“How did you pay for it?”
“Credit card. I told them they had better send their best make-up artist as well, and a couple of costume people.”
“Good thinking.”
She got onto the Santa Monica freeway and headed north. Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the Magic Castle to find a small, angry mob. A dozen stylishly dressed couples stood, voicing their displeasure to the Castle’s tuxedoed host.
“I realize this is a terrible inconvenience for all of you,” the host said. “But the Castle is closed for the afternoon.”
“But we made reservations three months ago,” a man in the crowd said angrily. “Let us in, or face the consequences!”
An ugly chorus of protests went up. Crystal threw the rental into reverse, rocketed back down the winding driveway, and took a hard left at the service sign.
“Good call,” Hardare said.
They went in through the back entrance, and took a stairway to the restaurant on the second floor, which had been converted into a makeshift dressing room. The ten actors from Central Casting had arrived, and were getting wardrobes and having makeup put on by a pair of attentive make-up artists. Hardare noticed a grandmotherly type sitting in the corner, and introduced himself.
“Nice to meet you,” the woman replied. “I’m Alice Harvey, Woman of a Thousand Voices.”
Hardare knew Alice Harvey by reputation, her voice having appeared on hundreds of commercials and countless cartoons. “Thanks for coming out on such short notice,” he said.
“Not a problem,” Harvey replied. “I’ve listened to the tape of the voice you want me to impersonate, and it shouldn’t be a problem. But I do have a question. The other actors don’t have scripts to work from. Is this intentional?”
“Yes. Do you think I should talk with them?”
“It might not be a bad idea,” Harvey said.
Hardare rounded up the other actors and explained the deal. It was a good-looking group of people, but that was to be expected. This was L.A., after all.
“Good morning, and thanks for being here,” the magician said. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that we’re working without a script. There’s a reason for that. It’s important — in fact, its essential — that you remain in the dark until the performance begins. Your reaction to what happens must be spontaneous, and unrehearsed. Any questions?”
“You want us to show our true emotions?” one of the male actors asked.
“Yes.”
“Boy, that’s a new one.”
The rest of the group laughed. Hardare felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to face his daughter.
“You need to meet Sophie Nichols,” Crystal said. “She’s the actress that’s going to play Elaine Osbourne.”
“Lead the way,” he said.
Hardare followed his daughter out of the restaurant, up a short flight of stairs, and down a hallway that appeared to go nowhere. At its end, she placed her hands on an innocent-looking wall and pushed in, entering the Houdini Séance room.
An attractive woman in her early forties sat at the round mahogany table in the room’s center. She wore a smock, and was getting make-up applied to her face by a make-up artist.
“You must be Vincent Hardare,” she said. “I’m Sophie Nichols. How do I look?”
On the table was a photo of Elaine Osbourne that Wondero had taken from the dead woman’s house. Hardare picked the photo up, and compared it to Sophie Nichols. The make-up artist had done a remarkable job of making Sophie look like Elaine.
“You look good,” Hardare said.
“But do I look good enough?” Sophie Nichols asked.
It was a good question. There was only so much magic that blush and mascara could do.
“Maybe we should do a dry run,” Hardare suggested.
“I’d like that, if you don’t mind,” the actress said.
The makeup artist stopped what he was doing, and unpinned the smock. Hardare escorted her to the other side of the table, and had her sit beneath the portrait of Houdini.
“This is your spot,” he said. “Don’t move.”
Sophie Nichols turned into a statue. Hardare lit a candle on the table, and dimmed the room’s lights. Shadows danced across the actress’s face. In the darkness, the resemblance to Elaine Osbourne was even stronger.
“Perfect,” Hardare said.
“And you just want me to sit here during the performance, and silently move my mouth up and down,” the actress said.
“That’s right. There’s going to be a hologram over your head, so you shouldn’t move.”
“A hologram? Can I see?”
“Of course.”
The Houdini Séance room was filled with special effects. Hardare flipped a switch on the wall. A few feet above the table appeared a ghostly hand clutching a butcher knife.
“That’s clever. What else does it do?” the actress asked.
“Just watch,” Hardare said.
The ghostly hand came sharply down, plunging the knife into the actress’s chest, the momentary shock causing her to jump. The knife pulled back, dripping blood.
“You really know how to scare a gal, don’t you?” she said.
“That was the idea,” Hardare said.
Chapter 24
Jan
It was getting harder to find a payphone in L.A.
There were still a few around, but most of them were out of service. Everyone having a cell phone these days, Death supposed payphones would soon become a thing of the past, like record players and horse drawn carriages.
He pulled into a Sunset Oil gas station on West Sunset Boulevard at a few minutes past ten. Kenny Kitchen’s show had started, and was playing on his radio. The phone lines were open, and Kenny was inviting his listeners to call in.
Death got out of his car, had a look around. No police cruisers were lurking around, nor did he see any surveillance cameras hanging off the side of the building. The coast was clear, as they said in the movies.
He dropped a quarter into the payphone and called the station. The number was easy to remember. 888-KOLL.
“KOLL, this is the Kenny Kitchen show,” an operator answered.
“I want to speak to Kenny,” Death said.
“Sure. I need to ask you a few questions. First of all, what’s your name?”
“Death.”
“That’s a new one. What do you want to talk to him about?”
“He’ll know.”
“He doesn’t take crank calls, sir.”
“Tell him I’ll cut off Jan Hardare’s head and send it to him if he doesn’t pick up the phone.”
“Gotcha.”
The operator put him on hold. Kitchen picked up the line a few seconds later. The DJ’s voice was shaking.
“Hello, Kenny,” Death said pleasantly.
“I have a message for you,” Kitchen said.
“Really? From who?”
“Hardare. He wants you to watch Action 10 News at Noon.”
“That’s nice. Now, let’s talk about our deal, shall we?”
“I’ve got to go,” Kitchen said.
“Wait a minute! Didn’t you hear what I just said? I want to do a deal with Hardare. Do you understand?”
“Watch Action 10 News at Noon.”
“Is that all you have to say to me?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck you, asshole!”
Seeing red, Death slammed down the receiver, and got into his car. At times like this, it was impossible for him to function, and he sat frozen behind the wheel, hearing a pounding bass line in his ears. It was loud enough to make his head hurt, and he buried his face in his hands.
His heart, beating out of control.
By late morning the wind had picked up, and it whistled in and out of the gaping holes in the walls of the abandoned apartment house where Jan sat prisoner. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she steeled herself as a key entered the door.