“Whatever.”
“Well, he’s got a permanent gig.”
“Where?” Greta asked, looking away, trying to hide her interest.
“Here.”
“In Vegas?” Her eyes lit up. “For real?”
I nodded.
“’Cause since I got here, I’ve been looking—”
“The Castaway.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s on Fremont Street.”
“That’s not the good part of Vegas.”
“He’s pretty much the biggest thing on that side of town,” I said, echoing Sandra.
“Sure.”
Greta walked away, forgetting my check. At the far end of the counter, she picked up one of the greasy chrome napkin dispensers and used it as a mirror to reapply her lipstick.
“The check,” I reminded her.
She clicked her tongue against her teeth and then dropped the check in front of me. “So, is he still looking for an assistant?”
“I don’t think so.”
“’Cause I’d be perfect.”
“Toby doesn’t use assistants.”
“He will.”
I shook my head and didn’t answer.
“If he’s gonna be big, he’s gonna need an assistant. You’ll see.”
“Greta—”
“You said the Castaway?”
“Aren’t you a little young to be hanging out in casinos?”
“Don’t you get bored of hanging out in diners?”
“Not really,” I said, overtipping her before walking out the door.
Day passed into night, but the interior of the Winter Palace registered no change. The lighting was planned so that the patrons would not notice the hour. Inside the casino, it was always mid-afternoon. After Toby’s first week at the Castaway, his contract had been expanded to include a six and an eleven o’clock performance in addition to his nine o’clock spot. So, after consulting my watch to make sure I would avoid the crowds in front of the Treasure Island waiting to watch the naval showdown between the buccaneers and the British, I began the long walk to Fremont Street, where the glitz of the Strip gave way to pure gambling grime.
Once called the “Glitter Gulch,” Fremont Street was the birthplace of Vegas, but unlike the popular casinos on the Strip, Fremont’s were free of special attractions and prom-night themes. They stood, like over-the-hill athletes, content to remind the rest of the city how great they’d been without making any effort to regain their former glory. The only nod to the once-spectacular Glitter Gulch was a strip club by that name offering free entrance, free table dances, and eight-dollar bottles of Budweiser.
The magician was leaning casually against the door of the theater when I entered the casino. He was wearing a suit I had never seen before—a green silk blend with a gangster gleam.
“I was wondering when you’d make it past the door,” he said.
“It seems like I’m the last woman in town to fall in love with your show.”
Toby raised his eyebrows.
“Sandra,” I said.
“Oh,” the magician replied. “I’ve been drawing a different sort of crowd lately. Not a conscious decision.”
“And I hoped I was the only woman inexplicably drawn to you.”
Toby leaned forward so his thin lips brushed my ear. “You are. The rest come for the show.”
I pulled back and scanned the room, looking for the women Sandra had described.
Suddenly, Toby smiled broadly, and the corners of his mouth jutted dangerously toward his cheekbones. “Pick a card,” he said, fanning a deck in front of my face.
“No thanks.”
“C’mon, pick a card.”
“No,” I said. “Try it on someone else. Anyway, I thought you didn’t do card tricks.”
“Okay, then,” my magician replied, “I’ll pick one for you.” He inched a card out of the deck.
“I’ll choose my own, thank you.” I wiggled a card out from the far left of his fan. Nine of clubs. I replaced it in the deck.
A bell rang in the distance. “Oops, out of time,” Toby said, putting away the deck. “Show’s about to start.”
“But my card,” I said, grabbing Toby’s sleeve as he slipped into the theater.
“I thought you weren’t interested.”
“Of course I’m interested.”
“After the show,” Toby promised. “You’ll get your card after the show. And about the women—for that, you’ll have to wait and see as well.”
I ordered a vodka tonic from a passing waitress. When she returned, I took a generous sip, exhaled sharply, and entered the theater. Inside, I found Sandra and a friend of hers, a bar manager at Circus Circus, already seated in the back row. Sandra shushed her friend as I approached.
“What?” I asked when their giggling had subsided.
“Nothing,” the friend squealed.
“Trina, remember Mel?” Sandra said, jabbing her companion under the collarbone. “She’s Toby’s wife.”
“Toby? Who’s Toby?” Trina said.
“The magician,” Sandra whispered in a stagy voice, and the two of them burst into fresh laughter.
When they collected themselves again, I suggested that we move to the front of the theater.
“The front?” Sandra hollered. “All the action goes on back here.”
I had just enough time to fall into a seat before the lights went out. A single grimy bulb lit the stage, illuminating the entrance of my magician. There was something sultry about his appearance. The stage lights erased the creases from his eyes and added a new depth to his hollow cheekbones. His movements were tauntingly languid, as if he were almost inviting his audience into the secret. But the angular shadows Toby cast on the tattered curtain and splintering stage made him seem mysteriously vacant—and they made the spectators want more of him.
As two smoky-voiced catcalls echoed through the theater, Toby paused center stage. Then he smiled an unfamiliar smile that mixed charm with subterfuge. Sandra pinched my arm. The magician began his show with a few unremarkable tricks—he made flowers grow from an empty vase and produced a goldfish in a bowl. After three more tricks, Toby pulled a highball from his jacket.
“Name your poison,” he said, stepping off the stage and approaching a woman in the front row.
“Bourbon,” the woman announced.
Toby filled the glass from an opaque bottle he had brought down from the stage with him.
The woman took a sip. “Four Roses?” she asked. She took another sip. “It is Four Roses.”
Toby moved through the audience, taking drink orders and filling glasses from the same bottle. Out came whiskey, vodka, rum, and cognac. Out came tequila and gin.
Sandra squawked with delight when Toby poured her a glass of Absolut Peppar.
