could see a flash of spacegirl silver right where Chubby Dead Guy’s hand was disappearing out of the frame.
“Jack McGee is a lech?” Gus said.
“Let’s find out.”
Shawn pressed the FRAME ADVANCE button and let the tape jerk forward. Chubby Dead Guy blinked water out of his eyes, but he couldn’t stop staring across the showroom at the spot where Shawn and Gus knew P’tol P’kah was brandishing fangs at him. He was so shocked, he seemed not to notice his hand, which, as the camera jiggled, was revealed to still be planted on the silver derriere of his space waitress. And then the camera swiveled back to the Martian Magician, who stomped his enormous black boots as he snarled.
“I don’t understand what we’re seeing,” Gus said.
“If I had to make a stab at it, I’d say that Chubby Dead Guy was taking advantage of the green guy’s surprise appearance to cop a feel from the cocktail waitress,” Shawn said.
“And she threw a drink at him, right,” Gus said. “But why is P’tol P’kah so angry?”
“This goes back to my original theory,” Shawn said.
“He’s the Phantom of the Opera and Chubby Dead Guy stole his music so he could make the cocktail waitress a star?”
“Okay, not exactly my original theory,” Shawn conceded. “But a refinement of it. The green guy is running from the police because he committed a crime, but it was a crime for the greater good. He stole a meat loaf to feed his starving child. But he was caught and sentenced to prison, where he suffered for many long years. Then, when he was released, he went back to his life of crime, pursued by an obsessed detective. At the end of his rope, he was given shelter by a kindly priest, but he repaid this generosity by stealing all his silver. But when he was caught, the priest told the police-”
“This is not a refinement of any theory you’ve had so far,” Gus said. “It’s a brand-new theory. Except it’s not really new because you’re stealing it from Les Miserables.”
“What country was Les Miz published in?” Shawn said.
“France.”
“And Phantom of the Opera?”
“Also France,” Gus said. “So what?”
“So it’s the same theory. I just grabbed the wrong book off the French literature shelf,” Shawn said. “Like that’s never happened to you.”
“Maybe you could theorize that P’tol P’kah is actually a red balloon or Babar, King of the Elephants,” Gus said. “They’re from French books, too. And they’ve got about as much to do with this case as anything you’ve said.”
“Only because you’re not paying attention,” Shawn said. “Here’s what I’m saying: The green guy is a fugitive from justice, but he’s actually a good guy. And the one thing that makes him angry is seeing the poor and weak being preyed on by the rich and powerful.”
“Then he’s got to be in a bad mood pretty much all the time, living in Las Vegas,” Gus said.
“Anyway, he’s out there, doing his act, lowering himself into the audience on his lamp cord, and what does he see? Some creep in a three-piece suit and a bowler hat, the very essence of upper-class snobbery, grabbing the ass of a poor cocktail waitress, using sexuality as a weapon to assert his socioeconomic status over hers.”
Gus stared at him. “Where did you get that from?”
“One of the beat cops always leaves his copy of The Nation in the police station men’s room,” Shawn said.
“And you read it?”
“Sure. And I learned a lot from the experience,” Shawn said.
“Like what?”
“That it actually is possible for a magazine to be so boring you can’t even read it on the toilet,” Shawn said. “Anyway, the green guy sees this terrible atrocity happening across the showroom and he flies into a rage.”
Gus thought that one over for a moment, then shook his head. “A cocktail waitress in one of those outfits is going to get her ass grabbed every thirty seconds in a casino showroom,” Gus said. “If P’tol P’kah flew into a rage every time he witnessed it, he’d never have a moment free to dissolve.”
“Good point,” Shawn said. “And it’s hard for me to imagine this entire case revolving around gender politics, anyway, no matter what Katrina vanden Heu vel might think. So maybe I got it backward. Chubby Dead Guy grabs the waitress; she throws her drink in his face; a big chunk of the crowd turns to see what’s going on-”
Gus tried to visualize the scene and immediately understood what Shawn was suggesting. “P’tol P’kah sees that half his audience isn’t paying attention to him the way they should, so he turns to find out what’s taking their eyes off him-” Gus broke off, feeling excitement flooding through his body. This case was actually beginning to make sense for the first time.
“And he sees the man who’s been chasing him for all these months,” Shawn said. “He’s caught. So now he’s got a choice. He’s built up this new life for himself, he’s making ridiculous amounts of money, he’s got the biggest act on the Strip, and now it’s all going to come to an end. He’s got to flee, or be exposed.”
“But he’s got to know if Chubby Dead Guy was able to track him down here, there’s nowhere he’ll ever be able to hide completely,” Gus said. “He’ll be giving everything up, and he’ll get nothing in return.”
“Which is when he hatches the plan,” Shawn said. “He arranges the performance at the Fortress of Magic, knowing that Chubby Dead Guy is going to follow him there. He sets a trap for his victim and kills him, leaving the body in his tank as his final salute to the world of stage magic. And then he takes off his makeup and slips away into the night.”
It felt good. It felt right. It felt like victory. Shawn and Gus enjoyed the glow.
“I think we’ve solved this puppy,” Shawn said.“Chalk up another win for the home team.”
Gus felt his glow start to slip away. “You do realize we haven’t actually solved anything yet.”
“I’m willing to concede there are still a few loose ends.”
“Like who P’tol P’kah really is and what he was running from,” Gus said.
“Details.”
“And who Chubby Dead Guy worked for and why he was searching for him.”
“Technicalities,” Shawn said.
“How he managed to kill Chubby Dead Guy and disappear in front of a hundred witnesses with no one witnessing anything.”
“Trifles.”
“Why the federal government is involved in this case.”
“I’m running out of different ways to minimize your point,” Shawn said. “Could you just lump the rest of your objections into one?”
Gus could. “How about the one thing we were specifically hired to find out,” he said. “Where P’tol P’kah is.”
“Okay, so there are a few loose middles to go along with the loose ends,” Shawn said. “But we have a working theory, and that’s half the battle.”
“We’ve already had about ten working theories,” Gus said. “So that means we’ve won five battles. And we’re still no closer to figuring this out than we were before.”
“Not true at all,” Shawn said. “For the first time we can question someone who’s actually talked to Chubby Dead Guy and can tell us who he was.”
“We can?”
Shawn nodded. “The cocktail waitress.”
“They must have a million cocktail waitresses at Outer Space,” Gus said. “And they’re all dressed exactly alike. So how are we going to figure out which one this is?”
“We already know,” Shawn said.
Before Gus could object, Shawn framed the tape forward. At first Gus couldn’t understand what Shawn was trying to show him. And then, after a half dozen frames, Gus saw it. As the camera started to whir back over to P’tol P’kah, it caught a brief flash of the spacegirl’s arm.
The spacegirl’s arm and the tattooed reptiles running up and down it.
