And the field had looked like a sea of black mud, Wondero thought, recalling the nightmarish blackness of the sky as his son’s heroes on the varsity squad had gotten soundly trounced. “Those where the Red Warriors,” Wondero said.
“That’s right. State champs three of the past five years. And we’ve got to play them again this year in the finals.”
Textbooks. Tawny Starr had said Death was carrying textbooks, and now Wondero knew where they came from. Tomorrow he would talk to the San Diego police and the people who ran the high school where the Red Warriors played. Serial killers weren’t born, they were molded by their upbringings. The seeds were planted early, and maybe if he dug hard enough, someone would remember Death as a child.
To his son he said, “When’s the game?”
“Tomorrow.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I told you two weeks ago.”
“You should have reminded me. I’d have taken the day off.”
“Mom volunteered to go.”
They fell silent. Wondero had always tried to be there for his kids, and could not believe he’d forgotten his son’s game.
“I’m sorry, Craig. I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”
“Dad, you’ve been chasing this freak since I was in eighth grade. It would be so great if you nailed him before...”
“Before what?”
“I went to college.”
Wondero patted him on the knee. He could not make any promises. “You playing away or at home?”
“At home.”
“Scared?”
“I have nightmares of them steam rolling us.”
What easy nightmares to have, Wondero thought. Getting beaten wasn’t so bad, once you got used to it. Life was a smorgasbord of great intangibles, things like sunsets and lifelong friendships, watching a family grow, flawless Sunday afternoons, and whether or not you won or lost had little bearing on real happiness. But that wasn’t what Craig needed to hear; after all, they were talking football, weren’t they?
He mussed his son’s hair. “Don’t worry about the game. Everything will turn out fine. You’re going to do great.”
Chapter 15
Myth of the Magus
The show looked dreadful.
Everyone was missing cues, the assistants misplacing props, causing the production to come to a grinding halt each time something “disappeared.” To round off the rehearsal, her husband had caught a whiff of pot backstage, causing a sustained burst of anger that had still yet to subside.
Jan knew it would get better. It had to, or Vince would cancel, and to use his favorite expression, “Go back to working in the Catskills.” Standing in the wings, she watched him on center stage, explaining to the soundman how critical it was that the overhead mikes be turned off during the Spirit Cabinet routine.
“Let me get this straight,” the soundman said. “Once you’re in the cabinet, you want me to turn the sound off.”
“That’s right,” her husband said.
“But what if you want to say something,” the soundman asked.
“I won’t. I won’t say a word. Like I said, that’s when my wife slips into the cabinet. The mike has to be dead.”
“But then you want me to turn it back on,” the soundman said, the contradictory tone of his voice indicating he didn’t get it.
“Correct. Once Jan slips in, which won’t take more than five seconds, you switch the mike back on. That’s all I’m asking for. Otherwise you’re doing a wonderful job. I only wish I could say that about everybody else.”
“You and me both,” the soundman agreed. “It would be nice to hit the hay before midnight.” He took out his notebook. “Okay, once the cabinet curtain is closed, the mike goes dead for...”
Jan let out a groan. In a stern voice her husband said, “Five seconds.”
“Five seconds,” the soundman echoed.
“Right.”
“I’m writing it down,” the soundman said.
“God bless you,” Hardare replied.
Walking offstage, he put his arms around his wife’s waist. “I’m sorry for acting like such a bastard tonight,” he said.
“Someone had to,” Jan said. “Otherwise we’d be out of work.”
“Why don’t you go back to the hotel with Crys, and get some sleep? I need to go through the score again with the band. See if we can get them to hit all the notes this time.”
“What a novel idea. Sure you don’t want company?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “Tomorrow morning, bright and early, I’d love some company in the form of one very beautiful red-haired lady to join me for mimosas and breakfast in bed.”
“That sounds absolutely sumptuous.”
Jan kissed her husband. His eyes were filled with worry, and she felt an alarm go off inside her head.
“What’s wrong, Vince? You’re not telling me something.”
“I’ll tell you in the morning.”
“Tell me now”.
“Ticket sales are down,” he said gravely. “The way things look we’re not going to break even.”
During their two-week run, they would do eighteen shows, and needed to fill sixty-five percent of the seats in order to break even. Anything above that was profit, which would be split evenly with their co-producer, Larsen Hendricks.
“How down?” Jan asked.
“They’ve pretty much stopped. I think it’s tied to my helping the police chase this killer.”
“I thought you once said that any publicity was good publicity?”
“It doesn’t seem to be true here. It’s hurt us.”
“What are you going to do?”
Her husband shrugged. “I’ll think of something.”
Jan and Crystal took a cab to the hotel. Tiny white Christmas lights hung from a spindly Japanese pine in front, the odd sight the Iranian management’s response to the city’s refusal to let them hang a sign. The valet, who in his high collared white shirt looked like a circus acrobat, opened their door.
The two LAPD detectives assigned to protect them were parked in the lobby. Following them to their suite, they gave the rooms a quick check, then bid them goodnight, and went downstairs.
“Your father’s worried about ticket sales,” Jan remarked as she rummaged through the mini-bar.
“I know. They’re way off,” Crystal replied.
“What is he going to do?”
“You know, Dad. He’s always got something up his sleeve.”
The mini-bar was plied with quick fixes: thousand calorie Toberone bars, gourmet popcorn, pistachio nuts, a cache of sparkling wines and beers, and a miniature bottle of champagne that cost thirty dollars. She opted for a bottled water and dropped onto the couch beside her step-daughter, who appeared intent on burning out the TV with the remote.
“You don’t seem too worried,” Jan said.
“We’ve got time.”
“Why do I sense that you aren’t telling me something?”
Crystal flicked off the TV. “Do you really want to know what he’s planning?”
“Of course,” Jan said.
“Dad’s thinking about doing a death-defying escape to help publicize the show, and boost ticket sales. He wanted to tell you, only he knows how you hate the escapes, and wish he’d stop doing them. So he didn’t mention it.”
Jan frowned. Her husband had performed a number of dangerous outdoor escapes in Las Vegas to help promote his shows at Caesars. Along with generating tons of publicity, they’d also put several gray hairs on her head. Every time Vince sprained a muscle, or bruised a rib, she knew it could have been far worse. It was the one part about being Houdini’s nephew that she did not embrace.
“I hate the escapes,” Jan said flatly. “Can’t he do something else to boost ticket sales?”
“The escapes always work. The public loves them.”