Singularity

by Steven James

  And of course, street magicians doing sleight of hand. Whenever I see them I always stay to see what they can do, and regardless of whether or not the magicians are any good, I leave a tip. I figure if they’re good they need a boost to get onstage somewhere, and if they’re not any good they need to pay the bills while they practice—and despite what you may have heard, the best place to practice sleight of hand is always in front of an audience instead of a mirror.

  It’s all part of what makes Vegas unforgettable.

  During runs of my show, I’ve visited dozens of amazing cities all over the world, but it was only when I came to Las Vegas that I felt like I was finally coming home.

  Sin City.

  What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

  That’s what they say, and it makes a good marketing slogan. However, as attractive as the idea is, there aren’t any places you can go where you’re exempt from the consequences of your decisions. Obviously there aren’t. A trip to Vegas isn’t a journey away from accountability; it’s actually a barometer of your character.

  No, what happens here doesn’t stay here. It’s the wet dream of all hedonists to think there’s a place you can go to fulfill all your fantasies and not have to carry any of the consequences of your choices with you back home.

  Every city contains both a caricature of and an extension of itself. Here in Vegas, if you have the money, you can indulge in anything your heart desires.

  Anything.

  So that is my city.

  And it is also a city of skateboarding and Little League games and strollers in the park.

  That is my city as well.

  There’s a paradox to Vegas—so much of what you see on the Strip and downtown is facade, and yet the people you meet are showing you their true selves. Like the homeless person’s sign I saw on one of the walking bridges over a side street off the Strip: “Will Smoke Your Weed for Food.” No hiding anything there.

  As one of my friends once told me, people in most cities wear masks all year round and only take them off when they visit Vegas. We live without any masks at all.

  And that’s one of the reasons I like to call this city my home.

  The airport is nestled up right next to town, something that has concerned Las Vegans ever since 9/11. After all, if you were a terrorist concerned about the Great Satan spreading filth across the world, what better place to attack than Sin City itself? What better target that represents sexual indulgence and the capitalist vices of America than striking at downtown or the Strip? It looked like plans to relocate the airport were in place back in 2007, but the recession of 2008 and the lack of money flowing into the city put everything on hold.

  The only person building anything major in the city at the time was Clive Fridell, who put up the Arête, where Charlene and I would be performing tomorrow night.

  I’ve never verified this, but they say that during the day you can see the pilots’ faces as they make their final approach if you’re in the revolving restaurant on the top of the Stratosphere, the tallest observation tower in the United States. Who knows. It’s something nice to tell the tourists.

  Most people don’t know it, but the Strip is not actually in Las Vegas but in a town called Paradise. Back in the forties there was a tax revenue dispute, and the casino owners established their own city to keep from paying taxes to Vegas. It’s a lot easier, however, to just refer to the whole metro area as Las Vegas.

  But it is interesting to note that I make a living by doing illusions in Paradise.

  A lot of the other magicians and performers who’ve found some success in Vegas live in Summerlin or Spanish Trail, but my heart is closer to Paradise and that’s where I wanted my home to be.

  I’m not sure how many people can stay on the Strip. I’ve heard the number 125,000 tossed around. That sounds too high to me, but it’s possible, when you consider that some of the resort hotels have six or seven thousand rooms all by themselves.

  There are more than a hundred casinos in Las Vegas, including the ten-billion-dollar City Center, the most expensive building project in the history of the world, and the nearby Arête. With five thousand rooms the Arête isn’t as big as the MGM Grand but at sixty-seven stories it’s the tallest hotel in Vegas.

  And, of course, at the Arête is the 920-seat auditorium where Escape: The Jevin Banks Experience is playing.

  I’m actually glad we’re bypassing the Strip tonight. Seeing billboard trucks and expansive digital screens with my face on them advertising my show always makes me feel a little odd, like I could never measure up to the hype.

  Once you’ve lived in the public spotlight for any period of time, you know it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

  We drive past Industrial Boulevard and the contrast strikes me—Strip Club Row versus the Strip.

  There are basically two kinds of prostitutes in Las Vegas: the high-end call girls and the lower-priced pimped girls. If anything, the police take more notice of the second group since they work mostly out near the seedier Strip Club Row rather than on the Strip in Paradise.

  Human trafficking is a big problem in Vegas. Pimps will invite girls to town for supposed jobs as dancers or models, get them addicted to drugs, and then drag them into prostitution.

  In Nevada, prostitution is legal, but decisions are made county by county about whether or not to permit it. In Clark County, the county that both Las Vegas and Paradise are in, it’s illegal. So, as you cross the county line—especially out near Pahrump—you find a whole string of brothels.

  However, the police have plenty of other things to deal with in metro Vegas, and they don’t really bother with solicitation charges much, especially with the higher-priced escorts.

  If you want to meet one of them, just take the last flight to Vegas from LA on a Friday afternoon. The girls are reasonably easy to pick out: they’ll be gorgeous, dressed to kill, and traveling without a male companion.

  On the Strip they’ll hang out at the most expensive resorts and clubs, frequently checking their cell phones and always keeping an eye out for who’s laying down the big money. Wherever you find the high rollers, you’ll find the LA escorts.

  They fly in, work the weekend, then head back to LA to their modeling jobs, acting careers, or whatever they do during the week.

  Some of them have become good friends of Charlene’s.

  In fact, that’s how we first met her body double Nikki Manocha, who has since moved to Vegas and now performs in our show.

  I’ve always preferred a small house to a large one, but the place where I live now is a sprawling six-bedroom home that feels much too large for a single guy living by himself. It used to belong to my mentor Grayson DeVos, who performed exclusive magic shows here during the seventies and eighties before he retired from performing and took up mentoring upcoming illusionists and escape artists instead.

  With secret rooms behind fake bookcases, hidden stairwells, and trapdoors that lead to passageways beneath the property, it’s the perfect place for a magician to live.

  For a while the property was in disrepair after a reclusive crime novelist named Alec Saule acquired it from Grayson, but when he died in a car accident last fall, the house went on auction and I was able to snap it up. It’s still being renovated, with the thirty-two-seat parlor theater being replicated just as it was when Grayson held his shows there.

  A couple weeks before we left for our trip to the Philippines, Xavier suggested I ask Fionna and her kids to house-sit for me while we were gone. “The kids will love exploring the place, and Fionna can keep tabs on the guys remodeling the theater.”

  Fionna went for the idea, and Xav was right, the kids were thrilled to come stay for a week at a historic magic mansion in Las Vegas. Actually, Xavier and Charlene are also staying with me for the time being, so it’s like one big happy family.

  We arrive at the end of the drive and I tap in the security code. The cast-iron gates part, and our limo driver eases up the palm tree–lined driveway.<
br />
  He glances curiously into the rearview mirror at the three of us.

  Xavier gestures toward me. “You’re wondering who this is?”

  Limo drivers aren’t supposed to ask personal questions, but they can certainly reply when spoken to, and now he simply says, “Someone important, no doubt.”

  We snake along the drive to the house itself, and as it comes into view I can see the man’s face in the rearview mirror again.

  Xav leans forward. “You ever heard of Criss Angel?”

  Oh, don’t do this, Xav.

  Our driver looks at Xavier then at me, his eyes widening. “You’re Criss Angel?”

  “No, I’m not Criss Angel.”

  Charlene gives me a glance but does nothing to help my cause. Xav leans forward and winks at the limo driver in the rearview mirror. “No. He’s not Criss Angel.”

  That only serves to convince him more. “So you are Criss Angel.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  We arrive at the house, and as the driver is helping us with our bags he shakes his head. “Could you . . . um . . .”

  “You want an autograph?”

  “Oh, that’d be . . . Yeah, that would be amazing.”

  Maybe this would actually clear things up. I produce my business card case from my pocket, pull out one card, vanish the case, and sign the back of the card for him.

  I sign it, as neatly as I can, Jevin Banks.

  He cradles it admiringly in his hand. “Wait till I tell everyone I met Criss Angel.”

  Great.

  As he drives away I tell Xavier, “I really wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  “I know. That’s what makes it so much fun.”

  Xavier’s home—an RV complete with a twelve-thousand-dollar telescope for searching for UFOs, the plaster casts he’s taken of supposed Bigfoot tracks, and the reams of paper and filing cabinets full of his “proof” that the Air Force is really doing tests on the next generation of autonomously flown unmanned aerial vehicles, or UAVs, in the desert near Groom Lake—sits to the side of my house, where he left it when we all went to the airport the other day.

  Fionna and her two boys are waiting for us on the broad steps outside the house. By this time of night her two girls—nine and five—are undoubtedly asleep.

  Donnie, who’s thirteen, has a ponytail that’s longer than his sister Maddie’s. His skateboard is leaning against the side of the house, and I presume that his mom told him to leave it outside. I can imagine how much fun it would be to launch off the railing leading down the porch and can guess what he’s been up to while we were gone. He’s actually unplugged his earbuds and stopped texting long enough to smile a greeting to us.

  “Your house is epic,” he tells me.

  “Thanks.”

  Lonnie, the oldest at seventeen, is already well on his way to becoming a man—and on his way to following in his mother’s footsteps. He won a contest last year put on by Google to see who could hack into a root code that they established just for the event. It took him two hours and eighteen minutes—an hour faster than the second place finisher.

  The guys welcome us and Donnie asks his mom if he can throw the pizzas in now. She tells him sure, go ahead, and I have to admit that even though I’m in that strange in-between place you get when traveling—exhausted and yet somehow wired, famished and yet somehow full—pizza sounds pretty good.

  As the boys go inside, Fionna nods cordially to Xavier. “It’s good to see you, Mr. Wray.”

  “And you as well, Ms. McClury. Have the children won any spelling bees while we were gone?” To put it mildly, Xavier is not a fan of homeschooling, and he and Fionna often go back and forth about it. I think it’s friendly banter, but sometimes I’m not so sure.

  “We’re still in training, actually; thank you for asking. And do you know what time zone you’re in now?”

  “I think it’s tomorrow.”

  “It’s yesterday.”

  “Now you’re just messing with me.”

  “Come on inside and have some pizza.”

  I round up some soda for everyone, and while we wait for the three pizzas to bake, Charlene and I catch up with Fionna.

  Xavier heads into the other room to show the boys a new flaming bubbles effect he’s been working on for my show.

  When they’re gone I ask Fionna, “Did you tell the kids what happened to Emilio?”

  She nods. “Yes. We talked about it today. They know.”

  Charlene leans forward. “How are they doing with all that?”

  “Well, thankfully, they didn’t know him, I mean, apart from seeing him perform with you a few times last month when we were in town. I’m sure it’d be a lot harder on them if they were closer to him. Which reminds me . . .” She slips off to my library, which she’s apparently been using as an office, and returns with her laptop computer. “Do you have that USB drive?”

  “Xavier does,” Charlene answers.

  “Okay.” Fionna hesitates, as if trying to figure out if this is the best time to go and ask him for it, then decides to just plop down again. She tries to stifle a yawn. “It’s been a long day.”

  Charlene asks her, “You didn’t find out anything else?”

  “Not really.” Fionna’s frustration about her lack of progress is clear as she shakes her head. “I got a good look at Emilio’s files. As far as I can tell there’s nothing regarding RixoTray in any of his online backups. He did have a lot of articles he’s downloaded recently, though, on a certain kind of jellyfish, Turritopsis dohrnii, and a disease called progeria.”

  I’ve done a number of benefit shows over the years for children’s hospitals, one of them being Fuller Medical Center here in Vegas, where I ended up meeting a seven-year-old boy with progeria. It’s an extremely rare disorder that causes children to age at seven times the normal rate. They usually don’t live past the age of fourteen or fifteen before dying of old-age-related complications. It’s tragic and sad, but the boy I met was more full of life and joy than most people I’ve met of any age.

  Charlene stares at Fionna quizzically. “Articles on jellyfish and progeria?”

  She nods. “I have Maddie doing an extra credit report on the jellyfish. We can look at the progeria connection tomorrow.”

  The timer goes off, I check the pizzas and see that they’re ready, so we call the boys and Xavier back into the room.

  Fionna’s sons fill their plates and are returning for seconds before Charlene and I have finished our firsts. Xavier manages to score a few extra pieces before the boys polish off the rest of the pies and head to bed.

  When Donnie and Lonnie are gone, Xavier gives Fionna the USB drive, holding it on the edges to avoid leaving any more prints.

  After only a few keystrokes she pauses. “Well, okay, right now I can tell you this is going to take awhile.”

  “Why is that?” I ask.

  “DoD.”

  Xavier looks suddenly very interested. “Department of Defense?”

  “I did a contract job for them a few months ago, and what you’re looking at here are algorithms I’ve only seen on military servers.”

  “That’s crazy,” I say. “What on earth would Emilio have with Defense Department encrypted files? And what’s the connection to RixoTray? None of this makes any sense.”

  “It doesn’t make sense that Emilio was killed either,” Charlene points out solemnly. “But somehow all of this fits together. We just can’t see the big picture yet.”

  “In any case,” Fionna goes on, “this USB drive didn’t just come from RixoTray.”

  “No. Not if it has DoD encryption on it. Somehow it came from the military.” Xavier downs one of the final slices.

  “Or it passed through their hands, yes. I could work on it tonight, but . . .” Another yawn catches her off guard and stops her in midsentence. “This one could be a full day’s work, even with Lonnie’s help.”

  “Get some sleep,” I tell her. “If we’re going to do this, let’s do it righ
t. I want you to keep track of all the steps you go through to get in there, just in case we do need to go to the authorities about this later.”

  “So.” Charlene is staring reflectively through the doorway at the fireplace. “Not only do we need to find out why Emilio might have this drive from RixoTray, and not only do we need to find out what files it contains, we need to find out who set up the security on it.”

  “And of course who killed him,” Xavier mumbles introspectively. “And why . . .”

  I can see his wheels turning. “What is it, Xav? Something else?”

  “Just that Emilio went out to the road bordering Dreamland with me a few times. He was really interested in the place. If that’s military-grade security on there, well . . .” He gestures toward the drive. “You never know.”

  Dreamland, otherwise known as Groom Lake, otherwise known as Area 51, is about eighty miles from here. It’s the unofficial Mecca for conspiracy theorists and ufologists—even more so than Roswell, New Mexico.

  Officially, Area 51 does not exist. Officially, no one works at the Groom Lake location.

  It’s not unusual to find Xavier parked as close as legally possible to the base so he can try to catch a glimpse of any aircraft—identified or unidentified, terrestrial or extraterrestrial—that might be entering or leaving the area.

  “Xav, I’m sure this has nothing to do with Area 51,” I tell him.

  “Do you think he was killed because someone wanted the information on this drive?” Fionna asks me, and I’m grateful we’re moving away from a UFO rabbit trail.

  “Why not just steal it or question him about it? It doesn’t seem like killing him would lead you any closer to these files, whatever they are.”

  “Tell you what . . .” Xavier offers Fionna the last piece of pizza, and when she declines, and then Charlene and I do as well, he goes for it himself. “Let’s all get some sleep and get a fresh start in the morning. I think it’s pretty safe to say we’re all exhausted.”

  “You know,” Charlene muses, “I really think we should talk with the FBI. Fionna, maybe you can copy the drive and I can give the original one to the Feds.”