Cat In A White Tie And Tails

Chapter 36

I’ll Have a Double … Agent

Max ordered a drink at the bar, cozied up to it, and proceeded to let himself mourn his lost profession of top-ranking Vegas magician.

It was unfortunate he’d had to look himself up on the Internet to get an overview of just how good he’d had it.

No doubt, he’d enjoyed a “brief, shining moment” that extended from his last road tour through settling down in Vegas for more than a year … until his counterterrorism past caught up with him. Having his only friend, a retired Garry Randolph, and a smart, upbeat girlfriend at the Circle Ritz must have made Vegas seem like home, sweet home. At last.

Then he’d had to go undercover as a masked acrobat-magician at this hinky, kinky nightclub and mess up his legs, memory, and private life. If he ordered a drink for every attempt on his life, they’d be rolling him out of here on a cash cart.

So it wasn’t hard to appear deeply morose. He just had to order another drink until someone significant recognized him. While he made himself into an apparently stewed sitting duck, he wondered what his self-appointed “savior,” Temple Barr, would think to see him now. She’d either admire his chutzpah … or take him for a lousy lush.

He was on his third whiskey sour, when the words “Max Kinsella, I’ll be damned” came confidentially close to his ear. Someone shouldered onto the momentarily vacant barstool next to him. This was a popular place.

The voice had been male and the face, when he looked up from his drink, was genially handsome but fading with age. The guy was dressed impeccably in a suit and tie, both a touch extreme in style. The duds reminded Max of an old-time Broadway promoter. Maybe it was the quintessential extrovert’s plaid bow tie that did it.

“Hal Herald,” the guy introduced himself. They had to huddle together to hear each other over the loud, pulsing music. “I wouldn’t expect you to remember a low-ender like me, but what the hell happened to you after your big break headlining at the Goliath?”

“I had a bad manager. Me.”

“So … a comeback in the works? Not a lot of magician slots are out there, now that everything in Vegas and beyond is that damn Cirque de Soleil nonsense. Most tourists can’t even pronounce the name, but they sure flock to their shows.”

“Very confidentially,” Max said, leaning a bit too close, speaking a bit too sloppily, “I am working on a comeback gig on the Strip. And now I just learned the damn Cloaked Conjuror will be adding the secret to my six-swords illusion in his act at the New Millennium.”

“Nah? That bastard. He’s left you alone so far. You must be furious.”

“Furious enough to make that joker disappear for my new act’s finale.” Max signaled the bartender. “Something for my friend Hal.”

“Another failed-magician parasite living on dissing the lifework of others.” Hal pointed at Max’s glass to banish the bartender as fast as possible. “And now the recession. There must be a couple hundred magic acts out of work in this town. I’m not talking your level, I’m talking small clubs and motels and even the kiddie party circuit.”

“People don’t want mystery in their lives anymore,” Max said. “They want everything and everybody revealed. It’s Gossip Nation.”

“That’s right.” Hal grabbed the whiskey sour as soon as it landed. “I’ll get the tab, don’t worry. Magicians are an endangered species. We entertained. Hell, we made them think. People wanted to know, How the heck did they do that? That’s healthy. That’s an inquiring mind. Now the public only wants to know what celebrity is screwing whom. Don’t get me going.”

“Amen, brother.”

“Listen.” Hal gulped half his drink. “I’m meeting some folks, but I’d like to go into this more. Can you hang here for a few minutes?”

Max lifted his mostly full glass in answer. It had been window dressing anyway.

“I’ll be back.”

The minute Hal Herald vanished into the crowds on the dance floor, Max turned to the guys on either side of his and Hal’s empty seat. He slapped a hundred-dollar bill in front of both men. “Hold my places for five minutes and you’ll own these pretty pieces of paper permanently when I come back.”

“That’s an ex-shpensive leak, buddy,” one said in serious slur mode.

But when Max slid off his perch, both men were hooking an ankle on the footrests of the empty barstools. Besides, the unfinished drinks were a claim too.

Max threaded through the crowds like a whip snake, elbowing and shouldering a path with just enough force to make people shift without getting territorial.

The men’s room was darker than an Egyptian tomb, all black reflective surfaces, even the urinals. He ducked into a cubicle, lucky the busy clientele had their backs to him and no mirrors on that wall.

Max cruised the Internet on his cell phone and had Hal Herald’s Wikipedia bio in hand. Pushing Medicare. Had a pretty good engagement for a lot of years at the Frontier in the old days. One of his ex-wives had been a successful medium, got some cred from “finding” a dead body for the police, late did an act as Czarina Catherina. Wait! Had shared bills with Gandolph the Great and—bulletin Miss Temple Barr would die for—the recently late Cosimo Sparks.

Herald’s busy biography until the late 1980s confirmed what he saw as “the death of magic.” What else was obvious now, twenty-some years later, was the death of magicians and people associated with them.

Max returned to the “reserved” barstools in plenty of time to convey the two Ben Franklins to the bracketing drinkers, who grabbed them and probably exited to hit the casinos.

Only a couple minutes later, Hal Herald reappeared. He didn’t claim his expensive barstool. “Say, we don’t have to sit here with the going-deaf-slowly crowd. I happen to be one of the owners. We have a private suite upstairs. We make a point of keeping it on the QT. Game?”

About time. Max followed Herald up the same subtle staircase to the same pressure-operated door Temple Barr had described. Oddly, he remembered the next part from his recent dream of being closeted in secret rooms with the Synth. Probably that had been the Phantom Mage’s dream, but that persona was truly dead and gone.

And he needed to convince the people here of that, because this would be Max Kinsella’s big play. Only a real commitment would win him entrée to the circle of vengeful entertainers or clever criminals or just plain crazies who called themselves the Synth.