“Is something wrong?” Gus asked the driver, trying to keep the quiver of fear out of his voice. Ever since he saw Casino, he’d had an irrational fear of being vised to death and buried in a hole in the Nevada desert. Now he was beginning to worry that the fear wasn’t irrational after all.
“No wrong,” the driver sang out as he accelerated through a red light and across eight lanes of cross traffic. “Very, very right.”
“But you were supposed to turn left back there,” Gus said.
The driver said nothing, just stomped on the gas and wove through the cars ambling up the strip.
“Shawn, do something,” Gus whispered urgently.
Shawn pressed the button on his door, rolling his window down a couple of inches. “I am,” he said. “I’m enjoying the ride.”
“But he’s not taking us to the right place,” Gus hissed.
“That depends on whose definition of right you’re using,” Shawn said. “By the way, you might want to hold on.”
“Hold on?” Gus asked. “Why?”
The driver had drifted all the way into the far-right lane, his tires almost scraping the curb. The pedestrians who had spilled off the overloaded sidewalk were leaping back into the crowd. The driver took a quick glance at the road in front of him and yanked the wheel hard to the left. Cars slammed on the brakes as the cab screamed across four lanes of traffic, flew up over a divided median, and zoomed through the four opposing traffic lanes.
When the cab had come to a stop and Gus dared open his eyes, he found they had pulled into a porte cochere built to resemble the entrance to Klaatu’s flying saucer. A handsome blond man in a silver space suit was opening his door.
“Welcome to Outer Space,” the cabbie said.
“But we were supposed to go to Frontage Road,” Gus objected.
“Change of plans, Mr. Guster,” the driver said.
Gus stared at him. “How do you know my name?”
Shawn shoved Gus toward the door. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”
Gus wanted to stay in the cab and demand to be taken to their destination, but the seat was so worn and polished by the thousands of butts that had sat on it, he slid out under the slightest pressure of Shawn’s hand. If the space doorman hadn’t caught him, he would have landed on his butt.
“What’s this all about, Shawn?” Gus demanded.
“I’m guessing a hundred-dollar tip,” Shawn said.
Before Gus could demand clarification, Shawn nodded at a large man in an indistinct suit, black sunglasses, and white earpiece. The casino security agent walked quickly to the cabbie’s window, exchanged a word or two of pleasantries, and slipped a small sheaf of bills to him.
“What’s going on?” Gus said.
“The driver’s phone call was from the dispatcher,” Shawn said. “I couldn’t hear the whole thing, but he was apparently calling the entire fleet looking for the cab with us in it. He’d gotten orders to redirect us to Outer Space.”
“But who?” Gus said. “But how?”
“You forgot ‘but why,’ ” Shawn said.
“I didn’t forget. I was working my way up to it.”
“ ‘But who’ has to be Benny Fleck. No one else knew we were coming into town. Or even that we exist. ‘But how’ most likely involves some new technology such as the telephone.”
“Okay, now: But why?” Gus said.
“He didn’t feel like waiting in his office for us.”
“He couldn’t call your cell phone?” Gus said.
“He couldn’t,” Shawn said. “I’m sure Fleck hasn’t dialed his own phone in years. But he certainly could have had one of his assistants do it if the venue change was the only message he wanted to send.”
“What other message is there?”
“That this is his town, baby,” Shawn said. “And we’d better know who we’re working for.”
The security guard waved at the cabbie, and the car peeled off in a cloud of exhaust. Before it settled, an Asian spacegirl in a silver minidress materialized in the smoke.
“Mr. Spencer? Mr. Guster?” the spacegirl asked, although there didn’t seem to be any doubt in her voice. “Welcome to Outer Space. Mr. Fleck would like you to meet him in the Dark Side of the Moon.”
“Is that the space-facing side of Earth’s only natural satellite or the multiplatinum album by Pink Floyd?” Shawn said. “I only ask because I don’t know if we need to board a spaceship, or just inhale heavily.”
The spacegirl flashed them the same smile she would give to a nickel-slots player who spilled his free rum and-Diet Coke on her while trying to cop a feel. “The Dark Side of the Moon is Outer Space’s premier dining establishment, offering fresh fare prepared by Izgon Zubich, one of America’s hottest new chefs. I’ll be happy to lead you there.”
“Lead on,” Shawn said.
The spacegirl took off at a pace a racehorse might have envied, negotiating her way around the throngs of tourists and gamblers like a pinball zipping around the bumpers.
Gus was torn between wondering how anyone could move that fast on heels that high and wishing she’d slow down so he could see a little more of the casino. What he did see was everything he would have dreamed of when he was thirteen. The ceiling was an intense field of brightly burning stars, planets, and asteroids. At first he thought it was a static light display, but he quickly realized that it was all moving slowly, as if he were on a spaceship cruising through the galaxy. Every once in a while, the universe would freeze, then start to spin, and then the stars would expand into streaks of light before settling down to reveal a different quadrant of space. Gus recognized the effect as a knock-off of the hyperspace jump from the first Star Wars, but it was thrilling to look at nonetheless.
The ceiling only set the tone for the rest of the decor. Like the best casinos in Vegas, Outer Space carried its theme down to the tiniest details, and here everything was designed to look like the inside of a spaceship. The cocktail waitresses were all spacegirls like the one they were following, and the drinks they served came in lidded “zero-gravity” glasses. The dealers were made up as aliens with giant eyeballs bouncing from stalks attached to their foreheads. Gaming tables looked like the control panels for the various incarnations of the starship Enterprise -ten-dollar minimum tables mirrored the now-cheesy bridge from the original show, while higher denominations upgraded the look through the subsequent series and movies. And the cashier’s cage was set up as an airlock, which not only added visual verisimilitude to the place but forced anyone who felt like cashing in their “plasma credits”-which in any other casino would have been called chips-to stand in a long line and wait to be cycled through the multiple doors. Even the carpet was woven to look like a metal grid, under which was a terrifying plunge to the hundreds of lower decks.
Wherever Gus turned, there was something he wanted to explore in greater depth, but the spacegirl kept marching relentlessly ahead, and he knew that if he took his eyes off her for more than a brief moment, she’d become indistinguishable from her hundreds of hardworking space sisters.
Finally their space guide came to a stop outside a solid slab of polished steel. A giant triangular crystal stood beside it, but aside from that, there was no sign suggesting there was a restaurant here, no menu, not even a door.
“ ‘And if the dam breaks open many years too soon, and if there is no room upon the hill, and if your head explodes with dark forebodings, too,’ ” the spacegirl said with all the passion and enthusiasm of a near-retirement Disneyland Jungle Cruise operator warning of the dangers of a hippo attack.
Before Gus could ask how they were supposed to get in, the spacegirl took a small flashlight from a metallic stand by the steel slab, clicked it on, and shone it through the crystal. As it passed through the prism, the light fragmented into a rainbow, and when it fell on the steel, the slab rolled silently into the wall. “ ‘I’ll meet you on the dark side of the moon,’ ” she said, then turned and walked away.
“That’s a catchy jin
gle,” Shawn said. “Much better than ‘Have it your way.’ ”
Shawn and Gus stepped into the restaurant, which had been designed to look like the surface of the moon, and to feel like it, too, apparently; Gus’ oxfords crunched on gray lunar pebbles as they made their way to the one occupied table.
Benny Fleck sat by himself at a four-top in the center of the deserted restaurant. He stood as Shawn and Gus approached, which Gus could tell only because his head was suddenly a little lower than it had been.
“Gentlemen, I hope you don’t mind the small detour,” Fleck said. “While I was waiting for you at my office, I realized we could all use a good meal. And there are things here you will want to see eventually.”
Fleck gestured for Shawn and Gus to take their seats, then climbed back into his own. Gus resisted the sudden impulse to peek under the tablecloth and see if he was sitting on a booster.
“We appreciate the faith you’ve put in us, Mr. Fleck, and we want to assure you we will find your Martian,” Gus said. “And if by any chance we don’t, we want to assure you right now it’s not through any lack of desire or willingness on our part.”
Fleck waved off Gus’ preapology. “I have full confidence in the two of you,” he said. “I’ve had a chance to look into your careers, and I’m convinced you’re the right men for this job.”
“So you had us checked out,” Shawn said. “I have to say I’m a little disappointed.”
“I do my research on anyone I hire,” Fleck said. “It’s one reason I’m a success.”
“I have no doubt of that,” Shawn said. “I just wish you had come to us to do the checking. We could have offered extremely competitive rates.”
Fleck studied Shawn closely and decided he was joking. He let out a short laugh, then slapped his hands together sharply. The resulting clap had all the force of a pair of wet tissues colliding, but before the speed of sound would have allowed the sodden thud to travel all the way to the kitchen, three spacegirls appeared at their table, each one lifting a silver platter holding an enormous lobster surrounded by a colorful array of deep-fried vegetables. The spacegirls deposited the platters in front of the three of them, then disappeared back wherever they’d come from.
“I hope you don’t mind I took the privilege of ordering for us,” Fleck said.
“Not as long as you take the privilege of paying,” Shawn said. Gus kicked him under the table.
“If I didn’t, it would just appear on your expense report,” Fleck said with a smile. “I’m cutting out the middle step.”
“Expenses, yes,” Shawn said. There was a hint of a self-satisfied smirk tickling the corners of his mouth. Gus gave him another swift kick, and it disappeared before it could do any harm with their new employer. “We will of course try to keep them to a minimum. Although if we have to personally visit your client’s home planet, that might run into some dollars.”
Shawn picked up a nutcracker shaped like a ray gun and snapped one gigantic lobster claw in half, then noisily sucked out the meat. Gus took advantage of the moment to shift the conversation to actual business.
“It might save us time and effort in our investigation if you could share with us whatever you know about P’tol P’kah,” Gus said.
“Mmmph,” Shawn agreed, gesturing with the piece of shell whose previous occupant was crammed into his mouth and preventing him from forming syllables.
“I’m sure you’re familiar with his recent career,” Fleck said, then waited for a response.
Fortunately, Gus didn’t spend all of last night Googling Fleck. He’d spent some time looking up the magician as well.
“I guess we know as much as any layperson,” Gus said. “Which is to say not much at all. We know that eight months ago you opened the Starlight Theater for him here in the casino, and that he’s played to packed houses ever since. Aside from that, it’s mostly what we-and the rest of the world-don’t know that’s so interesting. P’tol P’kah has never given a single interview. He’s never been photographed without his makeup. No one even knows his real name.”
“Unless, of course, P’tol P’kah is his real name,” Fleck said.
“In which case I know where he is,” Shawn said. “Tracking down his mother and father so he can kill them.”
This time Fleck didn’t spare the effort to convert his faint smile into a laugh. “You say he’s never been photographed without his makeup,” he said. “And that’s how his story is generally reported. Right now, I’m not convinced that’s the absolute truth.”
“You mean you think there are photographs of him without makeup?” Gus could feel the excitement rising in him, but he tried to tamp it down. He still remembered the bitter disappointment he’d felt when, after years of desperately wanting to see what the members of Kiss looked like without the face paint, he finally did.
“I mean I’m not sure anymore that he’s wearing makeup,” Fleck said.
“If he’s on the run, that’s probably a safe bet,” Shawn said, dragging a piece of bread through a deep dish of melted butter. “Pretty hard to stay inconspicuous with a complexion like that.”
“I mean when he’s on stage,” Fleck said.
Shawn and Gus allowed themselves to exchange a quick glance to see how the other was taking this statement. It seemed like a bad idea to laugh in the face of a paying client, especially one with a history of ruthlessly destroying anyone he felt had disrespected him. But neither of them was sure what their option was.
“Are you suggesting that P’tol P’kah is actually a Martian?” Gus finally managed to get out without giggling.
“I know how absurd it sounds,” Fleck said. “If anyone had said the same thing to me eight months ago, I would have laughed in his face. But I’ve studied my client for a long time, and I’ve never seen a hint of anything that would contradict his story.”
“How about his Social Security number?” Shawn said. “He must have given it to you at some point, unless Martians don’t care about money.”
“Oh, they care,” Fleck said. “But my deal is with P’tol P’kah’s loan-out corporation, so all I have is his company’s ID number.”
“How about the first time you met him?” Shawn asked. “You didn’t just bump into a seven-foot Martian walking down the Strip.”
“Not at all,” Fleck said. “Our first introduction was as mysterious as everything else about our relationship. One night I was home alone, and he just appeared.”
“What do you mean?” Gus said. “He beamed into your living room like Captain Kirk?”
“No, although I don’t think that would have surprised me any more than what did happen,” Fleck said. “I was watching Jim Cramer on CNBC, the image flickered, and then this seven-foot-tall green man was talking to me directly through the screen.”
“How could you tell the difference?” Shawn said. “Oh wait-was he right about something?”
“At first I thought I was dreaming,” Fleck said. “Then I got a little scared. I tried changing the channel, but he was on every one. I turned off the TV, but it kept coming back on. So finally I decided I had to listen to him.”
“I hope he didn’t try to sell you a panini press,” Shawn said.
“He invited me to come to an abandoned warehouse in Henderson to see a show that was going to change my life.”
“An abandoned warehouse?” Shawn said. “What, he couldn’t find a deserted amusement park?”
“I went with some trepidation. I had no idea what I was walking into, but the green monster on my TV screen had been quite explicit that I had to come alone, and it never even crossed my mind to disobey,” Fleck said. “When I arrived, a young woman met me and led me into the warehouse.”
“Was this Mrs. P’kah?” Shawn asked. “Because maybe we could ask her where her husband went.”
“I never learned her name,” Fleck said. “I never even heard her voice. And her face and head were completely covered with a hood. She led me to a single chair in the darkened warehouse a
nd gestured for me to sit down. Then she left. I never saw her again. Or maybe I’ve seen her every day since. I have no way of knowing.”
“There’s nothing else you can remember about this woman?” Gus asked. “Something about the way she moved, the perfume she wore?”
“Even if there was anything, it would have been knocked out of my consciousness by what happened next,” Fleck said. “The few lights that had been on in the warehouse went out and I was in total darkness. Then a spotlight fell on a glass tank at the other end. And P’tol P’kah stepped into it. He climbed up a set of stairs into the tank, and, well, you saw the Dissolving Man.”
“Most of it,” Shawn said. “I gather that this time he actually did rematerialize?”
“Right in front of me,” Fleck said. “Then he reached out into the darkness and dragged a table over to my chair. On that table were a contract and a fountain pen. He said one word to me: ‘Read.’ Then the lights blinked out for a second, and he had disappeared.”
“Hey, that’s how we were going to present our contract,” Shawn said. “I can’t believe that green giant stole our idea.”
Gus didn’t even bother kicking Shawn under the table. Fleck was so lost in his memory that he didn’t seem to hear him.
“What I read in that contract was outrageous,” Fleck said. “I was to build a special theater to P’tol P’kah’s exact specifications. It would hold no fewer than five thousand people, the seats were to be arranged so that every member of the audience had a clear view of the stage, and-”
“And that they’d all pay two hundred bucks to attend?” Shawn guessed.
“No, that was my call,” Fleck said. “Once I ran the numbers on just how much this was all going to cost me. Because the stage was just the beginning. I needed to provide him with a place to live.”
“Houses aren’t exactly rare around here,” Gus said, remembering the colorful mosaic of real estate signs so closely packed together that they could be seen from the plane on the descent into McCarran Airport.
“P’tol P’kah didn’t want a house,” Fleck said. “He wanted a floor.”
“Well, that’s got to be cheaper than a whole house,” Shawn said. “Because with a house, you not only have the floor, you’ve got all those walls. And ceilings, too.”
Psych: Mind Over Magic p-2 Page 8
