie, her hand shaking slightly, scrawled a giant 22 on the board.

  “Can everybody in the audience see your lucky number?” asked Rock from his remote location.

  “Yes,” said Cassie. “I wrote it real big.”

  “Very well. Let’s see how lucky your number really is!”

  Rock set down the stupid Shirley Temple he’d been carrying. Without the drinky-poo, both of the magician’s hands were free to dramatically hover over the felt. You could see the horseshoe-shaped pinky ring sparkling as he moved across the numbers, hunting down the lucky one.

  “Legend has it,” Rock said as his hands moved across the first twelve numerals, “the man who invented the roulette wheel bargained with the devil to obtain its secrets.” His hands moved down to the second cluster of twelve numbers. “This, of course, is based on the fact that if you were to add up all these numbers, add one and two and all the numbers through thirty-six . . .”

  His hands passed right over the row with 22, 23, and 24. Moved into the final third of the board.

  “. . . if you were to add ’em all up, they’d equal six hundred and sixty-six. Six-six-six. The so-called Number of the Beast for those of you who ever watched that devil movie The Omen. But I don’t believe in all that hooey. No, sir. I only believe in my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ and—your lucky number!”

  His hands hesitated. Reversed direction. Moved back up the board. Rock manipulated his fingers and magically produced the $50 chip, which he plunked down in the middle of the square numbered 22.

  The audience applauded!

  “Is twenty-two your lucky number?” Rock asked.

  “Yes!” Cassie was squealing.

  “Hold your horses, folks,” said Rock. “We’re just gettin’ started. Croupier? If you please?”

  The TV screen switched to another overhead shot—looking down directly at the roulette wheel as a pair of dainty female hands gave the wheel a good spin in one direction and sent a silver ball sliding in the other. The ball, which looked like it had escaped from a pinball machine, glided along on the tilted surface running around the outside of the spinning wheel. We watched the ball whiz. The wheel whirl.

  “No more bets,” the croupier announced.

  The ball and wheel lost momentum.

  The big silver marble bounced down into the rolling number slots. It bounded in and out of a couple boxes. The wheel slowed down some more. The ball leapt up over the ridged edge of a box. Then another. Bounced again. Landed.

  It ended up in the pocket numbered 22.

  “Twenty-two wins,” announced the croupier.

  Inside the theater, the audience went wild! We had a winner.

  “What’s the payout?” asked Rock.

  “Thirty-five to one,” said the croupier.

  “Congratulations, Cassie! You have just won one thousand, seven hundred and fifty dollars!”

  The screen cut back to a wide-angle view of the whole high-roller room. The pit boss slid a stack of chips over to Rock. He pulled off the hood. Grinned at the camera. Scooped up his winnings.

  “Come on, Jim Bob! Let’s go take Cassie her jackpot! And this time, we’ll take the shortcut!”

  They made their way over to this pair of ceramic dragons on pedestals in front of a paneled wall. Rock bopped one of the dragons on the head, and the wall swung open! It was pretty cool. Like Batman and Robin opening that secret closet where they hid the bat poles in Wayne Manor.

  The audience was still cheering when a dozen spotlights swung across the stage and came to rest as a blazing circle at the bottom of the JumboTron TV screen. A hidden door swung open and, from inside the TV set, or so it seemed, out stepped Richard Rock and Jim Bob!

  Apparently, after all those left turns, the Ming Dynasty high-roller room was located somewhere behind the Shalimar’s stage.

  “Yes, we could’ve gone out that way, too,” said Rock, “but what kind of fun would that’ve been? Thank you, Cassie!” He handed his volunteer the stack of chips. She nearly fainted. Dancers escorted her over to the steps. Mrs. Rock swung out an arm, kicked up a heel, and rolled the easel offstage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Rock, “luck is what you have left over after you’ve already given one hundred and ten percent. Truth be told, we all make our own luck! So, boys and girls: study hard, listen to your teachers, just say no to drugs, and go be the winners I know you were meant to be! Jessica? Where are you, honey?”

  Mrs. Rock came running out onstage, her spangled dress working like a disco ball as she jiggled into place beside her handsome husband.

  She took Rock’s hand. He smiled. She smiled. I thought I might need an insulin shot.

  “Good night, everybody!” said Rock “And—Go! Get! Lucky!”

  The Rocks dipped into a big bow, then skipped off into the wings while the audience rose to give them a standing ovation. The seven dancers scurried into a line and took their bows.

  “Fascinating,” said Ceepak and I could tell: he was having a hard time figuring out how Rock did the Lucky Numbers trick.

  Me, too.

  Then I glanced over at Lady Jasmine.

  She was shaking her head and laughing.

  11

  The houselights came up. The audience was still buzzing, keyed up by Rock’s performance.

  “I’m gonna go see Katie,” I told Ceepak.

  “Roger that.”

  We slowly made our way up emperor’s row and into an aisle where we got stuck behind a wall of people moving even slower than we’d been moving. Fifteen hundred humans. Four exits. This was worse than the Lincoln Tunnel at 5:00 on a Friday.

  “I’ll catch up with you later,” I said to Ceepak, even though neither one of us was going anywhere anytime soon.

  “Give Katie my regards.”

  “Yeah. I will.” I shuffled forward. A whole foot. “Geeze-o man. What’s the holdup?”

  “I am given to understand that Mr. and Mrs. Rock typically visit the lobby after every performance to meet and greet their fans.”

  And to bump up trinket sales.

  Finally, some ushers opened a couple side exits and the crowd started to part and thin.

  “That’ll work,” said Ceepak.

  We reached the lobby.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Rock will be right out!” announced one of the souvenir vendors from behind her chirping cash register. “Form a single line to my right and have your items ready to be signed.”

  “I’m going to purchase a stuffed tiger for Rita,” said Ceepak, dutifully taking his place in line, falling in behind a couple kids studying a booklet so they could learn how to pull quarters out of each other’s ears.

  “Catch up with you in the AM,” I said.

  I crossed the lobby and came out into the wide-open plaza in front of the Shalimar Theater, realizing I had no idea where room AA-4 was. The Crystal Palace Tower? The Shanghai wing? Some other part of China?

  Fortunately, I saw a security guard stationed in front of what looked like a service entrance—double metal doors painted the same color as the walls so nobody could see them.

  “Excuse me,” I asked. “Which way to Room AA-four?”

  “The performers’ suites?”

  Made sense. Katie was working for the Rocks. The Rocks were performers.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Someone expecting you?”

  “Yeah. The Rocks’ nanny. Katie Landry. She’s an old friend from Sea Haven.”

  The guard sized me up some. “You live there? Sea Haven?”

  “Yeah. I’m on the job.”

  “Cop?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They still got that miniature golf course? King Pu
tt Putt?”

  “Yeah. King Putt.”

  “They still have that crocodile where you shoot your ball up the snout and it rolls out the butt?”

  “Yeah.” It’s actually the tail.

  “We used to spend a couple weeks up in Sea Haven every summer. When the kids were younger. Now, they’re all grown up. Don’t want to know from putt-putt and Boogie boards.”

  “Room AA-four?”

  “Yeah. Use this door.” As he worked the thumb latch, I read the tiny sign that said AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “No problem. Hey—they still got that pancake place?”

  “Yeah.” Sea Haven has about six pancake places. I figured one of them had to be the one this guy was remembering.

  “They still make that thing they make?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good times.”

  “Yeah.” I gave him a little two-finger salute and headed up the hall.

  The corridor on the other side of the door was drab compared to the rest of the Xanadu. Back here, instead of Chinese red and gold wallpaper, the walls were cinder blocks painted a wet gray. The floor was scuffed linoleum illuminated by sporadic can lights up in the dropped-tile ceiling. I noticed one of Parker’s TPZ cameras on a naked metal arm. In the bowels of the building, they don’t hide the spy cam under a smoky gray dome to keep it discreet.

  I passed a door that looked like it opened into a janitor closet or one of those rooms with nothing in it but a billion jumbled telephone wires, all different colors, screwed to metal posts on a switching plate. I heard humming and thrumming—like a gigantic refrigerator gurgling through a cycle.

  I saw another guard stationed near another dull door just like the dull door I had already passed. He looked Samoan. Some kind of Polynesian. As big as a refrigerator crate with a Fu Manchu mustache and curly hair pulled back tight into a ponytail. EVENT STAFF was printed on the breast of his windbreaker.

  “Yo, bro—can I help you?” the guy asked.