Free Mind Scrambler by Chris Grabenstein Page A

Rock’s hand. He smiled. She smiled. I thought I might need an insulin shot.
    â€œGood night, everybody!” said Rock “And—Go! Get! Lucky!”
    The Rocks dipped into a big bow, then skipped off into the wings while the audience rose to give them a standing ovation. The seven dancers scurried into a line and took their bows.
    â€œFascinating,” said Ceepak and I could tell: he was having a hard time figuring out how Rock did the Lucky Numbers trick.
    Me, too.
    Then I glanced over at Lady Jasmine.
    She was shaking her head and laughing.

 
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    The houselights came up. The audience was still buzzing, keyed up by Rock’s performance.
    â€œI’m gonna go see Katie,” I told Ceepak.
    â€œRoger that.”
    We slowly made our way up emperor’s row and into an aisle where we got stuck behind a wall of people moving even slower than we’d been moving. Fifteen hundred humans. Four exits. This was worse than the Lincoln Tunnel at 5:00 on a Friday.
    â€œI’ll catch up with you later,” I said to Ceepak, even though neither one of us was going anywhere anytime soon.
    â€œGive Katie my regards.”
    â€œYeah. I will.” I shuffled forward. A whole foot. “Geeze-o man. What’s the holdup?”
    â€œI am given to understand that Mr. and Mrs. Rock typically visit the lobby after every performance to meet and greet their fans.”
    And to bump up trinket sales.
    Finally, some ushers opened a couple side exits and the crowd started to part and thin.
    â€œThat’ll work,” said Ceepak.
    We reached the lobby.
    â€œMr. and Mrs. Rock will be right out!” announced one of the souvenir vendors from behind her chirping cash register. “Form a single line to my right and have your items ready to be signed.”
    â€œI’m going to purchase a stuffed tiger for Rita,” said Ceepak, dutifully taking his place in line, falling in behind a couple kids studying a booklet so they could learn how to pull quarters out of each other’s ears.
    â€œCatch up with you in the AM ,” I said.
    I crossed the lobby and came out into the wide-open plaza in front of the Shalimar Theater, realizing I had no idea where room AA-4 was. The Crystal Palace Tower? The Shanghai wing? Some other part of China?
    Fortunately, I saw a security guard stationed in front of what looked like a service entrance—double metal doors painted the same color as the walls so nobody could see them.
    â€œExcuse me,” I asked. “Which way to Room AA-four?”
    â€œThe performers’ suites?”
    Made sense. Katie was working for the Rocks. The Rocks were performers.
    â€œYeah,” I said.
    â€œSomeone expecting you?”
    â€œYeah. The Rocks’ nanny. Katie Landry. She’s an old friend from Sea Haven.”
    The guard sized me up some. “You live there? Sea Haven?”
    â€œYeah. I’m on the job.”
    â€œCop?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œThey still got that miniature golf course? King Putt Putt?”
    â€œYeah. King Putt.”
    â€œThey still have that crocodile where you shoot your ball up the snout and it rolls out the butt?”
    â€œYeah.” It’s actually the tail.
    â€œWe used to spend a couple weeks up in Sea Haven every summer. When the kids were younger. Now, they’re all grown up. Don’t want to know from putt-putt and Boogie boards.”
    â€œRoom AA-four?”
    â€œYeah. Use this door.” As he worked the thumb latch, I read the tiny sign that said AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
    â€œThanks,” I said.
    â€œNo problem. Hey—they still got that pancake place?”
    â€œYeah.” Sea Haven has about six pancake places. I figured one of them had to be the one this guy was remembering.
    â€œThey still make that thing they make?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œGood times.”
    â€œYeah.” I gave him a little two-finger salute and