“That’s right,” Hardare said. “My uncle, Harry Houdini, presented the first psychic theatre in the United States. I’ve spent years studying Houdini’s notes, and will present an updated version of this show.”
“And we’re getting a preview tonight,” Leno said.
Hardare smiled, appreciating the segue. “Yes, indeed. Yesterday, I made five predictions of stories I believed would appear in today’s Los Angeles Times. These predictions were put in a padlocked box and delivered to the NBC studios for safekeeping.”
Leno brought up a small mahogany box from beneath his desk. “Which is right here.”
“Would you please verify that I haven’t touched that box since it was brought here.”
“No one’s touched the box,” Leno said.
“And neither you, nor anyone on the Tonight Show staff, have the slightest idea what’s inside.”
“Correct.”
From his pocket Hardare removed a shiny silver key and handed it to his host. “This key opens the box. Please examine it.”
Leno examined the key. “Looks good to me.”
“Before the show, I asked an NBC page to buy a copy of today’s Los Angeles Times, Hardare said. “Jay, I believe you have the copy.”
Leno produced the newspaper. “This might be hard to see, so I’ll read the headlines out loud. Let’s see... Governor asks legislature for tougher gun laws... Earthquake shakes northern California... McDonalds finds metal shards in burgers: meat recalled. Woman frightened to death: serial killer feared responsible. On the bottom of the page we have a box score: Dodgers beat Mets 3 to 2. Sounds like your typical day in L.A.”
“Those are today’s headlines,” Hardare said. “Jay, please open the box, and remove my prediction.”
Leno inserted the key into the box, and shot Hardare a look. Leno knew enough about magic to think he knew how this particular trick worked, only Hardare had yet to touch the chest or even get close to it, and that was frustrating the show’s host.
Flipping open the lid, Leno removed a square of white paper, unfolding it for the cameras. Hardare’s prediction read:
GOVERNOR WANTS GUNS LAWS CHANGED
EARTHQUAKE ROCKS CALIFORNIA
McDONALD’S RECALLS BURGERS
WOMEN FRIGHTENED TO DEATH
DODGERS WIN
The studio audience read the predictions on the monitors and started to clap. The applause grew louder when Leno shook his head in bewilderment.
“Incredible,” Leno said. “We’ll be right back.”
They broke for a commercial.
“Will you tell me how it’s done?” Leno asked.
“Sure,” Hardare said.
His host waited expectantly.
“Next time I’m on the show,” Hardare said with a smile.
The reclusive vending machine service man sat in the darkness of his living room. He had finished lifting weights an hour ago, and he rubbed his naked, hardened body with soothing oil, a mental image of Hardare’s final trick emblazoned in his thoughts.
WOMEN FRIGHTENED TO DEATH
When Leno had displayed the predictions, he had literally jumped, kicking over his glass of mineral water. With his big toe he found the wet spot on the carpet and pressed down, as if to remind himself of the shock. He told himself it was just a stupid trick, only Leno’s bewildered reaction had suggested something more. WOMAN FRIGHTENED TO DEATH — BY DEATH! He tried to laugh, but the feeble sound did not leave his throat.
Vincent Hardare. Was that his real name? He despised magicians and their craft, and this one could go to the top of his list. Good looking, smug, a smart dresser. Click of the fingers and the women come running. Fucking lounge lizard.
He stood naked at the window, staring out at beat-up cars lining the curb. Psychic theatre? What the hell was that? A wailing police car sped by, disappearing through a slit in the venetians. He felt every inch of skin shiver uncontrollably and opened the window, the cool night air flowing across his body, releasing his inhibitions and insane fears.
The LAPD made his life painful enough, now he had fortune-tellers to contend with. Saturday’s newspaper had carried a story about a local psychic, a Mojave Indian named Jack Pathfinder, who had told the police where two of his victims would be found, something that even he didn’t know until he committed a killing. The realization that someone on the outside was drawing close had frightened him enough to do something about it.
He had found Pathfinder in the phone book, and paid him a visit the next night, leaving a severed hand in the psychic snitch’s mailbox along with his unpaid bills. Two days later he’d gone back to discover Pathfinder had moved out of his shabby bungalow, his whereabouts unknown.
On the television he saw the credits for the Tonight Show roll by, followed by a list of sponsors. Airline accommodations were provided by American Airlines. For Tonight Show guests staying in Los Angeles, hotel accommodations were provided by the Sheraton Century City.
“Thank you,” he said to the television.
He spent several minutes selecting his wardrobe. During the daytime it didn’t matter what he wore, but at night the opposite was true. After several false starts, he settled upon the grayish blue uniform of a defunct moving company, and stepped into a pair of elevator shoes.
He looked in the mirror and didn’t feel finished. From his disguise box he selected a pair of cheap plastic glasses and put them on, then looked again. Done. In the closet he found his bowling ball bag and went into the kitchen.
“You’re getting sloppy,” he scolded himself. Taped to the refrigerator door was a detailed map of Sybil Blanchard’s neighborhood, complete with a series of X’s showing where to park the car, and what alleys and side streets to use as escape routes in case of trouble. He stuffed the map into the sink disposal. He opened the freezer. He had met Lorraine while cruising Sunset strip last summer and still remembered the great picture she had cut in her mini skirt and tight tee shirt, her blond hair short like a pageboy. She looked new to L.A., without the hard edges, and had hopped into his souped up Firebird the moment he had flashed a roll of bills. “I know a classy motel,” she had suggested, snuggling up as if on a date.
She had yakked to him some, and he had liked that. She was from Oregon, lived in L.A. a month, wanted to be an actress someday or maybe own an organic restaurant, as if the two were related. She dug surfing, Led Zeppelin, blowing reefer, going to the flicks. Then she’d smiled, real and pretty and genuine, and he’d remembered that for a long time, too.
He removed the zip lock bag and slowly untied the safety twist, pulling away the plastic. He had painted her face with vivid acrylics, and frozen her stylish looks. She looked as cute as the day he’d met her, and he vividly recalled her dying in his arms, her neck snapped limp. He shuddered as an erotic wave swept over him, making his blood boil and his cheeks grow flush with the passionate memory.
“Let’s go for a ride,” he said.
Chapter 3
PSI
The ringing phone snapped him awake. The clock on the night table said three a.m. Snatching up the receiver, he said, “I’d like to buy you a wristwatch.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hardare,” said a soft spoken female. “This is Suzanne at the front desk. There’s a gentleman here who wishes to speak with you. He says it’s urgent.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Three a.m.,” she said.
“Goodnight,” he replied, hanging up.
He slipped down between the warm sheets and became their happy prisoner. After The Tonight Show taping, he’d raced downtown to promote his upcoming show at the Wilshire Ebell on a radio call-in, back to NBC studios to discuss a possible special this fall, then dinner at the Magic Castle in Hollywood with owner Larsen Hendricks, who was also his co-promoter. Back at his hotel, he’d stayed awake long enough to catch his performance on the little screen, then had collapsed into bed.