Disappearing Acts
Chapter 1

"I said sit down, Mr. King." The man whom I had trusted as head of my personal security waggled his .45 at one of the cushioned chairs arranged around the patio table, but made sure the barrel remained pointed directly at me. Given the options presented, I decided to take the nearest chair. Martin smiled... or, more properly, he bared his teeth like a predator, in what passed for his version of a smile. "To answer your question, Sherree isn't home, and won't be coming back here until my business with you is concluded. Do I really have to say anything else?"

I shook my head. I had arrived home minutes ago with the expectation of sitting in a chair by the pool. However, instead of having an armed feral dog standing over, I had also expected to have my lush blonde bride sitting in my lap, celebrating my return home from the last date on my national tour in our traditional way, fucking and sucking ourselves into an exhausted heap.

"How long?" I asked quietly.

Martin didn't speak, but tilted his head as if asking what I meant.

"How long has she been fucking you?"

He was on top of me in two quick steps; the gun never wavered in his right hand even as he brought his left across my face in an open slap, the sound of which echoed across the concrete like a bullet ricochet.

When my eyes uncrossed, I pulled my head back from its leftward tilt and looked at him again. He was back on point, not close enough for me to reach before he could put a bullet somewhere in my body.

Slowly, I reached up with my right hand and rubbed two fingers across my bottom lip. They came away bloody.

Martin laughed as I looked down at the tips of my blood-covered fingers. "You don't know how long I've been waiting... wanting to do that. It took me years to set up this operation. 'Peter the Great, ' the world's greatest illusionist and magician, and one of the world's most notorious bachelors... never serious about anyone for very long, and no one could figure out why! I still remember the line Us magazine used in that profile five years ago - 'He never met a blonde he couldn't dump!'" Martin laughed again, though his eyes showed only contempt. "That just goes to show how good an illusionist you are, I guess. By feeding the press some juicy gossip every few months, you kept them from closely examining your past; as your fame grew, so did the legend... and eventually, the façade was thick enough that no one looked beyond the surface anymore. Those that did usually ran into a bunch of roadblocks, leading them into blind alleys and around in circles without ever really getting close to who you really used to be.

"I remember when you made that first big splash, seemingly coming from nowhere overnight with that late-night show at Tropicana. It was as if you'd just materialized from nowhere, with a show every bit as good as David Copperfield at his peak. And you only got better from there. Everybody wanted a piece of you, but you refused to sign long-term deals with anybody, and it only seemed to help make you more popular. Then came tv, a couple of movie deals, the tours... all that money rolling in, and yet you were always alone. And then, a bit of luck came my way... a tabloid reporter by the name of Vern Rosen." I must have flinched when I heard the name, because Martin just smiled and nodded. "I see you remember. Apparently, Mr. Rosen had a few contacts in the police force, and, when he ran up against the same roadblocks most other reporters did, he escalated things a bit. He got a showgirl to bring him a glass with your fingerprints on it, and he had a friend on the force run a check. And what do you know! Turns out 'Peter Michael King' was an alias... a stage name. With the smoke cleared away, it turned out the great illusionist was actually Peter Alexander Scallopini... adopted son of mob boss Anthony 'Big Tony' Scallopini." Martin leaned forward, staring into my eyes. "The same mob boss who supposedly ordered the hit that killed your real parents!"