Everything Is Perfect When You're a Liar (33 page)

“Amazing!” I say. “How many Homers do you have?”

We walk through, room by room, and see that David has kept, stored, and itemized every piece of video, film, or paper that has ever mentioned him. He has saved every set prop, every costume from every tour, and thousands of magic kits—every single one that has ever been made anywhere. He has a puppet room with Paul Winchell's ventriloquist figures, Edgar Bergen's Charlie McCarthy, and Howdy Doody, who is horrifyingly uglier in person than he was on television. He has the gun that shot and killed Chung Ling Soo when he attempted (unsuccessfully) to catch a signed bullet that was aimed at him. He has every Houdini item you've ever seen in a book: Houdini's water torture cell, Metamorphosis trunk, magic wand, and Mirror cuffs. He has Jean-Eugène Robert-Houdin's original automatons, including
The Singing Lesson
automaton,
Pastry Chef of the Palais Royal
automaton, and his mystery clocks. (And, NO, I didn't know what those were before this tour, but now I can't imagine my life pre-knowledge of their existence.) To put this into perspective: he tracked down and purchased the actual counter from Macy's in New York where he bought his first piece of magic. It's like everything he's done, and everything he's ever wanted, is there. David's museum represents a manifestation of dreams, really, if you want to get deep about it. It's the sort of thing you expect from a billionaire. I've not been let down.

James can't stop touching things. It's making me crazy. I'm watching him flip the pages of Houdini's notebook and I'm totally wincing because there is no WAY he should be touching this shit. I steal a glance at the entourage, who are watching him closely. James clearly didn't hear a word I said about the pit boss. Am I being too naggy?

Then David puts his hand on my shoulder and nods. Again I wonder: Is he reading my mind? That would scare the shit out of me.

I walk over to Matt, who's looking at Doug Henning's jean jumpsuit.

“It's so tiny,” he says. It
is
tiny. I couldn't fit into it if I did Tracy Anderson nonstop for the rest of my life.

“Matt? What did you say about those monkeys who read minds?”

“They're on his island. Apparently he taught them to read minds, and then they paint your thoughts. Don't you want to see them?!” I did my Internet research and saw NOTHING about mind-reading monkeys, so this is shocking. I'm usually quite thorough.

“I don't want to see them, Matt. I had one bad monkey experience as a kid. I couldn't deal with another. But if he taught
monkeys
to read minds . . . do you think he can read our minds?”

Then, from somewhere, comes a loud knocking noise. Steel.
Bang, bang, bang.
Matt and I tense up. Is this it? Black Lilith Moon–style
bang, bang, bang, bang
. On edge, frenzied from the noise, Matt and I look around and see it.

It's James, knocking Houdini's milk drum with a “Hmmm, how's this work?” look on his face. Engineer-turned-thirteen-year-old-boy.

“Now, this is the Blooming Rose Bush, created by Karl Germain and presented in St. George's Hall in 1906,” David says, and like obedient dogs commanded to the alpha, we all flock to him. I'm freaking out. He can totally read my mind. I'll stand on the right if he blinks twice. He blinks once.

“Kelly, you just sit here.” Oh fuck. Okay. That's it. David guides me to a chair in front of a large ornamental antique-looking chest as I try not to think of things like orgies and his penis and what he might look like while taking a dump on a toilet. But now I'm totally thinking about where his penis might go when he's taking a dump on the toilet, because that's the WORST thing you can think about when you know that person is reading your mind. James is still looking at Houdini's keys. What is he thinking about? Oh God, if David can read my mind, then he can read EVERYONE'S mind. I know James is probably thinking about sex, or trying to dissect how all these tricks work. Angela is tallying up how much this stuff cost, what is pretty and what is pretty ugly. And Matt is thinking about how to woo David into spilling the beans about the Fountain.

David and I make eye contact. Oh shit, he knows I'm thinking about what they're thinking about.

“Angela, you sit here.” David guides Angela to a chair. “And Matt?” he says. “Would you be so kind as to take this seat?” Matt basically skips to the plush chair David has offered him. Then David goes to the Blooming Rose Bush pot. He puts some soil into it and, of course, invisible seeds.
David? Can you hear me?
David looks at me. Adrenaline rush, like in seventh grade, when I asked Neil, a ninth grader, to dance with me. (He did, but there was another girl dancing with us in a circle.)

Suddenly, a bush begins to grow out of the pot. Dozens and dozens of fresh roses appear before our eyes while beautiful music plays and lights flash all around us. I know David is extravagantly generous with his money, but still, the outlay on fresh flowers appearing is flattering. He's bought at least a hundred Colombian roses for us and had one of his assistants put them into this magic pot for us, right? I'm more amazed with that kind of generosity than I would be if that pot were actually growing roses.

David grabs one of the roses and gives it to me. That's it. DAVID, IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, GIVE ME A SIGN. Then it happens. Matt's chair falls backward, but not because he's lost his balance. His chair is spring-loaded, some kind of trick chair . . . he's shot across the floor. I lock eyes with David as he helps Matt to his feet.

Dear God. David, I'm sorry I thought about you sitting on the toilet. It's just where my mind went.

“My back hurts,” Matt whispers as he leans into me in the back of the van. Guilt.

“You don't have to whisper, Matt. David can read our minds.”

Matt nods. Nothing is too weird for him. “He does have heat sensors on his audience. He checks to see which illusions they respond to.” Matt really does know a lot about Copperfield, and he's been injured in the line of duty, so I don't argue.

David turns around in the front passenger seat and says, “We're here. Would you like to have brunch with us by the pool tomorrow?”

Of course,
I think without speaking, because I know he can hear me. James turns to me and gives me a great “WTF, why aren't you answering?” face.

“Of course,” I say.

It's two
A.M.
The four of us walk through the lobby together, exhausted.

“James, I don't think you were supposed to touch that stuff.”

“They didn't care. No one said anything.”

“It's called a museum. Not an interactive museum.” I hate when I'm old and naggy. I can't help it anymore. It's terrible. “Sorry. I hate me. Let's go up to our room for a drink before you guys go to your tower,” I say to the others. “I still hate it that you're way over there. PS, everyone: David can read minds.”

No one reacts for a second. Then Angela stops walking.

“Oh my God, you guys. WAIT. Wait. Wait.”

“Did you forget something?”

She shakes her head no. “Give me your pen,” she says.

She takes my Sharpie, then walks to the lobby desk and writes something down on a piece of paper while Matt, James, and I stand around like assholes.

“ANGELA, COME ON! I NEED A DRINK!”

She returns holding up a piece of paper:

“I've been thinking,” she whispers. “When Matt and I checked in, they said the rooms were prearranged like this. Separated. Maybe they're his personal rooms? He has a SkyLOFT; why not some Signature Suites?”

She's right. “You're right.” I grab her shoulder. I'm totally buying this theory. My mental compass is generally fixed somewhere between
bullshit
and
fun
. “I'd do the same thing if I were a billionaire magician putting people up in a hotel. It's like having your own
Big Brother
TV show.”

Matt agrees. “Totally. It's the only explanation.”

“No WAY,” James says. “That's illegal. There is no way he would bug the room. We're nobodies. He wouldn't bug the room for us. Who cares about us? Let's go.”

“James! The people on
Big Brother
are nobodies! It's not about who you are, it's about watching how people work when they think no one's around,” I say, following everyone into the elevator bank. “Angela, I love you even more now. I didn't think that was possible.”

James opens the door to the suite and walks right into the kitchen to mix drinks, like it isn't totally under surveillance by a wizard. Matt goes in next, and Angela and I follow . . . slowly.

“Well, hello, Emile Berliner.” Matt chuckles as he puts his coat on the barstool.

“Who?” I ask, scanning the walls, vents, anything for mikes or cameras.

Matt leans forward conspiratorially. “He invented the microphone. That'll give Copperfield a good laugh when he hears it.”

“Oh my God.” James puts four glasses on the bar and free-pours vodka and 7Up into each. “You guys are being idiots. This place is not bugged.”

“What's that?” Angela is pointing to a wall of cupboards. I see what she is pointing at: a tiny black wire sticking out from a crack between a pair of doors.

“Oooooh!” Matt walks over to the wire and picks it up, opening the door it's peeking through. “It goes up behind here. I can't see.”

“IT'S THE SENSOR FOR THE REMOTE CONTROL,” James says. “THE TV IS ABOVE IT.” Then he drinks his entire drink and goes into the back room.

“He can't handle this, you guys,” I say. Then I drink nearly my entire drink.

“I'm not going to get naked at all in my room. I think I already have, though, so it's probably too late,” Angela says. Then she drinks her entire drink.

“I'd totally bug people if I were a billionaire. We should call Pasqual and have an adventure.”

“Not Pasqual, Kelly.” Matt shakes his head. Then he downs his entire drink.

“We should go back out. I don't want to stay in here,” I say, collecting our empty glasses.

“We should go see some strippers. We're in Vegas.”

And with that, Matt shoots up from the chair, and James emerges from the back room.

“Let's go.”

“DO YOU WANT BOTTLE SERVICE?” a short, plump, chesty brunette yells over the music to us when we walk into the giant, glowing smut haven that is the Hustler Club. I notice it's wheelchair accessible. Bless Larry Flynt. “A BOTTLE AND A TABLE UP IN THOSE VIP BOOTHS?”

“SURE,” Matt yells back.

“WOOP! WOOP!” the girl screams, and other B-list girls arrive excitedly. They turn on some glow sticks and begin dancing us to our table.

“What the fuck is going on? This is awesome,” I whisper to James. I've never been to a “fancy” strip club, and none of us knows what bottle service is. When I was sixteen, I had to pee really badly while waiting to go into a Smashing Pumpkins concert. I used my fake ID to get into a bar to use the bathroom and didn't realize it was a dingy strip club. There was a girl on a pole, fully naked. She wasn't even on a stage. It was like someone's basement barroom with a naked girl in it. I had to pass her at eye level to get into the bathroom, wearing my silver leather jacket, pretending I wasn't surprised. When I was twenty-three, I went to Crazy Girls in Los Angeles and got stuck in a bathroom trying to keep a stripper who was OD'ing on heroin from swallowing her tongue. So my experience in strip clubs was limited, but pretty real as such experiences go. This time, I just want to feel like a baller. I want to be a strip club patron, not a lost child or a nursemaid to a naked vomiting girl on a bathroom floor. I'm not even sure this is fancy, but so far, with actual stages and a parade to our table, it is the fanciest I've seen.

We sit down in a large white booth, but we're pretty far from the pole and dancers. “Is it really fancier when we're sitting so far away?” I ask James.

“We don't want to be in Pervert's Row,” he replies.

“James, no one calls it Pervert's Row,” I reply, proud of my sudden PhD in strip lingo. “And I'd rather be close to the strippers than way up here!”

The waitress opens the drink menu for us and shines a spotlight on the options. Like most normal human beings whose parents couldn't afford sleepaway summer camp, when it comes to champagne I have no idea, so I just look at the prices. Ugh, this is not what I was hoping. The cheapest bottle is $150, so we order the second-cheapest bottle, at $300.

“What do we do?” Angela asks me.

I shrug. “I have no idea. Just watch? No, wait—I think we need to get lap dances.” I look down at the stage below us and see a stripper climbing to the top of the pole,
two stories high
. “She is amazing!!” I shriek. “I want to be that strong!” I realize she's probably twenty-eight and an athlete. I mean, all of these girls were gymnasts. That's what gymnastics prepares you for: stripping, not the Olympics.