Джеймс Суэйн - The Man Who Cheated Death

“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.”

“Why? Do they want to see your father get hurt?”

“It goes deeper than that,” Crystal said.

“What do you mean?”

“Escapes are patterned after myths, and myths have been around since the beginning of time. One myth which reoccurs repeatedly is that of the death and resurrection. That was why Houdini was so popular. He told a nation of immigrants that it was possible for them to escape their past, and become reborn.”

Jan sat transfixed. “Where did you learn this?”

“It’s from The Myth of the Magus in American Vaudeville . It’s a thesis about the Houdini family.”

“It sounds fascinating. Could I get a copy to read?”

“You’ll have to ask Dad.”

“Is it something he wrote?”

Crystal shook her head. “My mother. It was her doctorate’s thesis in cultural anthropology. She met Dad while she was researching it. They fell in love, got married, and Dad had his first full-time assistant.”

“Did she ever get her degree?”

“Nope. She had me instead. I don’t think she ever regretted it. My father’s world enchanted her; when she walked on stage, you would swear she was floating.”

The two women fell silent. Crystal rose from the couch and went to her bedroom door, then turned around. “You and my Mom are real different, but in some ways, you remind me of her.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. My mother hated the escapes, too. She was convinced that my dad would get killed one day performing them. They scared her.”

“They scare me, too,” Jan said.

“It’s who he is, Jan. You can’t change it. Goodnight.”

“Sweet dreams,” Jan said as the door closed.

The yard of the state mental hospital was surrounded by a chain link fence topped with six foot cyclone barbed wire. In recent months, picnic tables and benches had been added, giving the Visitors area a homey feel. Inhaling deeply on a cigarette, D.B. felt the smoke tickle his lungs, and glanced fondly at Eugene Osbourne.

“It’s good to see you again, Eugene,” D.B. said. “Thank you for remembering my cigarettes. I hope you brought an extra carton for the staff.”

Eugene, who had not forgotten how things worked behind bars, nodded that he had.

“I see from the newspapers that you’ve been busy,” D.B. said. “Any problems with the police?”

“The usual.” Eugene eyed a pair of nearby guards.

“Is that why you chose such a creative disguise to wear today? I must say, the uniform becomes you.”

Eugene bristled at the remark. It was not easy changing his appearance, and he’d found that wearing a uniform usually did the trick. Today he wore a green sanitation worker’s outfit which he’d bought for two dollars at a yard sale.

“Don’t make fun of my uniform,” he said. “If I get caught, and someone remembers me coming here, it will be over for you.”