It wouldn’t be wise to appear before Akinsanya without the drive, but if he didn’t meet with him he wouldn’t get paid, so it was a catch-22. In the end, he decided that he would show up and explain that he had acquired the drive but lost it when he leapt off the waterfall, in the turmoil at the base of the falls.
It was destroyed, he would explain, lost for good.
However, he’d heard stories about what Akinsanya would do to you with the needle and suture thread if you disappointed him, and he couldn’t even imagine going through that.
So, gather a little more information about the man before meeting with him. Maybe that would be a good idea.
Yes, tomorrow afternoon he was going to make sure that Akinsanya kept up his part of the deal, but first Tomás decided he would visit with Solomon in Vegas. If anyone could help him avoid problems with Akinsanya, Solomon could.
Part IV
Sealed In
During the night I dream that it is me instead of Emilio in the coffin.
I’m in total darkness and the snakes are active. I can feel them writhe across my body as I work at the handcuffs.
Somehow Charlene is sitting beside me, and despite the fact that it’s obsidian black in the coffin, I can see her. But it’s a dream and I know this, even as it’s happening, and the believable and the impossible merge in dreams like they never do in the real world. So light and dark mean nothing. Senses blur. The unbelievable makes sense. The outlandish seems reasonable.
And so.
Charlene is warning me not to use the air tube, not to touch it, but nevertheless, I find it in the dark and bring it to my lips. I expect to feel the dry, leathery skin of one of the snakes gliding into my mouth or its fangs piercing my tongue, but instead, the air tube vanishes and suddenly I’m standing in the cemetery staring down at four open graves.
Emilio lies in one of them, Rachel and the boys in the others. Snakes curl across all four bodies, dozens of cobras on each of them in four winding, squirming masses. I rush over and try to clear off the corpses, but I can’t do it fast enough; every time I toss a snake aside, another appears.
Then my sons open their eyes and call for me to help them. They reach out their arms; I lean toward them, assuring them that I’m here for them, that I’ll save them, that they don’t need to worry because their daddy is here. But before I can lift the boys, the snakes slither one after another into their open mouths and I’m screaming and flinging snakes aside as the nightmare vanishes and I wake up alone in my bedroom.
I’m shaking, but it’s not like in the movies where people sit bolt upright after waking from a nightmare. Instead, I just lie there listening to the harsh sound of my breathing as I try to untangle my waking thoughts from the dark ones of my dreams.
And in a strange way, I find it necessary to try to convince myself of something I already know, so I tell myself over and over, It wasn’t real, it wasn’t real.
A shiver, a residue of the nightmare, slides through me.
Just relax. It wasn’t real.
None of that helps. Finally, I realize there’s one thing I can do that might make it easier to move on.
Closing my eyes again, I attempt to reenter the dream so I can fulfill my promise to my boys, so that I can somehow rescue them. But I’m unable to pick up the nightmare where it left off. All I get is a nightmarish blur of images of snakes and corpses and cemeteries and tears.
After a few minutes, I open my eyes and keep them open, hoping to leave the dream world behind for good.
And thankfully, the dreams do begin to fade, as all dreams do, until they’re nearly all gone, all except for the enduring impression of snakes slithering down the throats of my sons.
I rise, and during my shower I inspect my injured shin and snake-bitten arm. The bruise on my leg is deeply discolored. It aches, but I think I’ll be able to get by without limping — which will be important for tonight’s show.
Rest, ice, and a little vitamin I — ibuprofen — should help.
The arm is tender, but healing. Before getting dressed I put some antibiotic on it and gently bandage the wound.
I dress and slide my 1895 Morgan Dollar into my pocket.
Rings can get in the way of doing sleight of hand effects, so when Rachel and I married, we didn’t exchange wedding rings. Instead, we exchanged coins, and this is the one she gave me. Though I have some in my collection that are worth more monetarily, this is the most valuable one to me, and I carry it with me nearly all the time.
I start filling the sink with water.
For the finale tonight I’ll need to hold my breath for over two minutes while escaping from a straightjacket.
In a piranha-filled aquarium.
After being lit on fire.
And dropping thirty feet into the tank.
All Xavier’s idea.
Of course.
We’ve been in rehearsal for this show for more than two months and I’ve managed to get out reasonably consistently, but still, I wish I could’ve had more time this week to put the final touches on the performance.
Well, it would have to happen at this afternoon’s rehearsal.
And, of course, live at tonight’s show.
I turn off the water, close my eyes, and take a couple deep breaths.
Then I start the timer on my phone and lower my face into the water.
I’ve drowned eight times in my career, and each time Charlene has brought me back. It’s embarrassing when you drown while you’re trying to entertain people. I always refund the money of audience members who come to shows where I die when I’m not trying to. Seems like the least I can do.
I come up for air.
Check the time: 1 minute 43 seconds.
Not very impressive.
I take a moment to regroup, catch my breath, and then I go under again.
After six tries my best effort is two minutes and ten seconds, but that’s while I’m being still, without adrenaline, without struggling to get out of a straightjacket.
I’m way out of practice, but I tend to do well under pressure and I assure myself that I’ll be okay tonight.
But I decide not to tell Charlene my time.
As I enter the hallway, I smell sausages sizzling downstairs in the kitchen and hear Xavier making funny noises and Mandie, Fionna’s five-year-old daughter, giggling.
On the way past Charlene’s room I notice her door is open. She’s sitting on a stool in front of the mirror doing her hair. Having a slender, limber assistant is the key to a lot of effects, and she stays in remarkable shape for our show. And now, with black leather boots, fishnet stockings, and a stylish green skirt, she looks professional with a touch of sass.
“Hey, Jev, come on in.”
I join her.
“You can close the door.”
I do.
When I take a seat on her bed, I’m struck again by how attractive she is. It’s the rare kind of natural beauty some women have that’s simple and understated, where they don’t need makeup at all, but when they use it they become unforgettable.
There’s something intimate about watching a woman do her hair, and for a moment I’m entranced, then she asks me how I slept.
Charlene knows all too well how much my dreams have troubled me over the past seventeen months, and I’m guessing she’s not asking so much if I had nightmares as much as she is asking how well I’ve been able to move past them.