The Art of Disappearing by Ivy Pochoda (top non fiction books of all time TXT) 📗

like a mixture of damp perfume and hairspray. I looked around. Women were standing in an imperfect semicircle around my magician. They were watching Toby over the rims of their glasses and over their shoulders. “There are so many,” I whispered.

“Yes. Tonight we have Jacqui Masterson, who likes gold-tipped cigarettes, Manhattans, two-piece suits, but can’t wear heels because of a herniated disk. Her husband is at the Golden Nugget, but she spends most of the day over here because when he drinks, she can’t stand the smell of his sweat. Then there’s Selena Baxter, whose husband was banned from the casino after pulling a knife on a dealer. She likes cognac, doesn’t smoke, and wishes she were still a showgirl,” Toby said.

“How do you know all of this?”

Toby looked over the crowded casino floor. “See that woman over by the nickel slots?”

I peered through the fronds of a plastic fern and saw a tall woman with a hive of dyed-black hair smile at Toby through her empty highball.

“She’s trouble. Evelyn Langhorn. Never been married. Grew up in a casino. Thinks she’s seen all there is to see, so she’s looking to create something never seen before.”

“Did they tell you all this?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then how—?”

“In the dark, no one knows how much you can see.”

The bartender placed a whiskey sour in front of Toby. “I’m not sure who this one’s from, Mr. Toby,” he said, gesturing at a gaggle of middle-aged women hovering by the dollar slots.

“Thanks,” Toby said, casting aside the cherry garnish.

The women were approaching. Before they were within earshot, Toby whispered in my ear. “C’mon,” Toby said, taking me by the hand, “let’s get out of here.”

Several doors down from the Castaway, we found a slots hall with a Caribbean theme. We sat in front of a pair of complicated-looking electronic poker games while women in canary yellow Carmen Miranda outfits with headdresses of fruit and fake feathers brought us foot-long glasses of beer. Our seats faced the enclosed promenade of Fremont Street. As we sat, the Fremont Street Experience laser show played across the domed roof of the esplanade. We sat in silence, listening to the tinkle and whir of the slots and the electronic music from the laser show.

Suddenly Toby grabbed my hand, nearly upsetting my beer. “Isn’t that…,” he began.

I followed his gaze and saw a familiar figure with badly bleached hair saunter down the street. Greta had changed out of her waitress uniform and into her usual goth garb.

“It is,” I said. “I saw her earlier today. She’s working in a diner off the Strip.”

“Another diner,” Toby wondered.

“Well, she’d gladly trade it in to become your assistant.”

“I thought she said my show was lame.”

“She did.”

“So?”

“So, she’s a teenager. Anything to get attention.”

“I guess I wasn’t a typical teenager,” Toby said. “I’ve got to get ready for my next show. Coming?”

“I’ll leave you to your ladies,” I said, kissing him.

I took a sip of beer and watched Toby vanish into the crowd outside. Then I slid into a seat in front of one of the slot machines, fed it five dollars, and began to play. The machine was one of the old-style games with a cup holder, an ashtray, and a low payout. After I lost five dollars, I decided to give it five more. I had just spun the wheel when someone reached over and tapped a cigarette into my machine’s ashtray.

“Excuse me,” a man’s voice said.

I looked up, irritated that the speaker hadn’t used any of the ashtrays on a dozen other machines.

“It’s a fool’s game,” he continued. He was older than Toby, with greased black hair and skin that was either too tan or caked with makeup. He wore a black leather car coat and a tight white T-shirt tucked into black jeans. Years ago, he might have been muscular, but his physique was melting into paunch. When he put his cigarette to his lips, a large gold signet ring glinted in the flashing lights of the slots.

“Doesn’t bother me,” I said, swiveling my chair away from him.

“I don’t believe in luck,” the man said.

“Then you’re in the wrong place.”

“Actually I’m not.” He stuck his hand out in front of my face. “Name’s Swenson. Swenson the Spectacular.”

“Mel,” I said, pulling away from Toby’s old partner.

“Do you believe in luck, Mel?” Swenson asked. He plucked a cocktail in a plastic cup from the top of a nearby machine and took a sip.

“I don’t know,” I muttered, wanting to be rid of Swenson.

“Well, maybe you believe in coincidence.”

I spun the wheels and won a dollar.

Swenson cracked an ice cube in his teeth. “Would you say it’s a coincidence if I told you I’m a magician?”

“Why would that be a coincidence?” I asked, keeping my back turned. “Anyway, I already know you’re a magician.”

“So, I’m not the only magician in your life.”

“I’d hardly say that you’re in my life.”

“Not yet.”

I spun the chair round and faced Swenson. “What is it that you want?”

“I’ve known Toby Warring a long time. We go back.”

I didn’t reply.

“Did a show together at one point.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Now, what have you heard?” Swenson lowered himself into the chair next to me.

“That you’re not the best magician.” I spun the wheel again.

“Hmm.” Swenson cracked another ice cube. “That pretty much sounds like Toby.” Now he wrapped a large hand around my wrist. “At least I’m not a dangerous magician.”

I pulled free. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Swenson smiled. “I think you do.”

I spun the wheel and lost all my money. Out of the corner of my eye, I could sense Swenson staring into the gritty esplanade of Fremont Street.

“I wonder,” he said, jostling the remaining ice in his drink. “I wonder.”

When I didn’t respond, he drained his glass and replaced it roughly in the cup holder in front of him. I was about to feed the machine another dollar, but Swenson stopped me. “I wonder,” he said again, “how you make someone disappear.”

I shrugged, and slid the dollar into the machine.

“I’m not talking