Cat In A White Tie And Tails

“So what form will your revenge take? Do you plan to disrupt the Cloaked Conjuror’s performances at the New Millennium? I’m not saying kill the man, merely show him up.”

“You’re right,” Hal said. “We are not about killing, but we are being killed. Just a couple weeks ago, Cosimo Sparks would have been here.”

“Yes,” Czarina said morosely, “wearing his white tie and tails, adding class to the assembly.”

“You wore that in your Goliath act,” Ramona said. “Ultra classy. I still think you needed a dancing-on-air partner.”

Max nodded slowly. From what he remembered of her, she’d been an able illusionist.

Ramona blinked at him after giving him a good long stare, like a cat. “No longer determined to be a one-man band?” she asked.

He blinked back. “Maybe not. What do you expect to accomplish, then, besides sitting around this attractive hideaway mourning your losses?”

“We’re a lot more organized than we look, young man,” Czarina said.

“Just how many members do you have?”

Czarina laughed. “Don’t make the mistake of taking our lot as the sum total. We’re the leaders, but we have a lot of unemployed magicians and their assistants and technicians to call on when we make our big move.”

“We’re more than the Neon Nightmare owners and operators,” Hal added. “We have a couple hundred investors and we can call on that many ‘extras’ if we need to. The idea was to get a nightclub going, introduce a magic act, then use the building as a daytime facility for small but magical birthday and retirement parties, special convention outings, weddings, small fund-raisers. Make money for all the ‘little people’ who got pushed out by the big shows, and now are blitzed by the recession.”

“Meanwhile,” Max said, “chasing some legendary pots of Vegas gold wouldn’t hurt.”

Hal leaned forward in his chair, intent, recruiting. “We have powerful sponsors. There are forces in Las Vegas who want to take a lot of money out of it because a lot of money is stashed here in hidden places.”

“The mob? If you work for them, you’ll need to corrupt a forensic accountant,” Max said. “The magic of numbers isn’t my game.”

“No, not the mob in that respect, although they’d love to take over our venture if they knew the details,” Ramona said, leaning forward also, although her plunging neckline when she did it was a lot more convincing than Hal Herald and his plaid bow tie.

“The thing, Max … I may call you that?” Hal smiled as Max nodded, eager to hear more. “Is that certain illegal entities have always stashed money around Vegas. The trick is getting it out.”

“As in all casino cash cart robberies,” Max put in. “If you’re armed and dangerous, they’ll let you walk away with the loot, but they’ll grab you and the take once you’re away from innocent bystanders.”

“No one is innocent in Las Vegas.” Czarina’s hard tone reminded Max of Ma Barker, the ’30s female gangster.

“Cosimo Sparks.” Max located the name tap-dancing in his mind and found the correct connection. “He was a friend of my mentor, Garry Randolph.”

“The truly ‘great’ Gandolph the Great,” Czarina agreed. “Have you never questioned his death at the Halloween séance?”

Max shook his head numbly, perfectly in character, perfectly stricken. No one could ever know who Garry really was, how he’d really died in Belfast, far from Vegas and its smoke and mirrors that Garry had manipulated so expertly.

“You’re saying we magicians have enemies who’d reduce our numbers one by one?” Max said. “And you’re inviting me to join you? Dare I say, thanks?”

Ramona licked her lips, selling hard. “There’s been a game of hide-the-prize going on. The prize could be worth a couple million. Yes, it’s a duel as to how many of us are left before the others who want to use and destroy us win. If we can pull off one major illusion, a Synth victory that will be talked about for decades, we’ll prove the value of traditional magic and make the people who killed Cosimo and maybe even Gandolph pay.”

“And the Phantom Mage, whoever he was?” Max waited for a reaction.

“Him too,” Hal said impatiently. “He was a patsy caught in the Great Game, like the Cloaked Conjuror’s assistant.”

“What?” Max said, recalling Temple’s oh-so-handy Table of Crime Elements, created way back when as if a memory aid for his future befuddled self. CC had not suspected his assistant’s death was murder despite the death threats. Neither had the police.

“Yeah.” Hal nodded. “Barry’s was a terrible death and a loss to the Synth.”

“So the Cloaked Conjuror’s assistant fell to his death, too.” Max eyed the women. “Was he a plant for the Synth on CC’s team?”