Jeff leaned to his microphone.
Three tables got up and left.
Bad Company finished their concert, roadies packed up the Wurlitzers, others began setting up for the next act. They unfurled a silk banner. “The Great Mez-mo, amazing feats in mesmerization.” A sinister eyeball gave off lightning bolts.
Preston Bradshaw Lancaster took the stage in a blue velvet tuxedo and powder-blue shirt with ruffles. Soon, four volunteers sat in a row of chairs across the stage, a family, their heads slumped to their chests. Disneyland T-shirts.
The forty nightclub tables now held exactly three people; one was passed out. Welcome to show business.
Preston snapped his fingers, and the family of four awoke and looked around disoriented.
“Have a nice nap?”
They nodded.
Preston walked around behind the chairs and put his hands on the father’s shoulders.
“I sure am getting hungry,” said Mez-mo. “I could really go for some
“Quack, quack, quack,” said the dad. Two people in the audience cracked up. Dad looked confused.
“Yes, sir,” said Mez-mo. “I think I could eat a whole plate of
“Quack, quack, quack.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Mez-mo took a couple steps and put his hands on the mother’s shoulders. “Mom — the Great Mez-mo would like you to go to the blackboard and write the numbers one to ten.”
She walked across the stage and began writing with chalk.
“Thank you, Mom,” said Mez-mo. “You can take your seat…. Oh, by the way, would you happen to have a spare
She looked down. “Dammit!”
Mez-mo handed her some paper towels, and Mom began wiping invisible dog poop off her shoes.
“Sonny,” said Mez-mo, putting his hands on the shoulders of a nine-year-old butterball. “What’s your name?”
The boy thought he was saying Benny, but instead he answered, “Agent X-18, the Dreaded Mongoose.”
“And Mr. Mongoose, do you know who your assigned targets are today?”
The boy nodded, and Mez-mo handed him a starter’s pistol.
“Mr. Mongoose, did you know I just bought a new
Benny got up from his chair and began firing blanks at his parents. “Die, you bastards!”
“Hey,” the father yelled at Mez-mo. “That’s not funny!”
“Not as funny as, say,
“Quack, quack, quack…”
“That leaves just you, little lady.” Mez-mo put his hands on the teenager’s shoulders. “What’s your name?”
“Jessica.”
“Jessica, did you ever learn to play the
Her eyes got big, and she put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God! It’s Brad Pitt!”
The Great Mez-mo walked to the front of the stage and raised his hands for the room to hold down its non-applause.
Behind Mez-mo, the parents were growing angry over the shooting incident. “What gives you the right! This is the most outrageous…!”
“You’ve been a great audience!” said Mez-mo. “And now I have to order some
Benny opened fire again on his parents, who quacked and wiped crap off their shoes. Jessica jumped up and down next to Mez-mo, begging for his autograph.
“…Thank you and good night!”
Mez-mo ran down the stairs on the right side of the stage, slapping hands tag-team-style with the next performer coming up the steps, Andy Francesco, the Pickpocket Comedian.
Preston headed down the hall to the Flash in the Pan Restaurant.
“There he is! The Great Mez-mo!” someone yelled from the corner booth. “Oooo, oooo! Don’t look in his eyes! He has supernatural powers!…”
Preston turned toward the voice. It was Spider, the one-armed juggler. Preston hated Spider. He hated them all — all the other performers. Look at them, sitting there so smug in that booth. Wearing the same fancy blue velvet tuxedos, the snap-on bow ties hanging from their collars, elbows over the backs of the seats. Preston still couldn’t believe he had been reduced to associating with these losers. After all, he had a Ph.D. in hypnosis.
The corner booth was their turf. Big and curved, shiny red vinyl, it was where all the performers waited while the other acts were onstage, comparing notes, trying out new material, drinking coffee, smoking, maybe ordering a steak when it started getting light out.
“Scoot over,” said Preston.
The guys slid around to make room, Spider; Bruno Litsky, America’s Favorite Jay Leno Impersonator; the Saul Horowitz Tribute to Vaudeville; Frankie Chan and His Incredible Hand Shadow Revue; Xolack the Mentalist; and Bad Company.
“How’d it go tonight?” asked Saul.
“Like fuckin’ death out there,” said Preston. “I need a smoke.”
