“Dobson Talent Associates,” Dobson sang out enthusiastically as soon as he picked up.
“Mr. Dobson, this is Robin Lockwood, Mr. Chesterfield’s attorney.”
“Oh,” Dobson said, his enthusiasm evaporating when he realized that Robin was not a potential client.
“Mr. Chesterfield told me to call you if I needed to get in touch with him.”
“Yes?”
“I talked to Joe Samuels. He refuses to settle. He’s still very angry and I don’t think he’ll change his mind, so I’m going to send back the rest of Mr. Chesterfield’s retainer. Should I send it to your office?”
“That will work.”
“There’s something else. Tell Robert that the two men who confronted him behind the tavern tried to get me to tell them where he was living. I told them I have no idea where he is.”
“You didn’t tell them about me, did you?” Dobson asked, alarmed.
“That’s the other reason I called. I wanted to warn you. You’re Robert’s agent, and they may come after you.”
As soon as Robin hung up, she got her handgun out of her desk drawer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Imperial Theater was a reclamation project funded by a Portland developer who was building expensive condominiums in a section of the city that was known for drug deals, strip clubs, and the homeless. The developer was trying to make the location attractive by bringing in high-end retail stores, upscale restaurants, and a performing arts center. During its various recent incarnations, the Imperial had been a porn theater and a venue for local bands. The developer had remodeled it and brought in legitimate theater, upscale musical acts, and currently, a semi-famous, still-notorious magician.
On the evening that the Chamber of Death was going to debut, and during the two weeks of rehearsals beforehand, a small group of protesting magicians picketed the theater because Robert Chesterfield had been exposed as Mysterioso. Chesterfield approached the Imperial in disguise, as he had every day of rehearsal, because of the protesters. When he was certain that he hadn’t been spotted, he slipped into the alley that ran alongside the theater.
Henry Schloss, an elderly security guard, looked up when the stage door opened.
“Evening, Henry,” Chesterfield said. “It looks like we’re going to be busy tonight.”
“It sure does.”
“Did you get the tickets I left for your daughter and her husband?”
“I did. Thanks. They were thrilled.”
“My pleasure,” the magician said as he headed down a narrow hall past the dressing room used by his assistants and on to his dressing room, which was adjacent to the loading dock. He had just taken off his cap and jacket and seated himself in front of his makeup mirror when Rafael, gun in hand, stepped out from behind the rack of hangers holding Chesterfield’s costumes.
“Do they still say ‘break a leg’?”
Chesterfield jumped out of his chair. “How did you get in here?”
“Through the loading dock.”
“You scared the shit out of me.”
“And you pissed me off by playing hide-and-seek, which was pretty stupid since you had to show up at this theater eventually.”
“I wasn’t trying to hide fromyou, Rafael. I’m trying to avoid those idiot protesters. How’s your side, by the way? You know I just nicked you to scare you off, right? No hard feelings?”
Rafael smiled. Then he drove his fist into Chesterfield’s solar plexus.
The magician had anticipated the blow. He tensed his stomach muscles to absorb it, but he doubled over anyway to make Rafael think he was in pain. Chesterfield pretended to catch his breath. Then he straightened slowly. “That was completely unnecessary,” he said when he was upright.
“It made me feel good,” Rafael answered.
“What do you want?”