“Maybe we’ll have better luck with this one.”
Shawn ejected the Chubby Dead Guy-free tape and tossed it back on the desk, then inserted a new one into the player. Unlike the rest of them, this one wasn’t wound quite to the end, as if Rudge had finally gotten sick of torturing himself by watching the trick he could never hope to master. Shawn pressed PLAY and then FAST-FORWARD so they could zip through most of the act. Even at top speed, Gus was astonished by the Dissolving Man, although he was quick to point out to himself that this in no way was meant to suggest that P’tol P’kah was one of the X-Men. As he had seen happen in each of the previous five tapes, the Martian Magician dissolved in a final burst of light and sound, and then reappeared on the ceiling. This must have been recorded during one of Rudge’s later visits, because he knew exactly where to point the camera to catch the entire descent. Constant practice gave the image a smooth flow as it tracked P’tol P’kah down to the ground.
But when the Martian Magician reached the floor, something was very different. This time the green man didn’t lift his arms to encourage a new wave of applause. Instead, he landed heavily on his enormous black boots and, staring at a spot across the showroom floor, bared his sharpened teeth in a terrifying growl.
“What’s that about?” Shawn said.
Gus’ first instinct was to turn the TV so that they could see whatever had made P’tol P’kah so angry. Fortunately, Rudge apparently shared that instinct. The camera swiveled so fast, the entire audience was reduced to a blur of color, then swung back to find its target-and the Martian’s.
Chubby Dead Guy, in all his Chubby Aliveness, stood rooted to his spot on the floor, staring across the room with a look of fear on his face. No doubt this was the result of being confronted by P’tol P’kah’s fierce grimace. It looked like he was so scared he was actually crying. Tears dripped down his face. But as Gus leaned closer to the TV, he realized there was too much liquid for it to be tears, especially since it seemed to be running down from his hairline.
“Is it raining in there?” Gus said.
“If it is, it’s only because the hailstorm has stopped,” Shawn said, pointing at the top of Chubby Dead Guy’s head, where two small cubes of ice were zipping around the brim of his bowler.
“Then either he’s been bobbing for apples with his hat on, or someone threw a drink in his face,” Gus said.
“And I can guess who that might have been.” Shawn froze the image and then framed it back until Gus could see a flash of spacegirl silver right where Chubby Dead Guy’s hand was disappearing out of the frame.
“Jack McGee is a lech?” Gus said.
“Let’s find out.”
Shawn pressed the FRAME ADVANCE button and let the tape jerk forward. Chubby Dead Guy blinked water out of his eyes, but he couldn’t stop staring across the showroom at the spot where Shawn and Gus knew P’tol P’kah was brandishing fangs at him. He was so shocked, he seemed not to notice his hand, which, as the camera jiggled, was revealed to still be planted on the silver derriere of his space waitress. And then the camera swiveled back to the Martian Magician, who stomped his enormous black boots as he snarled.
“I don’t understand what we’re seeing,” Gus said.
“If I had to make a stab at it, I’d say that Chubby Dead Guy was taking advantage of the green guy’s surprise appearance to cop a feel from the cocktail waitress,” Shawn said.
“And she threw a drink at him, right,” Gus said. “But why is P’tol P’kah so angry?”
“This goes back to my original theory,” Shawn said.
“He’s the Phantom of the Opera and Chubby Dead Guy stole his music so he could make the cocktail waitress a star?”
“Okay, not exactly my original theory,” Shawn conceded. “But a refinement of it. The green guy is running from the police because he committed a crime, but it was a crime for the greater good. He stole a meat loaf to feed his starving child. But he was caught and sentenced to prison, where he suffered for many long years. Then, when he was released, he went back to his life of crime, pursued by an obsessed detective. At the end of his rope, he was given shelter by a kindly priest, but he repaid this generosity by stealing all his silver. But when he was caught, the priest told the police-”
“This is not a refinement of any theory you’ve had so far,” Gus said. “It’s a brand-new theory. Except it’s not really new because you’re stealing it from Les Miserables.”
“What country was Les Miz published in?” Shawn said.
“France.”
“And Phantom of the Opera?”
“Also France,” Gus said. “So what?”
“So it’s the same theory. I just grabbed the wrong book off the French literature shelf,” Shawn said. “Like that’s never happened to you.”
“Maybe you could theorize that P’tol P’kah is actually a red balloon or Babar, King of the Elephants,” Gus said. “They’re from French books, too. And they’ve got about as much to do with this case as anything you’ve said.”
“Only because you’re not paying attention,” Shawn said. “Here’s what I’m saying: The green guy is a fugitive from justice, but he’s actually a good guy. And the one thing that makes him angry is seeing the poor and weak being preyed on by the rich and powerful.”
“Then he’s got to be in a bad mood pretty much all the time, living in Las Vegas,” Gus said.
“Anyway, he’s out there, doing his act, lowering himself into the audience on his lamp cord, and what does he see? Some creep in a three-piece suit and a bowler hat, the very essence of upper-class snobbery, grabbing the ass of a poor cocktail waitress, using sexuality as a weapon to assert his socioeconomic status over hers.”
Gus stared at him. “Where did you get that from?”
“One of the beat cops always leaves his copy of The Nation in the police station men’s room,” Shawn said.
“And you read it?”
“Sure. And I learned a lot from the experience,” Shawn said.
“Like what?”
“That it actually is possible for a magazine to be so boring you can’t even read it on the toilet,” Shawn said. “Anyway, the green guy sees this terrible atrocity happening across the showroom and he flies into a rage.”
Gus thought that one over for a moment, then shook his head. “A cocktail waitress in one of those outfits is going to get her ass grabbed every thirty seconds in a casino showroom,” Gus said. “If P’tol P’kah flew into a rage every time he witnessed it, he’d never have a moment free to dissolve.”
“Good point,” Shawn said. “And it’s hard for me to imagine this entire case revolving around gender politics, anyway, no matter what Katrina vanden Heu vel might think. So maybe I got it backward. Chubby Dead Guy grabs the waitress; she throws her drink in his face; a big chunk of the crowd turns to see what’s going on-”
Gus tried to visualize the scene and immediately understood what Shawn was suggesting. “P’tol P’kah sees that half his audience isn’t paying attention to him the way they should, so he turns to find out what’s taking their eyes off him-” Gus broke off, feeling excitement flooding through his body. This case was actually beginning to make sense for the first time.
“And he sees the man who’s been chasing him for all these months,” Shawn said. “He’s caught. So now he’s got a choice. He’s built up this new life for himself, he’s making ridiculous amounts of money, he’s got the biggest act on the Strip, and now it’s all going to come to an end. He’s got to flee, or be exposed.”
“But he’s got to know if Chubby Dead Guy was able to track him down here, there’s nowhere he’ll ever be able to hide completely,” Gus said. “He’ll be giving everything up, and he’ll get nothing in return.”
“Which is when he hatches the plan,” Shawn said. “He arranges the performance at the Fortress of Magic, knowing that Chubby Dead Guy is going to follow him there. He sets a trap for his victim and kills him, leaving the body in his tank as his final salute to the world of stage magic. And then he takes off his makeup and slips away into the night.”