Amy Atwell - Lying Eyes

Copyright © 2010 by Amy Atwell

I’ve always loved visiting Las Vegas, so when the character of Cosmo Fortune conjured himself in my brain, I was happy to follow his lead. It’s a difficult task to create fiction against such a well-known backdrop, so my thanks to Las Vegas, Nevada, for providing a larger-than-life setting for my fertile imagination!

Many wonderful people helped me through the process of writing this story. Thanks to Angi Morgan, godmother of this story, and my other critique partners, P.J. Alderman, Barbara White Daille, Dale Mayer and Therese Walsh. You ladies provided perspective and helped me find the trapdoor when I’d written myself into a corner. Special thanks to Debbi Michiko Florence for ten years of reading and sharing and reminding me to hold fast to the dream.

Thanks must also go to the women and men at WritingGIAM (“Dare Greatly!”), many of whom provided a keen eye and valuable feedback as well as inspiration during the dark times. Also, thanks to the Pixie Chicks and La La La Sisters, who give me support from afar via the internet. And to the dozens of writers who judged this manuscript in contests, whether you gave me high scores or low, I learned so much-thank you.

My heartfelt thanks to my agent Kevan Lyon for believing in this story, and to my editor Deborah Nemeth for giving it a public life.

But most of all, thanks and all my love to my husband. You bring me boundless joy.

No doubt about it-Cosmo Fortune was a royal pain in the ass.

Mickey stepped back into the anonymity of the stage’s curtained shadows, aware that alerting the wily old coot to his presence would be a mistake. Instead, he rifled his jacket pocket for the familiar shape of the pain reliever bottle. Withdrawing two oval tablets, he popped them in his mouth and swallowed without water. With luck, they’d cut off the headache before it turned horrific.

Stress seemed to induce the blinding pain, and today had been nothing but stressful. Cosmo had failed to deliver the goods. Worse, that two-bit magician had lied to him, and Mickey was damned if he’d cover Cosmo’s ass anymore in this mess. The old guy was a bad liability, and Mickey wasn’t buying any more of his stories. He needed answers-and he needed them tonight-or someone was going to get hurt.

Yeah, like King Kong gnawing on his skull wasn’t enough.

His fingers drummed against his thighs as he waited for his quarry to finish his performance. Cosmo tried to make you think his brain power had receded like his hairline, mumbled his way out of messes with his folksy charm, and all the while he juggled his numerous little dealings with the same precise arcs as those flaming torches he now wielded onstage.

Well, this was bound to be Cosmo Fortune’s last show for a while. Quite a while.

The magician’s deft fingers conjured a dove from within the folds of his black cape. Capes had gone out with Liberace, Elvis, Houdini, for God’s sake. Amid sparse applause, the dove fluttered upward until it disappeared in the bright stage lights.

Careful, bird. Don’t be giving your boss any ideas.

Mickey glanced at his watch. Time was quickly becoming his enemy. Well, at least enemies were more predictable than friends in this game. He’d tried to befriend Cosmo, and look how that had turned out. Dangerous to have friends when you played every hand against the other.

He’d been doing that ever since he arrived in Vegas. His lifestyle didn’t allow for friendships. Not anymore.

Beyond the footlights, the half-filled auditorium resounded with sketchy applause and a few hoots as Cosmo Fortune took a bow. His assistant, scantily clad in a blue satin tutu, hauled a white rabbit roughly the size of a cocker spaniel off the draped table, handed the animal to Cosmo and all three took another bow. Finally, the curtain dropped.

Mickey marched forward to take the trickster’s pudgy arm. A strong smell of Axe aftershave wafted up from the magician and made Mickey’s headache bare its teeth again. He blinked against the flash of pain, imprinting the image of Cosmo’s mad-doctor hair and silver goatee, which always made the guy look like a cross between an aging Wolfman and a munchkin.

Cosmo’s impish golden eyes lit in recognition. “Mickey, my boy! Here, take Edgar-”

“Keep that damned carnivore away from me.”

Cosmo blinked. “It was an accident he bit you that time.”

“Like I’m going to believe anything you say,” Mickey said under his breath as the assistant came to lift the rabbit against her globe-shaped breasts. “We need to talk, old man.”

“Sure, sure.” Cosmo tried to pull away, but Mickey knew better than to loosen his grip. With a shrug, his captive relaxed and grinned as if this were all an elaborate game. “Let’s go see Iris. We’ll break her loose from that fancy party she’s attending. I tell you, you’re just the man for her.”

“I’ve met Iris and she ignored me.” Damn his matchmaking eyes. “Let’s go.”

“Oh, I can’t go without Edgar.”

Mickey gritted his teeth. The old guy could slide off a topic faster than a drunk off a barstool. Maybe a little psychology was in order. “You know, perhaps I should meet your daughter again. Let’s go find her. We can talk on the way.”

“Delightful!” Cosmo smiled, crooked as a coyote. His free hand riffled his hair and improved munchkin to Einstein.

Mickey released his hold, and the magician whipped off his cape and traded it to the lovely assistant for that damn rabbit. Its round red eyes watched Mickey while its nose and whiskers twitched in disdain. The silver collar with glittering fake rubies only made him look more like a rich brat.

So, you fur-coated hasenpfeffer, you think I’m no smarter than Elmer Fudd, eh? Mickey’s lip curled at the thought of dumping the creature on the freeway, or leaving it in the desert to fend for itself. The overfed animal would probably die if it missed a meal.

The assistant nuzzled the rabbit’s face. “Don’t keep Cosmo out too late, Edgar.” She eyed Mickey with open distrust. “You neither.” With a wink to her boss, she turned on her heel and shook her hips down the hall.

“She gave up a successful dancing career to work with me,” Cosmo said as Mickey ushered him to the door.

Mickey looked back over his shoulder at the woman. With that figure, she’d probably left a lucrative exotic dancing career, and what she saw in the aging Casanova eluded him.

They stepped from the backstage entrance to the tiny service lot and Cosmo pointed to a beat-up Cadillac in champagne pink. “I’m parked over there.”

“Great, but we’re taking my car.” Mickey nudged him toward a dark nondescript Prelude. What he intended to do didn’t need extra advertising.

“I don’t know why you don’t like Edgar.” Cosmo folded himself and the rabbit into the passenger seat.

Mickey closed the door on them and scanned the lot as he walked around the car. “No witnesses,” he muttered to himself. He climbed into his seat and drove along a mile of service roads to get to Las Vegas Boulevard. Once he was headed toward McCarran Airport, he allowed himself a smile. “You know why they sent me, right?”

“I can imagine.” The old man didn’t sound afraid at all. His pasty hand stroked the rabbit’s white back.

“Where are they?” Mickey slowed as he approached a stoplight. Beyond the intersection, the metal skeleton of a new hotel under construction rose from the desert, its moonlit silhouette clawing the sky like some black specter. “You shouldn’t mess with these guys. I thought I made that clear.”