Mind Scrambler (7 page)

Jake wasn't with her.

He hadn't made it onstage to join his bare-skinned brethren yet, either.

“Take the children up to their rooms, if you please!” Rock said to Katie with a dramatic flourish.

The boy tugged on the tails of his father's tuxedo.

“Yes, Richie?” said Rock, rolling his eyes.

“Can we fly up to our rooms, Daddy?”

“No,” said Mrs. Rock, stiffly shaking her head back and forth long after she'd already said her line. Guess she never studied acting. “You're both
grounded
for the night!”

Another chuckle.

I checked out Ceepak.

Yep. He was grinning.

Me? I was trying not to groan. The Rocks' banter reminded me of the cornball jokes you hear on the Jungle Boat ride at Disney World: “Keep your hands in the boat, folks—the alligators are always looking for a free handout.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Rock, pointing toward his kids as Katie climbed up a set of steps and took the two children by their hands and led them offstage into the wings. “How about a nice hand for Richie and Britney?”

The audience cheered.

“And Nanny Katie!”

I would have whistled. Chanted
“Kay-tee, Kay-tee, Kay-tee!”

But I was too busy thinking about Jake. Wondered where he was. It was something Ceepak and a whole bunch of other cops would be wondering in a couple hours, too.

 

 

 

 

 

Richard Rock's
family-friendly show was pretty awesome.

Over the next forty minutes, he turned a tabby into a tiger, cut his wife—whose name we learned was Jessica—in half, rearranged her body parts and put her back together in this Rubik's Cube-type deal, caught a bullet fired at him from a pistol with his teeth, walked through a solid brick wall, transported his wife from one side of the stage to the other in under a second, escaped from silk ropes tied around his wrists, ankles, legs, and torso, and made a flock of seagulls appear out of torn-up newspaper.

He even shot an arrow with a ribbon attached to its tail through his wife's tiny stomach. She had so much cleavage tumbling out of her low-cut gown it was a good thing Rock hadn't aimed higher. Could've caused a serious silicone spill.

Ceepak was impressed but reminded me in a whisper that, “Magic is the art of misdirection.”

And I had thought it was real. You just had to go to Hogwarts and study hard.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I wouldn't deceive you for the world,” Rock proclaimed from center stage.

“Actually, just by saying that, he's doing so now,” said Ceepak, who really enjoyed being able to relax knowing everything he saw or heard in this theater was a lie. Lady Jasmine missed it all. Box 301 was still unoccupied. Even Parker was relaxing. I saw him leaning up against the emperor's row bar, laughing at the corn popping out of Rock's mouth.

Around 8:40, Rock moved into the mentalist portion of his show. He read the minds of two volunteers from the audience: a woman named Jo Karpen and her son Rich. Poor kid. He was so totally busted when Rock revealed the real grade (to the decimal point) on his most recent American History pop quiz.

I wondered if Rock could've also predicted that's when Lady Jasmine would finally show up?

While Rock read the Karpens' minds, Lady Jasmine, a guy who looked a lot like Mini-Me in the Austin Powers movies, another Asian-looking lady, and a knockwurst-necked guy in a black leather jacket, slipped into box 301.

I was going to tap Ceepak on the shoulder but he was already looking over at the latecomers. He gave me the knowing nod. We were on it. Lady Jasmine was officially being surveiled.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Rock as the Karpens climbed down the steps from the stage, “I hope you and your families are enjoying your time here in Xanadu, a palace more incredible than the stately pleasure-dome the mighty Kubla Khan did decree.”

Guess Rock and I had the same eighth-grade English textbook. “As you know, when Marco Polo first journeyed into the mystical lands we now call China, he returned with many wondrous treasures. Fireworks!”

A flick of his wrist, and indoor fireworks exploded.

“Spaghetti!”

Another flick of his wrist and a wad of wet noodles fell from the sky, smacking one of the dancers on the top of his head, making him look like he was wearing a mop.

“Sorry about that, Blaine,” Rock quipped.

He then tugged at his sleeve, setting up another wrist flick. The three dancers onstage—all guys—covered their heads, not knowing what might come tumbling down or exploding out next. The crowd chuckled.

“And, of course,” said Rock, milking the moment for all it was worth. “The greatest treasure of them all: fortune cookies!”

He plucked one out of the air.

I could feel the crowd heave a collective
“Hunh?”

Now the giant TV screen behind Rock showed a slow-motion shower of cash.

“You will win a great deal of money,” said Rock, reading the tiny slip of paper from inside the cookie.

Then he turned it over.

Several times.

“But wait—where are my lucky numbers? Wise sages through the ages have told us, the fortune inside a fortune cookie will only come true if the reader plays his lucky numbers in a game of chance! Where are they? Where are my lucky numbers?”

Ceepak leaned over. “This must be his famous Lucky Numbers illusion,” he said.

I was sort of thinking the same thing, but Ceepak said it first, so he was still, officially, the smartest boy in the class.

Out of the corner of my eye, I sensed Lady Jasmine leaning forward in her seat. I glanced over and saw her gesturing for everybody else in her box to settle down and pay attention.

Rock stared at the cascading cash on the JumboTron at center stage.

“I'll bet I could win a whole heap of money if I played my lucky numbers out on the casino floor! But I don't have any lucky numbers in my fortune cookie.”

He turned to the audience. The house lights brightened.

“Do any of you folks have a lucky number?”

Hands shot up. People started shouting.

“Hold your horses. I need another volunteer. You there. Yes, you.”

A woman sitting about six rows back with her husband and kids stood up.

“Do you have a lucky number, ma'am?”

“Yes, sir. I sure do.”

“Have you ever attempted to use it to win money?”

“One time. The lottery.”

“And you won?”

“No.”

Rock did a comic frown. “You lost?”

“Yes,” the woman giggled it out.

“Dang—and it's still your lucky number?”

“I hope so.”

“Me, too.” He flicked his wrist again. Produced a purple-striped poker chip. Moved it artfully across and through his fingers. In the close-up on the TV screen, I could read the center of the chip:
Fifty dollars.

Rock gestured for the woman to join him onstage.

She giggled the whole way up the steps.

“What is your name, ma'am?”

“Cassie. Cassie Hannington.”

“Cassie, have we ever met before?”

“No,” she said. “Unfortunately!” Then Mrs. Hannington grabbed hold of Rock's tux and nailed him on the cheek with a quick but noisy kiss.

“Please,” said Rock. “Not in front of my wife!”

Jessica Rock—now dressed in a different low-cut gown more dazzling than all the rhinestones in Nashville—strolled across the stage like Vanna White heading over to the big board to flip a few vowels.

“Sorry,” said the audience volunteer. “You're just too handsome.”

“Ain't it the dadgum truth?” said Rock. Then he gave her a grin and a wink to let her know he was just joshing her.

Their whole little scene was playing up on the giant TV screen behind them, which is where my eye always goes in any kind of arena-type situation. Even if I'm at Madison Square Garden and Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band are live onstage, I'm focused on the JumboTron, watching TV Bruce instead of Live Bruce.

“Very well, Cassie Hannington. You say you have a lucky number?”

“Yes.”

“Is it between one and thirty-six?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Rock disappeared into the wings and returned with a rolling easel that had a white marker board propped up in its tray. Then she smiled and pointed and posed some more.

“Excellent,” said Rock. “You know, numbers can be dadgum powerful. Now, I know what you're thinkin': my cow died so I don't need your bull anymore. So, I'm gonna prove it to you. Cassie, I want you to think about your lucky number.”

“Now?”

“Might be a good idea. We only have this theater until nine-thirty. Then the Rotary Club comes in.”

The audience laughed. So did Cassie. Then she closed her eyes, scrunched up her face. Thought hard.

“Are you seeing your number? Visualizing it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Concentrate on it.”

“I am.” She squeezed her face tighter.

“Cassie, I want you to stay here in the theater with my wife.”

“Okay.”

“Meanwhile, I'm going out into the casino to make us some money! Jim Bob?” he called to one of the dancers. “To the high-rollers' room!” He took a step forward. Stopped. “Hold up. Let's make this even harder. Where's my blindfold?”

Jessica Rock whipped out a black hood—the kind executioners wear, only without the eyeholes.

“Thank you, dear,” said Rock as he slipped the black sack over his head and stumbled around the stage like a blind version of Frankenstein's monster.

The dancer took Rock by the elbow, led him toward the steps.

“Wait a second, Jim Bob! If I'm going to play with the high rollers, I need to look like one.”

He magically plucked a few items out of the air: A glitzy pinky ring sporting a horseshoe of diamonds. A white rose for his lapel. He slid the ring on his finger. Jim Bob pinned the boutonniere to his tux.

“All righty. Let's go win us some money!” Rock followed Jim Bob's lead and descended the staircase.

“Can you folks still hear me?” he asked.

“Yes!” we all said.

“Good. Means my radio microphone is actually working! And, can y'all see me?”

The TV screen now showed a handheld shot of Richard Rock moving through the auditorium. I glanced over at real life and saw a camera guy with a cordless portable unit walking backward about six feet in front of Rock. It reminded me of the Letterman
show, when Dave leaves the stage to go out into the street to do something wacky with taxi drivers or water balloons.

“We can see you, Mr. Rock!” shouted one of the kids in the auditorium.

“All righty then.” He started smacking his lips. “Shoo-wee. My mouth is drier than a tumbleweed outside Amarillo. I need me a drink, Jim Bob.”

The dancer led Rock out of the side aisle and up emperor's row. When they passed table 301, Rock froze. Just for a second. Then he strolled past our table and headed over to the VIP bar.

“I'll have a Shirley Temple!”

“You sure you wouldn't like something with a little more kick?” the bartender asked.

“No, ma'am,” said Rock. “This here is a family show.”

While the audience tittered at that, the bartender handed Rock a tall pink glass with two shiny cherries sticking out on top.

Rock put the glass up to his hood. Couldn't drink it through the cloth.

“Reckon I need a straw,” he said.

The waitress plunked one into his glass.

“Thank you kindly.” Rock maneuvered the tube under the front of his hood, took a loud sip. “Ahh! Dee-licious. Now then, it will take a few minutes for Jim Bob and me to make our way over to the Ming Dynasty High Roller Room where the stakes are higher, the winnings bigger. You folks can watch our progress up on the TV screen. To prove that we are not doing this with trick photography, we will be utilizing the casino's very own, high-tech, tilt-pan-zoom security cameras to track my progress in real time.”

The giant TV screen turned into a quadrant of grainy black-and-white video images—live, overhead shots from four different cameras positioned above the casino floor and in the corridors just
outside the Shalimar Theater. There was a rolling digital time stamp in the lower right corner of each frame. 8:50
P.M.

“Cassie?” Rock called out to the volunteer onstage.

“Yes, sir?”

“Keep thinking about your number. Girls?”

The chorus girls came bounding back onstage like gazelles to join the male dancers already out there, elbows cocked, eagerly anticipating their next hoedown.

“A little traveling music, if you please!”

The six remaining dancers launched into a huge production number, lip-synching to a prerecorded track about Lucky Numbers.

I don't think anybody was listening to the stupid song or watching the dancers kick and pump, even though two of the girls were more or less dancing with each other since Jake still hadn't shown up and Jim Bob was escorting Rock out of the theater. All eyes were glued on the TV screen and Richard Rock as he sipped his Shirley Temple, went out the swinging doors, and strolled through the theater lobby.

I wished I could've gone with him.

The Lucky Numbers song sucked. Totally.

 

 

 

 

 

On the
giant TV screen, we could see Rock and Jim Bob in the wide corridor outside the Shalimar Theater.

They were standing underneath the blinking marquee as all sorts of people straggled past—many of them staring at the strange dude in the tuxedo with a black bag over his head who was being led around by a topless seeing-eye dancer.

“Show Cassie and the other folks where we are, Fred.”