Vegas—struggling from its 2008 recession—was January cold, so cold that, at the New Palace, marketing execs were talking last rites. This despite pundits boasting that Glitter Gulch was reinventing itself and that Downtown had become more profitable than the Strip.

The Palace—less than a block from the Mob Museum—sold itself as Old Vegas With a Boutique Twist. It had opened to fanfare in 2013 and was nice. The money had been spent. The architects brought in. The marketing team seemed to have their ducks in a row.

But—?! The California, next door, managed a profit. Main Street Station pulled its own segment. The Palace had had nice opening reviews. Nothing soft; everything in place. Their three restaurants—if you trusted Yelp—merited a visit. The table odds were good. The slot selection and video poker were given praise. They gave rooms away. They gave pint bottles of Jack Daniels. They gave 5-to-10-times points away to club players. 20-to-1 odds at the dice table. Could a casino be more generous? Bad karma? It was a conundrum.

"We need an attraction," Dickie Rice, the GM, said to Tony Padre, head of marketing. "We need crowds fighting to get in. We do that: who-we-are, what-we-offer will sell itself."

Tony Padre agreed. Attraction! Absolutely! But what?! Who?!

"You're possibly too young. But—you remember Ernie Fingers?"

"Ernie—?"

"Fingers. Even as a kid—a legend. He would just show up—out of nowhere—all the great lounges! Flamingo Room! Casbah at The Sahara. All! Slight of hand! Probably best slight-of-hand artist I've ever seen. Jaw-dropping!" Dickie Rice mused. "And—Jesus—funny?! His comic-timing had comic timing! Hilarious! Opened—back in the day—for Lenny Bruce. Just a kid! 18 . . . 19. Trying to decide what he wanted. Whether to do stand-up or magic."

"So—?"

"Rumor is: he's . . . back in town. Fallen on hard times. Down-and-out. Which means we could get him for very little. People remember him. They tell stories. Locals. He was on his way to becoming his own David Copperfield, own Penn and Teller rolled into one. You mention Ernie Fingers to a lot of people, and there's a whole . . . lore. A whole lore. A whole mythology."

"You thinking maybe we could—?"

"The Downtown Palace desperately needs an attraction. A luminary. A draw. And I'm proposing—yes!—that we find Ernie Fingers, ferret him out, and offer him the showroom."

"What showroom?"

"Well—I'm thinking: turn the break-room into a showroom. We'd have to clear it with Corporate, but— Small showroom. Then—when he hits and even the scalpers have scalpers, we take the wall down between the break-room and supply-room. Seat, maybe . . . 3-4-5 hundred. Mystere— The Cirque show made the TI. Without Mystere, the TI would've tanked, would've gone down with their pirate ships. You get yourself an attraction . . . you get yourself an amazement-hour—! Then—! All the people who come . . . do what?"

"Play?"

"Exactly! Become players! Discover our restaurants, tell their friends. We run promotions! Give away rooms! And—! Dickie Rice unfurled his hands as if he'd witnessed a miracle. "We're back! What do you think?"

Tony Padre said he'd go along, take the ride. Help in whatever way he could.

First, though, they had to find Ernie Fingers, and Tony suggested the services of a PI he'd used in his own divorce. "Scratch Carlotti. He's an odd duck," Tony cautioned. "But—"

"We need to move on this," Dickie said. "We tip any more in the wrong direction and Corporate's going to have us on the auction block."

Tony agreed.

"We're under the minute-minder, Man," Dickie said. "My thought is: Find Ernie Fingers and get him up and running within a month." Dickie checked his watch. "By March 27th, Ernie's got to be packing our showroom every night. And, like Mac King up at Harrah's, I think he's got to be doing matinees as well."

"Save the Downtown Palace!" Tony Padre announced. He spread the words out like a banner with his fingertips.

"Save the Downtown Palace," Dickie Rice repeated. "Have some buttons made. Get the word out."

They met with Tony's PI, Scratch Carlotti. Dickie brought his file: a couple mentions in the Vegas Review Journal. A few more from the Greenspan Media Group. He'd found two pictures; in both it looked as though Ernie's face had been fashioned from play-dough. The only real lead was a cocktail waitress who said she'd seen Ernie passed out in a far corner at Arizona Charlie's on Decatur.

Scratch hired on. $50/hour if he didn't find Ernie Fingers. Found: his fee jumped to $300. The next day, he called. There were rumors. "All the stuff that's out there is dark," he said. "One rumor: He was burned to death . . . but survived. Another: He was entombed . . . but crawled out. Still another had him being blinded and crippled by casino thugs because of debts."

"But no sense of where—?" Dickie began.

"I have a lead," Scratch said. "I'll call tomorrow."

Scratch's lead was to a place called Caliente-Caliente—a North Vegas video-poker bar, where he talked to a bartender named Slim whose pocked face looked like a golfball. Slim recalled Ernie Fingers as crusted and sere—a man who would slouch until he and the bar merged. "I actually varnished him one night!" Slim said. Slim conjectured that Ernie might still have a room at the Filthy-10, an infested motel complex near Nellis Air Force Base. Or—second guess—it was possible he lived in a supply-room locker at Ellis Island Casino on East Flamingo.

Scratch relayed his info to Dickie Rice whose heart sank. Tony Padre had had SAVE THE DOWNTOWN PALACE buttons made up, and employees were all wearing them. A new lightness and sense of possibility had come to the floor. If he said anything now, he'd be either the bearer of bad news or false hope. "Stay with it. Keep on it," Dickie Rice urged Scratch

Slim-the-bartender had suggested a woman named Lana, who was psychic and dealt poker at the Stratosphere. Scratch found her. Did the name Ernie Fingers have meaning? Yes. Had she ever seen Ernie perform? She had. When? Sixteen years ago; June 17th; midnight show at the Backdoor Lounge in New York New York. Had she seen him since? Yes. How recently? October. This year? Yes. Where? The Tuscany. Doing what? Card tricks at a back table of Marilyn's Cafe. Anyone watching? Only security. Was he still good? I wasn't close enough. But you're psychic. He was brilliant. Where can I find him? Living in one of the Extra Space Storage Units on Rainbow. What unit number? Somewhere between 207 and 212.

Rice and Padre found Ernie Fingers in storage unit 211. They'd followed someone with the gate code into the yard, and when they heard The Who's Tommy blasting from 211, they figured chances were it was Fingers.

They knocked. See me! Knocked again. Feel me! Then heard a tape-deck being turned down and movement. There was a fumbling. A sequence of bumping and fumbling. Finally—the sound of lock-tumblers tumbling—clicks and slides and disengagements. The door vibrated. Folded on itself like brute origami. Clattered up.

Inside, a shadow, a shape, swayed briefly, surged then retreated—a shade backing into the black.

"Mr. Fingers," Dickie Rice tried. Then, nodding that Padre should follow, he stepped into the vault. Padre scanned with an LED pen flashlight until the beam found who they'd come in search of huddled in a corner—a being more shape than person: dry and dark: a charred and gnarled root system, like a bad night on a burn unit—head, body and limbs more a mound of compost than a man. Scattered around were peels, rinds, grounds, bones, cores, blighted leaves. As well: spilling from black plastic bags were bottles—almost all bearing the same label . . . Chopin Rye Vodka. And there was a stench.

"Sir—? Mr. Fingers—?” Dickie Rice probed.

"Mmm . . . ?" Fingers droned—his voice like grass-cuttings.

"Sir: My name is Rice. Dickie Rice. And this is Anthony Padre. We come as . . . past admirers of your work and hope that . . . we might have a word. We have an offer."

They'd brought a package of chicken tenders, which they extended, and Ernie fed on it as the two outlined their cause, an offer which began with a mixed appetizer of nostalgia and praise: I saw you at . . . I remember when you . . . One night you took a deerskin glove from a lady and turned it into a . . . .

Then Rice and Padre made their pitch. Anything Ernie Fingers needed would be provided: equipment, a suite at the Downtown Palace, stage staff, marketing, round-the-clock assistants, name it! And . . . how did he feel about publicity? Could they start press releases? If so, when? And assuming all went well, when they expanded the show room, they would call it the "Ernie Fingers Theater." Or—if that seemed self-centered—he could name it himself.

"What we were most hoping . . . " And here, Rice and Padre checked one another: Who should finish the sentence? Padre, as marketing director, stepped up. "What we were most hoping . . . is that—however you do it—you can make every person who's watching feel like a winner. Feel like winning is possible at the Downtown Palace. Feel like they can—as soon as your show's over—go out there on the floor and win. Win-win-win!"

"How's that sound?" Dickie Rice filled a silence. "Like something that you'd be interested in? Something you'd be willing to take on?"

There was the sound that thought makes, the sound of chewing. "What did you say you called these things?" Ernie Fingers asked.

"Chicken tenders,"

"Chicken tenders," Ernie Fingers repeated. And then again: "Chicken tenders."

They talked. They negotiated. They struck an agreement. There was a Discovery Inn, just north of the storage complex. They'd begin there, clean Ernie up—hose him down, ply him with Prell and Listerine. Then, they'd all drive downtown, introduce him, outline the space which would become his showroom. They'd set him up with a laptop, establish an email so that they might send him PDFs.

PDFs?

Nevermind. Next, they'd get him a wardrobe—both casual and professional. Could he please write down any special needs? Best—in the event he presently lacked one—to get a bank account. They would advance two month's salary. And he'd be given a corporate credit/debit card. Was he familiar with—?

He was.

They understood that all of what they were asking and expecting—must seem rushed, but the plan was to announce his opening in just over a month. And they were hoping—in fact, Corporate had made it a requirement—that Ernie Fingers spend a week in rehab before putting together his show. Would that work? Would that be possible?

It would. Sure.

So Ernie Fingers signed, and they began. In the process, Dickie Rice asked Ernie Fingers: "All the bottle's I saw, prettymuch—at least those on the floor—were—"

"Chopin Rye," Ernie Fingers said. Then elaborated. "I have a problem with Chopin," he confessed. "In particular—Chopin Rye. Vodka. It's like an irony allergy," Ernie Fingers said and laughed.

Neither of the two casino executives got it.

Washed and groomed and clothed, Ernie Fingers checked into the Yellow Willow Hollow Rehab. Rice and Padre helped transport his cargo-duffles and new laptop to his room. There, for an hour, they set up a gmail, and held a review session on internet. Clearly Ernie had once been agile; he knew where to move—what keys and combinations led him to where. But his hand—wrist to fingertips—shook. In fact, his arms shook. His shoulders! "I'll be fine," he said; "Fine. Just give me a day . . . or two." A member of the Yellow Willow Hollow staff, Lolly, promised to help.

When the two Downtown Palace execs left, Ernie's only request was that—each day—they bring him a large bag of chicken tenders. "You can leave them at the reception desk," he said.

And so Ernie's rehab began. His resurrection. As did hurried construction of what-would-be-called The Ernie Fingers Showroom.

After only two days at Yellow Willow Hollow, Ernie bloomed. He grew energized and computer-agile—receiving PDF builder designs and specs as well as photos from every angle. He had ideas. And thoughts. And corrections.

Someone from Palace's Corporate was a friend of Vegas's ex-mayor, Oscar Goodman's. Goodman had seen and loved Ernie when he'd been just a lounge-rat-magician-comic and was willing to do a short blurb in the Sunday Review Journal's Arts section. Another former mayor, Jan Jones declared Ernie Fingers a LAS VEGAS FRINGE UNDERGROUND LEGEND. Finger's first week sold out. Then his second. Phonecalls poured into a new Downtown Palace extension, the Box Office. How'd you find him? . . . I remember seeing him at . . . He was the most amazing . . . !

"I think we've found our attraction," Dickie Rice said—giving Tony Padre a man-hug.

"Let's pray," Padre said.

A week after Ernie Fingers had been checked into Yellow Willow Hollows, he and Rice and Padre had a release meeting with the doctors.

"Amazing," a Dr. Patel said.

"Unbelievable," a Dr. Ludwig said.

"Decent reviews!" Ernie Fingers observed.

"He has a curious malady," the doctor in charge, a Dr. Donatello, stepped in. "Yes; he is alcoholic. Yes: one drink and the whole skein unravels. But—!" And he held a forefinger into the air dramatically—underscoring, testing the wind. "But—! —it is only one, singularly one . . . brand and distillation—Chopin's Rye Vodka—which undoes him! As a clinical study, we gave him Maker's Mark. Nothing. Glen Livet. Nothing again. Tanqueray. Nothing a third time! No excess. No intolerance. Then—! Then we gave him Chopin Potato. We gave him Chopin Wheat. —Not quite as unequivocal . . . but no measurable distress . . . Chopin Rye, on the other hand . . . absolutely deadly! . . . off the chart! And especially if accompanied by Chopin's Nocturne in E-Flat. Killer! I have no explanation. Without Chopin Rye Vodka and his Nocturne, Mr. Fingers is a man of high alcohol-tolerance. He can drink almost . . . almost! anything and handle it. But he must not—must not . . . under any condition—be exposed to Chopin Rye Vodka. Chopin Rye Vodka is the Judas Iscariot of his spirit-world."

When Rice and Padre paid Ernie Fingers' bill, they promised Yellow Willow Hollow to be his protectors and drove him, straightaway, to the suite they'd outfitted at the Palace. "Would you like a rental car?" Tony Padre asked. And then: "Do you drive?"

What they settled on was a driver named Carlos and a Downtown Palace stretch limo.

The two executives were struck with how different Ernie Fingers seemed since being discovered in the storage-unit. They referred to the Old Ernie and the New Ernie. The Old Ernie had been barely vegetative. The New Ernie seemed assured, even expansive. "Do you think maybe they've given him something?" Tony Padre asked. "The folks at Yellow Willow Hollow?"

"You mean like—?"

"I don't know," Tony said. "Like . . . I don't know. Something. Modern medicine."

"I guess exceptional is exceptional Genius . . . genius," Dickie Rice said.

Certainly there was no question: Freed from rehab, the New Ernie was full-throttle—both on his "The Return Of—" show and his design-feedback for the showroom. He wanted casino equipment on stage. A blackjack table. A craps table. A roulette wheel. Specific slots. Deuces Wild. Wheel of Fortune.

Absolutely critical, he said, would be a camera which could film the show live-action and project it—magnified—onto a monitor readable to the audience. Any roll-and-decision of the dice should be audience-visible. Any card dealt in a blackjack game should be audience-clear. Any machine spin should come up—projected in high-resolution—for the audience to share. "I want the audience to feel," he said, “that gaming is magic."

When Ernie said this, Dickie Rice shot an elbow into the ribs of Tony Padre.

The Palace found him a tailor. The image Ernie hoped for, he said, was something between Houdini and Garth Brooks—something, at once, formal and informal—simultaneously denim and silk. During the fitting he held his hands elegantly in front of him like a pianist's, his digits leaping and separating from one another, like the limbs of ballet dancers in Swan Lake.

But then, suddenly, both hands cramped—deformed and twisted. And with that, Ernie Fingers contorted himself, started making wounded animal sounds. "Jesus Christ, I hate this!" he said. “Hate it! All of a sudden, sometimes, my hands treat me like an enemy! It's the Chopin. All those years of Chopin. The fucking Chopin has alienated me from my hands!"

Then, again and violently, in a kind of second-torque of his body, his hands quieted; his fingers danced. " . . . Magic," he finally said. "Sometimes my middle finger goes . . . justdisappears when I'm doing this. Once I lost my entire left hand. But time has taught me: Don't worry. All that vanishes will, one day, again, reappear."

His tailor asked that he, " . . . Please; just stand still."

The Showroom shape-shifted and then shape-shifted again like some Golem, some creature in legend. It stopped simply being a space and became a transformational zone. In it, objects seemed lighter, heavier. Darker, lighter. Wider, sleeker, more tapered. Almost with a life of their own . . . then inert.

When Ernie asked why Rice and Padre had sought him out, they told him that it was because he was a legend.

"My-my: A legend!" Fingers laughed. "A legend! Ah-me, mythology!"

At a week out—for the first three days and around the clock—light technicians wrestled with clamps, lamps and dimmers. Gels, cables and adaptors. For the final stretch of four days, Ernie Fingers asked that he be left alone in the showroom. If he needed sleep, he'd sleep there. Should he hunger, he'd order in. Please: let him make his preparations. Please: leave him to his muse.

Every now and then Rice or Padre would set an ear to the showroom door. Sometimes they'd hear music. Sometimes, laughter. On occasion, there was what sounded like animals—two by two—boarding Noah's ark. Once, when Dickie Rice cracked the door, Ernie was writhing on the floor with his hands clawing at the space above. Be my friends! Be my friends! Ernie was pleading with his fingers.

"What if he orders in from Lee's Discount Liquors and goes back on the Chopin Rye?" Padre asked.

"I don't think Lee's delivers," Rice said. "And you've gotta trust who you've gotta trust who you've gotta trust."

"What's that mean?" Padre asked.

"I have no idea," Dickie Rice said. "But I'm as terrified as you."

Then, finally, it was opening night! And then the first week . . . the second. Reviews appeared: in The Review Journal, the Tribune, the Sun. They were broadcast: KSNV, KLAS, KTNV. All seemed in awe. Getting a ticket for Fingers Night of Casino Magic was near impossible. The only tickets were those Ernie produced at his fingertips and distributed among audience members.

"I've made friends with my hands," Ernie Fingers announced at the close of opening night.

And he had. He began his show close and simply—old and standard tricks made new. Like your uncle who produced quarters from your ears, your hair and under your chin, Ernie Fingers wove a path through the audience, plucking and then gifting green ($25) and black ($100) chips. He reached behind the backs of women and suddenly had a Heidi Klum or a Colsabella bra—in his hand. He would slip men's ties from their necks without untying them. He'd throw a tie into the air and it would come down a more expensive tie. A Countess Mara. "Winner-winner!" Fingers would announce.

He stopped by a man wearing a ragged jacket. "You didn't dress for my show?" Ernie asked. The man apologized. In a single gesture, Ernie had the man's jacket in his hand. "Man as good looking as you—" Ernie began and then he tossed the ragged jacket into the air, where, at the top of its throw there was a light flash, and when the jacket descended it was an Armani. "I have the best tailor in Las Vegas," Ernie announced and handed the jacket back over. "Try it on," Ernie commanded. And the man did. "Perfect," the man said. "I can reverse the trick," Ernie said. "Get your other jacket back." "No I'm happy," the man said. "Winner-winner!" Ernie announced. And moved on.

And as he wove—making everyone feel like a winner—he would employ his impressionist skills—slipping from voice to voice. He'd encounter one audience member as George Burns, the next as Carol Channing, the next as Marlon Brando doing Godfather. And, with these shifts, his entire face would become plastic, and he would even look like the person he was impersonating. It was uncanny.

He had asked for casino tables. Which had been supplied. So he would invite a volunteer to—say—sit at the blackjack table, where the player was given 2 green chips. Some players, trying for a laugh, would say something like, That's all? And Ernie Fingers would say, "We'll see." As requested all the play was televised; anyone in the audience could see it on a flat screen. The shuffling was elaborate and extremely thorough.

The cards were dealt. Fingers, as Dealer, would show a ten. The audience-player would have a stiff hand—14, 15, 16. "You'd better hit it," Fingers would advise. The player would get a 3. "Again," Fingers would suggest. The count would get to 18, 19, 20. "Again," "again," again," Fingers would advise. A player would have a 20, and Fingers would suggest, "Again." And the player-volunteer would get an ace. "Stick," Fingers would say. And he'd turn his hole card up and it would be a queen or jack or king. "Winner-winner," Fingers would say and pay. "Parlay," Fingers would advise, and soon the player would have several hundred in chips in front of her. Again and again—even with elaborate shuffling—the audience-member-player would win. "When the show's over, take those out to the cage," Fingers would suggest. And the session would end.

With the craps table—same thing. A volunteer would choose dice. Roll them. Establish a number and make it. Then she would have six consecutive rolls which were either a 7 or an 11—after which, with the same dice, she would roll a 4 and then, on the following roll, repeat it. "Press! . . . Parlay!" Fingers would urge. Five minutes later, the audience-player—starting with 10 . . . 15 . . . 20 dollars would have several hundred. "The cage is to the left of the entrance doors," Fingers would offer. And then: "Winner-winner!"

"Everyone wins at the Palace," Fingers would shout, night after night, to the rafters.

As well, everyone won with Ernie's on-stage slots. The Deuces Wild would produce 4 deuces on two or three consecutive spins. "You think this machine's rigged?" Ernie Fingers would ask. Then he'd pluck another audience member and give her $20. The new player would try and try and try and get terrible hands. Then he'd have the winning audience-member hold her hand over the head of the new player. And four deuces would appear.

Winner . . . winner!

In between his casino magic, Ernie did impressions. He'd move upstage, cover himself with a shroud, appear to melt down into an almost-puddle; then—whipping the shroud aside—arise as some famed Vegas performer: Elvis, Sammy Davis Jr., Sinatra, Liberace. But his impressions weren't only men. He did Carol Channing, Barbra Streisand, Celine. It was a mélange of transformed faces and body tics which were both eerie and mesmeric. On several occasions, a resort physician had to be called in for an audience member whose disbelief rose to shock.

Dickie Rice asked might Ernie make his impressions just a bit less real.

"It's not within my control," Ernie apologized. "It's who I am. What I do. Tell your customers I'm sorry."

Post-show, Ernie would wander the floor, roam the casino, stop and watch players, put his hands on their shoulders. When he did, the player's luck would change. "Everyone wins at the Palace," Ernie would announce.

"How does he do that shit?" Tony Padre would ask. And Dickie Rice would just shake his head. "Can you believe these crowds?" Rice would say. "Did you ever imagine? Anything like this? Amazing!"

One of the regular give-away tricks which Ernie Fingers did involved booze. He would balance his magician's wand on the palm of his hand. Next, he'd place a colorful silk over it. Then he'd point to an audience member: The blond lady wearing the Hopi squash-blossom and green sweater—what's your name, Darlin'? Or: The gentleman in the fifth row, wearing the black-and-yellow beach shirt—who made your hair disappear?

Then—still balancing his silk-draped wand—he'd ask the inducted volunteer's liquor preference. A drink-of-choice would get named; Ernie Fingers would whip the silk away, and—in place of the wand—would be a full bottle of whatever: Tanqueray Ten, Johnny Walker Black, Gran Patron Platinum Tequila.

One night a man who looked like Brad Pitt (and, as it turned out, was Brad Pitt) named his favorite cabernet: Duckhorn. "What year?" Ernie asked. "2006!" Brad Pitt shot back. Whooosh! The silk lifted like a bird. And there—replacing the wand—was a bottle of Duckhorn which Ernie walked into the audience and presented. "I'm not wearing glasses," he said. "Could you please tell me: the year?" And Brad Pitt read: "2006!" "Enjoy!" Ernie said and the show moved on.

Some nights, a smart-ass would name a mixed drink: Gin-and-tonic! Or: Bloody Mary! Or: Fog Cutter! ("With or without the pineapple garnish?" / "With.") Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! Gone was the silk, and there was the mixed drink. Audiences reeled! "Winner-winner!" Ernie would announce.

And so it went for a month—standing room only. Ernie shone evening after evening. In the showroom but then, afterwards, strolling the casino floor. At any moment, inside the Palace walls, there was an almost electrical crackle of anticipation. Ernie would appear! He would disappear! He would touch someone, and they'd win! Where did Ernie go when he went? No one knew. He never answered a call. He rarely seemed to be in his suite.

Dickie Rice felt smug. He and Tony Padre gloated. Management started dropping by—sometimes with Corporate—and both were dumbstruck. You said you were going to bring an attraction—but you didn't say An Attraction. Corporate flew the two to L.A. and treated them like heroes. "Somehow you've done the impossible," they were told. "Well—I guess that's what a magician does," Dickie Rice offered. Then added: "And a good casino."

Then, in the seventh week, an unsettling event occurred. It was during Ernie's wand-to-favorite-beverage trick. "Okay—!" Ernie said—scanning the crowd—"Who's needs a drink?"

"I do!" a gruff voice—a voice raw and cruel—boomed from the back. Heads spun. The source of the raw voice was a grimy man in a tattered overcoat.

Some alarm went off in Ernie; he struggled to maintain his usual ease. "Anyone else?!" he said. "Thirsty? A drink?"

"Chopin Rye Vodka!" the grisly overcoated man barked.

"Glenlivet! Highland Single Malt!"

Swoosh! and the wand became a bottle of Glenlivet Highland Single Malt—which Ernie presented.

"I asked for Chopin Rye Vodka!" the grimy man roared.

"Yes —but so rudely. And manners count," Ernie quipped. The audience laughed. And the hunched, grisly man skulked from the theater.

But Ernie Fingers knew: He'd be back.

And he was. The next night. And the following. "Chopin Rye Vodka!" The Spook. On the third night, from a small boom-box, came Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat.

Ernie stopped. Stood in his spotlight. Calculated. Considered. Except for the Chopin, the room was without sound. Then, finally, Ernie Fingers called: "Security?!"

Security moved. Ernie pointed. The man and his boom-box were removed—after which, Ernie stood, silent and thoughtful, on the stage. "So . . . what? Where were we?" Ernie asked. And he moved on into the grand-finale of his show.

Word escaped to both Rice and Padre about the Chopin man, so they scheduled room-service breakfast with Ernie in his suite: prime-rib hash, Irish oatmeal, lox, eggs benedict, popovers and jam. "If there's something that you don't see but that you want—say. It's your!" Dickie Rice said.

They asked Ernie if he knew who the man was and why he'd materialized.

Ernie had none. Not true, though: he had an inkling. Except—! "Except," he said, "sometimes I send very-dark spirits to myself to see whether I can handle them. It's possible that I'm the person who is the person . . . who won't go away."

"In which case—" Dickie Rice began.

"In which case," Ernie said, "I'm going to have to make him disappear."

"And if you can't—?" Tony Padre asked.

"And if I can't . . . and if I can't, it will mean I'll have to disappear myself. I mean, I've done it before. I can do it again."

"But how would you do that?" Tony Padre asked.

"A magician never reveals his tricks," Ernie Fingers said. And smiled.

Ernie confided that he was feeling strong and believed that he needed to test himself. The grisly man was to be allowed back into the showroom when he next came. "I've been doing Tai Chi. And some strong somatosensory exercises," Ernie said. "I think I'm ready. For him. My Spook." Ernie laughed—a dark laugh, an empty laugh—but a laugh nevertheless.

Rice and Padre pledged their presence. Vigilance. "Count on us. We'll be back there. In standing-room. And we'll triple Security," Dickie Rice assured.

That night, again the man came—less a body; more a shadow—one Security to his left; another, right. The show began, moved along; Ernie Fingers was brilliant— hands like hummingbirds. Then came the late moment when he asked for spirit preferences.

"Chopin Rye Vodka," came the raw and squalid call from the nearly fungal shadows at the back.

" . . . I'm hearing Chopin Rye Vodka," Ernie slowly syllabicated in return.

"You got it: Chopin Rye Vodka!"

The ensuing silence was almost surgical. Then Ernie said something. Then the Spook spoke. To which Ernie replied. To which the Spook answered. There was no sense to be made. All the sounds/words/whatever were, at best, the issuings of first one and then another throat—guttural, indecipherable—like the night-sounds snaking out of an alligator pit or great-ape house—gibberish.

Back and forth the demonic and Precambrian sounds went—Ernie balancing his silk and wand on the palm of his hand: first the grisly man, then Ernie—bestial, brutal, demonic.

Then—! Ernie snapped the silk, and there, in his palm, stood a bottle of Chopin Rye Vodka—suddenly backgrounded by the great musician's E-flat Nocturne.

"Aha!" Ernie's Spook—barked out.

"Aha!" Ernie shot back.

"How does it feel . . . to have it once again in your hand . . . so close . . . so close to your throat?" the Spook asked over the Nocturne's legato.

"It feels inevitable!" Ernie replied. His eyes looked like lead-weights, like Murano glass.

"Toss it to me. I'll catch it!" the Spook taunted.

Ernie tried to toss the bottle, but it wouldn't leave his hand.

"C'mon, pitcher-pitcher, Mr. Magic: toss it!" the Spook sneered. And he squatted. Waited. Stood

And when the two started walking toward one another, three of the Palace Security started closing in.

"Hand it to me!" the Spook jeered.

They were twenty, fifteen, ten feet apart. Ernie was extending the Chopin out . . . and out! But the bottle wouldn't leave his fingers. And now the twisted and deformed shape was laughing. A good quarter of the audience were screaming. It was high-horror. It was Alien meets Silence of the Lambs.

And then—though surveillance cameras mapped every inch of the space—what happened next—suddenly/unexpectedly—remains uncertain. Renditions vary. So much is in or not in the eye of the beholder. There remains a vague and scattered agreement about certain elements. Crackling light—as though the room's entire electrical system were shorting. Visceral bodily shrieks or bellowings. Laser-like beams. Riotous sounds of breakage—particularly glass. Pulsing images of blood and naked flesh. The reek of sloppy and spilled alcohol everywhere. The entire duration (because a member of Security stop-watched it) clocked at a minute and seven seconds only.

Just as suddenly: everything restored—lights, air-conditioning, sound system, the Kenny G soundtrack which had been playing when all in the showroom had collapsed. The audience began to resettle. Security stood in the aisles—scanning. Then, abruptly, everyone saw and realized: Ernie Fingers lay in a heap at the apron of his stage.

A collective breath caught in a universal throat. If there is a music which might be called a music-of-carnage, it sounded in the room. Ragged shards of glass glistened like some kind of cruel throw rug on the stage. But then . . . slowly at first, then with greater and greater possession and dignity, Fingers rose from where he'd curled, crumpled.

He looked out. Looked around. He saw that his Spook had abandoned him. He smiled.

And then he hunched and removed his shoes—one slowly . . . and then the other. He removed his socks. Then—with a broad smile—he wove a path over the strewn glass shards. Audience could hear broken glass re-breaking. Snapping. It seemed a transport beyond magic. It seemed a miracle.

Finally: glass a kind of still water everywhere—Ernie Fingers stopped. He held a hand out. A dove appeared at his fingertips and stayed. Still. "End of show," Ernie Fingers said. The lights dimmed. The audience rose and applauded. And when the lights relit, Ernie was gone.

And so the attraction that Dickie Rice and Tony Padre had sought and needed, Ernie Fingers, himself, disappeared. Yet, what he'd brought to Las Vegas's Downtown Palace lingered on. Sometimes diminished shortly. Sometimes grew. And those who knew, those who'd been there, during the several months of Ernie Finger's time, swore that there were still evenings when they would see him—when he would step up behind a player at a dice or card table, gambler at a Wheel of Fortune—touch that player on the shoulder, wish him, wish her, Good Luck. And the player would win.