At 10:45 the next morning I was awakened by a call from Kam. Damn, I never sleep in like that, and I didn’t even hear Howie leave.
“Sounds like I woke you, bro. Whatever did you…?”
“Never mind. What’s up?”
“Been reading through a bunch of notes Gerald left behind, alot of technical magic stuff, a locked box I’ve been wondering whether to open, and several tricks in varying stages of completion. What do you think?”
“Bring the box and papers, and come on back to the house, we’ll figure it from here.”
“Right. Oh by the way, Howie called me and told me how precious you looked when he left this morning.”
“Prick!”
“Thank you, dear, I’ll be home soon.”
Kam and Howie showed up at the same time. There wasn’t a flicker of the goings-on from last night. It was straight to business, as Howie pitched an envelope onto the coffee table.
“That, mah dear frayends, is the po-leece report. And, Jacob Finegold, Gerald’s and my lawyer, done tolt me he’s gonna read Gerald’s will tommorra. If’n we want ta hear it private-like, be at his office at nine in the mornin’. Plus I got a whole lotta other info, too.”
“First let’s dust this box I found for prints,” Kam said. “I’ve handled it gingerly, so any prints left should be undisturbed. He placed the metal safe on top of the police report and in short order lifted two sets of prints. He drove them over to another of Howie’s friends, who made a special run on them. Neither set was Kam’s.
The box was a medium security office type, the kind used mainly for protection from fire. We forced it open with the help of a drill, chisel, and pry bar. In it we found Gerald Tannon’s life story. It was in note format, handwritten, and in chronological order: the makings of his autobiography, and possibly the unmaking of his murderer.
The police report, when Howie got it, held nothing special. It stated that the autopsy showed Gerald Tannon had died of asphyxiation from the noose placed around his neck during the execution of a special effects stunt. Approximate time of death matched the timeframe within which the stunt had been performed. The only reason to suspect foul play was the phone call received by Howie Tabor, the caller claiming to be the deceased, and also the deceased’s car being driven off while he was hanging from the crane. It also stated that currently there are no suspects.
The additional information Howie gleaned was another matter.Our victim had a first cousin living in Vegas, with whom he had a very vocal and hostile relationship.
“Shee-it, I found out Gerald done everything for that boy when he arrived from back East, ‘bout six years ago. Seems the kid, twenty-one-years old at the time-Randy Nimoy’s his name-had the showbiz bug real bad. He tried his hand at stand-up, got to where none o’ the freebie lounges or funny rooms wouldn’t even let him in no more. So he went to Gerald for some magic tricks and illusions, which he got. Hay-ell, Gerald even sent him to a school for magicians. The kid promptly failed the course. Dandy Randy Nimoy was not destined for stardom. He blamed bein’ at the bottom of the bucket on his well-heeled, well-connected cousin, who refused to go the ex-tree mile. Dandy Randy is still in showbiz, though. He handles the karaoke nights in a coupla tough dives on Boulder Highway.”
“Why don’t we each take a handful of Gerald’s notes to read as tonight’s homework assignment,” I suggested. “In the a.m. we’ll catch the reading of the will at attorney Finegold’s office, then tomorrow evening we can drop in and catch Dandy Randy’s Karaoke Show, wherever it happens to be.”
“Rita’s,” Howie added. “T’morra night he’s at Rita’s. Bad place, that is.”
“Bad is best,” Kam chimed in. “I think I’ll take the night off, wouldn’t want to miss anything bad.”
Two-thirty that morning Howie knocked on my bedroom door. “Pete, take a lookee here, at this,” he said, handing me the notes he had been reading. Several of the paragraphs were flagged with neon stickums. They described Gerald’s first foray into showbiz with a partner named Zachary Richter. Zachary, according to the notes, was talented but a slacker, and a bit of a lush. After about two years of trying to pull the act together for a push at the big time Gerald had enough and ended the relationship. Zachary disappeared without a trace, abandoning his wife and two-year-old son. After he vanished, Polly Richter and Gerald had an affair for about a year, then parted ways. Pollyremarried, and after some legal wrangling, her new husband adopted her son Leon. The same Leon who had been apprentice and assistant to Gerald. Polly never told her son anything about his real dad. She instilled in Leon a love of all things magic, and on Leon’s eighteenth birthday she contacted Gerald and asked if he would employ him. “If he can cut it,” was the reply. Leon came to Vegas, tried out for Gerald, and made the cut in spades. The relationship between Polly, Zachary, and Gerald, by agreement, was to be kept secret.
I looked over at Howie, who had sat down next to me on the bed.
“Do you know where Polly Hastings lives now?”
“I believe its somewhere’s in Indiana. It shouldn’t be too big a problemo to find out.”
“Find out, call her, and fly her here, if she’ll come. I’m still not too sure about Leon not knowing anything. Too convenient.”
“Kin it wait until mornin’?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Kin I stay?”
I scratched my head, wrinkled my brow, and said, “Wellll…,” as I leaned over and turned off the light.
There were two items in Gerald’s Last Will and Testament.
(1) To my cousin Randy Nimoy, I hereby bequeath One Dozen Rubber Chickens and One Dozen Rubber Turds, as an award befitting the biggest Chicken-Shit I know, and I request Attorney Finegold send this press release to the entertainment editor of the Review-Journaclass="underline"
The late Gerald Tannon, of Magic Sanctum fame, has bequeathed to his cousin Randy Nimoy, “One Dozen Rubber Chickens and One Dozen Rubber Turds, as an award befitting the biggest Chicken-Shit I know.” Gerald’s estate is being handled by attorney Jacob Finegold, who has been charged with delivery of the aforementioned prize.
(2) There will be a contest held to determine the recipient of my estate. The contestants, who are listedbelow, are to design a trick, illusion, or stunt, which costs less than five thousand dollars to produce. They must deliver it to Mister Finegold no later than five o’clock on the thirtieth day after the reading of this will. Mister Finegold, whom I have chosen as executor of my estate, will in turn choose three judges, who must agree unanimously on the winner.
The contestants are:
Abe and The Babe
Dandy Randy Nimoy
(I’m still giving him a chance at the family jewels.)
Leon Hastings
The Cunning Carsons
The Magnificent Millicent Blaire
My estate’s value as inventoried in this will, and certified by Noble, Knoble & Nobull, CPA’s, is six-million-seven-hundred-fifty-one-thousand dollars and eighteen cents. Go figure!
Finegold looked up over his spectacles and said, “The contestants have been notified and will be here for the official reading at four this afternoon.”
I placed a manila envelope containing Gerald’s autobiographical notes in front of Finegold. “Sir, what can you tell us about this?”
He took the contents from the envelope. “How did you come by these notes? The last I saw of them, Gerald picked them up here at the office after I had finished reviewing them for possible libel, and was going to place them in his fire safe. Where in the world were they?”
Howie detailed to his attorney the events that led us to the discovery of the labyrinth. Amazing: Howie’s speech was actually beginning to sound lyrical to me.