Max laughed. “I’m a fifteenth-century kind of guy? Seriously, I agree Shangri-La’s a great match for your act. Her and her cat. How’d you find her?”
“She found me. Pulled a surprise visit at the theater, like you did the first time. Came swinging down from the flies like Peter Pan in that Jackie Chan-in-Chinese-drag getup of hers.”
“So you’ve never seen her face, without makeup.”
“No, and I like it that way. She’s probably as ordinary as I am underneath the costume.”
“Just Clark Kent and Lois Lane?”
“Not even that interesting. Listen, there’s nothing…whatever between us. It’s a working partnership, like with the big cats.”
“And you like her little cat?”
“Hell, no. That thing gives me the creeps. Have you seen the painted claws on it? Reminds me more of a monkey than a cat sometimes. Besides, I’m partial to the big boys. Those are the real cats. These domestic versions are like toy dogs, a perversion of the original.”
“Hmmm.”
“You can’t say you’ve seen a street cat that could compare to Osiris or Mr. Lucky.”
“As a matter of fact, I have. But then I know a better breed of street cat than you.” Max smiled, stretched. Like a cat. “Speaking of Osiris, how is he doing now that he’s out of captivity again?”
“He’s one happy cat.”
“I see that. Quite an operation you have here.”
“And how the hell did you find it? I’ve spent millions keeping my residence secret.”
“And I’ve spent a lot of time learning how to find out what I need to know. How do you suppose I got Osiris back for you?”
“I paid you well.”
“True. But we both know that the story isn’t over. Osiris was taken to damage you. Your enemies are still out there.”
“Everybody successful has enemies.”
“Not enemies like these. Rogue magicians. You think I can surprise you? I know they can surprise you more.”
“And you?”
“They can surprise me, too.”
“Why do you think I’m the key to whatever will-o-the-wisp you’re chasing?”
“Because my prey are your enemies. They flutter around you like fireflies. Taking Osiris was just an opening shot. Besides —” Max grinned. “You’re about the only person in Las Vegas who can afford to fight them. And you’ll need to.”
“And I’ll need you to do it, I suppose.”
Max nodded. “If I found you here, don’t you suppose that they already have?”
The mask he wore hid the Cloaked Conjuror’s every expression, but his body language spoke for him. His massive form was still, mute. Max’s point had stabbed home.
Nowhere was safe.
In the distance outside, one of the big cats roared, a deep, ragged, sharp sound like nothing on earth.
“Do you hire out as a bodyguard?” CC asked at last.
“No. I’m just a guardian angel. I’m not allowed to be on anyone’s payroll, but I’d be interested in who’s on yours. Let me guess. I bet you just hired a new guy, a new bodyguard, am I right?”
Could a mask pale?
No.
But it could nod, very faintly, “Yes.”
“I’m feeling lucky.” Max paused to pick up a large painted globe. With a twist of the wrist, he separated it into halves filled with colored scarves. “Is the new bodyguard’s name Nadir? Rafi Nadir?”
“I’ll get rid of him,” vowed the Cloaked Conjuror’s growling mechanical voice, flat and lethal.
“A mistake. I’d rather know than not where that particular gentleman is.”
“I’d rather not be surrounded by treachery.”
“You already are. Better to not let anyone know that you realize that. How many people do you employ?”
“Here?”
“Here and at the hotel.”
CC strode impressively toward the dainty ballroom chairs that lined the room and had come with the house, lemon yellow Louis XV fripperies, and sat on one. It was as if Darth Vader had perched on an egg crate.
“Here,” he said, sighing. His sigh sounded like a lizard’s hiss through the voice-altering mask. “About sixteen, indoors and out. But they are all investigated.”
“Who does your investigations?”
Had he a lip visible to bite, CC would have bit it then. “I see what you mean. Any system is corruptible. And another twenty at the theater.”
“They are less likely to be corruptible.”
“Because they’re attached to a bigger institution, like the hotel?”
“No.” Max folded his arms and leaned against the wall between two lavish swags of drapery. “Because they’re union.”
When CC was silent, he went on. “Union stagehands are paid well enough to have something to protect. They don’t like anybody messing with their jobs. They feel they have enough muscle on their side to resent outside muscle telling them what to do, which is simply their job. That’s probably why your stagehand was killed up in the flies during TitaniCon. Have you figured out who it was?”
“Of course. With days off and such it took us a few days to realize.”
“You tell the police?”
The massive feline head shook. “I couldn’t maintain my own security if I let the police in on it. Robbie Weisel was a divorced guy, no kids, kind of a loner. He was a pretty loyal guy, like you guessed. Straight-shooter. If he got killed because somebody was trying to move in on me and he stood in their way, I’m not going to undo his sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice is right. He probably was mistaken for you. You had him wear a backup costume, right? When he was up in the flies getting ready to unleash a leopard illusion on the people below? Part of your scheme to embarrass the science fiction TV show that had ripped off your look for its alien race of baddies.”
“So it was a juvenile stunt! I resented the hell out them making my individual stage look part of a damned hive. Suing ’em would have taken years. One big splash of embarrassment would have gotten me ink all over the world.”
“Only it got your man killed.”
The Cloaked Conjuror’s mask hid all human expression, but his gloved hands clenched and unclenched in the rhythm of a big cat pumping its claws in and out. With the cats, it was a sign of pleasure and security. With the Cloaked Conjuror, it signified guilt and impotence.
Max knew he was being fairly merciless, but he had to convince the man to go along with his master plan for unmasking the people behind a whole slew of Las Vegas mayhem and murder.
And besides, he wasn’t entirely sure that the murder of Ron Weisel didn’t cut the other way too: some resentful science fiction convention attendee could have mistaken the magician’s disguise for the TV show alien.
CC was talking again. “You say this magician’s coven who hates my work is behind this stuff. Okay, I don’t want to blow unmasking them. I want to turn these Synth bastards over to the police, all wrapped up.”
“You also want enough evidence on them from other sources so your personal security and privacy aren’t compromised.”
“Is that so despicable?”
Max shrugged. “I can see that in your case it’s necessary. And I see that you need me to do it.”
CC nodded. “I have a lot of money. I can pay you when it’s done, when the Synth’s teeth are pulled.”
“Can you give me what I need now?”
“What is that?”
“Whatever I ask for.”
“To…a degree.”
“You mean to the degree that you can see sense in it. Here’s what I want now. It doesn’t cost a thing, except self-control and discretion.” Max came close, braced his bare, bony hands on the lemon-silk-upholstered arms of the dainty chairs, confined the Cloaked Conjuror to a temporary witness box in an empty court of law.
“I want you to tell no one. Not a long-lost relative, not a trusted associate of decades, not a woman in your bed. No one. Your life depends on it. And mine. And if you’re ever tempted, or ever that thoughtless, just remember Robbie’s lifeless body hanging like a puppet from the flywalk. He saw too much, he could have talked. He paid the price.”