[Veritas]

The next morning threatened rain from the Northwest; the skies over Las Vegas were charcoal grey with the occasional flash of lightning and the distant rumble of thunder. From his suite on top of the Luxor Hotel, Criss could see the approaching storm rolling in. No outdoor taping today, he thought, not with the weather the way it was. Criss had always prided himself on being in control of all his demonstrations, planning them to the smallest detail to insure his safety and its success, but the one thing he could never control was the weather; like everyone and everything on the planet Earth, he was at the mercy of the elements.

He turned away from the window, picked up his keycard, and left his suite to go to the production office. Since taping was cancelled for today, it would be a good time to catch up on the paperwork. Few people outside the MindFreak crew were aware of the white-collar end of showbusiness: the phone calls, the mail, the filing, the bookkeeping. It was tedious, but necessary, something he had learned from his youth working for Monster Music with his brothers.

Criss entered the quiet office. Again, he found his brother, JD, reading the morning Sun, his feet propped up on his desk. Criss went to fetch a cup of coffee. "Morning, JD," he said.

JD mumbled a good morning in return and went back to his reading. "Anything good in the news today?" Criss asked.

"Is there ever?" JD retorted. "Market's down to seven thousand, drought's gonna raise food prices, and--oh, wait, hold the phone!" JD sat up, grinning in amusement. "Here's something interesting. Some former gangster left his entire fortune to his caregiver--almost nine million dollars."

Criss shrugged. "So?"

"So, his son, his ex-wife, and his daughter by her got completely cut out of the deal--zip, zero, bupkus. Now they're gonna fight it out in court. And here's something else--the caregiver is a part-time employee here at the Luxor."

"Won't be for long," Criss said, sipping his coffee. "Not with nine million dollars."




Another dreary day at St. Benedict's Acadamy in Marvinville, Iowa. Alicia whiled away her study time composing poetry about Criss Angel, all but forgetting her reading assignment on The Dark Night of the Soul for Lit class due that afternoon.

Angel bright as day
Please show me the way
Out of this void...

But what rhymed with "void"? she wondered. Annoyed? Paranoid? Avoid? No, this wasn't working, she thought as she scribbled out the last line and tried again.

Angel bright as day
Please show me the way
Out of this eternal night...

Yes, that was much better, she thought. Now she needed a capper for the last line.

Out of this eternal night
Into your (blank) so bright.

Into his what so bright? His heart! Yeah, that was it! Perfect!

Angel bright as day
Please show me the way
Out of this eternal night
Into your heart so bright.

I fly like a dove
On the wings of Love,
Heavenward I fly
Up into the blue sky.

No, that last line broke the rhythm, she thought. Best to erase "blue".

Heavenward I fly
Up into the sky.

Yes, that worked much better, she thought, but suddenly Alicia came down with a bad case of writer's block; she simply didn't know what to write next. She looked up at the clock and almost panicked. Lit class was in five minutes and she hadn't even read word one of The Dark Night of the Soul. Maybe she could just skim over it, get the general idea of the plot or whatever. She put away her poetry and pulled out the book to speed read it, but St. John the Divine's esoteric masterpiece was too complex for her to understand in one go. Sighing in frustration, she closed the book. Maybe the teacher wouldn't call on her to explain it, she hoped against hope. Maybe Teresa, the school bookworm, would dominate the discussion like she always did; for once that would work in her favor.

The bell clanged loudly, signalling the end of the study period and the beginning of the next class. Suddenly, Alicia wanted to just drop everything and run out of that stifiling building that she had been attending for eight years and would be forced to attend for the next five--just run, run, run all the way to Las Vegas and into Criss' arms, run away from Marvinville, run away from the suffocating dreariness that was her life and start anew in the glitter and neon glow of Vegas, even if for Loyalapalooza in two weeks' time.

Loyalapalooza. The very word conjured up images of shimmering lights, laughter, and rapturous joy, with her beloved Criss in the center of it all, performing miracles with a wave of his hand. He would see her among the faces of the crowds, single her out, and make her his queen. If only she could go, if only, if only...

A tap on the shoulder brought her crashing back to grim reality. "Come on, dearie," Sister Roxanne, the plump nun in charge of the library said. "Stop your woolgathering and get to your next class. Hustle, hustle!"

Sadly, Alicia gathered her books, shoved them into her bookbag and trudged off to her Lit class. As she drifted with the flow of the students, her eye caught something new on a wall next to her classroom. She stopped to read it, if only out of desperate curiosity for anything new.

STUDENT RETREAT

[I]

The Manresa Monastery is hosting its annual Youth Retreat on March **, 20**, through March **, 20**.

[I]

There will be discussion groups, games, Bible study, and other activities. Cost: $65 for three days. Please contact Fr. Boyd for details.

Alicia sniffed in disdain. A three day weekend at a monastery, she thought. Big freakin' deal! If she had sixty-five dollars, she'd go to Loyalapalooza instead of wasting it at some boring monk-fest...

She looked at the poster again and discovered the dates for the retreat were the same days as Loyalapalooza. A plan began to formulate in her mind: if she could convince her mother to give her the money under the premise of going to the retreat, she could go to Loyalapalooza, come back Sunday night, and no one would be the wiser. It was crazy, she knew--crazy enough to work.

Her heart lighter than it had ever been, Alicia skipped into the classroom and took her assigned seat. It didn't matter if she hadn't read St. John the Divine's book anymore; she was going to Loyalapalooza!




Several hundred miles to the west, Michael, Jr., sat in his accustomed chair in the living room of his Las Vegas home, fuming over the latest turn of events. A steady desert rain came pelting down on the flagstone pavement, matching his mood. Yesterday, he had high hopes; today, his dreams were in smouldering ruins after having crashed and burned over the reading of Pop's will. He and his father didn't see eye-to-eye over a lot of things, like Michael, Jr.'s, lifestyle, granted, but he was the legitimate, legal heir to the estate. Why the hell did he have to turn on him like that? Why the hell did he leave all that money to his nurse? She got paid well enough, didn't she?

The reasonable part of his brain told him that maybe they could work out a settlement and avoid court altogether. He'd meet with Cassie or whatever the hell her name was and offer her a few thousand dollars and take the rest. She didn't seem like the gold-digging type, unlike Tina LaRue. Indeed, she was quite deferential, almost timid in a way; he could convince her to take less than three thousand, or even two if he was persuasive enough.

But what if she refused to budge? What if she got greedy all of a sudden and wanted it all? Anyone would, he thought. It was basic human nature to want more than the other guy; greed wasn't a vice, it was an instinct. Then what would he do?

But why deal with her at all? Pop and The Guys had ways of dealing with anyone who got in their way, directly or indirectly. If he could just eliminate the competition altogether, he'd have nothing to worry about. But how? That was the question. How could he quietly and discreetly get rid of that little nurse without it coming back to haunt him?

He'd have to make it look like an accident. Not in the Luxor where she was working now, of course, not with wall-to-wall security cameras; you couldn't go to the crapper without being under surveillance in a place like that. No, he'd have to find out where she lived, how she got to work, and other details. Once he found a weak spot, he'd go from there, and no one would be the wiser. Quick, easy and without witnesses--that was the way Pop and The Guys worked.

And while he was at it, maybe he could do something about Tina as well--kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Michael, Jr., laughed at the appropriateness of that tired metaphor. Kill two birds, feather your nest egg, then fly south of the border and bask in the sun. Free and easy, no shoes, no shirt, no worries. Michael, Jr., looked out at the rain pouring down. Let it rain all it wants, he thought. Tomorrow, he was going bird hunting.

[Veritas]

Casey wheeled her housekeeping cart into the service elevator and slid her keycard into the floor access slot. Her morning assignment was Criss Angel's suite, just like last time with Rosario. Today, however, she would be working alone. It pleased her that they trusted her with such an important task after only two days on the job, but she wished Rosario was there with her; it would make her feel less lonely. At least she would have Criss' kittycat--what was his name again? Sammie? No, Hammie--would have Hammie to keep her company.

The service elevator glided along its incline track up to the top suite. The doors slid open, leading into the foyer. Casey wheeled out her cart and positioned it behind her while she took out the special keycard to open the Presidential Suite. She hesitated for a moment--ought she to knock first? She didn't want to disturb him if he was still sleeping or something. Yes, maybe that would be a good idea. She rapped on the door gently. "Housekeeping," she announced.

No answer. Casey rapped again, louder this time. "Housekeeping," she repeated.

Still no answer. He must be gone, she figured. She slid the keycard into the slot. There was a small click, signalling the door was unlocked. Casey pushed open the door and pulled her cart inside. Inside, the suite was a mess: playing cards, food wrappers and note paper lay scattered all over the floor. Half-empty glass tumblers sat dripping condensation on the side tables, leaving water rings on the finished surfaces, and a heavy denim jacket had been haphazardly tossed on a chair, half falling to the floor.

Casey sighed and began to clear the clutter away. She picked up the heavy jacket and hung it up in the small coat closet by the door, then gathered up the glasses and placed them in her cart to be taken back to the hotel dishroom. She cleaned the water rings left behind as best she could, but it would take a good polish to remove them completely. She sprayed a bit of furniture polish on the table and rubbed vigorously, peeved at the occupant's slovenly ways. "Didn't your mother teach you to clean up after yourself, Criss?" she muttered irritably.

"Actually, she did," a man's voice spoke behind her.

Startled, Casey whirled around. Standing before her, his hair dripping wet from the shower and wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and a mischevious smile, was Criss Angel himself. "But, hey, I'm a guy," Criss went on. "Guys are slobs, you know that."

Casey was flustered. "Ohmigod! Oh, I am so sorry," she stammered nervously, blushing. "I knocked and didn't hear anyone answer so I came in and I...I didn't know you were still here..."

Criss laughed at her discomfort. "Hey, don't sweat it, hon," he said. "But I'm really sorry for the mess we made last night. Late night planning meeting."

"Oh, it's okay, really it is," Casey said with hasty courtesy. "I mean, it's my job to clean up after people, after all, right? It's what they pay me to do here, you know."

Criss returned to the bedroom to dress, relieving Casey of any more embarrassment. Casey went on polishing the furniture, her cheeks flushed beet red. I just saw Criss Angel in a towel! she said to herself, horrified. I didn't know he was here, I swear! If I had known, I would have come back later. Oh, God, I hope I don't get fired for this!

She was still rubbing the water stains from the side table when Criss returned, fully dressed. "You rub any harder and you're gonna wear a hole into that table," he laughed.

Casey looked at the table. Well, the rings were gone, anyway. She crossed over and began on the next table. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you," she said apolgetically. "I knocked twice, but I guess you didn't hear me. I-I mean, if I knew you were still here--"

Criss laid a hand on her shoulder. "Look, don't sweat it, uh... I didn't catch the name."

"Casey," she filled in for him. "Name's Casey."

"Well, don't sweat it, Casey," Criss said reassuringly. "I get surprised all the time by people--fans, photographers, naked women. At least you work here."

Casey forced herself to relax. For a major celebrity, Criss Angel was a pretty nice guy, she thought, not at all stuck up or self-centered. Maybe that was less true when you had to work with him, but he seemed pretty normal enough. At least he wasn't angry about her coming into his suite without his knowing about it.

She stood up from the side table. There, the rings were gone, and all that was left was the paper all over the floor. Across the room, Criss was tending to his cat, Hammie, giving him a can of cat food and cleaning his litter box--a definate sign of non-snobbery, Casey thought. A lot of celebrities wouldn't deign to pick up a piece of paper off the floor, let alone clean a cat box. She did not object in the least when Criss made it clear that the cat's business was his alone; her job was to clean the suite only. "Of course, if it starts to smell when I'm not here," he continued, "you'd better take care of it, or I'm gonna have the management and the health department on my case."

Casey nodded. She had no aversion to cleaning a litter box. She liked cats. She had always wanted one, but her mother was allergic and her father hated them. She had hoped by now that she'd have her own place and could finally have a pet, but Dad got injured at work, the disability check stretched only so far (and it wasn't far enough these days, not with rising food and gas prices), and Benny wouldn't get off his sorry butt and get a job to save his life, so Casey remained in the family home to support them. Maybe someday she would have a cat of her own.

"Well, I'm off to work," Criss said. "Don't light a match in the bathroom, though."

Casey smiled in chagrin. "I get it," she returned, knowing what he meant.

Criss left the suite. Casey finished sweeping up the litter on the floor and turned to the bedroom. Inside, Hammie lay on the rumpled bedclothes, his tail flicking idly. Casey stooped down to pet him. "Hi, Hammie," she cooed. "How you doing this morning?"

Hammie accepted Casey's caresses and returned to his morning doze before breakfast. Casey decided to tackle the bathroom first. The pungent man-smell of sulfur and methane mixed with shaving cream assaulted her nostrils as she stepped into the steamy bathroom. What did he have for dinner last night? she wondered. Pizza? Mexican food? Whatever caused it, it was her duty to clean it up. After living with two men in her family, she thought she'd be used to it by now. At least here she was getting paid for it.





Downstairs, someone had observed Casey going through the service entrance around back, go into the housekeeping room, get a cart full of cleaning supplies, then head for the service elevator--all without being detected, at least by her. The cameras above watched only a confused tourist who must have taken the wrong entrance into the hotel and decided to go back out to find the right one. Perfectly natural, probably happened before, no big deal. The observer knew where she worked; now to find out where she lived.

It could have been easy to gun her down in the street, or at least in front of her house, but there would be too many witnesses and the CSI eggheads would trace it. No, it had to look like an accident. It would take time to make sure it was done right. Find out where she lived first, then go on from there. The probate hearing wasn't until two weeks from now. There was plenty of time.

[Veritas]

The rain spattered on the brick pavement, hissing like a steak on a grill. Inside his spacious mansion on the outskirts of Las Vegas, Springs sat at his dining room table, sorting out the photographs from the cigar box. They were just what he needed to finish the book he was writing. Springs had a knack for words; he loved crossword and Jumble puzzles and was a pro at Scrabble. He had always wanted to be a writer or a journalist, but the Depression and the war that followed put an end to his literary dreams. After the war he joined up with his old buddies Mick and Blusey and formed The Guys in Las Vegas. Writing didn't pay all that great, anyway, Springs had reasoned. Racketeering was more profitable.

Now that he was "retired" from the rackets, he could do what he had always wanted to do--write a book about The Guys of Glitter Gulch. He had spent years gathering remnants of Las Vegas's golden era during the Forties and Fifties from the other Guys and their families: photos, playbills, programs; assorted trinkets like gold-plated cigarette cases and a diamond tie pin reputedly belonging to the infamous Bugsy Siegel; even a rejected part of a floor plan for the Flamingo, the first grand hotel and casino. But it was Mick who had the real treasure: the pictures of The Guys in their heyday and after. Mick's first wife, Josie (God rest her soul), had been a real shutterbug when she was alive. She could take an ordinary Kodak Brownie camera and turn out small works of art from it. Every family gathering, every wedding of their kids, Mick's and the other Guys's, every vacation spot, and every casino from the Flamingo to Mirage, Josie snapped the pictures. Mick said if she hadn't married him, she could have gone to work for a major newspaper.

Josie Piccucci had been a real looker in her day, a natural beauty, not like those other women who had to use makeup to make themselves attractive. Unlike the other Guys whose marriages ended in divorce (Springs himself had two under his belt; mercifully, both his ex-wives remarried before the alimony payments could bankrupt him), Mick and Josie stayed until death did them part. After thirty-four years of married bliss, Josie came down with heart disease and died sometime in the late Seventies. Springs remembered the funeral Mass: Mick cried throughout the whole service. Josie had been the one stabilizing force in his tulmultuous life, standing by her man through thick and thin, good times and bad, court hearings and FBI investigations. They didn't make women like that anymore, Springs thought.

He picked up one photo in particular, a picture of Mick and Tina on Catalina during their courtship days. Mick's arm was wrapped tightly around Tina's slender waist, while Tina posed seductively by his side, one shapely leg up in the air, her tiny red bikini top ready to give way to the strain of supporting her huge bosom. Springs looked at it with distaste, then tossed it onto the floor. That was one memory he wanted to erase. Tina was the type of woman who made Alzheimer's look good.

Mick had mourned Josie's death deeply, yet only five years later, Mick shacked up with Tina LaRue and married her within six months after their first meeting. She had been a stripper of some reknown, with gazongas like cantelopes and an ass that wouldn't quit. Springs knew she was a gold-digger from the start, but Mick was smitten with her so bad he couldn't talk him out of marrying her. Marry in haste, repent in leisure, his mother had said, and that was true for Mick and Tina. They stayed together long enough to have a daugher, Heather, a quiet, skinny girl who seemed intimidated by her gangster father and shrewish mother, and so kept to herself. Mick was in his sixties at the time, but still naturally virile. Tina spent a fortune on beauty products, more out of personal vanity than out of a desire to please her husband. Yet Mick cursed himself for his mistake throughout their married life while enduring the demands of his second wife for money and sex, in that order.

Tina and Mick divorced around the beginning of the Nineties. Tina was the one who filed first, of course, claiming loss of affection or some such BS. Thank God Close came by and got Mick out of that damn pre-nup she strong-armed him into signing before they married, or else Mick would have been reduced to a charity case. Tina got custody of Heather and a smaller settlement than what she bargained for, leaving her even more ill tempered than ever. Springs still rememebered the huge sigh of relief Mick breathed when Tina stormed out of the courtroom after their divorce trial, yanking Heather along by the arm as she left.

The last decade of the twentieth century passed without incident. The few remaining members of The Guys of Glitter Gulch, Springs, Mick, Andrew "Shorty" Hyneman, and Robert "Blusey" Bluseman had gathered at Mick's place to welcome the turn of the twenty-first century with brandy and cigars, rehashing old memories and hardly believing they had lived long enough to see this momentious event. After that, the past began to fade, and besides all hell breaking loose on Nine-Eleven, the loss of Shorty to cirrosis of the liver and Blusey to a heart attack, life was just a round of golf, poker, and an occasional trip to one of the classic casinos in Glitter Gulch before the wrecking ball arrived. Now, Mick was gone, and Springs, the last surviving member of The Guys, was left to tell their story.

Springs sorted the photographs by category: personal family photos of wives and kids, pictures of the old casinos like the Silver Slipper, the Mirage, the Flamingo, and the Ranchero in their heyday, and The Guys posing with such celebrities as Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis, Jr., Carol Channing, and other luminaries, as well as photos of Bugsy Siegel, Meyer Lansky, and "Lucky" Luciano. It seemed the whole history of Las Vegas was contained in that single wooden cigar box sitting on Springs' dining room table.

He picked up another photo of Tina and Mick, and again tossed it to the floor, then another and another. It was as if he could erase Tina's existance with a single sweep of an arm, but the recent memory of Mick's will reading could not drive it away. He knew Tina would stop at nothing to get Mick's money. Well, he would make damn sure that she didn't get a nickel of it, for Mick's sake. It was the only way to avenge his late friend and business partner short of murder, although the latter was beginning to look better and better as he thought about it.

[Veritas]

"Me?"

Casey stared incredulously at the dark-suited man standing before her in the housekeeper's office that morning. When she had been summoned by the management to go to the office before beginning her shift, she had assumed the worst: they were letting her go, she had done something wrong, there was a complaint against her. Instead she had found Mr. Piccucci's lawyer, Mr. Close, of all people, standing there waiting to meet her. As if that wasn't surprising enough, Mr. Close informed her that she was the sole heir to Mr. Piccucci's estate. Through some discreet inquiries, Mr. Close found out about Casey's fill-in position at the Luxor Hotel and decided to meet her there instead of driving all the way to her home to tell her the news.

When Casey heard the news, she almost fainted from shock. Mr. Piccucci leaving all his money to her? What about his son? Wasn't he supposed to get it all? Why did Mr. Piccucci cut his own son out of his will? Casey kept out of the family politics as a rule, out of respect to her employer and the common sense decision that it was none of her concern, but she could not help but wonder why Mr. Piccucci disinherited his own son? Did they have some sort of falling out in the past? What had happened?

"But-but-but...why?" she stammered. "What about his son? What's going to happen to him?"

"Well, Mick--I mean, Mr. Piccucci--felt that you were the only one who wasn't greedy enough to care about his money," Close replied. "His son has a reputation for being a playboy and a womanizer, and his ex-wife, Tina, is, to put it politely, a gold-digger. Michael, Jr., would just squander it all like he did when he was single, and he refused to have anything to do with Tina. Springs is too old, but was still Mick's former business partner, so he got half a million, just out of friendship."

Casey sat down in the nearest chair, her head spinning. "What am I going to do now?" she wailed. "I didn't want Mr. Piccucci's money; I just wanted to take care of him and support my family."

"You can do more than just support your family with nine million dollars, hon," the housekeeping manager said.

"Look, Casey," Close said. "The family and Tina are going to contest the will in court. I'll take care of everything, okay? It's going to be a few weeks before you have to appear in court--"

"Appear in court?" Casey was horrified.

"Now, now, you're not being charged with a crime," Close assured her. "Just as one of the contestors, that's all. I'll be representing you all the way. And don't worry about fees--it'll all come out of the inheritance. Just show up in court and I'll do the rest."

Casey wavered. "I just can't believe this is happening to me," she said. "But could you do me a favor, Mr. Close?

"Sure."

"Don't tell anyone about this, okay? I don't want people to know about this. God knows what will happen to me and my family."

"All right, Casey," Close said. "I promise."

"Thank you."

Close picked up his briefcase. "Well, I've done what I came here to do," he said, "and now I'll take my leave. Good day, ladies."

Casey feebly waved good-bye as Close walked out of the office. She looked at the housekeeping manager in despair. "What do I do now?" she whimpered.

"Punch in, pick up your room assignment and get to work, I guess," the manager replied with a shrug. "You still have a few weeks before you can claim your inheritance, anyway."

"If I can claim it," Casey said. "They're gonna sue me for it, and I know they're gonna win. They have more claim to it than I do."

The manager put a comforting hand on Casey's shoulder. "Don't be too sure about that, hon," she said. "The court may just rule in your favor. Who knows? In a few weeks, you could be rolling in dough. Now, you get to work."

Casey nodded and staggered out of the office. She should be elated to have inherited nine million dollars, she thought--anyone would be. She should be doing backflips down the corridor, calling her mother with the good news, planning a bright future for herself. Instead, she was filled with dread, her spirits as dark and dank as the weather outside. The Piccuccis would savage her in court, shred her to ribbons with their high-priced lawyers; even with Mr. Close's help, she didn't stand a chance. They were a mob family, not above using underhanded tactics--even murder--to get what they want. Casey couldn't help but feel that her days were numbered, and those numbers were fewer than she thought.

With a heavy heart, Casey went into the housekeeper's room to pick up her room assignments and her cleaning cart. The other maids looked up as she entered. "Well, look who's here!" one jeered. "The Piccucci heiress herself!"

Casey felt her stomach tie itself in a knot. "Huh? How did you--"

A newspaper was thrust in her face. "It's in the paper, doll!" the maid said. "That old gangster left you with all of his ill-gotten gains!"

"So, how does it feel to be rich all of a sudden?" another maid asked.

"Look, guys," Casey began, "I really don't want--"

"You don't want to be seen with us?" the first maid interrupted. "Boy, did you turn into a snob all of a sudden!"

"No! It's not that at all!" Casey protested. "The thing is I don't want this to happen to me. I'm in trouble here, guys!"

"What kind of trouble can you get into with nine million dollars?"

"With nine million dollars," a jovial black housekeeper said, "any kind of trouble you want, honey!"

There was laughter all around. Casey's heart sank. It was no use trying to convince any of them about the danger she faced by inheriting the estate of a former mobster. Worse, her inheritance was now public knowledge, thanks to some nosy reporter. Now everyone knew who she was. Sadly, she picked up the clipboard with her room assignments and wheeled her cart out of the closet. At least she didn't have to wear a name tag on her uniform; that way, no one could inquire too closely about her as she worked.

Why me, God? she wailed inwardly. Why did it have to be me? Why couldn't I have won the lottery instead of getting Mr. Piccucci's money? Now I got the mob after me. Why did it have to be me?

[RACHEL02189]

That girl is going to ahve a stoke when she finds out what she has coming to her

[Veritas]

Alicia stood quietly at the counter of the secondhand music store while the clerk appraised the CDs she had bought in to sell. She hoped to get a good price for them, enough to get her to Las Vegas and back, or at least one way. Many were old favorites of hers, like the Backstreet Boys and NSync, but it was worth the sacrifice if it meant seeing Criss Angel. She would have sold everything she owned to go to Loyalapalooza.

The clerk set aside the CDs. "Twenty dollars cash," he said.

Alicia's heart sank. Only twenty dollars? "Are you sure you can't give me more?" she begged. "It's for a...a very important trip."

The clerk remained firm. "Twenty dollars," he repeated. "Take it or leave it."

Alicia sighed and accepted the twenty dollars, signed the receipt, and left the record store. Maybe there was something else she could sell, she thought. She made a mental inventory of her personal possessions: clothes, costume jewelry, books, old toys stored away in the basement--what did she have of value that she could sell for her trip to Las Vegas? Alicia sighed again. Well, she'd have to wait until she got home and looked things over--maybe there was something she missed? Or maybe she could fall back on plan A, getting her mother to finance the trip under the guise of the Manresa retreat. She could get a permission slip from the office, show it to her mother, convince her somehow to pay in cash, have her sign it, and be off to Las Vegas and Loyalapalooza. Or she could turn to that time-honored source of teen income, babysitting, as a last resort. It would mean nights of screaming toddlers and stubborn preschoolers who simply refused to go to bed when they were supposed to, but in the end it would be worth it.

Alicia walked through the front door of the Rose family homestead. Her ears were assaulted by loud computer-generated artillery rat-a-tatting from the living room, punctuated by tinny explosions. Kyle was too engrossed in his War Machine game that he didn't even notice his sister come into the house, something Alicia took advantage of by going up to her room and hiding her twenty carefully in her top underwear drawer, the safest place she knew; she still recalled the time her little brother had gotten into the habit of taking money out of her piggybank, and their mother's purse, too, when he was about seven or eight, and it still rankled her. The last straw came when he stole the cash she had scrimped and saved for their father's birthday present, all one dollar and ninety-eight cents of it, and spent it on ice cream. After her tearful protests and Kyle's emphatic denials to the contrary, it was determined that the latter was guilty as charged; the evidence was the Fudgesicle smear on his mouth. Since then, Alicia hid her money carefully and threatened Kyle with bodily harm if he so much as set one foot in her room.

Twenty dollars in the drawer, another five for allowance, the two she had in her purse if Kyle hadn't fallen back into bad habits--only twenty-seven dollars for her trip to Las Vegas. How much would she need to get to Vegas, anyway? She had seen hundreds of ads for travel deals online; maybe she should check them out. If she was lucky, she could find a way to get to Vegas without her mother or anyone else becoming suspicious. It was risky, but it was worth it. Anything for Criss.




So many changes, Springs thought to himself as he drove down the fabled Vegas strip. All the old casinos were gone--the Mirage, the Flamingo, the Rodeo, the Silver Slipper. The Pyramid House had been replaced by the Luxor Hotel, the Mirage giving way to the MGM Grand--out with the old and in with the new. Vegas Vic, the giant neon cowboy who waved to all who passed, was still there, a comfort to the old man who drove in the black Mercedes. It was bigger, it was more technologically advanced (the size of those outdoor television screens astonished him; he could recall when televisions screens were barely more than twelve inches at the most), and it was more expensive. A week's wages back in Nineteen-Thirty would barely buy a steak dinner today, he calculated. But still they came, by bus or plane, all for that one big score.

When The Guys first arrived in Las Vegas back in the late Forties, the city was barely on the map, a place for workers on the Boulder Dam project during the Depression had come in to blow their wages for the week on legalized gambling and prostitutes. It took Bugsy Siegel and the Syndicate to create the Flamingo, a two-million dollar luxury oasis in the middle of the desert, to put it on the map. Plagued by mismanagement by Bugsy and huge cost overruns by unscrupulous contractors, it seemed doomed to failure until Bugsy was shot in his hotel room and the Syndicate took it over, and the rest was history. And The Guys of Glitter Gulch were there to get a piece of the action; by offering "protection" and taking kickbacks wherever they could, The Guys made themselves a hefty profit, up to a million dollars in six months. They were small potatoes compared to the Syndicate, but by keeping a low profile and steering clear of the Mafia, The Guys thrived on their extortion well into the Seventies--and beyond, thanks to Bluesy's formidable knowledge of the tax laws and how to stash their loot in off-shore tax shelters.

Now their era had passed. Everything was on the up-and-up these days, with security tighter than the White House. Vegas went through a "Family Friendly" phase during the Seventies and Eighties to attract more tourists with their kids, building amusement parks with rides and circuses while toning down the strip shows. The Nineties, however, bought the sin back into Sin City with more, better choreographed strip shows (men as well as women, if you could believe it--talk about equal opportunity!), and huge extravaganzas like Cirque de Soleil, whatever the hell that was, and Siegfried and Roy and that new guy--what's his name? Springs looked at the giant banner covering the top half of the Luxor. Oh, yeah, Criss Angel. He's supposed to be good. Lousy dresser, though, with those raggedy jeans and that whacked off haircut. They dressed better during the Depression, he thought.

As Springs drove down the Strip, he spotted a familiar face standing at the bus stop. Skinny girl, brown hair, wearing a maid's uniform--where the hell did he see her before. Springs drove up for a closer look. Oh,yeah! Mick's nurse, what's-her-name--Cathy? Cassie? One of those. On a whim he pulled over and stopped close to her.

"Hey, you!" he called out. "Sweetheart! Yeah, you!"

Casey drew closer to see who was trying to get her attention, and was relieved to discover it was Mr. Springer. "Hello, Mr. Springer," she said. "Nice to see you again."

"Yeah, hop in," Springs said. "I'll give you a lift."

Casey rather hesitantly accepted Springs' offer. True, he had been a gangster in his day with Mr. Piccucci, but he was also Mr. Piccucci's friend, and he seemed rather nice the last time she met him. She slipped into the passenger side of the Mercedes, feeling a bit intimidated by being in such a luxurious vehicle. Springs drove on.

"So, how ya been, sweetheart?" he asked.

"Fine, thank you, sir," Casey said.

"So, whaddya been doin' now that Mick's bought the farm?"

"I've been temping as a housekeeper at the Luxor Hotel," she replied. "I'm just there for the week. After that, I'm just on call."

Springs nodded. "At least you got work for a while, anyway," he said. "Things are tough all over. Almost as bad as the Depression."

"I hope to work as a caregiver again," Casey said hopefully. "Someone always needs someone to care for them."

Springs nodded. Pretty soon he himself would need to be cared for, what with old age and the cancer eating into his gut. He was on the list for a stomach transplant, provided they could find an available donor. He'd be laid up for a while, and it would be nice if he--.

Suddenly, an idea popped into his head, a way to solve both his and Mick's former caregiver's problems. "Tell you what, Cassie," he began.

"Casey."

"Whatever. Tell you what. I'm gonna need a caregiver sometime soon after I get this gut cancer taken care of. Gimme your number, and I'll buzz you when I need you."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Springer!" Casey said happily. "I'd be glad to take care of you."

"Hey, no problem," Springs said. "After all, you took care of Mick real good. I figure you'd do the same for me."

"Of course, Mr. Springer." Casey fumbled through her handbag for a pen and a piece of paper. On the back of a grocery receipt she scribbled her phone number and gave it to Springs. "There you go," she said cheerfully.

Springs took the number absently and slipped it into his jacket pocket. "Thanks," he said.

Casey spotted a familiar corner. "I live around there," she told him. "You can just drop me off right here."

Springs pulled over, nearly cutting off the driver behind them. "Here ya go," he said, "now get outta here."

"Thank you for the ride, Mr. Springer," Casey said politely as she got out.

Springs just waved and drove on, all but forgetting Casey and their conversation. Casey skipped on down the side street to her home, her heart light as a feather. The misery of the morning was forgotten; things were looking up for her.




A block or two away, someone had been observing Casey's every move, and had also recognized Springs' Mercedes. Was it just a coincidence that he picked her up, or was there something more to it than that? Mick, Sr., had left Springs half a million dollars in his will, and the rest to that little nurse of his. Was there some sort of conspiracy?

The driver had followed the Mercedes to the corner, then was abruptly cut off, then trailed her carefully, keeping well back so as not to be spotted. There, that brown and brick ranch house, that was where she lived, calling out "mom, I'm home," or something. The mysterous car slowly drove by, unnoticed. Casey worked at the Luxor, and lived in that little brown ranch house. Now it was time to plan phase three.

[Veritas]

Tina LaRue watched from the driver's seat of her daughter's silver Lexus as Junior's Maserati tooled casually down the side street and disappeared. She had been trailing him ever since she saw him pull out of his driveway an hour or so earlier. She followed him to the Luxor, where she watched that little nurse of Mick's get into the big black Mercedes that could only belong to Springs. Junior tailed the Mercedes while Tina tailed Junior all the way to the corner where Springs let Casey out, then watched as Junior followed her down the street where she probably lived.

So, she thought, Junior's casing out Nursie. Well, he can't be smitten with her--she's not that good looking, and definatly not his type.But then, it could have something to do with the will. Maybe he's planning to have her whacked. I wouldn't put it past him, given that he's Mick's son after all.

Tina drove the Lexus into the parking lot of a small bistro and went inside. She ordered a chicken salad wrap and a cappuccino and sat down to ponder her next move. It didn't matter to her if Junior bumped off Casey Worth; it would be one less thing on her to-do list. Her target was Junior himself, that lousy playboy who cared for nothing but his own pleasures. She knew he had a mistress or three stashed somewhere--he was his father's son after all. Mick had been the same way, chasing anything in a skirt even after they got married. She had had a few marital donnybrooks with him over his womanizing, and in the end she took Heather out of the house and Mick into divorce court. Unfortunatly, that louse of a lawyer he had blew holes in the pre-nup they had signed and Tina ended up with a lot less than she originally stated, a lousy half million total instead of the two million a year. Enraged, she had grabbed her daughter and stormed out of the courtroom, vowing to get back at Mick Piccucci one way or another.

When she heard from one of the few remaining contacts Mick and The Guys still had that her ex-husband was dying, she took desperate measures to get his money by trying to annul her divorce so she could be his legal widow and claim his estate. That plan, of course, fell through. Not only did he cut her and Heather out of the will, he left the whole thing to his caregiver, Casey. Well, Mick, may he rot in Hell, wasn't going to get away with it! Let Junior bump off Casey Worth, she thought. He'll either end up on Death Row, invalidating his claim to the estate, or he would meet with an unfortunate "accident". Either way, Tina was going to come out the winner. Nothing was going to stop her from getting what was coming to her.




Criss was tired after a long day of meetings, rehersals, and shooting the latest episode of MindFreak. All he wanted was something to eat and a quick nap, but there was the Loyalapalooza weekend to plan yet.

"Have someone bring in some food for the meeting, willya?" he ordered his assistant, Jennifer. "I'm starving."

"Shall I call the deli?" Jennifer asked.

"Yeah, good idea," Criss nodded. "Keep it healthy, willya? Thanks."

Jennifer got on the phone and called the hotel deli to order a platter of sandwich wraps for the meeting. Criss went into a small meeting room in the back of the office where the small committee designated to planning Loyalapalooza waited.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "I ordered something from the deli for everybody." He sat down at the head of the table. "Okay, let's get started. What's the agenda?"

Linda Basse, the social co-ordinator, picked up her notes. "Okay, day one is the stage show where you do your illusions with volunteers from the audience; day two is the meet-and-greet-slash-press conference; day three is the taping of your episode with the Loyals. The whole thing will be shot on the top deck of the parking garage, as usual."

"Sounds good," Criss agreed. "Anything else?"

"What illusions do you plan to perform?" Linda asked.

"The usual," Criss replied. "Levitation, card tricks, mentalism, things like that. I don't want to burn myself out doing any major demonstrations. I mean, I still got the live shows to do."

Everyone nodded in agreement. There was more discussion about the live show, security and other details, then the deli tray showed up and everyone dug into the food, grateful for the break. Criss was satisfied with the planning of Loyalapalooza--nothing should go wrong, he thought. If something did go wrong, he was confident that his staff would take care of it. But he was confident in the efficiency of the hotel security staff and his own that everything would go smoothly. His Loyals deserved the best he could offer, and he was not going to disappoint them.

[Veritas]

Alicia Rose dug through the clutter of her bedroom closet, searching desperatly for something--anything--to sell to finance her trip to Las Vegas. Most of her CD collection had been sold, and she had no valuable jewelry worth pawning. Her stuffed animal collection, made up of hook-and-crane teddy bears and gift shop souveniers, was practically worthless--not a collectable in the lot. Alicia was about to give up when she laid eyes on a small square object lying on the floor of the closet. She picked it up and saw it was the book her mother had given her on her tenth birthday, Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott.

Alicia studied the worn, dog-eared cover of the book. Old books were worth money, and there was a small second-hand bookstore in the small strip mall around the corner that bought and sold books, she recalled. But it had been her mother's book, and she had given it to Alicia with the best of intentions. Did she dare sell a family heirloom just to go to see Criss Angel in Las Vegas?

Yes, she decided without a moment's hesitation, she would. Her mother would never miss it; it had been three years since she had given it to her. She put the book on her vanity dresser and returned to her search. If she was going to Vegas, the sale of one book wasn't going to cover the cost. She was knee deep in clutter when she heard her brother Kyle's voice call out in his usual vulgar manner, "Hey, fartface! Whatcha doin'?"

Alicia ignored him and went on sorting through her clutter. She set aside a school yearbook from fifth grade on the bed and picked up an old Hallowe'en costume from two years ago. She shook it out and began to fold it. Kyle, however, was not to be ignored. "I said whatcha doin', fartface?" he persisted.

Again, Alicia ignored him. "Fartface!" Kyle taunted, imitating flatulence with Bronx cheers. "Fartface!"

No response. Alicia continued to pick up and sort through the contents of her closet, heedless of Kyle's crude behavior. "You live like a pig, fartface!" Kyle sneered. "A fartface pig! Living in a pigsty!"

"You should talk, Kyle," Alicia responded calmly. "Have you seen your room lately?"

Kyle stepped into the room and began throwing clothes and other items in all directions. "Snort! Snort! Fartfaced pig! Snort! Snort!"

Alicia wanted to order him to stop, even to slap him, but long experience had taught her that the best way to deal with her obnoxious little brother was to ignore him. It was just his way of getting attention, that was all. He was just an immature child who didn't know better.

A small teddy bear went sailing across the room and landed squarely on Alicia's head. Alicia flinched a little, but kept her cool. Kyle laughed in triumph over his direct hit and proceeded to pummel Alicia with the other animals on her bed, chanting "Fartface! Fartface!" at the top of his voice. It was annoying to say the least, but Alicia kept calmly going over her things. Just keep ignoring him, she told herself, and he'll go away.

Kyle picked up a pink and white bunny rabbit, a gift from Dad on the last Easter they were together as a family and the one stuffed toy she cherished above all the others. "I got your bunny!" Kyle crowed. "I'm gonna flush him down the toilet!"

"You do," Alicia said quietly, "and you're going to pay for the plumbing bill out of your allowance."

Kyle ran out of the bedroom with the toy bunny and dashed into the bathroom. "I'm going to do it, Alicia!" he threatened. "Bunny rabbit's going down the pipes!"

Alicia would have chased after him in the past, but today she refused to call Kyle's bluff. She reasoned that Kyle wouldn't flush the toy rabbit; the toilet would have overflowed and Mom would have been very upset. Besides, it was just a toy. She had outgrown such childish things, anyway; her affections had turned toward Criss Angel. She was moving on with her life while Kyle remained in a state of arrested development.

Kyle returned to Alicia's bedroom to check on her reaction over the drowning of her favorite toy. To his disappointment, she kept on going through her things. He flung the unflushed bunny onto the floor of the bedroom and stalked away, frustrated. Alicia smiled to herself. She had won this round, at least.

She looked around the room, covered with the debris of the past. Besides the book her mother had given her, there was nothing at all of value. Well, it had given her an excuse to clean out her closet anyway; she never knew she had so much junk.

She found a large plastic shopping bag in the closet and filled them with the clothes she had outgrown as well as the old Hallowe'en costume, all to be given to St. Vincent de Paul's. Her tiny wastebasket was soon stuffed to overflowing with trash, and the few items she chose to keep, like her school yearbook and some photos in a shoebox, went on the upper shelf. As she slid the box onto the shelf, a larger shoebox from FootLocker containing the most precious items she owned caught her eye. It was shoved way into the back of the closet, hidden from view and Kyle's search and destroy missions.

Alicia listened carefully for any signs of Kyle's whereabouts. From the crashing and booming mayhem coming from the living room, she could tell that he was wrapped up in one of his favorite video games and would be occupied for hours. She shut the door and took out the secret, box from its hiding place. Almost reverently, she laid it on the bed and opened it. Inside were the pictures of Criss Angel that she had clipped from magazines, downloaded from the Internet, or purchased by mail order. Below it was The Book, Criss' autobiography, MindFreak, as sacred as the Bible as far as she was concerned. She had wanted it so much when it was first released, but had despaired of ever owning it due to its prohibitive cost and the fact that her mother would have disapproved of her little girl owning such a thing as a book written by a very sexy magician such as Criss Angel. By some miracle of fate, she had found it in a church rummage sale, for only five dollars. The irony of such a find in such an unlikely place never failed to make her smile. She had snatched it up, paid for it quickly, then carried it home with her in a black plastic bag, her mother nor her brother none the wiser.

The video game Kyle was playing boomed on, with Kyle cheering every blast of his weapons and every explosion taking place on the screen. Aside from tormenting his sister, video games were his main if not his only passion in life, the gorier and more destructive, the better. How many of those games did he have, anyway? she wondered. Twenty? Thirty? More? He must have spent a near fortune buying those stupid games, she thought; a waste of money as far as she was concerned.

Fortune? Money? She recalled at the music store where she had sold her CDs that they also bought and sold video DVDs. There had to be a profit somewhere, she figured. Did she dare...?

Well, there were some games he had grown tired of and were collecting dust on the shelf, and Mom always disapproved of his choice of games, so maybe she'd be doing them both a favor. Kyle would never miss them; he was always on the hunt for the newest, latest and goriest games on the market. And she needed money...

Alicia stared at the photo of Criss on the cover of The Book. Would seeing her beloved Angel be worth stealing a few DVDs? Her mother's book would not be missed, but would Kyle notice the loss of a few games? Probably not. Kyle would play a single game obsessively for a week or two, then toss it aside for another one. If he did discover the loss, she could accuse him of misplacing it--he did it all the time with games and other things, like homework. It was an acceptable risk.

Alicia clutched The Book to her breast and closed her eyes. Yes, for her Angel, it would be worth it. Anything to escape this one-horse town and be by his side would be worth it.

Soon, my Angel, soon we will be together. I would rob a bank for you! I would do murder for you! Soon we will be together and we'll be happy--forever and ever and ever!

[Veritas]

The week passed quickly. Casey was on her last day of her fill-in job at the Luxor, and again was assigned Criss' suite to clean that morning. The housekeeping staff lost interest in teasing her about her inheritance once they found out the will was to be probated in two weeks. Instead, they sympathized with her for getting a bum break.

"Shake hands with a pauper," said one.

"So, who's gonna get the money?" asked another. "The ex-wife or the son?"

"Smart money's on the son. No way is the ex gonna get nothin'."

"I dunno 'bout that. She had a daughter by him, so she might get something."

"I'll tell you who's gonna get the money--the IRS, that's who! It's all gonna get eaten up by taxes, just you wait and see. That poor girl ain't gonna get nothin'!."

"Well, the guy was a mobster, and a lot of those old mobsters were charged with tax evasion, so you may have a point there."

"Geez! You find out that you inherited nine million dollars, then they turn around and screw you over in court! Poor kid, what she must be going through."

"Hey, nobody said life was fair."

"But, still, she must be taking it pretty hard."

Actually, Casey was taking it in stride as she pushed her cleaning cart up to Criss' suite. The thought of being sued for money she didn't have unsettled her, but she took Mr. Close's assurances to heart and tried to convince herself that everything would work out for the best. She did not even dream of the money she was set to inherit; the chances of the will being upheld and she receiving nine million dollars were, well, Las Vegas odds. Things like that only happened in the movies, not in real life. Still, it was nice of Mr. Piccucci to remember her like that. It showed that he was a really nice man despite his shady past.

Casey arrived at the door of the suite and knocked. "Housekeeping," she called out.

Th her surprise, the door opened. Criss Angel himself stood there, dressed in tight biker shorts and a tank shirt, ready for the gym. "Oh, hi, Casey," he said, "come on in."

Casey wheeled her cart into the suite. It looked much better than the first day, she thought: no litter on the floor, no empty cartons. The bathroom was probably a different story, though. Well, Criss was only human, and humans do what humans do when they're in the bathroom.

"I'll be down in the gym," he said. "There's a baggie of cat litter I need you to throw away. Other than that I--"

Criss hesitated. He looked down at Casey's cleaning cart. "Hey, what's that?" he asked curiously.

Casey was puzzled. "What's what?"

"This thing right here, behind the vacuum cleaner."

Casey removed the vacuum cleaner and saw what Criss was talking about, the strange device with a digital alarm clock wired to what looked like road flares wedged into the side of the cart. "Wh--what is that thing?" Casey stammered.

"It's a bomb!" Criss shouted. "Get out of here, now!"

Casey screamed. Criss got on the hotel phone and punched the red emergency button. "This is Criss Angel!" he snapped into the phone. "We got a bomb up here! Send someone up here now!"

He slammed down the receiver. "We gotta get out of here!" he cried. "God knows when that thing'll go off!"

Criss grabbed Casey by the arm and dragged her out of the suite. Suddenly, Casey stopped him. "What about Hammie?" she reminded him anxiously. "You can't leave him behind!"

Criss swore aloud and ran back into the suite. "Hammeeee!" he called out. "Where are you?"

"Please, Criss," Casey whimpered, "hurry! That bomb's going to go off any second now!"

Frantically, Criss searched for his beloved cat. Not in the living room, not in the small kitchen, not in the bedroom. He looked in the bathroom and found Hammie lounging in the basin, oblivious to the danger. Criss grabbed his cat and dashed out of the suite. He could hear the fire alarms going off in the suites below despite the hotel's soundproofing. They barely made it to the elevator in time before the doors shut and were deactivated.

Casey shook violently, her face wet with tears. "Mr. Angel, I swear I--"

"Did you see anyone put that bomb on your cart?" Criss demanded.

"No, I swear I didn't!" Casey sniffled. "I just picked it up like always. I had no idea there was a bomb on it, I swear!"

Criss gave Casey a hug. "It's okay, Casey," he said quietly. "We'll let the police handle this."

The elevator doors opened to reveal chaos. The entire hotel was being evacuated; staff and guests were being herded out of all available exits. The blaring emergency sirens echoing through the atrium were deafening. Criss clutched Hammie close to his chest for fear the animal would leap out of his arms and get lost in the crowd. Casey looked around and spotted the service entrance corridor, free of congestion. "This way!" she shouted to Criss, motioning him to follow her.

They threaded their way to the service corridor and made their way to the exit. A few desperate types spotted them and followed, fearing for their lives. Once outside, Criss and Casey found a spot by the dumpsters to wait out the impending disaster. Criss slumped down on the curbside, his adrenalin rush draining away.

"God, that was close," he panted. "Are you sure you didn't see anyone put that bomb there?"

"I'm positive, Mr. Angel," Casey confirmed. "I arrived at my usual time, punched in, got my room assignments, took the cart and went to your suite. The only people I saw were the housekeepers and maintenance. Please, you've got to believe me!"

"I believe you, Casey, I believe you. It's just that I can't figure out who wanted to kill me, that's all."

"Who'd want to kill you?" Casey asked innocently.

Criss shrugged, still holding Hammie. "I dunno, but whoever left that bomb there left his fingerprints on it, unless he wore gloves or something. But, anyway, you gotta talk to the police. They may take you in and fingerprint you, but that's just for investigative purposes. Once they determine you didn't do it, you'll be okay."

"But I didn't do it!" Casey protested. "Besides, I don't know how to make a bomb! And even if I did, I wouldn't use it on you, or anyone else for that matter! I'm not a hitter!"

"Hitter?"

"Gangster lingo for hitman," Casey explained. "My former employer, well, he used to be a gangster back in the Forties. I learned a lot of Mafia words from him: hitter, whacked, packing heat, bumped off, things like that."

Criss looked at Casey warily. "Gangster, huh? What was his name?"

"Mr. Piccucci," Casey answered him.

"What did you do for him when you were working for him?"

"I was his caregiver. He was a very sick old man, and I would come in and take care of his needs, keep him company, things like that. He died about a week ago. Now I'm working here, but I'm just on call."

Criss searched his memory to link what Casey had just told him to what sounded familiar to him. His searching matched what his brother JD had read from a newspaper last week: Here's something interesting. Says here that some former gangster left his entire fortune to his caregiver. And get this--she works here at the Luxor.

"Were you the one who inherited that gangster's fortune?" Criss asked with a tinge of trepadition.

Casey sighed dejectedly. "Oh, you read about that, huh? Well, I--"

"Who else was involved?"

"Huh?"

"Who else was involved in the estate?"

"Oh. Well, there was Mr. Piccucci's son, Michael, Jr., and his ex-wife, I forgot her name, and Mr. Springer. But Mr. Springer got half a million dollars. The rest weren't even mentioned. I didn't find out about it until last week."

Criss pondered this new information, then turned somberly to Casey. "Casey, I don't think I'm the target here," he said.

"Then why...?"

"I think someone's trying to bump you off to get Mr. Piccucci's money."

Casey was stunned. Criss laid a hand on her shoulder. "Look, I know it's a shock, but you got two family members with mob connections who got cut out of the old man's will, and they want it all back--even if they have to kill you for it!"

"But I didn't want Mr. Piccucci's money!" Casey cried. "I thought for sure Michael, Jr., would get it for sure!"

"Well, he didn't," Criss told her. "And he's prime suspect number one."

Criss rose to his feet. "Come on," he ordered. "We got to talk to the police about this."





The Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Bomb Squad positioned themselves all around the top floor of the suite. Only a remote controlled robot wheeled into the suite itself and located the bomb on the cart. Captain Harding monitored the robot's movements on the computer screen a safe distance from the suite.

"There it is," he muttered. "It's got a digital timer. Can you read what it says?"

"Five-fifty-five," replied the officer beside him. "I'm guessing that thing is going to go off in five minutes."

Captain Harding manouvered the mechanical arms of the robot to grasp the bomb and withdraw it from the cart. "Steadeeee, steadeeee...Got it! Move in with the can!"

Two Bomb Squad officers trotted in with a large, insulated metal drum to store the bomb. They set it down as close to the entrance as was safely possible. The robot carefully backed away with the bomb in its metal claws toward the officers with the can. The machine slowly turned backward to the left, then turned forward toward the can and carefully deposited the bomb into it, then withdrew its arms and waited for its next command from Captain Harding on the controls.

"Package is secured," one of the officers with the can reported to Harding.

"Good! Let's get it out of here!" Harding barked. "We got four minutes before that thing blows!"

The two officers carried the "package" to the waiting freight elevator and secured themselves inside. The trip down was tense but swift with no stops on the way (hotel management made sure of that). With only two and a half minutes to go, the bomb inside the can was quickly transferred to the Mobile Disposal Unit for deactivation. News cameras and photographers present caught the action for the twelve o'clock news, while bystanders took pictures of the squad with cameras, camcorders and camera phones for keepsakes. Hundreds of people--guests, hotel and casino staff, and passersby--huddled in apprehension over what would happen next. Would the bomb go off? Would they defuse it in time? Was there even a real bomb in that container, or was it a hoax?

The seconds ticked by, a seeming eternity to those outside. Many of the guests were impatient, wanting to go back to their rooms or the casino. Others clutched their loved ones in terror; murmured references to the World Trade Center rippled through the crowd. Still others struck up casual aquaintences with those next to them, chatting idly about friends and family and other, familiar things. Some Loyals, fans of Criss Angel, searched the perimeter for any sign of their idol, hoping and praying that he got out safely with his family.

Captain Harding waited for word from the MDU. Years of discipline had instilled patience when it came to deactivating a bomb, yet he knew that time was of the essence as far as public safety was concerned. Once the "package" was safely delivered into the MDU, the worst was over, but there was still the risk of the wrong wire being cut and the whole truck would blow to hell.

There was a crackle on his radio receiver. "MDU. Package deactivated. All clear."

All clear. Screw the poets, he thought. To Captain Harding, those were the two most beautiful words in the English language. He contacted hotel security. "All clear," he announced.

The word was out--all clear. There were cheers and applause as everyone made their way back into the hotel. The crisis was over, but for Criss and Casey, the nightmare had not yet ended. They approached the first uniformed officer they spotted and flagged him down. The officer walked briskly to the uniformed housekeeper and the athletic type clutching a cat in his arms.

"We think we know who planted that bomb," Criss said.

[RACHEL02189]