Cat In A White Tie And Tails

Max could shut his eyes and hear the doves’ low warbling chorus. Lovely, gentle creatures. Reality pushed him out of the past when his recovering mind flashed a newspaper headline shot of DOVE HUNTING SEASON OPENS. Not on his turf.

So. Did the Synth have a Cloaked Conjuror–hunting season? They might well, Max believed. He’d found a possible target. Now he had to find the potential perpetrators and figure out what they planned and where and when.

“Speaking of ‘messages,’” Max said, “that’s why I’m here. You could be closer to ending the way that you fear. Someone cut the Phantom Mage’s cord at Neon Nightmare.”

“That’s why the act went dark a couple months ago!” CC couldn’t convey expressions, but Max could almost see a lightbulb winking on above his heavy-maned head. “And why you made the remark about your memory.”

“Right. I could have been killed, and I’m putting the why and who and how together. My mask certainly didn’t keep me safe. What about your mask, any known imitations out there?”

“I don’t just have one mask, I have three. One to wear, one in the shop, one at the cleaners. They’ve been marketed as Halloween masks, but I don’t really have the kiddie audience.”

“The full head?”

“No, just my adorable kisser.”

“I’m thinking of full head masks, with voice-altering capabilities. That Darth Vader vibe.”

CC leaned back, folding his arms over his impressive chest. Here, without his boot platforms and gauntlets, the character’s roots in the entertainment wrestling game were more evident. “Nothing commercial. Some of my fans buy pricey kids’ helmets like that, supposed to be Darth Vader or Septimus Prime from the Transformers franchise.”

“Those would be shiny plastic, mechanical-looking masks, not animalistic strips in flocked stretch velvet dotted with tiny Austrian crystals like yours.”

“No. The Vegas Strip glitz is subtle and costly. But my fans are cagy and devoted. Craft store adhesive felt and dollar-store glitter work wonders when my fans get a hold of them for a redo. But most of those costly toy helmets have voice mechanisms that are more an echo chamber effect than a real alteration. And you’d be surprised how many adults fit into them and get a kick out of playing a kick-ass character.”

Flashback.

Swooping down fifty feet to hover above an awestruck crowd, cape billowing, face masked, while even the air vibrates with the heavy bass beat rocking the triangular-shaped inner space of Neon Nightmare, and neon lights of the zodiac wash every person there with pulsing colors.

“You’re right. I enjoyed doing the Zorro bit at Neon Nightmare.” Max smiled as he recalled the kick. “But it made me an easy target, as you are every night.”

“I know it. And you just proved that again tonight. Is there a reason you’re trying to make me insecure?”

“I’m trying to make you safer.”

“Why?”

“I know what it’s like. I made myself a target of professional killers at seventeen.”

The Cloaked Conjuror whistled in surprise, a common reaction. The mask made the sound into an eerie high-pitched wheeze. “You were a pro at magic that early?”

“Magicians aren’t usually a target. No, it was because of my naïve ideals.”

“You at least had some. I always just wanted to be a magician, but I wasn’t very good at it.”

“So you became good at debunking it.” Max smiled. He wondered how often the Cloaked Conjuror saw that ordinary expression off a stage. Perhaps he had call girls in. “Proves the axiom. ‘Those who can do; those who can’t … criticize.”

“I thought the old saw went, ‘Those who can’t … teach.’”

“Not in this Internet age.”

“Yeah, the threats on my life are up four hundred percent with my name out there for ‘instant feedback’ on hundreds of sites.”

This time Max whistled, and it worked so well, the dressing room door banged open. Two musclemen bearing major small arms filled the doorway and scanned the room, weapons at the ready.

From the glowers they gave Max, his magical aerial entrance next to their boss rankled mightily. It must rankle even more that Max had turned out to be a bosom buddy, so to speak.

“That’s okay,” CC’s weirdly emotionless voice said. “Old friend. Get a couple drinks in here.”

CC rested his booted feet on an unoccupied chair drawn up to the dressing table. For him, this must be an unexpected but pleasant social occasion.

“Thanks for shaking up my guards, Kinsella. I owe you. In fact, I should put you on my payroll to test my security regularly.”

“Don’t need the money, but, sure, I can do that anytime you want a drinking partner.” Max hoped CC’s invisible grin match his own. Meanwhile, he was getting an outside-in look on his own life.

They remained silent until a New Millennium sexy robot girl waitress in silver body paint sashayed in with a tray, a bottle, and two crystal low-ball glasses. She deposited the burden on the dressing table as CC pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his palm and let it waft down to the empty tray.

“Thank you, Tiger,” she said with a very nonrobotic wiggle and a smile, and bustled out again.