******
Las Vegas: The Mirage Auditorium
The overnight transformation of John Fortune from anonymous teenager to wild card ace who’d saved the life of a popular Vegas entertainer was big news. The fact that Peregrine hadn’t allowed any interviews had only heightened the frenzy. It got to the point where neither John Fortune nor Peregrine, nor even Jerry, could leave the hotel suite without being besieged by reporters and stalked by hordes of gawkers. Jerry had quickly realized that the only way to break the siege was to give the public at least something of what they wanted.
“Give ‘em an interview,” he’d told Peregrine. “Break the story and the pressure will go away, like the water through the dam in Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman.”
Peregrine had looked askance at his metaphor, but ultimately agreed with the substance of his argument.
“All right. Arrange something,” she’d said, holding up a hand as Jerry nodded. “But make sure it’s not exploitive. I don’t want my son treated like a media freak.”
“In this town?”
“Do the best you can,” was Peregrine’s final order.
He did, and as he stood in the wings looking out upon the Mirage’s stage, the very place where it had started, it looked as if things might work out after all.
He’d approached the Mirage publicity people with a complete concept. Have a local media personality interview John Fortune and his mother live on the very stage where his card had so recently and dramatically turned. Siegfried and a very grateful Ralph would take part in the program. Have a few tigers prowl about. Small, cute ones. Not the one that had attacked Ralph. The Living Gods would hover in the background as Siegfried and Ralph described the horrific events of that terrible night the show had gone all wrong, praise John Fortune for his fortitude and quick thinking, explain to everyone that the audience had been very safe indeed, present John with a lifetime pass to the Siegfried and Ralph revue as the kid said a few blushing words, and then smiles, hugs, and handshakes all around.
The Mirage publicity people liked the concept. Peregrine, when Jerry described it to her, liked the concept, especially the idea of using a local celeb—if she wasn’t going to exploit her son on national television, neither was Barbara Walters—who ultimately turned out to be Kitty O’Leary from Channel Seven KASH Eyewitness Evening News.
It all came together nicely, Jerry thought, observing from the wings. The auditorium was packed with an eager audience. Peregrine looked beautiful on the comfy sofa which was part of the temporary set arranged on the stage. They opened the program with Peregrine and the extremely photogenic Kitty O’Leary chatting about how difficult it was being a mother in modern times, especially when you had to worry about the wild card virus as well as drugs, alcohol, and unprotected teen sex.
Jerry suddenly felt a restless presence at his side and looked at a nervously smiling John Fortune who had joined him in his vantage spot in the wings.
“Hey, you look great in make-up,” Jerry cracked, trying to break the tension a little for the clearly agitated kid.
“Thanks a load,” John Fortune said with heavy teenage sarcasm. He took a deep breath. “I’m not so sure about this television stuff. What if I say something stupid?”
“Then you’ll join the ranks of everyone else who’s ever been on TV,” Jerry said. He punched the kid in the shoulder in a comradely manner. “Be cool. You wanted to be an ace.”
“Yeah,” John Fortune agreed. “It’s so much better than the alternative.”
“The point is,” Jerry said, “when you’re a star, you have to take the sour with the sweet.”
Of course, Jerry thought, I’m so utterly anonymous that I constantly change my face and I call myself Mr. Nobody. Who am I to preach to the kid? But then—nobody ever said that you have to live what you preach.
“But I’m not a star,” John Fortune muttered.
Jerry suddenly knew what to say. “You’re not a star now, kid, but after you go out on that stage, you’ll come back one!”
John Fortune suddenly smiled. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Jerry said, thinking, Thank God for “Forty-Second Street.”
Sudden applause welled up from the audience.
“Cue,” whispered one of the back-stage flunkies, making a shooing motion in John Fortune’s direction.
“You’ve got the genes, you’ve got the talent,” Jerry said. “Go knock ‘em dead.”
John Fortune nodded silent thanks and stepped out onto the stage, a fixed grin plastered on his face. The Living Gods had already appeared, presenting a colorful background chorus as the kid made his way onto the set. Jerry could see Siegfried and Ralph, with, yes, a pair of leashed tigers, waiting for their entrance cue in the other wing.
Better the kid than me, Jerry thought, remembering with little fondness his pitiful career as the shape-changing comedian known as the Projectionist. Still, there was no sense dwelling on his own past. He smiled as he realized that the long-running drama he’d been a peripheral participant in over the last sixteen years was finally coming to an end. And a happy end at that. John Fortune wouldn’t need a bodyguard any more. He’d cheated the odds and won a well-deserved chance at life. Sure, “ace” wasn’t the safest occupation, but Jerry didn’t know any that went around with a coterie of bodyguards. Even Peregrine wouldn’t make him do that. With her son having cleared the biggest hurdle in his life she was sure to back off and give him some room to breathe.
“You Creighton?”
Jerry turned. His eyes went wide in surprise as he recognized the speaker. “Billy Ray?”
Ray glanced at his companion, a smoking babe in a leather jumpsuit with a body like a young Sophia Loren and a frown on her handsome face. Ray’s expression suddenly matched hers.
“Do I know you?” Ray asked.
“Uh. No. No, I don’t think so,” Jerry said. Too many faces, too many identities, he thought. It was getting difficult to keep straight who and what each of his many guises was supposed to know.
Of course, he and Ray had crossed paths before, when Jerry had been wearing another face. The last time... the last time had been during the Battle for the Rox, when he and Ray had been part of a government team sent in to smash Bloat’s joker rebellion. It was a long story without a good ending, and he didn’t care to dwell on it.
Ray was still frowning. “You look familiar.”
“I got that type of face,” Jerry said in his best Alan Ladd imitation. “I recognized you, of course. Who wouldn’t?”
“Oh, well.” Ray’s frown vanished. He glanced at his partner, visibly preening. Her frown deepened a fraction.
“How’d you know me?” Jerry asked before Ray had too much of a chance to think about his previous reply.
Ray gestured over his shoulder. “Guy back there told me you’re the kid’s bodyguard.”
Jerry nodded. “That’s right.”
“This is Angel,” Ray said, indicating his partner. She looked at Jerry sourly as he glanced at her. He decided not to voice any of the half dozen or so puns on her name that had immediately popped up in his brain.
“She’s new,” Ray added, as if that explained everything.
“What’s the government want with the boy?” Jerry asked.
“Well—“Angel began.
“You see—“ Ray said.
And suddenly all Hell broke out on the stage.