Sin City Daemon

by Rick Newberry

  President Walker leaned forward. “I don’t have a friggin’ clue what you’re talking about.”

  The Mystic smiled again. “I had a choice to make, you see: warn Wendi about her ice cream, or warn you about your plane.”

  Walker chortled. “Well, I hope to shout you made the right choice.”

  Looking at the waterfall, The Mystic sighed. “I wonder.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” President Walker stood and glared down at The Mystic.

  “Please, no offense. Your life is as important as little Wendi’s, I’m sure, but in the grand scheme of things—”

  “Listen here, Mystic. I may not know much about the grand scheme of things, but there are a few people who happen to think I’m pretty goddamned important compared to a chocolate ice cream cone.”

  “Yes, I agree. You may have more worth than a scoop of ice cream.”

  The president chortled. “Damn straight.”

  “Wendi Culver, however, reached down for the ice cream and lost her balance. She stood on a second floor balcony. The railing collapsed. She fell to her death in the street below.” The Mystic closed his eyes.

  President Walker said nothing. He dropped back into the armchair and lowered his head as well. In a quiet voice, he said, “You still made the right choice.”

  “Life,” The Mystic said as he stood up and walked toward the waterfall, “is about choices. I chose to warn you about the plane. You chose to heed my warning. Your pilot chose to land immediately. A tragedy averted. As a result of those choices, Wendi Culver is dead.”

  The president straightened up in his chair. “You could have warned us both.”

  “I had no time to warn you both. Let me ask you,” The Mystic smiled. “Do you think I made the right choice?”

  President Walker stood. “Hell yes, I do. If I had died today, our enemies, all around the world, would have cheered—grown stronger, maybe tried an attack. The economy would have faltered, the nation thrust into mourning right now. If I had—”

  “You’re saying you are more important than a six-year-old child?”

  Without hesitation, he said, “Damn straight.”

  “The child had potential. The two most wretched words in the world are: what if.”

  “But…but you chose to warn me. You know you made the right decision. Admit it.”

  The Mystic said nothing. He shut his eyes and sighed, deep in meditation. For the next few moments, only the sound of water trickling down the glass wall filled the room.

  Three sharp raps on the door shattered the silence. A man in a dark suit entered. “Sir, you’re wanted on the phone.”

  The Mystic opened his eyes, stood, and smiled at the president. “Thank you so much for your visit. I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. I trust your stay in Las Vegas will be productive. I’m sure it will be.”

  President Walker leaned forward and whispered, “The press would have a field day if they knew about my belief in the paranormal. Ha, and the damned Republicans would probably talk impeachment. In any case, I want you to know I’ll never forget what you did for me today. Thank you.”

  A gentle nod.

  “Come and see us at The White House, anytime. Trudy would love to see you again.”

  “That will never happen.”

  President Walker’s upper lip quivered “What do you mean by that? Is something going to happen to her? To you? To me?”

  The Mystic sat down, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but I must prepare for a television interview. I despise the press, don’t you?”

  “Son of a bitch, tell me what you see.”

  The president’s aid approached. “Sir, the Secretary of State is on the phone.”

  The Secret Service agents rushed inside, put their hands on the president’s shoulders and led him from the room as he continued to yell over his shoulder, “What’s gonna happen?”

  ****

  The Mystic waited patiently, eyes closed, breathing calm and measured. He sat in a cross-legged position on a white couch in the green room, waiting for the summons to the studio. Two bodyguards (one with a blond mustache, the other with no neck) dressed in black business suits stood on either side of him. A knock on the closed door brought them to attention, while The Mystic remained unflustered.

  The door opened, and a young man popped his head in. “They’re ready for you, sir.”

  “Ah, splendid,” The Mystic stood. “And what is your name?”

  “Who, me? Oh, I’m no one, sir. Just a gopher.”

  “You are a gopher? Surely, even gophers have names. What is yours?”

  The young man hesitated, then grinned. “Simon Quail, like the bird.”

  “Tell me, Simon Quail, like the bird, do you enjoy your work here?”

  Simon produced a raw laugh and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m just an intern, but yeah, I like most the stuff I do around here. Meeting good people like yourself is always fun. There’s something new happening every day. I mean, Vegas is just that kind of crazy city—always hopping.”

  “Well said, Simon. Tell me, what are your goals?”

  “I don’t follow, sir.”

  “Your dreams, ambitions. What do you enjoy?”

  Simon paused for a moment, then beamed. “Singing. I love to sing.”

  “You hesitated before you answered.”

  “Sorry, it’s just that no one ever really talks to me around here.”

  The Mystic grinned. “Not yet, but they will.”

  “Uh, anyway, sir, they’re ready for you—right this way.” Simon turned and marched down a narrow hallway, stopping at a door marked “Studio C.” “Right in here, sir.”

  The bodyguards entered the room first, scrutinizing the layout, then nodded to The Mystic. He sauntered into the brightly lit room. The three-point lighting system and two television studio cameras whirred in the background giving the room a futuristic atmosphere.

  “Well, there you are—ugh…” Peter Hudson became the meat of a bodyguard sandwich the moment he rushed into the studio.

  “Walter, Fabian…relax. This is our host, Peter Hudson. We are guests in his domain.”

  Walter, the one with no neck, stepped back, pulled an index card from his pocket, and placed it in Hudson’s hand. With a slight European accent, he said, “These are questions you will ask. Any deviation from card and interview will terminate. This is not conversation; it is question and answer. If Mystic gives answer, you listen. If Mystic does not, you ask next question. Understood?”

  Hudson nodded and glanced at the index card. He furrowed his brow and shook his head. “What kind of questions are these? What performers do you most enjoy on The Strip? What is your favorite city? What do you think of the weather in Las Vegas? Do you have any hobbies? These questions are lame. This isn’t what my viewers want to know. They don’t—”

  “Right, mate,” the bodyguard with the blond mustache stepped into the conversation, his nasal voice echoing through the room. “These terms were agreed upon. A lot of money has changed hands and you’re bound by the provisions in the contract. Now, if you’d like to renege on the—”

  “Fabian, Walter, please.” The Mystic put his hands on the bodyguards’ shoulders. “Relax. Everything will be fine.” He turned to Hudson with a sheepish grin. “They protect me a little too much.” He held out his hand.

  “I was told you didn’t like to be touched,” Hudson said.

  “Ha, I will never know how that rumor started. Who doesn’t enjoy the human touch? So soft, so supple.” He grasped Hudson’s hand and held it. “Ah, you must relax, Mr. Hudson. Calm yourself and think happy thoughts.”

  Hudson wrestled his hand free. “We’d better sit down and get ready. This is a live feed, after all, carried to almost all of our network affiliates. A lot riding on the next twenty minutes.”

  The Mystic sat down and got comfortable in the soft leather chair. He noticed Hudson pulling an index card from his pocke
t, not the card Walter had given him. “I have enjoyed meeting some of the staff here at KLVA.”

  “We’re live in thirty,” the director yelled.

  “Thirty,” Hudson echoed. A bell rang in the background.

  “Especially Simon,” The Mystic said, “he is such a fine young man. So open and honest. A true pleasure to talk to.”

  “Ten,” the director said.

  “Ten,” Hudson repeated. “Simon?”

  “Yes, so much potential.”

  “Live in five, four, three…” The director counted down in silence then pointed at Hudson. Camera one’s red light came to life.

  “Good evening.” Hudson’s voice lowered an octave as he faced the camera and beamed. “My guest tonight…” He drew out the introduction, waiting a beat, then said in an even deeper voice, “The Mystic.” Hudson swiveled in his chair and leaned forward. “Welcome. I’m honored you chose KLVA for this very rare glimpse into your private life.”

  “Not my decision, to be honest.” The Mystic chortled. “I’m sure your network gave The Sterling Group an exorbitant amount of money for this brief interview. Ah well, no matter. What is important is I am here and here we both are.”

  Hudson furrowed his brow and clamped his lips shut like a vise.

  “There it is, Mr. Hudson,” The Mystic said with a grin. “I love that look when you’re reading the news. It makes you seem so important; so in control, you know?”

  A brief smile flashed across Hudson’s face as he turned to The Mystic. “I’d like to start by asking you a direct question: what is your real name?”

  “Excellent question. You know, there are so many. I can’t really decide which one I like best: Clint, Bobby, or Don. But I’d better not say because I might forget the one I truly like.”

  Hudson glanced at the index card. “Well, I’ll keep it Mr. Mystic then. I’m sure our viewers would like to know where you were born.”

  “Ah, another superb question. Let me see, I suppose I’d better say Las Vegas.” The Mystic smiled. “If I don’t say Las Vegas, I would never hear the end of it, don’t you think?”

  “So, you’re a local? Born in Las Vegas?”

  “Of course I could do without the heat, Pete. Ha, ha. Heat, Pete. But there are times when I enjoy the sun and, of course, the winter does bring rain, and sometimes even snow.”

  Hudson turned to the director who signaled for a commercial break. “We’ll be back in a few moments. Don’t touch that remote.” The camera lights dimmed.

  “Mr. Hudson,” The Mystic said with a chuckle. “Didn’t Walter explain the rules of the interview? You were given a card with questions. Instead, I believe you are using a different card. Normally, a breach of this magnitude would terminate the interview, and invalidate our contract, but I will agree to continue, if only for Simon’s sake.”

  “Simon?” Hudson pulled an index card from his pocket and placed it side by side with the one he held. “You’re answering the questions on your card. No matter what I ask, you’re answering—”

  “Back in twenty,” the director barked.

  Hudson glared at the cards in his hands.

  “Fifteen, fifteen,” the director yelled.

  “Fifteen,” Hudson whispered. The director pointed to Hudson. “Welcome back. We’re chatting tonight with The Mystic.” Hudson faced his guest and leaned forward. “Mr. Mystic, I’m sure my viewers would love to hear how you knew about the problem with Air Force One.”

  “Well, Pete, that’s simple. I enjoy flying very much.” He chuckled. “But then if you’ve seen my performance you know what I’m talking about. Ha. Seriously, flying gives me such pleasure; the freedom to go anywhere with no restrictions, and that must never be compromised.”

  Hudson hunched his shoulders and shook his head. With a hard sigh, he asked the final question, “Can you tell my viewers if Elvis is alive?”

  “Elvis. That is the most interesting question of all. How many times have I been asked that question during my performance? So many times, I’ve lost count. But let me give you the answer I truly believe, in my heart, to be correct: yes.”

  Hudson’s eyes widened as he leaned forward. “You think Elvis is alive?”

  “Of course. There has been so much speculation about life and death, living and dying—I believe they are the same. The more relevant question is, are we alive? How do we know? Can we prove we truly exist? There is a spectrum of existence, you know, and to be on one level does not disprove the existence of the others. It is really a matter of perspective. In that sense, we are all alive, and we are all dead. Time is relative; the choice is ours. You see, Pete, this world is not what it seems. There are things happening you can’t even imagine. It takes a very gifted person to deal with the truth.”

  Hudson cocked his head and glanced at the director who waved his arms in the air, signaling the arrival of yet another commercial break. Hudson smiled at the camera. “We’re going to take one more short break. Please stay with us for the conclusion of my exclusive interview with the very talented Mystic of Las Vegas.”

  “And out,” the director said.

  Hudson turned to The Mystic. “Mr. Mystic, I want to—”

  “Thank you for having me here tonight.” The Mystic unclipped his microphone.

  “But we’ve still got six minutes.”

  “As I’ve said, time is relative. Now listen to me, Mr. Hudson, I came here tonight for two reasons. One, because I am bound by contract to do this interview. But the main reason I am here is to warn you.”

  “Warn me? About what?”

  “Dark forces are at work in this city. Some on your station have taken an interest in these forces.”

  “Who?”

  “Well, not you, that’s for sure. Look, your station must turn a blind camera eye to the magicians, psychics, hypnotists, and illusionists on The Strip. If you don’t, I cannot be held responsible for whatever happens.”

  “What could happen?”

  The Mystic stood and glanced down at Hudson. “I’m leaving you with six minutes to fill. If you are strong, dedicated to your craft, you will fill that time like a professional. If you need help, may I suggest you introduce Simon Quail. He loves to sing.” He turned for the door and spoke over his shoulder, “I’ve never had time for self-professed know it all’s, Mr. Hudson, especially when it’s obvious they know nothing at all. Let me be clear, don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. Good evening and goodbye.”

  Chapter Nine

  Lucas Knight held the sword over his head before leveling it, aiming, and running it through a sandbag hung by a thick rope in front of him. Heaps of silver white sand poured out of the bag creating hourglass-like piles on the stage. The audience stared in trance-like astonishment, some gasping when the blade ripped the heavy canvas bag as if made of the finest silk.

  He held the sword up and addressed the audience, “The katana sword. Quite possibly the most elegant instrument of death known to man. First used by the samurai of feudal Japan; characterized by its distinctive curved blade, single-edged and razor-sharp. Made of the finest tempered steel, the katana is my particular weapon of choice.

  “Sharp enough to slice through a soft tomato. Ahem…” Knight held out his hand, palm up. “I said, sharp enough to slice through a soft tomato.” He waggled his fingers as his eyes stared straight ahead at the crowd.

  An assistant shouted, “Oh,” and ran forward placing a tomato in Knight’s hand. The audience offered nervous laughter.

  “Thank you, Gwen.” Lucas deadpanned to the audience, “Believe me, ladies and gentlemen, it was better in rehearsal.” A few chuckles drifted toward the stage.

  Knight tossed the red fruit in the air and slashed at it with deft precision. The tomato fell to the stage in two pieces. He sneered at the audience members lucky enough to sit in the front row of the sold out amphitheater. “Shall we try a watermelon? It would make, I believe, a bigger impression. No? Right, then. Mr. Cameraman, follow me please.”

/>   Knight backed to center stage, all the while smiling into the lens of the portable close-up camera carried by a man dressed in black. He turned and faced his hapless assistant, Gwen, lying face up on a metal table. After placing the sword in a scabbard, he secured his assistant’s ankles and wrists to the table with shackles.

  Most in the audience followed Knight’s every movement on stage closely, hoping to spy the moment he switched the deadly sword for a plastic one. Others kept their eyes glued to the large screen above the stage. The camera lens never left the sword.

  “Now then, ladies and gentlemen,” Lucas Knight bellowed, “shall we see how the sword fairs against an apple?” He secured a shiny red apple from another assistant and placed it gently on Gwen’s stomach. “The shackles that bind my lovely assistant, Gwendolyn, are constructed of hardened steel; the table upon which she lies is composed of stainless steel, and you’ve just seen a demonstration of the capabilities of this most excellent sword.” He drew the weapon from the scabbard and held it high above his head with both hands, Samurai position. “Gwendolyn, my sweet, do you have any final words for our audience before I release you from the bonds of this world, and send you to the next?”

  She screamed, and the apple rolled off her belly to the stage.

  “Please lay perfectly still, my pet.” Knight scooped the apple off the floor and replaced it onto Gwen’s tummy. “Not a breath, my lovely.” He raised the sword again. “Be still. Not-one-single-breath.”

  Knight swung the sword down, parallel to the table, catching Gwendolyn’s midriff, cutting through the apple, and slicing her in half. The metal sword clanged on the table. Shrieks sounded from the crowd. Blood spurted in the air. The stage went dark.

  In an instant, a brilliant white light flooded the stage. A lively, and quite alive, Gwendolyn stood next to the very table she occupied seconds before. A line of red crossed her white stomach showing exactly where she’d been “cut in half.” She held up half an apple. Standing on the table, in a hand-on-hip pose, Lucas Knight grinned at the audience, holding high the other half of the apple. He jumped off the table and took a bite.