“All this can only mean one thing,” Shawn said, using the Popsicle the way an orchestra conductor wields his baton. “And that’s-”
“No!” Gus cried out, but it was too late. The top corner of the Popsicle had broken off and a one-inch chunk of frozen water, high fructose corn syrup, artificial Concord grape flavoring, and-most crucially-indelible purple food coloring was hurtling through the air on a trajectory that, no matter its initial velocity, would result in a collision with the brilliant white carpet within seconds.
Gus didn’t hesitate. He ran the length of the room after the artificially sweetened projectile. But he wasn’t fast enough; the frozen treat was already breaking up as it spun through the air, sending drops of purple to land in a Pollock-worthy pattern on the carpet. And the main piece was only inches from the ground. Gus launched himself at the missile, flying through the air, twisting his body around, and stretching out his arm to snag the ice chunk before it could land.
But Gus’ hand closed on air as his face skidded across the carpet. Out of the eye that wasn’t embedded in the short shag, he saw the purple ice explode as it made contact with the floor, turning several square feet of white into a brightly colored Rorschach blotch. A shift of the eyeball revealed Shawn staring at him quizzically.
“Okay, maybe it can mean more than one thing,” Shawn said. “But that seems like a pretty dramatic way to make an objection.”
Gus climbed back up to his feet and immediately wished he hadn’t. From above, the stain was even uglier.
“Look at that,” Gus said, pointing down at the purple blotch. “We’ve got to find a way to clean it up.”
“I believe it was you who mentioned just moments ago that the hotel has an entire staff of housekeepers,” Shawn said.
“And if P’tol P’kah comes back before the maid does?”
“Then we’re the greatest detectives in the history of the world, and who cares that we made a little mess?” Shawn said, sucking on what was left of the Popsicle.
“Benny Fleck doesn’t want his client to know we were in his apartment,” Gus said. He picked the folded shirt up from the ground where he’d dropped it and marched it back to the closet, sliding it onto its correct shelf. “That means not pulling his clothes out of the closet, not leaving the TV cables hanging in the air, and definitely not leaving giant purple stains on the white carpet.”
“Maybe that’s how they like their carpets back on Mars,” Shawn said. “He’ll think Fleck was so concerned about his well-being that he had the rug painted.”
Gus closed the closet and went back to the kitchen area. Ducking behind the island, he started opening cabinets in search of cleaning supplies.
“And besides-” Shawn broke off as Gus slammed a cabinet loudly.
“There’s nothing here,” Gus said. “No rug cleaner, no bleach, not even any dish soap.”
“If you’d let me finish my ‘besides,’ you would have known that,” Shawn said, “because my ‘besides’ went to exactly that point.”
“Okay, fine,” Gus said, standing up. “Besides what?”
“Besides,” Shawn said, “he doesn’t live here. Because he doesn’t exist.”
“He insisted Fleck build him this place,” Gus said. “Why did he do that-just for fun?”
“I don’t know much about the ways Martians have fun, but that seems like a long shot,” Shawn said. “No, I think he did it to throw people off his trail.”
“What trail?” Gus said. “Until last night, he was doing eight shows a week in a theater built specifically for him. No one would have needed a trail to find him. They just needed a ticket.”
“That would only have led them to P’nut P’butter,” Shawn said.
Gus waited for Shawn to finish his thought, then realized he was waiting for the correction. “P’tol P’kah,” Gus said.
“Right, that guy,” Shawn said. “They’d need the trail to find Tucker Mellish.”
“Who is Tucker Mellish?” Gus said. “Is that the dead guy? Are you finally talking about the dead guy? Because it’s only been about seven minutes since you started to explain, and I’d hate to hurry you.”
“The dead guy is not Tucker Mellish,” Shawn said, “unless I’m much more impressive than I think, because Tucker Mellish is a name I just made up.”
“Well, that’s certainly helpful,” Gus said. “So glad we had this conversation.” Now he knew Shawn was going out of his way to annoy him. And it was working. But Gus refused to give Shawn the satisfaction of seeing it on his face, so he turned his back and started opening cabinets as if he hadn’t given up on finding cleaning supplies.
“Tucker Mellish is a made-up name, but he’s not a made-up person,” Shawn said. “He’s a stage magician, and a pretty good one. An inventive guy, he’s particularly good at coming up with new wrinkles on old illusions. For example, he could take the old gag where the magician disappears out of a box and reappears in the crowd, and flash it up by using a tank of water instead of a cabinet.”
Gus could feel himself becoming interested in Shawn’s story. But he wasn’t ready to give his friend that satisfaction yet, either. He kept banging open doors, finding stacks of untouched dishes and unopened boxes of food, but nothing that actually suggested someone had ever lived here.
“I think it’s safe to say that Tucker Mellish was rising in his field,” Shawn continued. “I’d guess he was building a reputation at least with other magicians, if he didn’t have a mass audience yet. And when I say he was building a reputation, I mean that they all hated him, since that seems to be how they convey professional respect for each other.”
Gus pulled open a cabinet next to the sink and found a trash compactor. It was the cleanest trash compactor he’d ever seen, and he doubted that a piece of trash had ever come near it. Maybe there was something to what Shawn was saying.
“So put yourself in Tucker’s position,” Shawn said. He moved around the kitchen, trying to catch a glimpse of Gus’ face, just to see if he was listening. But Gus kept moving in the other direction and keeping the back of his head aimed toward Shawn wherever he went. “You’ve been practicing all your life to be a great stage magician and you’ve finally developed the skills to make it happen. You’re rising up in your field, probably just beginning to talk to promoters about national exposure, and then it happens.”
Gus could feel his muscles tightening as his body tried to turn him around to look at Shawn for the explanation. But he used all his willpower to force himself to stay in place. “What would that be?”
“You go to see one of the most powerful promoters in the business,” Shawn said. “He tells you he loves your work and he’s going to make you a superstar. But before he launches your tour, he needs to know a little more about your act. He needs to see the designs for your illusions. You’re nervous about sharing your secrets, of course, but this man is a legend, so you leave them behind. Days go by and you keep waiting for the great man’s call, but it never comes.”
This was too much for the muscles in Gus’ back to fight. They forced his body around. “How do you know all this?”
“And then you see the news item in Conman Weekly, or whatever the magicians’ trade paper is called. One of the promoter’s biggest clients has just announced a huge national tour-and the tricks he’s promising are the same ones you left your plans for in the promoter’s office. Now you call and call, but no one ever returns. Your rage is building. This is your life’s work, and it’s been stolen from you. Late one night, you break into the promoter’s office, and when he laughs at you, it’s too much. You snap. In fact, you snap his neck. You’re gathering up your materials, when his assistant comes into the office. Terrified, she picks up a beaker of acid and hurls it into your face-”
“Wait a minute,” Gus said. “Why is there a beaker of acid in a tour promoter’s office?”