His daughter groaned. “Six months? I can’t live in that hotel another two weeks. The slots are giving me migraines.”
“What kind of deal are they offering,” Jan said, now wide awake from her nap. “More money, better hours, or new accommodations?”
“All of the above. They’ll pay us ten percent more a week and cut out Sunday matinees. I told them we were tired of living in town, and they offered to put us in a house.”
He paused to hear any complaints. When there were none, he went on. “I drove out there last week. The house is furnished, has four bedrooms, a swimming pool, and four acres of land. There’s a gourmet kitchen, oak floors, and a Jacuzzi. It’s a nice place.”
“What about vacations,” Jan said, never easily swayed. “We haven’t had a break in six months, and they promised...”
“I went over that with management. Two weeks vacation fully paid at the end of the first three months.”
Jan took a pocket calculator from her purse and did some quick arithmetic with Crystal peering over her shoulder. Since moving to Vegas they had become best friends, and he often thought how fortunate he was that his daughter had accepted his second wife so easily, especially considering how radically different she was from Crystal’s mother.
“We’d make nearly twenty thousand dollars more,” Jan said.
“That’s not a bad offer when you throw in the perks.”
“Hey, money isn’t everything,” Crystal chided in.
Hardare smiled. His daughter could switch from being materialistic to altruistic in a snap of the fingers. It seemed to him a contradiction of terms, but Jan had informed him that among her friends it was considered very fashionable.
“We do have other options,” he said, noticing the Firebird a mile back and gaining. The next eighty miles of highway went virtually unpatrolled, and he had seen drivers rocket by at a hundred and twenty. “We can take the month off, stay in Los Angeles, and help you find an apartment for school.”
“Aren’t you jumping ahead a little,” Crystal said, slumping in her seat. “I still haven’t heard from UCLA. What if they don’t accept me?”
“Your interviewer said you were a shoo-in,” Jan reminded her. “Your grades were decent, your SATs above average, and your audition for the drama coach went beautifully.”
“I know, I know,” she said, staring out the window. “I still won’t believe it until I see the acceptance notice.”
“Shades of your father,” Jan said. She caught Vince’s eye and said, “You haven’t told us what we’re going to do after taking a month off. Go on welfare?”
“No. We go to Paris, and perform at the Olympia Theatre for three months,” he said, switching off the cruise control and slowing down to let the Firebird pass. “They’re offering decent money, with a provision in the contract that gives us a share in the profits if attendance reaches eighty percent. We’ll also be the only act on the bill. No dirty comedians. No singers throwing temper tantrums. Just us.”
“What?” they both managed to cry simultaneously.
“The entire act. Ninety minutes of illusions and escapes,” he said. “I wanted it to be a surprise. There are still details to be ironed out, but the chances look good.” He paused. “If it works out, I think we’ll have enough money to put together the circus, and go on the road. It’s a big step but...” He grasped Jan’s hand in his. “I think we’re all ready for a change.”
Crystal whooped in excitement. This was the dream her father had mesmerized her with since childhood: One day, when he had enough money, he would put together a traveling magic circus similar to those that his father and Houdini had traveled with early in their careers. As she had grown older, the dream had changed, and now her father wanted the circus to work exclusively in Europe, performing in towns and small cities which normally saw little in the way of live entertainment, and for audiences not bombarded by television and the movies.
“Forget UCLA,” she exclaimed. “I want to go. What better training ground could an actress have than being in a circus?”
“Enough of that,” her father said, his tone quickly bringing her down. “We’ve had plenty of discussions about this, and you’re going to college and getting an education. Understood?”
“Why?” she said. “Don’t you want me in your show?”
“Of course I do. You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had — even better than your mother. But it would be wrong if I didn’t give you the opportunity to do something else if someday you decided not to be in my show.” He paused. “Got it?”
Crystal crossed her arms. “Yeah. I get it.”
“Good.” The Firebird was five car lengths back, and had slowed down considerably, no longer hell bent on passing. From out of nowhere a man on a motorcycle passed the Firebird, and settled in a few feet behind the Volvo’s rear bumper.
“Slow down, buddy,” Hardare said aloud.
The biker was on his own little trip. Singing, laughing to himself. For the next two miles he rode their tail, flirting danger without a helmet, his long bouncing hair and effortless grin making a statement as old as Easy Rider. He started to pass and gave Crystal a smile. She waved, and he pulled back behind the Volvo.
“How did we get so lucky,” Hardare said.
“I think he’s sort of cute,” his daughter said, staring at her leather Prince Valiant. “He doesn’t look mean. I bet he doesn’t even have any tattoos.”
“That’s a reassuring thought,” Hardare said, watching his rear view mirror more than the road. “I wish he’d slow down and give me some breathing room. Hey, what’s that fool doing...”
With tires screaming the Firebird pulled a foot behind the biker, sandwiching him between the two cars, then ground his bumper into the biker’s rear wheel. The impact sent the biker flying over his handlebars and face first into their rear window, his eyes bulging through the tinted glass. The sound of his neck breaking was as unmistakable as his daughter’s ear-splitting scream. Off to their right, Hardare saw the bike catapult and flip past them across the desert. Moments later the biker slid off the trunk of their car and bounced on the highway like a rag doll. The Firebird swerved, purposely running over him.
“Daddy for God’s sake do something!” Crystal screeched.
“You can’t outrun him,” Jan said, turning sideways. “And you don’t want him banging your bumper. Get into the oncoming lane, slow down, and get behind him. He won’t expect you to do that.”
There were times when his wife talked that Hardare simply listened and did as instructed. He had known her just long enough to sometimes forget that before they’d met, Jan had been a crack instructor at a private anti-terrorist training school.
Hardare put his foot down and the Volvo shot ahead. As the Firebird accelerated, he swerved into the oncoming lane and put his foot gently on the brake. But the Firebird’s driver did not take the bait: slowing down, the Firebird pulled up alongside them. Less than a mile up the highway an oncoming truck flashed its headlights. Hardare tried to swerve into the right lane, only to have the Firebird slap into the side of his car.
“Bastard,” he swore, punching his horn. The oncoming truck did the same, not slowing down, and the Firebird’s driver added to the confusion by blaring his horn. Hardare glanced at his speedometer: he was doing 110 m.p.h. If the Volvo even nicked the truck they would all be killed instantaneously.
“Vince!” Jan barked. She pointed out his side window. “On three, turn left and drive off the road. Don’t turn too sharply, or we’ll flip. One...”