“So how’s the room at Priscilla’s?” he asked.
I look like her. That’s why.
But Seamus had asked her a question about her lodging. Right, the room at the bed and breakfast. Priscilla was a sister of Seamus’s cousin’s friend—or something like that—who ran the place. With kind words and some dealing, Seamus had secured a room there for Mandy, something she could rent by the week.
“It’s very nice. I even have my own bathroom.”
“My invitation is still open, of course.”
She knew he was going there. “I appreciate the offer but I haven’t changed my mind.”
“If you saw my place, you might decide you like it.”
She yanked her own leash but her feelings slipped through. “Could we wait till I’m through risking my life to talk about this?”
He backed off.
Out in the parking lot, a gaudily decorated stage was set up, the silver bunting shimmering in the light breeze, and in the middle of the stage was a big, green, ugly-as-an-alley Dumpster. Canned music, obnoxious stuff, was playing over a portable PA system, and behind the stage was a banner: MANDY WHITACRE, A DIFFERENT KIND OF MAGIC. The stage and Dumpster had drawn a crowd of maybe fifty. A clown was busily making balloon animals for the kids—all four of them—and a keno runner, not to miss an opportunity, was taking tickets for the next game. Mandy and Seamus ducked behind a barrier and hurried to the rear of the stage, where she shed the overcoat and took her place just behind the Dumpster on a small platform charged with a thousand pounds of compressed air.
Andy the stage manager checked his watch. “Two o’clock straight up. Ready?”
Focus, girl. They need you now, all your emotions, your whole mind, your best.
The music changed to a fanfare. She crouched, just as they’d rehearsed. Things worked pretty well the last several times they tried it; here was hoping. She steeled her muscles; her hands clenched involuntarily.
“One, two, three …”
Ba-boom! Smoke exploded around the Dumpster, the people jumped and shrieked, and like a pink Peter Pan, Mandy shot up from behind the Dumpster and landed like a feather on the lid, striking a pose. That got an excited round of cheers and applause. Good start.
With a wide, exaggerated wave and a pull on thin air, she beckoned a wireless microphone to come to her and it did, circling around her, then plopping into her hand. The crowd stirred at that one. They were with her.
She noticed the folks were wearing jackets, hats, even some gloves. The sun was out, which helped, but a sign across the street said the temperature was fifty-seven degrees. Not bad, really, for the pit of winter.
But she couldn’t wait to get into the stunt and into some coveralls.
“Helloooo, everybody, and welcome to the Orpheus, where anything can happen and dreams can come true!” Vahidi must have written that opener. It was her job to say it. “I’m Mandy Whitacre, opening tonight in the Prospector’s Lounge, bringing you a Different Kind of Magic.” She flung her hand out, and Lily the dove appeared. One more fling and Carson followed Lily as they circled over the crowd. While the doves did a circle, and then, to everyone’s astonishment, a series of vertical loops, a police siren sounded and a Las Vegas Police Department squad car pulled out from behind some landscaping.
“Oh-oh. Aerobatic birds without a license!” she quipped. She extended her arms and the doves came to rest, one on each arm.
Oh, the folks loved that!
Andy brought the doves’ cage and they tucked themselves back home as an officer stepped onto the stage, handcuffs in hand.
“Officer Steve Dykstra of the LVPD!” she announced.
They applauded, though a few booed. The Las Vegas cops were great sports. She put her hands behind her and he handcuffed her. Then he did the same to her ankles. “Don’t worry,” she said, “you’ll get ’em back—I hope.”
She hopped into a large canvas bag that lay open on the stage, then Andy and crew member Carl pulled the bag up around her and cinched the top closed.
The Orpheus liked doing things big. They’d hired a crane just to hook that bag and hoist it into the Dumpster. It was noisy, it was big and noticeable, it was great show business.
And she was blind to the world, trying to keep her body moving, kicking a little so they’d know she was still in the bag as it dangled on the end of the cable. They’d worked this through. Come on, don’t let me swing too much …
She felt Andy and Carl’s hands steadying her as the crane lowered her into the Dumpster. Eeesh. The Dumpster was empty but it still smelled like garbage inside. She touched down and settled to a sitting position against the Dumpster wall, Andy unhooked the cable, and then SLAM, the lid closed and she was in the dark.
Now for the trick, and quickly, before the garbage truck arrived. She drew a breath, relaxed, and thought of the ranch, the white rail fence and the three aspens, the long driveway. She reached outside herself … and nothing happened.
He never loved me. He was in love with his wife. He said so.
She winced, concentrated. Reach out … if not the ranch, then—no, not the hospital. Don’t go there.
My invitation is still open.Was she supposed to feel flattered? Seamus was such a child! At least Dane Collins showed a little honor, a little respect!
But he told me to go away and never come back. He’s in love with her, and I just look like her.
She could feel the wad of cloth in the bottom of the bag, a pair of coveralls she was supposed to slip into after she got free of the cuffs. Other magicians would have picked the locks by now; they would have been free of the bag, they would have been wearing the coveralls and using some trick to get out of there—a double, a secret panel, a mirror system, a false bottom.
But she had no trick. She was still stuck in this world, this present where the handcuffs were cold, tight, and unyielding.
She reached in her thoughts, her will, but the ranch would not clarify in her mind; she wasn’t welcome there.
She wriggled against the cuffs, but that was pointless.
I never told him my real name. At least that would have been honest.
Oh, no. She could hear the garbage truck roaring around the corner of the hotel. Concentrate!
On what?
The crowd was stirring—and growing—as a garbage truck rumbled up to a ramp on one side of the stage and lurched to a halt, brakes hissing. Climbing out of the cab like it was just another day, another Dumpster, the driver and his partner walked up the ramp onto the stage and rolled the Dumpster down the ramp toward the truck, the huge casters grating and shrieking, the lid on top rattling.
The floor of the Dumpster was jittering and banging under her backside, and the sound of the lid clapped her on the ears. This was a new experience. She was supposed to be out of the Dumpster by now.
The driver went to the levers on the side of the truck and operated the boom. Down came the forks like an elephant’s tusks, ready to pluck the Dumpster into the air. The crowd was stirring, getting playfully nervous. She’s not in the Dumpster anymore, is she? It’s all a big act. Isn’t it?
The handcuffs hurt, as real and secure as cold steel could be. The cloth of the bag was scratching her face; she was starting to sweat.
Rumble … scrape … clank! The garbage guys rolled the Dumpster forward, pushing the slots on the Dumpster over the forks on the boom.
Oh, dear God, now or never. What if there’s no soft garbage in that truck for me to land on?
With a powerful roar from the truck and a surge of hydraulics, the Dumpster arced into the air over the cab of the truck, over the container in back, and tilted completely upside down.
The crowd screamed, laughed, waited to see …