[Veritas]

8:00 pm to 9:00 pm:

Maury looked all around the ginormous atrium for Criss Angel. He had to be here somewhere, she thought. Dad had bought her the first decent meal since their arrival in Las Vegas, a burger, fries and Coke, then retuned to whatever grownups do in casinos. They were pretty noisy places from what she had seen, sort of like Chuck-E-Cheese for adults. At any rate, she would not have to go to bed hungry tonight.

But she still wanted to find Criss Angel. She wanted to find more evidence that he was her "real" daddy. He had to be somewhere, but where?

The casino? She peered into the entrance from behind a pillar, the closest she could get without the blue-jacketed guard seeing her. He would be easy to spot, with all his necklaces and his funny haircut, she thought. But it was so crowded in there she could not see anyone she could recognize, not even her father. Maybe she should wait for him? She definatly did not want to go back up to the hotel room with her mother, and she was not allowed in the casino. If only she knew where Criss was...




Criss was on his way to Body English, his encounter with Athene Christopolous and Maury's father souring his mood as he drove his Lambo down the Strip.

A city full of selfish people, Athene had said. Well, she was right about that, though it was a case of the pots calling the kettles black. He had heard of the Omicron heiress; she was one of those celebrities who hadn't really done anything to achieve fame but were famous for being famous. Tonight was the first time he had met her, and he hoped it would be the last. Damned publicity hound (bleep)! Anything to get her face published! She thinks she's all that because Daddy Warbucks runs some big-(bleeped) corporation! I know she's had more hands up her skirt than the Muppets! Well, forget it, Athene baby! You're not putting me in your stable! Uh-uh! I am a free man!

He promptly dismissed Athene from his mind. In her place floated the image of Maury Brighton, pale and faded as her dress, her thin arms clutching her empty belly. The memory of her tugged at his heart. He had visited children's hospitals, entertained terminally ill kids who looked a lot better than she did. Geez! What kind of parents would forget to feed their own kid? Are they drunk or something? That dad of hers seemed to resent it when I bought him his own daughter! Well, he doesn't get my vote for Father of the Year, that's for sure. But, I'm starting to wonder...are they abusing her? Neglect is bad enough, but if they're beating her--or worse...?

Criss pulled up to the valet booth of Body English. He stopped the car, got out, tossed the keys to the valet, claimed his ticket, and entered the club. It did no good to be dwelling on such negative thoughts, he told himself. If there's any trouble, security will handle it. Maybe that dad of Maury's got the message when he reminded him of his little girl's needs. He hoped he did.




"Lyn!" Stacy called out from a booth somewhere in the club. "Over here!"

Lyn spied Stacy's flailing arm and wove her way through the crowd of partygoers and wait staff to reach her. Eight o'clock and Body English was already jammed--and jamming. Recorded music blared from loudspeakers above their heads, colored lights danced on the walls and floor. The fashionably attired wiggled and pranced on the dance floor, or lounged with friends, sipping overpriced drinks.

"So, what'd I tell you?" Stacy gushed. "Is this the place to be, or what?"

Actually, Stacy didn't tell her anything of the sort, Lyn thought. She was here because she didn't have any other plans for the evening. It was just another Vegas club: loud, flashy, and expensive. Lyn began to wonder why she even agreed to come here in the first place.

Suddenly, Stacy jumped up excitedly. "Oh, my God! Look over there!" She pointed towards the entrance.

Lyn turned to look. "What? Where?" she demanded.

"Over there!" Stacy squealed. "It's Criss Angel!"

"Where?" Lyn demanded again, more eagerly this time.

This time, she spotted him, his bling reflecting the overhead lights like tiny mirrors. Despite the fact that she and Stacy were performers in his show, and had actually worked alongside him during rehersals, it was still a thrill when she saw him.

"Wanna go see him?" Stacy almost dared Lyn. "I mean, after all, we do work with him."

"Well, I dunno..." Lyn hesitated.

"C'mon, Lyn!" Stacy urged. "Go for it!"

Before Lyn could utter another word, she found herself dragged along by Stacy to Criss' table. Lyn put up almost no resistance. The thought of mixing business with pleasure began to appeal to her.




Athene Christopolous arrived at Body English at exactly eight o'clock, alone. The champaigne remained unopened, the chocolates untouched. Her plan to entice Criss into her limo had failed miserably. She had oozed charm for him, played coy, but that cretin had blown her off like a Las Vegas streetwalker. His rebuff still burned in her dainty little ears: Yeah, but not with you.

Well, she was not deterred, not by a long shot. She was going to get back at him if it was the last thing she did. She had planned to come on to him, tempt him, seduce him into her arms--and her bed. She was going to lavish him with gifts, allow him to escort her to the finest places, romance him at her private resort on the Mediterranean. Earlier, she had considered him a worthy pursuit. Instead, he had spurned her. He had treated her with such contempt it galled her to the marrow. Well, it seemed the gentle approach was not going to work on this Angel; now she was going to have to crack the whip. She would make him sorry for his cold shouldering. She would make him beg forgiveness on his knees. Of course, she would mete out justice, but temper it with mercy--she was not that cold-hearted. She would make the punishment fit the crime, no more, no less.

She swept into the club, scanning for her prey. He had to be here, somewhere. Crito said he would be. Well, if he hadn't arrived yet, she would be waiting for him. And when he did, he was going to get a nasty surprise...





Lolly Jones carefully applied eyeliner to the edges of her eyes. Filibuster was due on stage at nine, and she wanted to take her time getting ready. Her plaid and polka-dot clothes did nothing to slim down her stocky five-foot-two frame, nor did the heavy combat boots boost her height. She was no beauty queen, granted, but she was attractive in her own way. She had disdained the anorexic types who were so popular in school, those fashion conscious Barbie-doll clones who obsessed over their appearance to the point of near self-destruction. Lolly had all but flaunted her chunky petite self in their faces, just to get back at them. Unlike the rest of the girls in her class, she dared to be different.

And that difference had paid off, at least in her opinion. After high school, she had gone to art school, where she could express herself freely, then joined Filibuster two years later (bass players were in high demand, but in short supply, so the band was more than willing to take on a female guitarist). She was a free spirit, living by her own rules. Conformity was not in her vocabulary.

There. Makeup was done. She would have done without it, but under the lights she would have looked washed out. She still had half an hour until showtime. She decided to relax and catch up on the latest sci-fi novel, Zero O'Clock. It was a really good one about all the clocks in the world stopping and everyone couldn't know what time it was. It made her think about how time-obsessed society was. God! She couldn't wait to finish it!

Julia, the bartender, was setting up some more clean glasses when one of the waiters showed up, an anxious look on his face.

"Hey, Julie," he hissed.

Julia spun around. "It's Julia, dipwad! What the hell do you want."

"You know who just showed up?" the waiter asked conspiratoirally.

"Wait, let me guess," Julia retorted sarcastically. "Paris Hilton."

"Close. It's Athene Christopolous."

"I'll alert the media." Julia said drily, turning back to her glasses. As if she cared about Athene Christopolous, whoever the flaming hell she was. As much as she enjoyed the Vegas nightlife, some of the members of the Cult of Personality were better off unknown. Now, someone like Criss Angel over there, for whom she had just made a Martini--there was someone of interest! He was worthy of all the adulation and celebrity. He was somebody.

She finished stocking glasses and turned to the bar again. The waiter was still standing there, all googlyeyed over this Athene chick.

"Don't you have tables to wait on?" she reminded him. "If you're all so hot for this Thermopolous babe--"

"That's Christopolous, Julie," the waiter corrected her. "Athene Christopolus."

"Whatever," Julia grumbled. "Go take her drink order or something."

The waiter left, finally. People come and people go, Julia reflected, no matter who they were. Meanwhile, she had work to do. Julia Smith was the independent type, and proud of it. She had saved her own money and owned a house in Vegas, an achievement of which she was proudest. Her petite five-foot-one frame belied her tough-as-nails nature. No one pushed her around, not even the biggest name celebrity in Vegas.

She spotted the waiter next to a tall, black haired woman with an imperious air about her. So that's the girl he was talking about, she thought. She looked like a damn snob. Well, she may be some fancy-pants celeb, but to Julia, she was just another customer. If she caused any trouble, Julia would have security toss her out on her shapely little ass.

[Veritas]

9:00 pm to 10:00 pm:

"Gooooood eeeeevening, ladies and gentlemen! Hope you're having a great time tonight! Okay, let's give it up for...Filibuster!"

Lolly and her band climbed up on stage, picking up their instuments as they took their places. Jason, the drummer, counted time with his drumsticks and pounded away on the skins for the band's first number, a hard-driving cacophany with all the angst of teen life behind it.

As she thumped out her part of the song on her bass guitar, Lolly spied Criss Angel himself sitting not too far from the stage, fruity drink in hand, with two women by his side. She almost flubbed a note or two, but quickly recovered, reminding herself why she was there. She'd hook up with him later, between sets.





"Hey, Criss!" Stacy called out over the loud music. "Remember us?"

Criss was at a loss to recall the two lovely ladies approaching him. He had met so many during his career they all seemed to have the same face. He smiled gamely and invited them to sit down with him. "Sooooo," he said, trying to save face. "What brings you two here?"

"Same as you," Stacy replied. "We needed a break from rehersal, you know, have a little fun."

"Yeah," Lyn chimed in. "we didn't see you today in the theater. Where were you, anyway?"

A light went on in Criss' head. Of course! They were dancers from the Cirque show! He still didn't know their names, though. "Oh, well," he flustered, "I had to have a costume fitting, and there were some other things I had to do as well."

They seemed satisfied with that. Criss relaxed, letting the thundering bass and drums of the band pulse against his chest. He drained the last of his drink and set the empty glass aside. As much as he wanted another, he sternly reminded himself that not only was he driving, but that he was under a strict diet and fitness regimen for the show. If he failed his Body by getting drunk, he would fail the Mind and Spirit as well.

Lyn sidled closer to Criss. Stacy, not wanting to be outdone, snuggled next to him, too. Criss suddenly found himself firmly in the middle of a girl sandwich; enticing though it was, his discomfort grew. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and he quickly thought of one.

"Say!" he smiled, extricating himself from his predicament, "how about a drink! My treat!"

Lyn and Stacy smiled back, accepting the generous offer. Criss flagged down a waiter and ordered an iced coffee for Lyn and a Sex on the Beach for Stacy. "And hold the 'beach'!" Stacy quipped laciviously.

The waiter left to fetch their orders. "Aren't you having one?" Lyn asked Criss in a disappointed tone.

"I'm driving," he quickly replied.

Meanwhile, the band played on. Die-hard Filibuster fans mobbed the floor in front of the stage, pumping air to the rhythim of the beat with their fists. It was the last number of the first set. Lolly was all but dehydrated. The water bottle sat patiently by the amplifier where she had set it; it seemed to beckon her with its coolness.

She knew a different kind of thirst as well. Criss Angel sat there, so near and yet so far. She so wanted to meet him, but there were two other girls with him, crawling all over him like a rash. If she could somehow get him alone...




If Athene Christopolous had been put out by Criss' attitude at the Luxor, she was outraged as soon as she arrived at Body English and spotted him sitting there with a girl on each arm. She couldn't believe it! He blew her off for those...those bimbos? It made no sense! She was ten times more attractive and one million times wealthier than they were! That man had no taste whatsoever!

Well, she was here to teach him a lesson, and teach him she would. She'd show him that no one brushed off the heiress of the Omicron empire. What she wanted, she got, and no questions asked.

She glided seductivly towards Criss' booth. She could sense the heads of the other patrons turning as she passed by. They knew who she was, she thought, as well they should.

Alarm bells went off in Criss' mind the minute he saw Athene approaching. He swore under his breath and braced himself for the worst. Who was this (bleep) anyway? he wondered. And why the hell is she coming onto me?

Lyn and Stacy couldn't help noticing the overwhelming presence of Athene Christopolous, either. Too stunned to speak, they gawked at her in stunned silence. Criss, however, retained his composure and eyed her warily, keeping his guard up.

"Hello, again, Criss," Athene purred. Criss gave a barely perceptable nod in reply.

Athene turned to Lyn and Stacy. "If you don't mind," she said imperiously, "Criss and I would like to be alone."

The two women stared at each other in disbelief. Who was she to order them around? They had every right to be here as anyone else. Lyn rose to the defense. "Why?" she demanded. "We were here first."

Criss smiled at Lyn's chutzpah. "Sorry, lady," he said, not in the least apologetic, "but it seems I'm already taken." He put one arm around Lyn and the other around Stacy, thrilling them both to the core.

Athene stood there, fuming. After all her planning, the money she spent just to be close to him in his hotel, the hours she spent on her appearance--he'd rather spend his time with a couple of unknowns instead of her? Criss must have taken too many blows to the head performing his stunts! Irate and insulted, she stormed away. If he wanted to spend the evening with a couple of cheap floozies, fine! There were better venues for her to spend her time and money, men who would do anything she asked. She could buy the whole city of Las Vegas if she wanted.

Yet, deep down inside, what she really wanted was Criss Angel.




Maury woke up on the bench outside the casino. She looked outside through the glass doors of the main entrance. It was night, and there was no Criss. Alarmed, she realized she had to get back to the hotel room or Mom and Dad would be mad at her. Besides, she had Mom's keycard.

She dashed to the elevators and pressed the UP button frantically, over and over again. After an eternity, an elevator opened and she jumped in, pressing Twelve. The car moved so smoothly and quietly that Maury wondered if she was stuck. Then the doors slid open, revealing the twelfth floor. Maury ran to the hotel room, slid the card in the slot in the door, and pushed it open with all her might.

Silence. Mom was still asleep. Dad wasn't there. It was as if she had never left. Grateful that her absence hadn't been noticed, she set the keycard by her mother's handbag and got ready for bed. She removed her faded blue dress and slipped on her threadbare cotton nightie. There were two beds in the suite, but Mom slept in one and Dad the other, just like at home, so Maury was left with the sofa. She took her blanket and pillow and curled up to sleep.

But sleep didn't come so quickly. There was a nagging fear that the minute Dad came back from the casino, Mom would start yelling at him for being out so late, and it would go around and around, just like their other fights at home. They never hugged and kissed like the moms and dads on TV; they just yelled and yelled until one of them left the room or the house altogether. Maury wondered why they got married in the first place if they didn't like each other.

She retreated into fantasy. Criss Angel would come in and rescue her, and take her to his house, one of those big fancy ones like on TV, with a media room and a huge kitchen with lots and lots to eat. Did he have a wife? If he did, she would have to be just as nice as he was. Maybe she was her "real" mommy! And Criss was her "real" daddy! They could be a "real" family again, reunited at last! And she and Criss and her "real" mommy would live happily ever after in their big fancy house.

Maury drifted off to sleep, dreaming of her "real" daddy Criss and her "real" mommy, whoever she was, smiling, loving, laughing, playing in bright summer sunshine, no yelling, no fighting, nothing bad happening at all. Her belly was full and her heart was light. She wasn't lonely anymore. She was safe. She was loved.

[RACHEL02189]

My kind of dream I feel so bad for this kid

[Veritas]

10:00 pm to 11:00 pm:

Lolly drank her water carefully in little sips. She had learned the hard way that gulping cold water after a heavy set would lead to cramping. Filibuster was on break after the first set, and water never tasted so good than after a long jam session. She had tried alcohol, but it left her even more dehydrated than ever, so she made a firm rule for herself: water onstage, booze off.

Refreshed, she decided to seek out Criss Angel. By now the club was packed with partiers, but he was still easy to spot--right there on the sofa, with two women flanking him on both sides. They were attractive and slender, but they didn't look like supermodels or any celebrity she knew of, but they looked harmless enough. She casually strolled over to him, just to say hello, of course.

Criss looked up and smiled at Lolly, which secretly thrilled her to the core. He saw me! Lolly squealed to herself like a schoolgirl. He saw me onstage! She barely managed a "hi" when she stopped at the sofa and stood before him.

Criss invited her to sit on an adjacent cushioned chair. Lolly was only too happy to accept, but she kept her cool; she didn't want to come across as just another lovestruck fan. She was with the band, and wanted to give the impression that she was a professional.

"Great set, there," Criss complimented, breaking the ice. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Lolly," she answered. struggling to keep her cool. "Lolly Jones."

"Lolly?" Criss repeated. "Nice to meet you." He shook hands with her. "I want you to meet Lyn--"

"Hi," Lyn said, shaking Lolly's hand.

"--and this is Stacy."

"Hey," Stacy waved, smiling a little, just to be polite.

"They're in the Cirque show with me," Criss explained. "We were just unwinding after rehersals," Criss told Lolly.

"Wow, that's awesome," Lolly responded. "So, what exactly do you two do, anyway?"

"We're dancers," Lyn explained. Stacy nodded in confirmation.

"You do any of those aerial acts, like on those long ropes or something?" Lolly asked.

"Oh, no, no," Lyn laughed a bit nervously. "We're firmly on the stage. I'm terrified of heights."

"Me, too," Stacy laughed.

"I'd love to see your show," Lolly said. "But I got the band, and our fansite to monitor and a bunch of other stuff as well.

"Well, the show's not until September," Criss informed her, "I'm sure you can fit us into your busy schedule."

Lolly smiled at that. You bet I will.




Gary Brighton was hot! And it was all thanks to that little Kiddie girl at the blackjack table. Throughout the evening, he had scored three jackpots from the slots, a hat-trick at roulette, and even another game at blackjack at another table where she was dealing. It was as if Kiddie was helping him win, though he knew that was not possible. Every blackjack table was strictly monitored by video surveillance from above.

He learned that she was a "relief" dealer, subbing for the regulars when they went on break. Well, she certainly bought him a good deal of relief! Whenever he was with her, or even near her, whether at the blackjack tables, by the slots, the craps, or the wheel, he always scored. True, there was that little interruption by his kid begging for something to eat (why the hell didn't her mother take care of her? he wondered irritably. That was her job, wasn't it?), but as soon as he spotted Kiddie, he was high-rollin' once again. She was his good-luck charm, it seemed. And not bad to look at, either. She was a cute litle blond, five-and-a-half if she was an inch, with the deepest blue eyes he had ever seen--a beach bum's fantasy girl if there ever was.

He played it cagey, of course. These casinos were lousy with security cameras, and if they saw him paying a little too much attention to her, they'd nail him for a stalker. Play it cool, keep it friendly, and whatever you do, don't let on that she's helping you win, he said to himself. It'll put the kibosh whatever magic she's got!.

He saw Kiddie leave the table where she had been dealing when the regualr dealer, a balding middle-aged man with a pony-keg for a stomach returned from his break. He stood before one of the slot machines, slipping in a token and pushing the button, all the while keeping an eye on her. He watched as she disappeared into the back. Oh, no, no, no! Don't leave me! I need you, Kiddie! Gary pleaded with her mentally. I need you to bring me good luck.

The slot machine's rotors stopped spinning. All lemons, no jackpot this time. Gary's heart sank.

Okay, maybe she went on her own break, he reasoned. I'll just grab a bite to eat at the buffet and wait until she comes back. Not a problem. I've won plenty this evening, more than enough to cover one loss. No big deal.




Steve Packard couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned between sweaty sheets, wishing he had a girl with him. Sex was the best sleep aid he could get without a prescription. Even a quickie would have helped him relax.

In three and a half hours, he would meet Vic behind the Luxor and carry out their plan. They had gone over every detail for two weeks, casing out the area, locating the security cameras and their "blind spots," and how to open the safe. The planning was easy--it was putting it into action that made him nervous.

He rehersed his plan, step by step, in his mind. He would enter in the back, using a master keycard (his own would be a dead giveaway), wearing his usual workclothes. If questioned, he could plausibly say that he had been called in for an emergency repair on one of the slots. This was not uncommon, as slot machines became jammed by cheaters using slugs or other devices, and a malfunctioning machine lost a casino money in downtime.

By dodging the security cameras by keeping within the blind spots, he could enter the Accounting Office and where the safe was. Sliding by the wall under the camera facing the safe itself, he would disconnect the wires from it (he discoverd this during his usual delivery of slot cash on the job. An electrician had been working on the wiring that day and left the camera wires exposed). Once disconnected, he could get the safe open by punching in the code he had surreptitiously discovered, thanks to an accounting clerk who had stood sideways while she punched it in, allowing him to watch. Then he'd take the bag and stuff it full of cash, reconnect the camera before security knew what happened, then keep in the blind spots again as he made his escape to where Vic was waiting. He'd leave it clean, the door closed, and wear gloves and hospital slippers so as not to leave any forensic evidence.

Vic had promised him half of the take if he was successful, yet Steve could not help but wonder why he should have to do all the dirty work. If he got caught, he'd go to prison and Vic would walk away scot-free, totally denying his involvement and let Steve take it on the chin. But if he was successful, he could leave Las Vegas and start a new life somewhere, like in LA. Or even Hawai'i. Even with half the money in the safe, he'd be set for life. But why stop there? Why not take it all? After all, he was risking his ass doing all the work while Vic was just sitting there in the van. If he didn't show up, Vic would just assume that he had gotten caught. He bloody well couldn't go in and ask what the hell was taking so long. Knowing Vic, he'd deep-six him in a heartbeat if he knew he'd gotten busted.

Oh, yeah, Steve was going in, all right, but he'd find his own ride home.




Time flew by at Body English so fast it was time for Filibuster's second set. Neil, the lead singer, tapped her on the shoulder and jerked his tumb towards the stage. Lolly was startled, then annoyed, then embarrassed at having lost track of time.

"Look," she said to Criss apologetically, "I gotta go. Nice talking to you." She trotted back to the stage area, waving good-bye.

"Catch you later," Criss called out after her. He started to settle back, but he began to feel the drink special working his way through his kidneys.

"Excuse me for a moment, willya?" he said to Lyn and Stacy. "I'll be right back."

He got up and headed for the men's room. It was quieter in there, and brighter; at least here he had some semblance of privacy. He headed for the urinal in the farthest corner of the men's room for reasons known only to men, relaxed, and allowed one of Body English's overpriced mixed drinks to go down the drain.

Relieved, he reassembled himself and turned to leave, flushing the urinal behind him, but was stopped short by a human arm lying on the floor under one of the stalls. Concerned, Criss opened the stall door.

The arm, it turned out, belonged to Jason Loeb, the drummer for Filibuster, who now lay unconscious in the stall. Criss wasn't sure if he had overdosed or was simply drunk. At any rate, he had to get help. He dashed out of the men's room and flagged down the first waiter he could see.

"The drummer's passed out in there," he told the waiter. "You gotta get help."

Alarmed, the waiter dashed over to the manager's office and relayed Criss' message. Criss watched as the manager snatched the phone and punched 9-1-1. Unable to do anything more, he returned to the sofa where he had been sitting. Stacy and Lyn were still there, keeping his seat warm for him.

"We missed you," Stacy purred as Criss sat down.

Lyn, however, sensed Criss' distress. "What's the matter?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing," he replied, "just that the drummer's passed out in the men's room."

"Oh, my God!" Lyn exclaimed. "Is he all right?"

Criss shrugged. "I dunno, they called 9-1-1 already."

"Think someone should tell Lolly?" Stacy suggested anxiously.

Criss realized that she was right. Someone should inform the band about their drummer. "I'll be right back," he said, and left again.





It was only eleven PM and Athene was already bored--and frustrated. By now, Criss Angel and she should have been dancing the night away, the hottest couple of the evening, the only question on their minds being "Your place or mine?" Instead he was wasting his time with a couple of cheap tarts he had just picked up along the way, leaving her alone. And Athene hated being alone. Sitting in the limo, watching the Strip go by, she raged inwardly over his callousness.

There had to be a way to get back at him. There just had to be. She racked her brains for a suitable method of revenge. She didn't want to physically hurt him, of course--she wouldn't dream of marring that gorgeous body of his. No, she had to strike back in such a way that he would burn with shame, just as she was burning with rage. She had to hit him where he lived.

And he lived at the Luxor, just above her, she recalled. Athene pondered this fact, a cruel smile slowly creeping over her perfectly madeover face. She had her plan, ready made as it was; now she had to put it into action. But she would have to do it on her own, with no help from Crito or any other member of her entourage. There was no sense implicating them; besides, they had no business interfering, anyway.

She picked up the limo phone. "Driver, take me back to the Luxor," she ordered.

"Yes, ma'am," the driver replied obediently.

Athene hung up the phone and sat back. A wicked little giggle escaped from her ruby red lips. This was going to be good, she thought.

[RACHEL02189]

This isn't going to be good

[Veritas]

11:00 pm to 12:00 pm:

Twenty five hundred bucks! Gary couldn't believe it. He had won twenty-five hundred bucks in the casino! He gleefully watched as the cashier counted out the bills for him. Somebody Up There liked him, that was for sure. He was tempted to wave his winnings around, but common sense overruled that. Places like these were lousy with thieves and pickpockets just waiting to relieve you of your wallet or purse. He quickly stashed his cash in his billfold and secreted it into his pants pocket, the one with the button on the opening. He buttoned it tightly and patted his pocket smugly. It made a comfortable bulge.

Gary looked around for Kiddie. Not at the blackjack tables, not at the wheels, nowhere. He checked his watch. Eleven-thirty. Well, maybe she went home for the evening. She looked pretty young. Maybe she was only a part-timer, working her way through school or something like that. Ah, well, the night was still young, and he bloody well didn't want to go back to Irene and the kid. Hell, this was Vegas, for crying out loud! The Entertainment Capital of the World! He had twenty-five hundred burning a hole in his pocket, and he was going to live it up!

But what to do first? Hmmmm, let's see what they got lined up around here, he mused. He left the casino and walked over to the marquee on the wall, advertising all the shows and other attractions the Luxor had to offer. One attraction caught his eye immediatly: Fantasy. A very hot, very sexy show, and it was on right now. Ohhh, yeah! That was the ticket!

Gary was admitted, seated and served in just over a minute. He couldn't stop smiling at the curvaceous women wiggling their smooth, firm, bare asses on the stage. This was the closest he would ever come to Heaven in this life, he thought.




"Where the hell is Jason?" Pirece Holmes, Filibuster's lead singer, wanted to know. "We're due back on in two minutes."

Lolly shrugged her shoulders. "Dunno. Last I saw, he was heading for the john."

There was a knock on the dressing room door. "Who is it?" Lolly called out, rising to answer it.

"It's me, Criss Angel." came the reply.

Criss Angel! It couldn't be! Lolly nearly ripped the door from it's hinges opening it. Sure enough, there stood Criss himself. Lolly's heart skipped a beat the minute she saw him.

"I got some bad news for you," Criss said.

"What?" Lolly said, still in awe.

"You're drummer passed out in the men's room," Criss told them. "They're taking him to the hospital now."

"Oh, that is just (bleeping) great!" Pierce moaned. "That (bleepbleep) couldn't stay sober for one (bleeping) night!"

Lolly kept her eyes on Criss. "Is he going to be all right?" she asked.

"Can't say for sure right now," Criss replied, shrugging his shoulders.

"Well, it doesn't (bleeping) matter!" Pierce stormed. "That (bleeping bleeper) is out of the band!"

Lolly whirled around, appalled. "Pierce!"

"I mean it, Lolly! Jason's been holding us back with his boozing! If he can't get his (bleep) together, then he's history!" Pierce slumped down on a chair by a dressing table. "We're gonna have to cancel the show now. We ain't got a drummer."

Lolly looked at Criss again. An idea, or at least a wild hope, surged into her brain. "You play drums, don't you, Criss?"

Criss looked bewildered. "Well, yeah, but..."

"Maybe you could cover for Jason," she suggested. "We got his parts written down right here."

She picked up a loose-leaf notebook and handed it to him. "What do you say, huh? Please?"

"Well, I don't know," Criss remained hesitant. "This is kinda short notice, don't you think?"

"All we ask if for one set, that's all. They're real easy, just basic rhythims. You can do it, Criss. I know you can."

Criss turned to Pierce. "What do you think?"

"Hey, dude," Pierce said with a disbelieving laugh. "You've pulled off some crazy (bleep) in your career. If you can pull this off, my hat's off to you!"

Criss flipped through the notebook. "Okay, one set," he said finally. "I got rehersals tomorrow and I have to get home, okay?"

Lolly threw her arms around Criss. "You rock and rule!" she squealed in delight.

Meanwhile, out on the floor, Lyn and Stacy were growing impatient with Criss' prolonged absence. What was he doing anyway, making out with Lolly or something? Suddenly the house lights dimmed, signalling the return of Filibuster.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Let's give it up for Filibuster!"

The audience cheered. The spotlights illuminated the stage. To Lyn and Stacy's astonishment, Criss was seated behind the band's drum kit. What's he doing up there? they wondered.

"Thank you," Pierce boomed into the mike. "And please welcome our very special guest drummer, Criss Angel!"

Even louder cheering broke out as Criss waved to the crowd with his sticks. Lyn and Stacy looked at each other bemusedly.

Criss tapped time and the band exploded into its first number for the second set. Man, he's good! Lyn thought. On top of everything else, he's a drummer? This guy is awesome!





Steve did it by himself, of course. Vic wasn't bringing the van until two, but (bleep) him--he could sit there until Hell froze over for all he cared. He checked his watch. Eleven-forty-five. Way early, but still late enough. Bank pickup wouldn't be until nine tomorrow. By then, he'd be long gone. He slipped on his latex gloves and the keycard into the slot. The door gave him the green light to enter. He pulled on hospital slippers to cover his tracks and went in.

He paced himself, timing the cameras' blind spots for when he could move and when he should take cover. He got in with no trouble; if they checked the entry records, it would just read MASTER. Dodging the cameras, he made it to the Accounting Office. Using his master keycard, he slipped in and headed for the safe, hoping against hope they didn't change the combination again.

In the office where the safe was kept, he slid along the wall just under the camera. The wires were still there. Donning insulated gloves, he unscrewed the cable connectors carefully. He looked up at the camera. No flashing light. It was off. Good. Now the fun could begin.

Steve took off his insulated gloves, leaving on his latex ones. He had memorized the combination for a week now, and he knew it as well as his own telephone number. He punched it in, hit ENTER, and crossed his fingers as he pulled on the lever.

It gave! Victory was his! Steve opened his bag and emptied the safe of the mountain of cash stored inside. There had to be at least a million, two millon maybe. Didn't matter, because Steve Packard was set for life!

He slung the bag on his shoulder and stepped to the camera wires. Redonning his insulated gloves, he reconnected the camera wires, starting at the sparks they made when they touched. He rescrewed the connectors and set everything back into place. Then he slid along the wall to the door and made his exit. Instinct told him to run, but the cameras would spot him. He had to be careful.





Meanwhile, Athene Christopolous had returned to the hotel and to her suite. She looked up at the ceiling. There had to be a way in, she pondered. It irritated her that the help could go into Criss' suite but she couldn't.

The help?

Athene had stayed in hundreds of luxury hotels as she jetsetted all over the world. She knew that housekeepers kept master keys to enter all the rooms for cleaning. It was just a matter of finding out where they were kept. She left her room and searched the corridors carefully.

There. That door in the center. HOUSEKEEPING, it read. Athene tried the door. It was unlocked. So far, so good. She slipped in and flicked on the light. Now, where were the keys?

A steel cabinet caught her eye. She opened it quickly and found a neat, organized set of master keycards for the maids to use. One in particular stood out from the rest: PRESIDENTIAL SUITE ONLY.

Athene snatched it greedily. The Presidential Suite was where Criss Angel lived. No one was allowed even to ride up to the floor without security clearance. She was delighted that her plan was coming together so perfectly; it was almost too easy.

She slipped out of the housekeepers' closet and dashed to the elevators. She jabbed the UP button frantically, impatiently. The doors finally slid open, allowing her to enter. She slid the keycard and pushed the top button to Criss' suite. The elevator complied with her wishes and transported her there in an instant. As soon as the elevator doors opened, she stepped out of the car and stood before the gates of Heaven.

Athene slid the magic card into the door slot and turned the handle. Happily, it gave way and Athene was at last in the Realm of the Angel. She quickly closed the door behind her and drank it all in. That suite downstairs was a cheap motel room in comparison. She gazed at the spaciousness, the elegantly modern furniture, the row of awards lined up behind the sofa. This was how she was meant to live.

A sudden movement caught her eye. A black and white cat stood on the back of the sofa staring at her with feline wariness, its back arched defensivly. Athene loathed nearly all animals save horses, which she rode with masterful skill. Yet she had learned from her research that Criss was very much attached to his cat--what was its name again? Didn't matter, it was still in the way.

She walked over to the sofa, scooped up the cat, carried it to the door and tossed it out of the suite. There, now since that was out of the way, she could put her plan into action. She couldn't wait to see the expression on Criss' face when he saw the surprise she had in mind for him!

[RACHEL02189]

That's a give away that someone in his suite if Hammie is outside

[Veritas]

12:00 am to 1:00 am:

Hidden deep in the heart of the Luxor Hotel was the video surveillance room. Banks of monitors lined the walls, showing images of every square inch of the hotel, from the atrium to the apex and beyond. The casinos were heavily watched, not only for cheaters or troublemakers, but for any signs of dishonesty among its own employees. Even the most inocuous areas, such as the corridors to the hotel rooms or the elevator foyers were under constant scrutiny. If there was even a hint of suspicious activity, the alert went out and the situation bought under control, usually with someone ending up in handcuffs. Almost nothing escaped the "eye in the sky", as the overhead cameras were commonly called.

"There's a possible misdeal on Fifty-One. Please confirm."

"Acknowledged."

"Confirm accident on Forty-Seven, copy?"

"Minor slip and fall, no injuries."

"Affirmative."

"Negative on Fifty-One. Dealer error."

"Affirmative."

"We got a B and E in the Top Suite. Female, dark hair, seen entering using keycard. Please investigate, copy?"

"Copy, affirmative."

"We got a D and D on Thirty-Two, two males in a fight. Copy?"

"Copy, we're on it."

"Uh, we've lost visual on Twenty-Seven."

"Damn! That thing was supposed to be fixed! Call the damn electrician again!"

"Maintenance? We lost visual in the Accounting Office, can you reconnect?"

"Top Suite, door opening. Someone's throwing something out the door."

"Can you get a fix on it?"

"Right there. It's a cat!"

"That girl probably tossed it out. We got someone on it?"

"Affirmative."

"Wait, we got visual back on Twenty-Seven again."

"Anything out of the ordinary?"

"Negative."

"Must have been a glitch. Have that electrician check on it, anyway."

"Affirmative."





Hammie gazed around in bewilderment. He had been napping on the back of the sofa, as was his habit, when some stranger came in, scooped him up and tossed him unceremoniously out the door. Instinctivly landing on his feet, he recovered his bearings and padded down the hall, exploring his surroundings.

Walls. Everywhere, walls. No cushions, no pillows, nowhere to perch. Hammie padded on, turning a corner to the elevator foyer. More walls, but there was one little room that was open. Curious, he padded inside, sniffing for any clues to tell him where he was. Suddenly, two doors slid shut, trapping him inside. Hammie paced around and around, looking for a way out. The walls were solid. Hammie yowled and yowled again, but no sound could penetrate the thick steel elevator car. He was a prisoner.




Filibuster was going strong, especially with Criss Angel on the drums. He played his parts so well it was as if he had been a long-time member of the band. And he was having fun!

Lyn and Stacy were rocking along with him, busting the best moves they knew. It was liberating to dance just for the sake of dancing, instead of being drilled by a choreographer. Lyn spun in caffiene-induced ecstacy, while Stacy was almost serpentine in her moves. Criss was good, they thought. Hell, he was better than good! He was great!

Julia, the bartender, was also amazed. She knew that Criss Angel was a magician, but that he also played the drums was news to her. Geez! Wasn't there anything this guy couldn't do? she wondered. Impulsivly she mixed a fruit drink for him, just for bringing in more business. She summoned a waiter and asked him to deliver it to him, and to tell him it was on the house.

The set finished to loud applause. "Thank you!" Pierce called out loudly. "We are Filibuster! With special guest drummer, Criss Angel!"

Criss stood up and took a bow, the spotlight squarely on him. The waiter slipped up behind the stage and offered Criss the drink. "From Julia, the bartender," he said. "On the house."

"Well, thank her for me," Criss smiled gratefully and drained it in a few gulps, his thirst from drumming seeming to rise up like a tsunami. Suddenly, he felt a bit light-headed, realizing that his drink had some alcohol in it. He should not have drunk it so fast, and he already had his quota for the evening. Criss was worried. Would he be sober enough to drive back home? The last thing he wanted was a DUI charge, or worse, but he couldn't very well leave an extremely expensive sports car here at the club just to take a cab.

He looked at the two dancers from his show, Lyn and Stacy. Maybe they could help, he thought. He slipped away from the drumkit and trotted up to them.

"Look, you gotta help me," he pleaded.

"Sure, Criss," Lyn assured him. "Anything you want."

"I need you to drive me back to the Luxor," he explained. "I had two drinks that's gonna put me over the limit, and I can't risk it."

Lyn looked at Stacy, who nodded. "Sure, no problem. When do you want to go."

"Now," he insisted.




Steve's heart pounded as she snaked his way past the security cameras, keeping well within the blind spots. It had been easy planning the break-in, but he never thought the breaking out would be so nerve-wracking. Where was he? he wondered.

He pictured the layout in his mind. He had diagrammed his entry, but he had fumbled the escape. All he saw was blank wallspace all around him--it seemed Accounting didn't go for interior decorating. He had to move fast; his blind spot was shrinking.

He slipped out the nearest door he could find. Once he got his bearings, he looked up and cursed himself for his blunder. Instead of the back exit, he was in the hotel offices themselves, and they were monitored three-hundred and sixty degrees by security cameras.

Steve thought fast. He'd been in the offices before, to check in for repairs to the slots. He could fall back on his emergency-repair alibi if questioned. He just had to stay cool and not act suspicious. He pretended to go to the desk, but finding no one there, he stepped out casually into the atrium. The leather bag of money seemed to weigh him down like an anchor--or was it his conscience?

He had to get to the back door. If he went through the repair room, that would allay suspicion, he figured. He kept his head down and walked briskly to the service entrance. So far, so good, he could--wait! A security guard was coming! Panic clouded his judgement--he had to ditch the money and fast!

He saw a baggage cart laden with suitcases not too far away, belonging to some late night arrival or checkout. He sidled up to it as discreetly as he could and slipped the bag of money on the cart, out of sight of the guard, then strolled casually to the service entrance. So far, so good. It was a guard who knew him by name, fortunatly. Maybe he could bluff his way past if he was cool enough.

The guard kept walking. "Hey, Steve," he greeted him in a friendly tone.

Steve pasted on a smile. "Hey, Jerry! Good to see you."

"What are you doing here this time of night?" Jerry asked.

"Oh, you know, the usual," Steve shrugged indifferently. "Some (bleeper) tried to trigger the release mechanism on one of the slots and (bleeped) up the works!"

"Funny, I don't remember getting a call on it."

"Oh, they caught him red-handed, just like that," Steve said quickly, snapping his fingers for emphasis. "Anyway, management's got a bug up its ass to get it fixed. A broken slot machine doesn't make money, you know."

Jerry nodded. "Well, I'll let you do your job; I gotta get back to mine."

Steve smiled. "Okay, later."

Jerry waved back and returned to his rounds. Steve breathed a sigh of relief. Then he looked for the baggage rack. It was gone.




Man! What a show! Gary said to himself. He was tired, but it was a good tired, a satisfied tired, not the tired he felt coming home from his dead-end job, dreading another showdown with Irene. If he was lucky, she'd still be asleep when he returned to the room.

There was an elevator open, with an attendant struggling with a luggage rack. Gary was feeling so good he did something he seldom did in his life: he actually helped another human being. Steadying the rack for the attendant on the other side, it slid into the elevator with ease. The attendant thanked him.

"Mind if I squeeze in?" he asked.

"Not at all," said the attendant.

The elevator doors closed. Gary pressed Twelve. "Nine, please?" requested the attendant.

"Sure." He pressed Nine. The two men swiftly rode up the elevator until it stopped at the ninth floor. The doors slid open.

"Need a hand with that?" Gary asked.

"Nah, I got it," replied the attendant. "Thanks anyway."

"No problem."

The doors slid shut already. It was only three more floors up, and Gary was on the twelfth floor. He moved to leave the elevator when his foot struck something on the floor. He lookd down and saw a large leather bag at his feet.

Holy cow! Gary thought. That guy dropped this! I'd better see who it belongs to.

Gary picked up the bag and stepped out of the elevator. He examined the bag for any ID tags, but found none. Then he noticed the bag was open. Pretty careless. He decided to look inside, just to check for some sort of identification, of course. He opened the bag wider. His jaw dropped to the floor when he saw the contents. [My God! he exclaimed mentally, It's full of money! Holy (bleep)! I'm rich!

[RACHEL02189]

oh boy

[Veritas]

1:00 am to 2:00 am:

Steve sat in the repair room, gathering his wits. He cursed himself for losing all that money in a moment of blind panic, dropping it onto that luggage rack and leaving it there, and now it was gone. To look for it would draw suspicion; he already had one close call with Jerry from security. How the hell was he going to explain this to Vic? Hey, Vic, a funny thing happened on the way to the exit. I set the bag on a luggage rack and the bellhop took it! Oh, yeah, Vic was really gonna get a big laugh out of that, for sure--if he didn't break his kneecaps with a baseball bat first.

If the bag was on the luggage rack, then whosever's luggage was that must be in that person's room. But what was Steve going to do, go up to that person's room, knock on the door and ask for it? Hi, my name's Steve. I do believe you have a bag that belongs to me--black leather, shoulder strap, has two million dollars in it? You do? Oh, gee, thanks! Yeah, like that was going to happen. He'd get busted for sure. Whoever had it probably found it by now and was whooping it up over their newfound riches, or was returning it out of some Boy Scout sense of honor. Either way, Steve Packard was screwed.

Or was he?

By morning, the cash would be reported missing. If whatever good luck Steve still possessed held, the cash would be traced to the person whose luggage had been delivered. He had kept in the camera blind spots, so no one knew it was he who stole the money. He could walk out of here clean, and that poor sucker would be left holding the bag. They wouldn't find any of his fingerprints because he had worn gloves; the only prints they'd find would be on the guy who picked up the bag.

But what if that poor sucker decided to come clean himself, do the right thing and return it all to the hotel? Well, he was still undetected, and the hotel would get its money back, safe and sound, and no charges would be pressed. The last thing the Luxor brass wanted was a breach of security to be made public; it was supposed to be impenetrable, especially where its cash reserves are concerned. No one wanted to stay in a hotel where the money's not safe. It'd all be returned, and the whole affair kept hush-hush, no questions asked. In the meantime, he'd keep behind the scenes, doing his job repairing slot machines in the shop, totally beneath suspicion.

But what to tell Vic? He bloody well couldn't tell him he lost it. He'd be crippled for life, assuming Vic let him live. Not even a little white lie, such as saying they had changed the combination would placate him. Suddenly, a workable scenario played in his mind: he would dash over to the van, panicked, out of breath, saying that security had spotted him, that they were hot on his heels, there was no time to save him, but go! Save yourself, he'd tell him. Knowing Vic, he wouldn't hesitate to save his own skin. Yeah, that might work.

That would solve one problem. The money was the other. If only he knew who had it...




I'm rich! I'm so bloody, stinking rich! At last, things are going my way! Twenty-five hundred at the casino, and now a fortune falls at my feet! Gary Brighton, you must be living right!

Gary was walking on air all the way up to his hotel room. He playfully tapped out a drumbeat along the walls of the corridor, humming to himself. He couldn't remember a time when he felt this good, at least not when he was sober. Only when he stopped at the door of his suite did reality come back to haunt him. He stood there, undecided.

What the hell do I tell Irene? That greedy, selfish (bleep) would blow the whole wad! I gotta be careful! I gotta hide this somewhere where she'll never find it. But where?

He slid his keycard in the slot and entered. The whole suite was dark. He could make out Maury's sleeping form on the sofa. No sign of Irene anywhere. His luck still held, he thought. He slipped in, quietly closed the door, and allowed his night vision to adjust to the shadows of the room. Once he got his bearings, he looked around for a suitable place to hide the money. Forget the bedroom. The bathroom was no good, either. Under the sofa was too obvious. There had to be someplace...

Hold the phone! There was a little kitchenette just off to the side there. That would be the last place Irene would look for anything. Irene hated to cook, and when she did attempt to make a meal, it was a disaster; the only thing she knew how to make for dinner was reservations. She'd never find it there.

Gary tiptoed carefully to the kitchennette. He was halfway there when his luck ran out. He tripped over the leg of a side table and went crashing down onto the floor. A lamp tumbled on top of him, conking him on the head. Gary let out a few choice words for the Luxor's arrangement of its furniture as he untangled his legs. All of a sudden he was blinded by the light, turned on by a startled, angry Irene. Gary winced at the sudden brightness.

"Gary!" Irene cried out, storming up to him. "What the hell is the matter with you? Do you have any idea wh--?"

She stopped in mid-nag at the sight of wads of cash spewed all over the floor. Maury, startled awake by all the commotion, peeked over the sofa arm at her father lying on the floor with a lot of money. Both mother and daughter stared in amazement at this windfall. Gary groaned in pain and disappointment over his discovery. "Gee, Daddy," Maury said, wide-eyed. "Did you win all that?"

Daddy thought fast. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I sure did, sweetheart," he answered, playing to the hilt. "Daddy won all this money tonight." He faced Irene with a threatening look on his face. "Yeah, it all belongs to Daddy, doesn't it, Mommy?"

Irene was not intimidated in the least. She faced him squarely, steeling herself for a fight. "It may belong to 'Daddy'," she retorted through gritted teeth, "but he still has to share it with 'Mommy', no matter what."

Gary struggled to his feet. "Oh, really?" he sneered.

"Yes, really," Irene snapped. "Aren't you forgetting something? For richer, for poorer, and all that? I stuck with you 'for poorer', now comes the 'richer' part of the deal! You got a family to consider, remember?"

"Oh, like you care!" Gary shot back. "You couldn't even take time to feed our kid today! I had some security guard call me out because she was out there, starving to death!"

"I had a migraine headache!"

"Ah, you and your migraines! You're (bleep)-poor excuse for a mother, you know that?"

"That's right, Gary," Irene challenged. "Bring it on!"

Maury could tell that another fight was brewing. She knew from firsthand experience that when her parents fought about money, it would be the equivilent of an F-5 hurricane, and she had to take shelter fast. But where could she go? If she was at home, she could have gone to her room, or down the basement, or even under the big pine tree, her favorite spot in the whole world, and waited for the all clear. But she was here in Las Vegas, no room or tree anywhere.

She slipped out of the suite unnoticed as her parents battled it out, closing the door behind her softly. It was quiet in the hall. That was the nice thing about this hotel, she thought. It was nice and quiet. Maury trotted to the elevator bank and pushed DOWN. Maybe she could find her "real" daddy, Criss Angel.

The elevator in front of her opened. To Maury's surprise, there was a cat in there, a pretty one, white with black, brown and gold speckles. It looked at her, just as surprised as she was. For the first time since she could remember, Maury felt a smile spread across her thin face. She always wanted a cat of her own, but her mother always said no.

"Hello, kittycat!" she said, kneeling down and stroking the animal's soft fur. "What's your name?"

Kittycat didn't respond in words, but accepted the child's caresses willingly.

"Wanna go downstairs and look for Criss Angel?" she asked the cat. "You do? Okay, let's go look for him."

Maury picked up the cat and pressed the button for the main floor. "He's really nice, you know," she went on. "I think you'd like him!"



Dimitra awoke with a start. She looked at the clock on the bedside. One-thirty AM. She did a quick mental calculation: it was four-thirty AM New York time. She has always been an early riser; over the years she had risen before the sun rose, even in summertime, to fix breakfast for her husband before he went to open his cafes, then for her sons before they went to school. The three-hour time difference had thrown her out of kilter.

Well, there was no use going back to sleep now. She rose and turned on the bedlight, then fished around for that novel she had been reading on the plane. She pulled out her small toilet kit, a clear plastic zippered bag, to ease her search. She found the novel, but upon replacing the bag, she discovered that through some oversight she had forgotten her Omega-3 pills.

Dimitra was concerned. Since her heart operation, the doctor recommended Omega-3 to maintain good cardiovascular health. She didn't want another heart scare like the one two or three years ago. She sighed heavily. Dima, you're getting forgetful in your old age!

Well, since she was wide awake, she might as well go down and get some more. The pharmacy was closed, but there was a small sundry shop in the lobby. Maybe they had some. Normally she would have been uneasy about going out at this time of night, but she was safe here at the Luxor. Safe as Heaven, her Christopher had told her on her first visit, and almost as beautiful. Indeed the Luxor Hotel was beautiful, so she could forgive that bit of blasphemy on his part.

Dimitra dressed and picked up her purse. Making doubly sure she had her keycard, she stepped out of the door, walked to the elevator banks, and rode down to the atrium. Now, where was that shop again? She'd been there before. Ah, Dima! You are getting old! Maybe you should take those vitamins that improve your memory as well!

As she walked around the atrium, she noticed a little girl in a thin nightdress, barefoot, holding a cat that looked a lot like Hammie. Wait! It was Hammie! It had to be! Hammie was the only cat in the entire hotel. How did that little girl get hold of him?

Dimitra walked up to the child. Her face, arms and legs were almost as thin as her nightie. Too thin, conjuring up memories of the war years back in Greece. No, she told herself. No remembering. It was sixty years ago, it is all in the past. It was a different time then.

She stooped over to speak to the little girl. "Hello, darling," she greeted the child. "Are you lost or something?"

"No," she said. "Kittycat and me are looking for Criss Angel. We wanna see him."

Dimitra sighed inwardly. Such was the fame of her youngest son. "Where's your mother?" she asked. "Does she know you're out here? She must be very worried about you."

The little girl's face fell. "Mom and Dad are fighting over a big bag of money he won in the casino."

"Oh, dear!" Dimitra murmured. It must have been a terrible fight to force a young child out of the room like that, she thought. Now what should she do?

"Excuse me, ma'am?" a man's voice spoke up firmly but politely.

Dimitra rose. A security guard stood there. She knew his face--indeed, she knew most of the staff either by name or face in the years she had been coming to the Luxor. The entire staff, on the other hand, knew her almost as well as her own family, thanks to Criss Angel's television show.

"Is there a problem here?" the guard asked.

Help at last. "Yes, this little girl wandered off from her hotel room, and it seems she found my son's cat as well. Could you help us, please?"

"My pleasure, ma'am." The guard stooped down to the child's eye level. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Maury Brighton."

"Well, Maury Brighton, what are you doing down here? Don't you know it's past your bedtime?"

"Well, Mom and Dad are fighting again," Maury explained, "over Dad winning a big bag of money."

The guard nodded. "Oh, I see. You know what room you're in?"

"One-Two-Seven-Nine."

"Well, I think maybe they've patched things up by now, so let's get you back, okay?"

Maury doubted it, but she nodded anyway. She looked up at Dimitra. "Is this your kittycat?" she asked her, a twinge of sadness in her voice.

Dimitra scooped up the cat, smiling. "This is Christopher's cat," she replied.

Maury's eyes widened. "You mean, Criss Angel's cat?"

"Yes, it's Criss Angel's cat. His name's Hammie. Now, you'd better get back to your room before your parents get worried about you."

"Come on, sweetheart," the guard said. "Let's go."

"Good-bye, Hammie," Maury called out as she followed the guard. "Good-bye, Mrs. Angel."

"Good-bye," Dimtra said, waving. "Good night, Maury, take care."

Maury gave Dimitra a feeble wave in reply as she was led away by the guard to her parent's suite. Satisfied over her good deed, Dimitra turned to the business of returning Hammie back to her son's suite.

"Now how did you get out, Hammie?" she asked the cat. "Hmmm? Did Christopher let you out? Or did you escape? Well, we'd better get you back. He'll be very upset if he sees you running around like this."

She carried Hammie to the elevators. Then she realized she didn't have a special pass to get to Criss' suite. Oh, dear. Well, she was well known enough to convince the security guards to let her up, just to return his cat. In fact, two were approaching her now.

Dagmar and Royce saw her, the Queen Mother, standing by the elevators, Criss' cat in her arms. That was a great suspicion: usually Hammie remained in the Top Suite, coming down only with Criss himself. It must have something to do with the break-in.

"Good evening, Mrs. D.," Royce greeted her politely.

"Good evening," Mrs. D. responded. "Could you help me get Hammie back up to Chris' suite? I don't know how he got out."

"Yes, ma'am," Royce agreed.

Dagmar, however, got to the point. "There was a break-in in the Top Suite, ma'am," he told her. "That's probably how the cat got out."

A break-in! "Oh, dear," Dimitra said fearfully. "Oh, dear Lord!"

"We're going up to investigate, ma'am," Dagmar said. "You think you could see if anything was stolen?"

"Well, I'll...I'll try."

"Don't worry, Mrs. D.," Royce assured her. "We won't let anything happen to you."

Up to the Top Suite they went. Dagmar accessed the door and entered first, telling Dimitra to stay put just in case. Casing the room, he saw nothing amiss. He waved his partner inside. Royce entered, searching for any signs of theft or damage, but found nothing amiss.

"Okay, Mrs. D.," Royce said. "You can come in, now."

Dimitra entered the suite, clutching Hammie fearfully. She looked around her son's suite. Nothing seemed to be missing--his awards were lined up behind the sofa, as usual. Nothing was broken as far as she could see. Maybe the bedroom...?

She crossed over to the bedroom and opened the door. If the door was closed, it meant Christopher was in there, and she didn't want to disturb him. She peeked inside with a mother's careful eye, checking on her sleeping son to see if he was all right.

There was someone sleeping in bed, but it was not Christopher. She flicked on the light and dropped Hammie in shock. She saw the naked figure of Athene Christopolous in her son's bed. The naked woman stirred, turned over, then bolted upright, clutching the bedclothes in front of her.

Dimitra's shock turned to outrage. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?!" she shrieked. "GET OUT! GET OUT OF HERE AT ONCE!"

Dagmar and Royce bolted to the bedroom. Dimitra flung away the covers, exposing Athene's nude body for the two guards to see, then started scooping up her clothes to fling at her. "OUT!" she screamed angrily. "OUT! GET OUT!"

Athene received a faceful of silk and leather. She bundled her clothes in front of her--no time to put them on--and ran out of the bedroom as fast as she could, but not fast enough to avoid a painful smack! on her bare behind from an outraged Dimitra. Athene yelped, whirling around to face her attacker. "How dare you!" she snarled.

Dagmar and Royce looked at each other knowingly. Each had a decade of service keeping the peace here at the Luxor, and just when they thought they had seen everything, here was the famous Athene Christopolous in Criss' suite. Never a dull moment around here.

Dagmar returned to the business at hand. "Ma'am, you'll have to come with us."

"But I was invited by Criss himself," she explained. "He arranged for me to be here."

Royce could tell by the expression on Mrs. D.'s face that Athene was lying through her pearly white teeth. Dags wasn't buying it, either. Royce took Athene by the arm and pulled her to the door.

"Come along, ma'am," he said in that firmly polite tone of all security personnel.

"No! I won't!" Athene stormed. "I'm not going, and that's final!"

Her words ended in another shriek of pain caused by the back of Dimitra's hand on her ass. The force of the blow propelled her towards the door. Clutching her bundle of clothes, Athene was forcibly escorted out of the suite. As the door opened for her, she glared at Dimtra one last time.

"This is all your fault, you old crone!" she snapped as she stumbled out of the hallway, only to receive another spank from an enraged Dimitra, in full view of the eye in the sky. She watched as Dagmar and Royce frogmarched the naked and disgraced heiress to the elevator.

Lost children, runaway cats, strange women in my son's bed--what a night! Dimitra thought. And she never got her Omega-3, either.