“Not unless you tell them.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Five seconds,” the sound technician said.
“That never stopped me before,” Hardare replied truthfully.
“This is The Midnight Hour,” Kitchen intoned, turning his mike on, “and our topic is parapsychology. Our guest is Vincent Hardare, who will soon be starring in his own show at the Wilshire Ebell. Hardare, you’ve used your psychic abilities to predict newspaper headlines, sporting events, even disasters. But now you’re onto something different.”
“That’s right. I’ve offered my services to the L. A. Police to help them track down a serial killer who calls himself Death.”
“Any results so far?”
“Two nights ago, I correctly predicted Death’s latest murder while appearing on the Tonight Show. I’ve also given the police several significant leads, and I’ve been told that they’re close to breaking the case wide open.”
“I realize your work is secretive, but can you tell us how?”
“Any well-trained psychic can pick up important pieces of information,” Hardare said, reading from the script he’d prepared. “For example, I’ve been able to determine that Death is a converted left-hander.”
Through the glass partition Hardare saw Wondero nod his head and silently mouth the word, “Good.”
“Still, how can a single piece of information bring the police any closer to a solution?” Kitchen asked.
“Everything is connected, Kenny. With each new piece of information the police are able to draw a sharper composite of our killer. Eventually they’ll know enough about him to make a positive identification.”
“In-ter-est-ing,” Kitchen said, stretching the word to sentence length. “We’re going to open our phone lines up. The number is 473 — KOLL. Call if you have a question, or would like Hardare to pick your brain.”
The six phone lines in front of them lit up simultaneously. Kitchen slid a notepad in front of Hardare and scribbled on it with a pencil.
Ready?
Yes, Hardare wrote.
Kitchen punched in the first line.
“You’re on the air. Go ahead.”
“I’d like to ask Mr. Hardare a question,” a young woman said, her voice practically drowned by static.
“Miss — turn down your radio!” Kitchen implored.
“Sure.” The static disappeared. Nervously she said, “Mr. Hardare, can you actually read my mind?”
“Of course,” Hardare said. “What’s your name?”
“Melody, and I live in Westwood and work at...”
“Melody,” he interrupted, “I want you to concentrate on a number between one and fifty. Now, to help me get a mental impression of the number, make it have two odd digits. Got one?”
“Wait...okay. I’ve got one.”
“Think hard... harder... I think I’ve got it.”
“You do?” Melody squealed breathlessly.
“Yes. The number you’re thinking of is 37.”
“Oh my God!” she shouted over the airwaves. “How could you possibly know that?”
“I just do,” he replied.
Melody started to babble. Kitchen drew a? on the pad.
! was Hardare’s reply.
Come on, Kitchen wrote. How?
Think it out, Hardare wrote.
Applying magician’s logic, Kitchen quickly reconstructed the effect, and realized that Melody really only had three choices. On the pad he wrote, What if she’d picked 35 or 39?
No one ever does, Hardare wrote.
“Thank you Melody,” Kitchen said, punching in another line. “You’re on the air.”
“My name’s Mike, and I think Hardare is full of crap.”
“Even morons are entitled to opinions,” Kitchen said, starting to disconnect him.
“He can’t read my mind,” Mike said belligerently. “Come on. I’m daring you. Take your best shot.”
“Okay Mike,” Hardare said. “I want you to concentrate. Now close your eyes. Think hard.”
“I am! I am!”
“Think hard... harder.” Hardare paused. “You want me to tell everyone what you’re thinking of? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. There’s isn’t an intelligent thought in your funny shaped head.”
“HEYYYYY!!!!”
Kitchen disconnected him, punched in another line.
“You’re on the air.”
“I am? My name’s Odette and I’m calling from Venice. My sister and I are telepathic; I mean, we always know what’s on each other’s minds.”
“Telepathy is common among siblings,” Hardare said.
“Could you try to read my mind? I know it will work. I have a deck of cards my sister and I always use.”
“Tarot or regular playing cards?”
“They’re regular.”
“Okay. Take five cards from the deck. Turn them face up, and tell me their names.”
“Okay. King of Diamonds, Three of Clubs, Jack of Hearts, Six of Spades, and the Seven of Hearts.”
“Place the five cards in a face-up row on the table, King of Diamonds closest to you, then the Three, the Jack, the Six and the Seven. Have you done that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good. Now take your right hand and pass if back and forth over the row of cards.”
“Should I close my eyes?”
“No, keep them wide open. Now, bring your hand down on top of one card in the row. Have you done that?”
“Yes,” Odette said hesitantly.
“Look at it. Now concentrate.”
Her voice was trembling. “I... am...”
“The Three of Clubs.”
“That’s it!” Odette screamed. “Oh my God... Oh my God...”
Kitchen shook his head in bewilderment. Hardare wanted to scold him; like so many amateurs, Kitchen had not bothered to thoroughly study the classics and familiarize himself with the principals that had been fooling audiences since the beginning of time. Odette had picked the Three of Clubs because she had no other choice. On the pad he wrote, Dai Vernon’s Inner Secrets, page 19.
Kitchen tore the sheet off the pad and stuffed it into his breast pocket. “Thank you Odette,” he said.
Hanging up, he punched in another line.
“This is Charlene — the button lady!”
Button lady? Hardare scribbled.
“Hello, Charlene,” Kitchen said impatiently. On the pad Kitchen wrote Speed dial.
“Hi, Kenny. And hello Vincent. May I call you Vincent?”
“When,” said Hardare.
“Oh, you’re just adorable. I saw your show in Vegas and just fell in love with you.”
“What’s the question,” Kitchen said impatiently.
“I wanted to ask Vincent if he could see into the future.”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“Well, there’s something I’ve always wanted to know. This might sound crazy—”
“Not from you,” said Kitchen.
“—but can you tell me when I’m going to die? I know it sounds, well morbid, but I’m just...”
“Dying to know,” Hardare said.
“Yes!”
Kitchen elbowed him in the ribs; this was dangerous ground, and not an avenue he wanted Hardare to pursue. Next they would have mothers calling in asking if he could speak to their dead children.On the pad Kitchen wrote NO.
Hardare drew a line through it.
“Concentrate,” Hardare told the button lady.
“I am,” she said.
He waited two beats. “I see it clearly.”
Her voice was trembling. “You do? Oh I don’t think I can stand it. You must tell me.”
“Charlene, you will die... on a Wednesday.”
Kitchen exploded with laughter. He punched in another line.
“Even soothsayers have a sense of humor,” he told his listeners. “You’re on the air. Go ahead.”
“I have a request for Mr. Magico,” a man’s voice said.
“And what is that?” Kitchen asked.