cabinets in search of cleaning supplies.
“And besides-” Shawn broke off as Gus slammed a cabinet loudly.
“There’s nothing here,” Gus said. “No rug cleaner, no bleach, not even any dish soap.”
“If you’d let me finish my ‘besides,’ you would have known that,” Shawn said, “because my ‘besides’ went to exactly that point.”
“Okay, fine,” Gus said, standing up. “Besides what?”
“Besides,” Shawn said, “he doesn’t live here. Because he doesn’t exist.”
“He insisted Fleck build him this place,” Gus said. “Why did he do that-just for fun?”
“I don’t know much about the ways Martians have fun, but that seems like a long shot,” Shawn said. “No, I think he did it to throw people off his trail.”
“What trail?” Gus said. “Until last night, he was doing eight shows a week in a theater built specifically for him. No one would have needed a trail to find him. They just needed a ticket.”
“That would only have led them to P’nut P’butter,” Shawn said.
Gus waited for Shawn to finish his thought, then realized he was waiting for the correction. “P’tol P’kah,” Gus said.
“Right, that guy,” Shawn said. “They’d need the trail to find Tucker Mellish.”
“Who is Tucker Mellish?” Gus said. “Is that the dead guy? Are you finally talking about the dead guy? Because it’s only been about seven minutes since you started to explain, and I’d hate to hurry you.”
“The dead guy is not Tucker Mellish,” Shawn said, “unless I’m much more impressive than I think, because Tucker Mellish is a name I just made up.”
“Well, that’s certainly helpful,” Gus said. “So glad we had this conversation.” Now he knew Shawn was going out of his way to annoy him. And it was working. But Gus refused to give Shawn the satisfaction of seeing it on his face, so he turned his back and started opening cabinets as if he hadn’t given up on finding cleaning supplies.
“Tucker Mellish is a made-up name, but he’s not a made-up person,” Shawn said. “He’s a stage magician, and a pretty good one. An inventive guy, he’s particularly good at coming up with new wrinkles on old illusions. For example, he could take the old gag where the magician disappears out of a box and reappears in the crowd, and flash it up by using a tank of water instead of a cabinet.”
Gus could feel himself becoming interested in Shawn’s story. But he wasn’t ready to give his friend that satisfaction yet, either. He kept banging open doors, finding stacks of untouched dishes and unopened boxes of food, but nothing that actually suggested someone had ever lived here.
“I think it’s safe to say that Tucker Mellish was rising in his field,” Shawn continued. “I’d guess he was building a reputation at least with other magicians, if he didn’t have a mass audience yet. And when I say he was building a reputation, I mean that they all hated him, since that seems to be how they convey professional respect for each other.”
Gus pulled open a cabinet next to the sink and found a trash compactor. It was the cleanest trash compactor he’d ever seen, and he doubted that a piece of trash had ever come near it. Maybe there was something to what Shawn was saying.
“So put yourself in Tucker’s position,” Shawn said. He moved around the kitchen, trying to catch a glimpse of Gus’ face, just to see if he was listening. But Gus kept moving in the other direction and keeping the back of his head aimed toward Shawn wherever he went. “You’ve been practicing all your life to be a great stage magician and you’ve finally developed the skills to make it happen. You’re rising up in your field, probably just beginning to talk to promoters about national exposure, and then it happens.”
Gus could feel his muscles tightening as his body tried to turn him around to look at Shawn for the explanation. But he used all his willpower to force himself to stay in place. “What would that be?”
“You go to see one of the most powerful promoters in the business,” Shawn said. “He tells you he loves your work and he’s going to make you a superstar. But before he launches your tour, he needs to know a little more about your act. He needs to see the designs for your illusions. You’re nervous about sharing your secrets, of course, but this man is a legend, so you leave them behind. Days go by and you keep waiting for the great man’s call, but it never comes.”
This was too much for the muscles in Gus’ back to fight. They forced his body around. “How do you know all this?”
“And then you see the news item in Conman Weekly, or whatever the magicians’ trade paper is called. One of the promoter’s biggest clients has just announced a huge national tour-and the tricks he’s promising are the same ones you left your plans for in the promoter’s office. Now you call and call, but no one ever returns. Your rage is building. This is your life’s work, and it’s been stolen from you. Late one night, you break into the promoter’s office, and when he laughs at you, it’s too much. You snap. In fact, you snap his neck. You’re gathering up your materials, when his assistant comes into the office. Terrified, she picks up a beaker of acid and hurls it into your face-”
“Wait a minute,” Gus said. “Why is there a beaker of acid in a tour promoter’s office?”
“You expect the assistant to fight off an enraged magician with her bare hands?” Shawn said. “Anyway, now you’re horribly deformed and you’re wanted for murder. If you ever want to be seen in public-which is really all you’ve ever wanted-you need to come up with some kind of disguise.”
“If only to hide from the copyright lawyers.” Gus felt a wave of disappointment crashing through him. For a moment there he really thought Shawn had figured out something significant. “Because you’ve lifted your entire life story from The Phantom of the Opera.”
“First of all,” Shawn said as Gus turned back to exploring the cabinetry, “ The Phantom of the Opera was written more than a thousand years ago, so it’s long out of copyright-”
“Gaston Leroux published his original novel in 1910,” Gus said as he slammed shut a cabinet holding an unused espresso machine, a blender still in its original packaging, and a George Foreman grill that had clearly never met a piece of meat. “So yes, that is in the public domain. But in that book, as in several film adaptations and the longest running show in Broadway history, the phantom was deformed at birth. The story you just stole was invented for the 1943 Claude Rains movie, and if you want to tangle with the powerful and brilliant intellectual property lawyers at NBC/Universal, you can do it without me.”
“You’re getting bogged down in details,” Shawn said. “You have to listen to the broader point.”
“A point can’t be broad,” Gus said. “That’s what makes it a point.”
“Whatever,” Shawn said. “This guy Tucker Mellish-”
“This guy that you invented.”
“This guy I didn’t invent with a name I did,” Shawn continued. “Forget about the acid. Forget about the stolen plans. He’s on the run.”
“From what?”
“Could be anything,” Shawn said. “Maybe he owes money to the mob. Maybe he owes a fortune in child support. Maybe he’s wanted by the police.”
“Sure, for drowning chubby men in his disappearing tank.” Gus opened and slammed a couple more cabinets, finding nothing of interest inside.
“It could be,” Shawn said. “Maybe he’s a serial killer. But whatever he is, he couldn’t stand the thought of not performing in public anymore, so he concocted this entire Martian persona to allow himself to be seen in public without being identified.”
“So why make Fleck build him this apartment?” Gus said.
“Misdirection,” Shawn said. “The magician’s best tool. Everyone who’s the slightest bit interested in P’stuffed P’imento-”
“P’tol P’kah,” Gus repeated by rote.
“Right, that guy,” Shawn said. “Anyone who’s interested in him is never going to take his eyes off the one place they’re certain he’ll be. And that lets Tucker Mellish run around without anyone watching him.”
Gus had to admit the theory made sense. At least he had to admit it to himself. He wasn’t convinced he felt like admitting it to Shawn, whose behavior had been so appalling, it didn’t deserve the reward. Besides, that still left one big question unanswered.
“So who’s the dead guy? Gus asked, bending down to check the last few cabinets.
“I have no idea.”
“You told me you did,” Gus said.
