Cat In A White Tie And Tails

Polite applause greeted him. There were only three people clapping, but they were all standing. One wore the frowsy flowing garb of a medium, like Electra Lark gone Sunset Boulevard. The other was dressed for excess as a Latina Cher, only half the diva’s age. The third was bar-mate Hal, who had stopped and turned around to face him.

“Lovely, dear people,” Max said with a bow. “Thank you. And I applaud your civilized retreat from the buffoonery that now commandeers the Strip.”

He nodded at the two women in the room, addressing the elder first. “Czarina. Wonderful to meet you in person. And Ramona. Always a pleasure.”

“Wonderful to see you so well.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? I’ve been in retreat working on my new act for ages. Speaking of retreats, I missed this magnificent room. It’s like something air-lifted from the Magic Castle in L.A.”

That mention had been intended to land in their midst like a Molotov cocktail. Has-been magicians like this crew would not be invited to perform there, or even be members. Max remembered at that moment that he was one. No wonder his participation in the Synth would be a “catch” for their private club here.

“It’s better than that pretentious place,” Czarina said. “And we own this entire club, not just some fusty old mansion.”

“The building and nightclub are spectacular. All they lack is a magic act.”

Three glances exchanged fast as whip snaps. Max’s apparent ignorance of the Phantom Mage’s performance run had them guessing.

He let them toss that idea around in their devious heads and played the unsuspecting pledge at a fraternity house. “And look at this room. So cozy and yet so charged with secrets, I bet.”

As in his dream, the room had not only that Vegas rarity—a gas-log fireplace—and several expensive and comfy upholstered wing chairs, but also a mantel holding exotic objects Sherlock Holmes would have envied.

His brain was doing double-time, flashing visions of previous visits here through the masked eyes of the Phantom Mage. He strode to the fireplace to further confound them. They had to have suspected him of being the PM, given his long apparent absence from Vegas and reputation for aerial illusions.

His back to them, he studied the mantelpiece, his glance passing over a crystal skull and elaborately jeweled dagger to the wax embodiment of a severed human hand. As he reached to examine it, the fingers pulsed and the hand spider-walked toward the dagger.

“Marvelous,” Max said, laughing even as he’d jumped back. “A prop from The Beast with Five Fingers or The Hand remake?” He seized the dagger before the mechanical hand reached it.

“And this?”

“From a production of the Scottish play where the actor starring as Macbeth died onstage,” Czarina confirmed. “Several interested Hollywood types were in the audience.”

“The curse strikes again.” Theater superstition had it that saying the name of the Shakespearean play, Macbeth, led to death among its cast. Max palmed the dagger, produced it in his other hand, and tossed it in the air to land in the empty space produced by the wandering hand.

“You have been practicing,” Ramona said.

“Cheap trick,” Max said modestly. “I wasn’t expecting to be anything more than drunk at this point of the evening.”

“Sit,” Czarina commanded.

So he did, crossing his long legs and settling into the wing chair as if the lord of the manor. Ramona, surname Zamora, had borne an arresting stage name at birth. She mirrored his posture in the matching chair opposite. She was right. They’d make an interesting stage pair. A pity she was a suspected murderess.

“Now,” she said, “the great Max Kinsella knows why we once-established magicians are furious at being relegated to some Illusionists’ Boneyard by Cirque-du-Everlasting-Soleil and robbed of our secrets by the Cloaked Conjuror.”

Ramona’s fury reminded Max of the Evil Queen from Snow White. That was fine. The short-circuiting wires in his memory tossed out the fact that, as a kid, he’d loved the Disney version for her wicked tricks, amazing image transformations, and sexy jealous rants. That lady had drama down cold.

“Now,” Hal pointed out, “you’re one of us disgruntled ripped-off performers, from what you said.”

“Absolutely. I returned from more than a year away fine-tuning a new act, and, presto, one of my former construction assistants skedaddles to sell the mechanics of my signature illusion to the Cloaked Conjuror for a few paltry thousand. Or so the rat’s former partner says.”

“Oh, it’s true.” Czarina was huffy angry. “CC has millions to throw around, and your last act was legendary around here. You have a huge following on Twitter.”

“I do?” Max was astonished. “Don’t you have to ask for that?”

“Anybody who wants can ‘follow’ you,” she said. “It helps,” she added seductively, “if you follow back.”