His questions returned: On a Saturday? Why on a Saturday evening?
She seemed to read his thoughts. “They thought a little privacy would be in order, thus the weekend visit. And, I do admit that much more can be accomplished in person than over the phone or over the Internet. I’m sure you agree.” It was clear by her tone that it wasn’t a question but more of an exhortation for him to tell her that, yes, he did agree with her.
“Personal meetings are always most productive,” he said as deferentially as he could.
A moment of unsettling silence followed his words as she let her eyes pass critically around the room.
“Well,” he began, “I can assure you that the project is moving ahead.” He directed her attention to the pile of folders on his desk.
“I would like a tour of your research facilities,” she responded.
“A tour?”
“Yes. Show me around. I read copies of those reports on the flight here. I’m really not interested in going over them again. The US government is paying a lot of money — an exorbitant amount of money, in my opinion — to have you produce EEG helmets that can scan the brains of soldiers and transmit simple orders from one troop to another, and exolimbs that can be controlled by neural impulses. I want to see for myself what’s being done, not read about it in a report.”
It bothered him that she took the time to detail their contract with him like that. He knew all that, of course he did. Just the fact that she would run through it made him feel that she was somehow judging him.
“Well then.” He gestured toward the door. “A tour it is.”
The media is still reporting that Emilio’s death was an accident, that a cobra with venom had mistakenly gotten enclosed with him in the coffin. That was partially true, only it hadn’t been a mistake.
So, before the show I decide to put out a press release through my publicist detailing what actually happened.
Coming up with a statement isn’t easy. After all, we don’t have any specific evidence that Tomás had anything to do with the death of my friend. It’s all circumstantial, and if we announce that Emilio’s death was a homicide, we’ll be called to account to provide evidence, which at the moment we still don’t have.
So, in the end, I simply state that the authorities in the Philippines, in cooperation with the US ambassador in Manila, are still investigating the incident.
I hope that perhaps that might put a fire under Ambassador Whitehead to get something done.
Charlene and Nikki wear attractive, tight-fitting outfits that seem elegantly seductive, appropriate for the show but pretty mild by Las Vegas standards.
About five minutes before showtime as I’m talking with Charlene backstage, Mr. Fridell, the owner of the Arête, emerges from the hallway that winds back to the steps to the sound booth. He doesn’t dress anything like you might expect a billionaire to — jeans, a polo shirt, flip-flops, a ball cap. No bodyguards. No entourage. He looks more like someone who’s visiting the casino than the man who owns it.
I’ve only spoken with him in person a few times. The last time that he came to the show he told me how much he enjoyed it and offered to extend my contract indefinitely. It was an attractive offer, but life is uncertain and I don’t like to sign up for anything long-term, so we settled on a six-month extension.
He shakes my hand. “Jevin, I wanted to offer my condolences. I understand that you and Mr. Benigno were quite close.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“If you need some time, we can black out some dates next week. I was thinking tomorrow in particular. You know Sunday night can be slow anyway.”
That’s quite an offer. It would cost him tens or even hundreds of thousands of dollars, plus the hassle of refunding money to those who’ve already purchased tickets.
“No. That won’t be necessary.”
“Well then, let me know if there’s anything you need.”
I’m not sure he’s the right guy to clear this with, but I decide to bring it up so it wouldn’t be out of the blue. “I’d like to take a few moments before the show tonight to speak about Emilio. Offer a moment of silence.”
“Of course. I’ll let the show manager know.”
And then he excuses himself to do a walk-around and make sure his guests are having a good time. Unlike some of the other casino owners in Vegas, he takes as much time catering to the casual gamblers as he does to the high rollers.
I don’t know him well enough to be able to tell if that’s all just a public relations ploy or if he really does care about everyone’s experience, but it does impress me.
And then, at 7:57 our cue music begins, we all wish each other luck, and three short minutes later the curtain rises.
Prions
I step onstage and begin the show by speaking directly to the audience. “I’d like to dedicate this evening to Emilio Benigno. He was killed in the Philippines this week. He would have wanted this show to go on. It’s the kind of performer he was. He was a great magician and a close friend.”
I invite them to join me for a moment of silence, and then I leave the stage so the dancers can come on while I get set for the first escape.
In one sense each show gets easier, and in another, they never get easier at all. If you’re attentive to the details, every performance becomes more refined, shaping effects by the millisecond. Just like an Olympic sprinter, you’re measuring your progress in hundredths of a second on escapes and quick changes, and refining the accuracy of stage marks to make sure you’re in the right place at the right time.
You can get by with just doing a series of effects, but I’ve always believed you need an emotional connection with the audience, otherwise it’s just eye candy. You have to tell a story, just like in writing a screenplay or a novel. An effective magician is always a storyteller. And what is a story? It’s the introduction of a character who faces a conflict that escalates into a climactic conclusion that provides the audience with a satisfying resolution.
And of course you need emotion. It does no good if the audience doesn’t feel. And a good twist at the end always makes for a better story.
But tonight pulling everything together is harder than ever.
From the start of the show, I’m distracted.
The lights come up and I go through the first sequence, a series of vanishes and metamorphosis illusions with Seth, Nikki, and Charlene. To set up the effect, Charlene and four of the dancers step out of a cloud of Xavier-manufactured smoke and approach a glass wall on the middle of the stage.
By passing around the wall and pressing against it, they prove to the audience that it’s solid. Then the dancers exit, the music builds, and I come onstage and approach the wall and press my hands against it.
The smoke that’s trapped on one side of the glass barrier makes it clear that there are no holes in it.
The dancers reemerge, swirling crimson clothes. As they dance and twirl around the glass, curling the smoke around them, I step through the glass, then hold my hands to the side and levitate into the rising smoke, where I vanish.
It’s all passable, but I can’t stop thinking about everything that’s been going on this week.
I do my best to hide my limp, and at least that goes reasonably well.
Charlene does an escape from a cage that’s swinging toward a wall bristling with swords. It’s an idea she came up with herself and Xavier designed for her at the warehouse where he does all of his research and brainstorming, not far from the Strip.