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here's my other crate?” asked Emma in a voice so calm it scared her.”There are only three. There should be four.”
“This was all that came,” said the assistant manager, casting a bored glance around the ballroom of the Phoenix Grand Marquis, where Emma would be performing the following night.
It was a large room, already filled with tables and chairs for tomorrow's partyâa fiftieth-birthday bash for a big-deal local real estate developer. Like the three restaurants, two cocktail lounges, and everything else in the gigantic new hotel, the ballroom's walls were painted in colors that God might have chosen for a desert if He were an interior decorator.
The Phoenix Grand Marquis was hands-down the nicest place Emma had ever played, and her accommodations on the fourteenth floor were the cleanest. It was nearly seven o'clock in the evening, however, and Emma had already had more than her fair share of aggravation today. Her plane had been held on the runway an hour in San Francisco; she'd endured the flight down to Phoenix seated next to an elderly woman with a gas problem; and
she had just spent half an hour trying to persuade a desk clerk that she wasn't supposed to pay for her and Sergio's rooms.
After the horror of last week, Emma just wanted to bury herself in her work. She was in no mood now for another argument, let alone a catastrophe. There was still too much else that needed to be done tonight.
“I'm sure that my other crate is around here somewhere,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Won't you please do me a favor and just look around for it?”
“Not going to find anything,” said the assistant manager with a shrug. He was a twenty-year-old with a bad haircut and the eyes of yesterday's flounder. The nameplate on the pocket of his cactus-colored blazer read:
THE PHOENIX GRAND MARQUIS'S OWN
HOWARD
PRIDE OF THE SOUTHWEST
“I don't think you understand,” said Emma, still smiling. “I won't be able to do my show unless you locate that crate. Mr. and Mrs. Stallings will be very disappointed. So will their three hundred guests. So will a very nice lady whose Saint Bernard will be making his theatrical debut tomorrow night. So won't you please just look around a little for my other box? I'm sure it's in your shipping room or your package room or some other logical place, just waiting to be found. You'll do me that little favor, won't you, Howard?”
“Sure,” said Howard, heading for the door. “But, like I told you before, we're not going to find anything.”
Emma's frozen smile must have registered some degree of the panic she was feeling, for Sergio, who had been leaning against the back wall, sprang into action.
“You, man,” he grunted. “Come.”
Emma had almost forgotten her assistant. Wearily she plopped
herself down on one of her crates and hoped for the best. If Sergio thought he could do something, let him try. Lord knew, he certainly
looked
effective enough, though Emma was painfully aware of his limitations.
Until he opened his mouth, Sergio was the stuff of a teenaged girl's dreams. He seemed to have sprung full-blown off the cover of a romance novel. Standing six feet five inches tall, he had the bearing of a king, shoulder-length blond hair, and perfectly proportioned muscles rippling across every inch of his body. He wore tight pants, tighter T-shirts, and a smile that seemed to say, “No self-esteem problem here.” Even his eyelashes were perfect âlong and lustrous. Emma had always suspected Sergio did special exercises to keep them in shape. Could you lift weights with your eyelashes?
Howard had almost reached the door. He stopped now and stared at the enormous figure emerging from the shadows.
“Yes?” gasped Howard with obvious respect. Clearly he was an eyelashes man.
Sergio thumped his enormous chest, which he depilated regularly lest he be confused with an ape, and motioned Howard over with a meaty hand. The assistant manager approached warily, the sneer he had been wearing replaced by a sickly smile. When he was a few feet away, Sergio roared, put an arm around the man's neck, and pulled him close enough to whisper in his ear.
Howard gave a squeak of surprise, then fell silent.
“Don't you hurt him, Sergio,” Emma implored, rising to her feet.
“Sergio no hurt,” shouted Sergio. “Sergio negotiate.”
Emma held her breath. Basically, she trusted her assistant, despite his lack of subtlety. Besides, she was too far away to do anything. She could see the giant's lips move. Maybe he was reading.
After a few seconds, Sergio released his grip. The hapless assistant manager instantly flew out of the room as if jet-propelled. Sergio strutted his way through the tables to the elevated stage
where Emma was standing in front of their three crates.
“What's the matter with you?” she demanded. “You want to get us arrested? You want to get us thrown out of the hotel?”
“Sergio no hurt. Sergio help. Emma mad at Sergio?”
His smile had disappeared, replaced by an expression like that of an anxious child.
“No.” Emma sighed. “I'm not mad at you.”
“Man find box now,” said Sergio, his smile returning. “You see. Sergio fix.”
Sergio claimed he was Dutch, but from his accent Emma suspected that her assistant had originally come from Russia or one of the old Soviet republics. From his insistence upon being paid in cash and his obviously phony last name (who could believe it was really Budweiser?), Emma judged he was in the country illegally. Not that she minded, however. In fact, she was thankful that there was no paper trail leading back to her. If immigration ever caught up with Sergio, Emma's failure to pay his social security taxes might wreck her chances of ever holding a cabinet position.
“What did you say to him, anyway?” Emma asked, not sure she really wanted to know the answer.
Sergio folded his arms in front of him and tossed his blond mane.
“I say, if he no find box, I give him keesssss of serpent's tongue.”
“And what's that supposed to be?”
Sergio smiled dopily.
“I lick his ear and leave to imagination.”
Emma stared at him for a few seconds, then burst into laughter. Sergio beamed.
“You big lug,” she said, giving her huge assistant an affectionate punch in the arm, though not hard enough to bruise her knuckles the way she had the first time she had tried it. “Let's just hope he finds that crate, or we're sunk.”
“If he don't,” said Sergio, a suggestion of worry crossing his perfect brow for the first time, “I no really have to give keeess, do I?”
“No, you just have to rehearse. Tomorrow, you're going to remember all your cues, aren't you?”
Sergio grinned, thumped his chest again, and studied his reflection admiringly in the polished metal tubing of a chair.
“Sergio no forget. Many womens will be impressed with his brain.”
“All right,” said Emma, knowing what they would be impressed with, trying to believe that everything would turn out okay, anyway. “Let's set up what we can before Mrs. Schneiderman gets here.”
“Who?”
“The dog lady.”
“Mrs. Schneiderman is dog?”
“Rudolpho is the dog. Mrs. Schneiderman is the owner.”
For the trick-cage illusion to work properly, a large animal was required. Some magicians used tigers, but Emma was happy to settle for a big dogâpreferable one smart enough not to bark prematurely and give the game away. Sergio would go into the cage; the dog would come out; the audience would marvel and be amazed at how the one animal turned into the other.
After working her way through sheepdogs, bloodhounds, and German shepherds, Emma had found that Saint Bernards produced the biggest oohs and ahs. It hadn't been practical to take Morris, their regular Saint Bernard, all the way to Phoenix for this booking, however. Fortunately the AKC had directed Emma to a local dog owner, Blossom Schneiderman, who had agreed to rent out her Saint Bernard, Rudolpho, for the gig several weeks agoâand at a much better price than Emma usually paid.
“When dog lady coming?” said Sergio.
“Actually, she's supposed to be here now,” said Emma, glancing
at her watch. “But it doesn't matter if she's a little late. The trick cage is in the crate that's missing.”
“If cage missing, how we make Sergio disappear?”
“Maybe we'll just give him a condom and point him toward the nearest waitress,” Emma muttered under her breath as Sergio walked away admiring his triceps.
While her assistant unpacked their gear from the three crates, Emma walked each inch of the stage. She inspected the lights, the meager fly system, and the sight lines, trying to visualize how each illusion would work in the unfamiliar space.
At least the sound equipment seemed to be working. Emma set up her tapeâmostly Mozart and a little Griegâand spent the next hour running through the hundreds of carefully planned steps, gestures, and actions that constituted each illusion. Everything was choreographed down to the second. Only occasionally did Emma need to remind Sergio of the little details he was prone to forgetâlike the difference between right and left and how his feet interacted with one another.
At eight o'clock, the Phoenix Grand Marquis's own Howard and two porters appeared with the missing crate, which had been located in a basement storeroom. Mrs. Schneiderman and Rudolpho, however, still had not arrived.
Leaving Sergio alone with his reflection to unpack the trick cage, Emma went looking for a pay phone. She finally found one down the hall outside the Painted Desert cocktail lounge, which âjudging from the droves of aftershave-soaked men and dolledup women cruising in packsâseemed to be a local hotspot. It was time to find out what was keeping their Saint Bernard.
“It's Emma Passant, Mrs. Schneiderman,” said Emma when she reached the woman. “Why are you still there at home? You and Rudolpho are supposed to be at the hotel tonight to rehearse with me.”
“Oh, dear,” replied the childlike voice. “Didn't they give you
my message? I left a message with the hotel operator this afternoon. They said you hadn't checked in yet, but they said that they'd give you a message. They promised.”
“I'm sorry, but I didn't get any message,” said Emma, her palms suddenly breaking into a sweat, her heart plunging into her stomach. What now?
“Well, I called. I did. I really did.”
“I'm sure you did, Mrs. Schneiderman,” said Emma, resolving to steal a few towels from the Phoenix Grand Marquis to thank them for all their good work. “I hope there's not a problem. You can still do the show, can't you?”
“Oh, I can do it, yes ⦔
“Thank God.”
“ ⦠it's Rudolpho who won't be able to make it.”
“Please don't tell me that.”
“Oh, but I have to. He can't do your show.”
“Well, I'm afraid he has to, Mrs. Schneiderman,” said Emma, raising her voice and putting a finger in her ear against the blare of music that came from the cocktail lounge each time someone opened the door. “We had an agreement. I paid you in advance. We're all depending on you.”
“Well, I know that,” said Mrs. Schneiderman, sounding at once guilty and defensive, “but Rudolpho has come down with something. He's as sick as a dog.”
“I'm sure he'll be okay once he gets here. He's just nervous. It's just stage fright.”
“But he's listless and his nose is warm.”
“Oh, they're always like that,” chuckled Emma, trying to sound doctorly. “Every dog I've ever worked with. You know what we say in the business? Warm nose, cold feet. Believe me, there's nothing to worry about. He just needs a little rehearsal to get his confidence up, that's all.”
“But his eyes are all glassy.”
“He'll be fine.”
“His coat has lost its luster.”
“No one will notice.”
“He keeps throwing up, and he's had diarrhea all over the house. I nearly passed out from the smell.”
“I think we may have a problem here,” said Emma.
Emma spent the next five minutes trying to console the sniveling Mrs. Schneiderman, though she secretly hoped the woman would catch whatever it was that Rudolpho had. By the time she hung up, Emma had a pounding headache and the small consolation of Mrs. Schneiderman's promise to return the money Emma had paid her.
A girl in a party dress swept by into the cocktail lounge, releasing another burst of rock music. A porter dressed like a renegade from the French Foreign Legion rolled by with a rack of luggage.