Cat In An Alien X-Ray

“What is this fever for interactive attractions?” Max asked rhetorically. “It used to be that a magician inviting an audience member onstage to assist in an illusion was a biggie. Now people are expecting to see whole buildings disappear before their eyes.”

“Or elephants,” Molina said with a toasting gesture of her beer bottle.

“Ahh, you’re talking about the elephant, the girl sitting on the elephant trunk, and the disappearing trunkful of prize money last week. I assume you got a report on that incident at the Oasis.”

“I got film, Kinsella. Not all of the street hucksters milling around that million-dollar giveaway were street hucksters.” She eyed him hard. “And you of all people know that from firsthand experience.”

Max took the fifth by not responding.

“The only thing I’m wondering,” Molina went on, “is if you and the Cloaked Conjuror switched places. You have the height to do it, and I imagine the Cloaked Conjuror might have enjoyed a few minutes performing out of his disguising carapace.”

“Carapace. Interesting word for a full head mask and a bulletproof padded costume that weighs sixty pounds. CC leads an insanely constricted life. I suspect someday he’ll take the money and run, never to be seen in Vegas again.”

“I’m guessing Matt Devine has the same hopes for you.”

Max shook his head. “I’m no threat. I’m not only crippled in mind and body, but I’ve got a brand-new girlfriend.”

“Lay off the ‘poor me’ stuff,” she was already saying, then exhibited the same indignant reaction as Matt Devine. “Wait a couple months or three. You’re performing in disguise as the Phantom Mage—the Cloaked Conjuror should sue you for that—when you get your bungee cord sabotaged and crash spectacularly. You’re spirited away to two months of coma and leg casts in a fancy Swiss clinic, end up on the run across Europe and Ireland, and come back here alive, crippled, and memory impaired. Yet you’ve replaced Temple Barr in your affections, presto change-o?”

“Yes,” Max said simply. “Want to see a photo?”

Before Molina could open her lips or shake her head to indicate “no,” he had his phone screen in front of her face. The first photo showed Revienne showing a lot of leg on a slot machine stool at the Paris. That was his favorite. He clicked through a couple of smashing portraits of her full face and in profile against the Paris’s beautifully lit balloon.

Molina sat speechless, a state that Max enjoyed more than he would ever let her see.

“That woman’s … a stunner,” she finally got out, “but I don’t see—”

“And überbright. Don’t let the façade make you underestimate the foundations. She’s a noted psychologist in Europe and here, works gratis on teenage eating disorders. Gutsy too. Went on the lam across the Alps in a Saint Laurent Paris suit and Charles Jourdan pumps. Hacked my casts off and begged food from Swiss farmers and other … necessary things for us.

“By the way,” he added, suddenly serious. “This is just a hunch from an accidental half-wit, but from what I’ve seen, no one could replace Temple Barr.” Max leaned back on the sofa, took a long satisfactory draft of whiskey, eyed Molina, and tapped the phone photo of Revienne. “I want you to run her through Interpol.”

“Okay. You have my jaw dropping. You must be very proud of yourself. And, meanwhile, you’re sleeping with this wonder woman?”

Max gave an affable shrug. “Or she’s sleeping with me. There’s a difference.” He turned the phone image to face him. “I hope I’m wrong, but I don’t believe in convenient escapes with bright, beautiful strangers. Remember The X-Files catch phrase: ‘Trust no one.’”

Molina stirred uneasily on the couch. “What makes you bring up that old cult TV show?”

“Not old, classic,” Max corrected her. “Like us. And the songs you sing.” He grinned before going on. “Now, what did you want to see me for? I’m at your service for anything not horizontal. I do have some standards.”

*   *   *

It took a couple of minutes for Molina to exhaust such nouns and adjectives as “gall,” “arrogance,” “amoral,” and “treacherous.”

All he said at the end of it was, “I’ve e-mailed you her photos. Her name is Revienne Schneider, and it’s real. Dig deep. This could involve your career.”

“As if you care about my career.”

“Deeply,” he said. “I need solid contacts.”

“Look here, Kinsella, I am using you, not the opposite.”

“Let’s compromise. We’re using each other, in a purely platonic way, of course. There’s one big nasty conspiracy underlying the sometimes silly excesses of Vegas. You might look into the movements of Cosimo Sparks for the past couple of years.”

“He’s a victim of an unsolved murder.”

“No reason he couldn’t also have been a perp beforehand.”

“You give me a headache.”

“Great. Then we can never have sex.”

“As if I would—”

He cut her off, as fun as it was to smash into the iron wall of her professionalism. “I know. You’re all business and no personal life. So…”

“Anybody else you want me to investigate for you?” She’d reverted to sarcasm.