[Veritas]

Lost in thought as well as where his feet took him, Criss found himself in an unfamiliar part of Las Vegas. At least to him it was unfamiliar. The entire neighborhood, if such a friendly term could be applied to the run-down collection of man-made structures, was a concrete and cinderblock wasteland populated by those unfortunate souls who had given up hope of a better life. Broken bottles, dog turds, food wrappers, fast food containers and cigarrette butts littered the cracked sidewalks lining the graffitti-streaked walls. Some bore the menacing symbols of local gangs in the area, while the rest was sheer defacement. Police sirens wailed in the distance, and the air reeked of rotting garbage and human urine.

Broke, hungry and in need of a bathroom, Criss kept walking on, searching for any sign of someone to help him. He made futile efforts to ask passersby for assistance, but they just brushed by him, turning their faces away from him, avoiding him. They don't know who I am, he thought. They think I'm just another homeless bum on the street. If I came to them dressed as Criss Angel, I bet they'd be all over me like a cheap suit!

Hoping against hope, Criss entered the first liquor store he saw. He approached the owner standing behind the counter. "Excuse me, sir," he said politely, "but could you help me? I need--"

The owner did not give him a chance to explain, but pulled out a Louisville Slugger from under the counter. "Beat it, you bum!" he snarled, brandishing the bat menacingly. "I don't give out handouts!"

Criss raised his hands helplessly. "But, I just--"

The owner raised the bat to strike. "I said beat it!"

Criss made a hasty retreat out the door, frightened and bewildered. My God! What the hell happened to charity and good will? he wondered. America always bragged about being a Christian nation. Why the hell don't they practice what they preach?

His stomach growled, his bladder kept tugging at him, threatening to burst. His feet ached from walking in the worn-out shoes that had been part of his costume for the movie. "At least it's not raining," he said to cheer himself up.

In a vacant lot not too far away, Criss saw a group of homeless men huddled around a tiny campfire burning in an cheap aluminum roasting pan. They seemed to be cooking something in a flimsy metal saucepan; someone in the group stirred whatever was in it with a broken wooden spoon. From the discarded cans lying to one side, he could tell they were cooking pork and beans. Hungry and still shaken from the encounter at the liquor store, Criss approached the group hesitantly.

"Hey, guys," he greeted them timidly.

The four men looked up at him, more out of curiosity than resentment. "Uh, you know where I can find a restroom around here?" Criss asked. "I really need to go."

One of the men, a fat black man in dirty winter overalls, pointed to a far wall lined with scraggly shrubbery, the only greenery Criss had seen since his arrival. "Down the path there, first bush to your left," he directed him.

His companions laughed. "Don't use the second bush," another man in a faded camoflage jacket said. "That's the ladies' room!"

More laughter. Criss laughed with them, nervously going along with the joke, then turned and walked down the worn, narrow goat path leading to the shrubbery-lined cinderblock wall that reeked even worse of urine. He ducked behind the bush, undid his trouser fly and emptied his swollen bladder against the cinderblock wall, nearly collapsing with relief as he did so. He felt no shame in it. He was a guy after all; he had relieved himself outdoors numerous times before, once at a golf course while taping an episode of MindFreak. He remembered the chagrined look on Dave Baram's face as he did so, an image that cheered him a little in his present predicament.

With one problem solved, he focused on his next bodily need: food. He had had nothing but a breakfast shake that morning and the bottle of water during his break from filming, and he was starving. Still, he still felt a twinge of guilt about asking four homeless men to share their meager rations with him, a man of wealth and means, even though that wealth and means were still back at the Luxor and he had no access to it. But the foursome around the campfire welcomed him into their circle, pulling up an extra milk crate for him to sit on. "Don't often we get company," the big black man said jovially.

Criss sat down on the crate, grateful for this small hospitality offered to him. "Thanks," he said simply but sincerely.

A scoop of pork and beans swimming on a chipped plastic plate that he guessed had been salvaged from a dumpster somewhere was passed to him, accompanied by a metal spoon with sharp, jagged edges, presumably from being dropped into a garbage disposal. Criss accepted the poor meal graciously and began to eat, taking care not to lacerate his mouth with the spoon.

The man in the camo jacket turned to him. "So, what's your name?" he asked.

"Criss."

"Criss what?"

"Criss Angel."

The men snorted derisively. "Oh, yeah, right!" the camoflage man sneered, twirling his finger around the side of his head. "Criss Angel! You ain't no Criss Angel."

"But I am, really!" Criss protested.

The four men laughed. The big black man pulled out a tattered box of playing cards from his pocket and handed it to him. "Here!" he said. "You think you're Criss Angel? Prove it!"

Criss set aside his plate of beans and took out the cards. They were smudged, creased and worn from years of handling, but they were still usable. He fanned them out in his hands, gathered them up again smoothly, flicked them from one palm to the other, then tossed one into the air and deftly caught it. The four men were impressed. "Pretty cool," said the big black man.

The cards fanned out again. "Pick one," Criss instructed him.

The big black man hesitated at first. "Go ahead, Burt!" the camoflage man encouraged him. "Go for it!"

Burt drew a card and hid it from Criss. "Now, place it back in the deck," Criss told him.

The card was replaced in the fanned-out deck. Criss shuffled them again, then asked, "What was the card you drew?"

"King of Spades," Burt replied.

Criss handed Burt the deck of cards. "Can you find it in the deck?" he asked.

Burt shuffled the whole deck, but could not find the King of Spades. "What the hell happened to it?" he asked, puzzled.

"Well, maybe it disappeared," Criss surmised, "or maybe--" he reached behind Burt's back. "--it's right here." He pulled out a card, the King of Spades, from behind Burt.

Burt was amazed. So were the other three, who laughed and applauded as Criss held out the card before them, illuminated by the faint glow of the tiny fire. "Is that your card?" he asked Burt.

Burt laughed and nodded. "Yeah, that's it, that's my card!" he said, still chuckling. "Yeah, you him! You him! Yeah, you him all right! Yeah, you him!"

He extended a beefy hand to Criss. "Name's Burt," he said. "That's Dennis over there in the camo."

Dennis waved. "That old guy there is Marvin," Burt continued.

"Hey, Marvin," Criss greeted him.

Marvin simply sat there, gaping at him. "You gotta yell," Burt said, "he's hard of hearin'."

"Hey, Marvin!" Criss repeated loudly.

"Yeah?" Marvin spoke through toothless gums. "Whaddya want?"

"I just wanted to say hi!" Criss said, leaning closer to the old man.

Suddenly, Marvin understood. "Oh, okay. Hi."

"And the guy in the blue?" Burt continued. "Well, we just call him Buddy. Don't know his real name."

"Well, why don't you just ask him?" Criss suggested.

"Buddy's been livin' out on the street so long, he forgot," Burt explained. "He's bit of a mental case. Don't know much about him, except he done time in jail. For what I dunno."

Criss looked at Buddy with a mixture of pity and trepadition. "Buddy?" Criss called out to him tenatively.

Buddy stared at him with big blue eyes and a wide, maniacal grin, a Cheshire Cat grin. It intimidated Criss even more. "Do some more!" Buddy demanded.

"Do some more what?" Criss asked.

"Do some more magic with them cards!"

"Buddy, let the man eat, okay?" Burt insisted.

"(Bleep) you, man!" Buddy snapped, rising to his feet. "I wanna see some more magic with them cards!"

"Buddy, chill out, willya?" Dennis pleaded. "We'll do some more tricks later. Now, sit down and eat!"

Buddy was not so easily placated. He tossed the pot of beans across the lot and lunged at Criss. "I wanna see more (bleeping) magic with those (bleeping) cards, mother(bleeper)!" he screamed.

Burt and Dennis rose to subdue him. Buddy took a clumsy swing at Criss. Criss instinctively recalled his martial arts training; he grabbed Buddy's arm, twisted it around his back and pinioned it behind him. Buddy struggled to free himself, but Criss was too strong for him.

"Now," Criss said calmly, "you gonna behave yourself, Buddy?"

"Leggo!" Buddy sputtered angrily. "Leggo of me!"

"You'd better simmer down, Buddy," Burt admonished him, "or Criss here's gonna break your arm off."

Buddy fought back furiously, but could not break Criss' hold on him. Finally, exhausted, he crumpled to the ground, panting. Only then did Criss release him. "Now you just simmer down, there," Burt ordered Buddy. "Can't have you attacking people like that. You'll end up back in the slammer, you know that?"

Buddy curled up in a ball on the concrete. "No! Not the slammer!" he whimpered. "I don't wanna go back to the slammer! Don't let them take me back there!"

Criss wondered what horror Buddy had endured during his imprisoment: Beatings from the other inmates--or the guards? Or sexual assault? There were rumors of such brutality behind bars. Or had there been something far worse, some inexplicable trauma that had pushed him over the edge, reducing him to the pathetic wreck lying on the concrete? Whatever it was, the damage was done; Criss could not help but believe Buddy was beyond all hope of redemption.

Burt went to retrieve the bean pot. "Looks like no one's gettin' dinner tonight," he said ruefully. "That was our last can of beans."

Dennis looked down the street. Suddenly, he brightened. "Hey!" he shouted. "It's the shelter van! We can get somethin' to eat there!" He whistled through his fingers and flagged down the jitney bus rolling down the street. "Yo! Over here! Hey! Over here!"

Burt sighed. "Shelter van, huh," he grunted. "Probably Sanctuary trolling for homeless people."

"Sanctuary?" Criss echoed. "Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless?"

"Oh, you heard about that?" Burt deadpanned.

"Yeah, I did an episode for MindFreak there once," Criss told him.

A sudden flash of inspiration came to him. He knew the minister who ran the place, Pastor Bob Beaman. Surely he could help him get back to the Luxor, or at least let him use the phone. For the first time that day, things were turning out for the better.

The jitney slowed to a stop at the curb. Dennis waved his companions. "C'mon, guys!" he shouted. "Let's go!"

Criss dashed for the bus and clambered in, to the surprise of the driver, a middle-aged black woman with thick dreadlocks dangling from her head. Dennis dashed back to help Marvin up onto his feet while Burt trudged reluctantly to the curb. Buddy still remained curled up on the concrete, unaware of what was happening. We just can't leave him out there, Criss thought. We just can't.

He turned to the driver. "Hey, hold on a minute," he told her. "I'll be right back."

Criss dashed out of the bus and toward the cowering figure on the concrete. "Come on, Buddy," Criss cajoled. "We're gonna get something to eat, and you'll have a nice warm place to sleep."

"I'm not going back to the slammer!" Buddy wailed.

"No, you're not going back to the slammer, Buddy," Criss assured him. "You're going somewhere where they'll take care of you. You won't have to live out on the street anymore. You're going home, Buddy. Home."

Buddy looked up at Criss, his tears leaving streaks in the dirt on his face. "Home?"

Criss nodded eagerly. "Home."

Buddy uncurled himself and struggled to his feet with Criss' aid. "Now, come on," Criss said, guiding him, "the bus is waiting."

The two made their way to the jitney's open doors. "Is this the bus home?" Buddy asked.

The driver, accustomed to transients' bizarre behaviors, humored him. "Yeah, this is the bus home," she replied.

Buddy stumbled up the steps into the jitney and took a seat. Criss sat opposite; as much as he wanted to help him, he could not stand the man's stench. Marvin and Burt sat adjacent to them, the latter less than thrilled to be on board.

The doors of the bus folded shut. The driver shifted it into gear and drove off toward the shelter. Criss stared idly out the window. Everywhere he looked he saw poverty and despair. There seemed to be a pawn shop on every corner, the only legitamate business thriving in the neighborhood. He saw groups of young men congregating on steps, in alleys, or streetcorners, identifying themselves to each other with arcane handsigns--Criss recognized them as gang signs. Two gang members were engaged in a shoving match; the bus passed them by before he could discern the reason for their dispute. He heard more police sirens, but couldn't see a single police car anywhere.

There are two sides of Las Vegas, he recalled Father Stefan, pastor of Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church tell him once. The side you see, and the side you don't see. The side you see is the one the travel brochures show you, the glitz and glamor, the luxury and wealth. The other side is one I see every day, the one of poverty and violence, of gangs and drug dealers and prostitutes. That is the side no one sees, or even wants to know exists.

Well, it existed all right, Criss acknowledged. He knew it existed even before all this happened. He had seen it himself when he taped his show at Sanctuary. But he had seen it through the controlled environment of the shelter, not out on the streets. This was not the image of homelessness he portrayed in his episode of MindFreak, where everyone got a free meal and a bed to sleep in, and attended services on Sunday or classes in the evening. This was poverty in the raw, the recession at its worst: no camera could capture the misery he saw passing before his eyes as he rode to the shelter. For all of his talent as a magician, he could not make it disappear.

[LoyalLee]

Loving re-reading this story! BTW....does anyone remember which episode of Mindfreak that Criss played the character of Zane, the homeless guy? For the life of me I can't remember which eppy it was.

[RACHEL02189]

Originally Posted by loyallee

loving re-reading this story! Btw....does anyone remember which episode of mindfreak that criss played the character of zane, the homeless guy? For the life of me i can't remember which eppy it was.

season four episode: 24 hour birthday bash

[LoyalLee]

Originally Posted by RACHEL02189

season four episode: 24 hour birthday bash

Thanx Rachel! Was wracking my brain trying to figure out which eppy that was!

[Veritas]

"He's not in his office, he's not in his suite, he's not anywhere!" Mifflin fumed at his assistant, a skinny, bespectacled youth named Max, as he paced up and down the set. "Did anyone contact his manager, what's his name, Baram?"

"We contacted Mr. Baram, sir," Max answered deferentially. "He claims not to have seen him all day. Mr. Angel has a live show to do in two hours or so, he says, and wants you to find him ASAP."

"Oh, he wants me to find him!" Mifflin retorted sarcastically. "As if I don't have enough to worry about, I gotta play baby-sitter to a magician?" He spun on his heel to pace the other way. "You tell Baram that--"

His tirade was abruptly cut short with his near collision into Dave Baram himself. Mifflin halted just in time to keep from crashing into him. "Tell me what?" Baram wanted to know.

Mifflin drew a deep breath to calm himself. "Baram! Thank God you're here!" he gasped in relief. "You found Criss yet?"

"That's what I was gonna ask you," Baram replied. "No one's seen him since this morning."

Mifflin threw up his hands. "Oh, Geez!" he groaned aloud. "We've had to shut down the whole day's shooting because of Criss' little disappearing act! Everything was right on schedule until this happened! God! I am so pissed!"

"You're pissed?" Baram shot back. "Criss has a live show to do in two hours, and if we don't find him, we're gonna have to cancel! Do you know how much money we stand to lose if we do?"

Mifflin glared at Baram. "You!? We're the ones who are gonna lose our shirts over this if we don't get this thing made!" He turned to Baram again. "You'd better find that guy or we're gonna sue him--and you!--for breach of contract! Got it?"

Baram stood firm, unintimidated by the irate director. "Are you threatening me?"

"I ain't threatening you, Baram!" Mifflin replied. "I'm telling you!"

"Do your damndest, Mifflin!" Baram challenged him. "Do your damndest!"

Meanwhile, the cast and camera crew watched as the situation grew more tense by the minute, fearing the two men would come to blows; a few retreated for whatever safety they could find in the shops or restaraunts in the atrium. From the service corridor, Chief of Security Macaffey had witnessed the altercation between the director and the manager and strode over to put and end to it once and for all. His mere presence partnered with his foghorn voice restored order in an instant. "All RIGHT!" he bellowed. "Break it UP! What the hell's going on here, anyway?"

As he was better aquainted with the hotel's top cop, Baram fielded the chief's question. "We can't find Criss Angel, that's what the hell's going on here," he replied. "He disappeared after filming a scene for the movie Mifflin here is making. You know the hotel better than anyone: have you seen Criss anywhere?"

"No, I ain't seen him," Macaffey replied. "And I ain't got time to go looking for some celebrity having a hissy fit over some movie he's making! We got homeless bums runnin' all over the hotel, and Mr. Rappaport don't want them scaring off the guests! I just chased one outta the hallway over there, tryin' to use the men's room."

Baram was bewildered. Mifflin was livid. "You MORON!!" he stormed. "That WAS Criss Angel!! He was in costume for the movie!!"

"Are you sure?" Macaffey asked, still not quite grasping the severity of the situation.

"YES! I'M SURE!!" Mifflin screamed. "You just threw out our biggest star because of your INCOMPETANCE!"

"Listen, don't you talk to me like that, mister!" Macaffey warned him. "I'm the chief of security here!"

Baram came between Mifflin and the chief. "Look, Big Luke," he said, trying to remain calm. "You and your guys had better go and find Criss, wherever he is, and bring him back, or all three of our asses are gonna be in a sling, understand?"

Macaffey simmered down a little. "We'll find him," he grunted, then strode away to the security office. How the hell was I supposed to know it was Criss Angel? he ruminated as he went. It sure as hell didn't look like him! Even the guys out front didn't know who it was! It couldn't have been Criss Angel; if it is, then it's really gonna be my ass for sure! I just hope he's the forgiving type!

[RACHEL02189]

"You and your guys had better go and find Criss, wherever he is, and bring him back, or all three of our asses are gonna be in a sling, understand?"


Forget that think unemployment line

[Veritas]

The jitney pulled into a fenced-in lot next to a large windowless cinderblock building, its white-painted exterior covered with black spray-painted graffitti. The street-side of the building had been repainted to read SANCTUARY SHELTER For The HOMELESS. Though the sign itself was cheerful with its brightly colored lettering, the place itself still seemed grim, almost fortresslike, even without the razor wire coiled menacingly on top of the chain-link fence.

Criss looked around inside the bus: Burt sat grimly in his seat, grudgingly resigned to his fate. Dennis was picking at his fingernails, oblivious to everything around him. Old Marvin slumped in his seat, dozing. Buddy simply stared into space, completely zoned out. The driver steered the jitney with the ease of long practice, her face expressionless, bored from hours of driving. To her, the five men in the bus were just human cargo to be delivered to their destination.

He himself had been to the shelter, but as a performer, a celebrity, accompanied by his entourage of camermen, technicians, assistants, and bodyguards (at Dave Baram's insistance because he feared gang violence) with all the comfort and safety money could buy. He had seen the residents living there, had talked to them, performed before them, even handed out lollipops to the kids, but at the end of taping he had returned to his luxury suite in his customized SUV, his staff and assistants at his side. Now he was alone, no staff, no assistants, no money, no anything except the hope that he could use the phone inside the shelter. For the first time in his adult life, Criss felt helpless.

As the jitney passed through the razor-wired fence and cruised toward the main entrance, a metal-framed door that simply read ENTRANCE in block-stenciled letters, Criss had the same sense of doomlike foreboding convicts have when first entering prison. No wonder Buddy freaked out when Burt mentioned the slammer, he thought. I'd be freaked out, too!

The bus jolted to a stop. The driver rose from her seat. "Okay!" she called out in a bored tone, "Everybody out! Go in through the door over there, one at a time!"

Criss stood up and clambered out, glad to be out of that prison van. Burt helped Marvin out of his seat and guided him down the steps, encouraging him to take his time and not fall. Dennis hopped out as casually as a commuter getting off the city bus; it was obvious he'd taken this route before. Buddy simply sat there in a catatonic state, unwilling or unable to move. It took some impatient prodding from the driver to get him conscious again. "Come on, buddy," she insisted. "Get a move on! We ain't got all day, you know!"

She pulled Buddy onto his feet and shoved him out of the jitney. The poor, deranged man looked about himself, zombielike, bewildered at the change of scenery. Only when he saw the razor wire did he react hysterically.

"NO! NOOOOOOOOO!" he screamed. "I DON'T WANNA GO BACK IN THE SLAMMER! I DON'T WANNA GO BAAAAAAAACK!"

Howling in terror, Buddy tried to make a break for it, but it was too late--the chain-link gate had rolled shut, penning him inside. He tried to climb the fence, but Burt and the driver pulled him back down again. Buddy fought back furiously, struggling to free himself, still screaming. Criss could only stand there and watch helplessly as Burt and the driver tried to subdue him.

There was a sudden metallic clunking sound as the metal door swung open, revealing a tall man in clerical garb. Criss knew at a glance that it was Pastor Bob Beaman, one of the founders of Sanctuary Shelter; they had met during the taping of the shelter episode. He fought the impulse to rush up to him and beg for aid; Buddy's rantings were creating a bigger problem at the moment.

"What seems to be the problem here?" the pastor asked Burt and/or the driver.

"Buddy thinks he's going back to prison," Burt explained through gritted teeth as he held Buddy in a hammerlock. "He saw the razor wire and freaked out."

"Okay, let him go," Pastor Bob ordered.

Burt released Buddy from his chokehold, but kept close just in case. The driver simply returned to the jitney to park it in the garage for the night. Buddy glared at the pastor with wild, angry eyes. "You ain't lockin' me up again!" he cried, grabbing the pastor by the lapels. "I ain't goin' back in!"

"Now, now, Buddy," Pastor Bob said in a soothing tone. "You aren't going back to prison. We're here to help you, to take care of you. No one's going to lock you up any more, okay?" He drew Buddy closer by the shoulder. "Now, come on, let's get something to eat, okay? You must be hungry. You hungry, Buddy?"

"I ain't goin' back in!" Buddy insisted, refusing to move.

"No, Buddy, you aren't going 'back in'," the pastor assured him. "You're just here to get something to eat, okay? You're still a free man, to come and go as you please. We just want to take care of you, that's all."

Buddy still refused to move. Realizing this was going nowhere, Criss decided to act. He pulled out the worn deck of cards Burt had given him and held them out before Buddy. "Hey, Buddy, look what I got!" he said enthusiastically as he shuffled and fanned the cards expertly, tossing one in the air and catching it. Buddy watched with child-like wonder, his tantrum subsiding. "You like that?" Criss asked him. "Huh? If you go inside, I'll show you some card tricks just like before."

"Show me some tricks," Buddy demanded. "I wanna see some more tricks."

"I can't show them to you out here, Buddy," Criss said. "We gotta go inside. The light's better there."

Buddy complied, following Burt and the others into the shelter. Pastor Bob smiled at Criss. "Quite a feat there, son," he said, impressed. "You're practically another Criss Angel."

"Pastor," Criss said. "I am Criss Angel."

Pastor Bob stared at him in surprise. Criss could tell he didn't believe him. "Look, I may look like a homeless bum, but it's really me, and I need your help, like, right now."

The pastor looked closer at Criss' make-up smeared face. "My God!" he exclaimed. "It is you!"

Finally, someone recognizes me! Criss thought. "Yes, it's me! Can you help me get back home?"

"What happened to you?" the pastor asked him in astonishment as he looked over Criss' shabby clothing. "You lose all your money or something?"

"Wha--? No! No, nothing like that!" Criss replied. "I was shooting a movie at the Luxor. They made me look like a bum that's an angel in disguise. I was going to the men's room when the chief of security, Macaffey, saw me and threw me out of the hotel. He thought I was a real bum, and he had his men chase me off. I found Burt, and Dennis, and Marvin, and Buddy over there in a vacant lot, and together we got picked up by the shelter van. Is it okay if I use your phone to call my manager? I got a live show to do tonight."

"Okay, you can use the phone in my office," Pastor Bob agreed. "Don't worry, we'll get this mess straightened out yet."

Criss nearly fainted with gratitude. "Thanks, Pastor. I totally owe you for this."

"Not a problem," the pastor replied lightly. "That's why we're here."

Criss followed him into the shelter. Pastor Bob chuckled, shaking his head. "You got yourself into one sorry mess, there, son," he said.

"That's an understatement, Pastor," Criss retorted.

[RACHEL02189]

I think someone should give the make-up an award if the guards at The Luxor didn't even recognize Criss

[Veritas]

Meanwhile, back at the Luxor, the situation regarding Criss' disappearance had escalated to code red: the entire security staff scoured the hotel grounds from the Sphinx statue in front of the pyramid to the loading docks in the back, searching for the missing magician. The staff up in the video surveillance room reviewed every inch of tape for any clue of Criss' whereabouts. Eliza, Criss' executive assistant, kept dialing his cell phone number over and over again in a vain attempt to reach him, until the housekeeper assigned to his suite, when questioned later in the day, claimed to have found it on his nightstand.

"That's not like Criss to leave his cell and his wallet behind like that," Eliza said. "He always has them with him no matter where he goes."

Only later would Mifflin recall that he had told Criss to leave his personal belongings in his suite so as to "add realism" to the movie. At that moment, however, he was too busy shooting around Criss, taking close-ups of Nomi, the shops and the decor of the hotel, all the while calling the production office for the latest news about Criss. Baram, meanwhile, fumed in his own office, worried and angry about this sudden disappearing act his star client had pulled. It's all Macaffey's fault! he fretted. Didn't that son of a (bleep) know it was Criss Angel? Now that poor guy's out there looking like a bum and God knows where he is!

Tom, Criss' personal assistant, had dutifully contacted his employer's family. Criss' brothers, JD and Costa, joined by their cousins, George and Phil, aided the search. Dimitra, the family matriarch, simply sat in the lounge area of the production office, outwardly calm but deeply worried about her missing son. Eliza juggled her time between her own duties, searching for Criss, and keeping Dimitra company. She offered her tea and sympathy, trying valiently to dispel the elderly woman's fears with words of encouragement. "Don't worry, Mrs. S.," she said soothingly. "They'll find him. He couldn't have gone far."

"Yes," Dimitra murmured, "they'll find him. He's has lots of friends here in Las Vegas; I'm sure one of them will help him come home again."

"Of course they will," Eliza agreed optimistically. "He'll be home soon, I know he will."

By the second hour since Criss' disappearance, the news of the crisis had reached the desk of Felix Rappaport, who quickly demanded an audience with Macaffey, Mifflin, Baram, and Tom the assistant. With their hearts sinking to their stomachs, they made their way to the president's office, bracing themselves for a perfect storm of administrative fury.

Rappaport kept his anger in check as he eyed the four men standing in front of him. "Would somebody please explain to me just what the hell happened here?" he asked with forced calm, drumming his fingers impatiently on his large glass-topped desk.

Mifflin stepped forward. "You see, it's like this," he began, "I had Criss made up to look like a homeless man for the movie. We took a break from shooting; Criss went to the men's room before returning to the set, and (bleep)-for-brains here--" he pointed to Macaffey "--goes and throws him out of the hotel! Now we're without our leading man, I'm falling behind schedule, Baram here says he's got a live show to do tonight, and we're all up (bleep) creek without a canoe, let alone a paddle, because your security guards drove him away from here!"

Rappaport turned to the chief of security. "Macaffey? You got anything to say about this?"

Macaffey cleared his throat. "Well, first of all...sir," he began quietly, "I take offense about being called '(bleep)-for-brains' by this two-bit filmmaker here. Second, I honestly affirm that I did not know that the vagrant I caught going into the men's room was indeed Criss Angel" He chuckled a bit. "I do acknowlege, however, that whoever made him up to look like that did a helluva job. Swear to God, his own mother wouldn't have recognized him! I sure as hell didn't."

Rappaport was not amused. "But you did have him thrown out of the hotel, didn't you?" he pressed.

"Under the circumstances that I honestly believed him to be a vagrant trespassing on hotel property," Macaffey replied officiously, "I did evict him from the premises. And so did two of my men who were patrolling the main entrance," he added. "We were acting under your orders, sir, even though it turned out to be an unfortunate misunderstanding."

Baram snorted. "Acting under orders," he sneered bitterly. "They said the same thing at Nuremburg!"

"Did you inform the two men who drove Criss away from the main entrance about who he really was?" Rappaport asked.

"I did, indeed, sir, once it had been brought to my attention," Macaffey replied. "They were understandably upset about it. However, since they were acting under my direct supervision, I claim full responsibility for all this."

"Yeah, you'd better, you son of a (bleep)!" Baram muttered under his breath.

Macaffey turned to Baram. "You say something, mister?" he growled.

Baram was about to tell Macaffey just what he thought of his militaristic methods when his cell phone deedled in his jacket pocket. He whipped it out in a flash and flipped it open, not even bothering to see who was calling. "Hello?" he said anxiously as all present waited expectantly.

Suddenly, Baram's face became animated. "Criss!!"he screamed into the tiny transmitter. "Where the hell are you?!




"I'm at Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless," Criss replied over the office phone. "You know, the place where we shot episode two? I got picked up by the shelter bus and taken here. Can you come and get me?"

A brief pause while Criss listened to Baram's agitated babble. "Okay, okay, Dave, chill out, willya? Eliza's got the directions on file somewhere; you can ask her. Just come and get me, okay? Fine, see ya later!"

He hung up the heavy receiver back in its cradle. "He told me to stay where I was," he said Pastor Bob. "Like I got anywhere else to go."

The pastor smiled. "Well, since you're here, you might as well make yourself at home," he said jovially. "They're serving lunch in the cafeteria--might as well grab a bite to eat. We don't set a fancy table, but we got some pretty good grub."

The rumbling in Criss' stomach seconded that motion. "Thanks, Pastor," he said. "I'm really hungry right now."

He turned to leave the office. "Just a word of warning, though," Pastor Bob spoke up.

Criss turned back. "Like what?" he asked, perplexed.

"Sister Eunice is on duty in the cafeteria today," Pastor Bob told him, "and she's really strict about sayin' the blessing before eating."

"So?"

"She won't let you take a bite until you do, so if you don't wanna get jabbed by those needle-sharp fingers of hers, you'd better say grace before you dig in."

Criss nodded. "Got it."

[Veritas]

A long line of hungry residents inched along the food counter, sliding battered plastic trays still wet from the dishroom far in the back. They picked up styrofoam plates of mass-produced food, ladled with assembly-line precision by the volunteers behind the steam table, and moved on at the same slow pace. The kitchen assistants known as "runners" dashed to and from the kitchen to take away empty steam trays to the dishroom and bring in more food. The residents shuffled off with their trays bearing their primary if not their only meal of the day.

Criss observed this grim process from his position in the chow line, as some of the residents called it. He stood between his friends Burt and Dennis. He had no idea where Marvin or Buddy were; he guessed they were far in the back of the line, or at least hoped they were. He approached the stack of wet plastic trays that had just been delivered from the dishroom by some pimply-faced teenage volunteer with iPod headphones plugged into his ears. He neither noticed nor seemed to care that a celebrity was standing in line; it could have been the President himself standing there and he would not have spared him a single glance.

For that one single moment, Criss felt like a nobody. Dressed in his hobo costume, he was just another hungry mouth in a long line of hungry mouths snaking through the double doors of the shelter cafeteria. No one seemed to remember that only a few months before he had been entertaining them with his illusions and passing out lollipops to the kids. They had been his audience then, cheering and applauding him, totally captivated by his every move. Now they didn't even recognize him, much less care. He was lost in the crowd of impoverished, homeless people crushed by the misery of their lives and their environment to notice the presence of a major celebrity in their midst.

He looked at the servers at the steam table. Except for an eldery lady in a mesh hair net spooning out lumps of meat, the other three behind the counter were also teenagers, two girls and a boy about fifteen or sixteen years of age. Curious, Criss turned to Burt. "I see they got a lot of high-school kids working here," he commented as he picked up his tray.

"School's got 'em doin' thirty hours of volunteer work so's they can graduate," Burt explained. "It's supposed to make them more 'socially aware', an' 'involved in the community', an' all that bull(bleep). To them, it's just an inconvenience, like jury duty; they don't stay long after their hitch is done. I know they'd rather be out partying than doin' KP here at the shelter. They don't give a (bleep) about us."

Criss noticed a slim girl with honey-colored hair handing out half-pints of milk to the residents, smiling at them as she did so. He pointed her out to Burt. "She seems to be enjoying it," he said.

"She's faking it," Burt scoffed.

"Maybe not," Criss countered. "Maybe she really likes helping the homeless."

Burt said nothing more but grabbed his plate from the top of the steam table and went on his way. Criss picked up his dinner, still keeping his eyes on the milk girl. He inched closer to her, noticing how pretty she was, especially when she smiled. Burt was wrong, he thought; this girl genuinely enjoyed helping those less fortunate, even if it was simply passing out small cartons of milk.

He approached the milk girl, who handed him a carton of two-percent milk. "Here you go," she said cheerfully. "Enjoy your meal."

"Thank you very much," Criss replied, returning her smile with his own. "So, what's your name, anyway?"

"Jessie."

"Well, Jessie, you just brightened my day."

Jessie looked at Criss carefully. "You look awfully familiar," she said suspiciously.

Criss was about to reveal his true identity, but felt Dennis' finger poke him impatiently in the shoulder. "Hey!" he said. "Quit flirting with the help--you're holding up the line!"

"Okay, okay!" Criss picked up his tray. "See you later, Jessie."

He carried his meal into the low-ceilinged cafeteria, crowded and deafeningly noisy. The tables were arranged in long rows, like high school or prison. No sooner was a seat made vacant than it was taken by someone else. Babies and small children sat on their mothers' laps as they were spoon-fed mashed potatoes or other palatable fare. Table manners were practically non-existant--the majority of them simply shoveled the food into their mouths with forks or spoons clutched tightly in their fists, aided by grubby fingers. The whole room reeked of bland cafeteria food, dirty clothes and unwashed bodies. Stone-faced matrons, the "church ladies" Dennis informed him, patrolled the perimeter, enforcing the grace-saying rule to the letter. "They're like the shelter's personal Gestapo," he said in Criss' ear. "You don't say grace, they'll nail your ass to the wall."

He pointed out one cadaverous old woman in a high-collared calico frock. "That's Sister Eunice," he said. "She's the worst of 'em. Keep as clear of her as you can, dude. She's like the wicked witch of the west around here."

"Don't worry, dude," Criss said, smiling mischieviously. "I can handle her."

Burt, Criss and Dennis managed to score three seats together at one end of a long table, Criss at the end, Burt and Dennis on either side. They had barely lowered themselves into their seats when, as bad luck would have it, the grim spectre of Sister Eunice materialized before them like a malvolent spirit. "Y'all remember to say the blessing," she intoned in her grating, nasally voice.

It was not a reminder, it was a command. Criss could see why Dennis and the other residents feared this woman in the high-collared dress dragging all the way to her bony shins: she was tall and gaunt, the flesh on her face barely clinging to her skull. Her mouth, if the slit below her nostrils could be called that, was creased into a permanant disapproving frown. Her thin gray hair was tightly bound into a neat little knot at the back of her head, emphasizing her skull-like features even more. A pair of piercing eyes glared at the three men through gold-rimmed bifocals perched on the bridge of her thin nose. Dennis had been right to compare her with the wicked witch of Oz; Criss could picture her in a black peaked hat, riding on a broomstick with a black cat sitting on the straw behind her.

Burt, however, was not intimidated. "Can't a man sit down to eat without you botherin' us?" he griped. "Ain't gonna make no difference if we pray or not. Food's the same either way."

"This is a Christian-run shelter, sir," Sister Eunice sharply reminded Burt, "and we say the blessing before eating."

Burt leaned over to Criss. "This is why I hate comin' here," he said, jerking his thumb toward Sister Eunice. "Everything here's so church-oriented, you can't turn around without someone shovin' their Bible down your throat! Can't even get a decent meal without her strong-arming you to pray."

"So?" Sister Eunice pressed. "You gonna say the blessing or not? You don't eat until you do; only heathens and animals eat before sayin' the blessing."

"Okay, so, I'm a heathen," Burt retorted, picking up his fork.

"Don't you eat one bite before sayin' the blessing!" Sister Eunice said sharply.

Criss rose to the rescue. "Sister Eunice," he said politely, "since my friends here are incapable of saying grace themselves, allow me to cover for all three of us."

Sister Eunice's sharp features actually softened a bit at this request. "Very well," she agreed, "you may."

Criss sat down, bowed his head, closed his eyes, folded his hands, and recited a traditional blessing of the food--in Greek. Burt and Dennis looked sideways at him, uncomprehending the strange language he spoke. Sister Eunice, for her part, wondered if the young man sitting before her was speaking in tongues. He ended with a quick "amen", crossed himself in the customary Greek Orthodox manner, and raised his head, suppressing the urge to laugh at the bemused expression on Sister Eunice's face. "Well, that's how we said it when I was growing up," he protested innocently.

Rationalizing that the Lord understood all tongues, Sister Eunice made a barely susceptible nod and left. Once the odious figure of the church lady had departed, the three men burst out laughing. Burt gave Criss a high-five for his joke. "You the man, Criss!" he guffawed. "You are the man!"

"Just what the hell did you say, anyway?" Dennis asked.

"Oh, just a traditional Greek blessing, that's all," Criss replied lightly.

"Well, it was Greek to me!" Burt quipped as he dug into his meal. "I didn't understand a (bleeping) word you said."

The meal of ground-up chicken meat and overcooked pasta was lukewarm, but it was filling. The mashed potatoes were the processed kind, covered with watery tan gravy. Dessert was a small spoonful of runny applesauce spilling onto the tray. I ate better in high school, Criss thought. At least we had pizza now and then.

He looked around the cafeteria. He knew the economy had taken a nosedive in recent years, but he had no idea there were this many homeless people in Las Vegas. Had the number increased since his last visit, or had he simply not noticed? Guiltily, he forced himself to admit the latter; he had only met a small handful during taping, fewer still made it on camera with him. Saddest of all were the number of children living in the shelter. All they wanted was a home of their own, with food on the table and decent clothes on their frail little bodies. Criss recalled with shame that all he gave them during taping were lollipops; they had enjoyed the treat, sure, but they needed more, much more.

Again he recalled Father Stefan's words about the two Las Vegases, the one everyone saw and the one nobody saw. Nobody saw this side of Las Vegas because they didn't want to, Criss thought. Everybody here is in total denial; they want everyone to see what they want them to see: the neon signs and bikini-clad models and rolling dice coming up sevens for everybody. As far as they're concerned, these people here don't exist--they just sweep them aside like trash on the street, shove them into this warehouse where they can't be seen, and pretend they don't exist. Out of sight, out of mind.

But who were "they"? Criss' conscience spoke up inside him. Who were "they" who swept aside these unfortunate people just because they were poor and homeless? Who was in denial of their existance? The city govenment? The hotel and casino owners? The citizenry?

Or, perhaps, himself?

Criss set down his fork and gazed at the sea of wretched humanity before him in the cafeteria, scarfing down tasteless, watery meals as if they would be their last. He had always considered himself to be unselfish and caring, giving his time to sick children through the Make-A-Wish Foundation and entertaining the troops and their families at various military bases. But he always had a home to go to, his luxury suite at the Luxor, filled with expensive electronic games and other toys he had purchased during his career; where his every whim had been fulfilled, whether for extravagant jewelry or customized cars and motorcycles. These people had nothing but the clothes on their backs and the will to survive, even if it meant coming here to an overcrowded shelter for a watery meal and a cot to sleep on. Las Vegas made billions of dollars in gambling revenue and ticket sales for their shows, including his own. Couldn't they spare a few million improving the lot of these poor people?

Dennis nudged Criss with his elbow. "You okay, man?" he asked.

Criss made a brave face, hiding the maelstom of emotions swirling inside him. "Yeah, man, I'm okay," he replied. "Just thinking, that's all."

"That can be dangerous," Burt quipped, chuckling.

Criss feigned a slap at Burt. "(Bleep) you!" he sneered.