Nightrise

PRESENTS
    THE CIRCUS OF THE MIND
    There are many things in life that cannot be explained. Powers that exist on the edge of our consciousness. Do you dare journey into the world of the paranormal? Be amazed! Be mystified! This is a show you will never forget.
    FEATURING
    Swami Louvishni — world-famous Indian fakir
    Bobby Bruce — hypnotist to the stars
    Mr. Marvano — master illusionist
    Zorro — escapologist
    Scott & Jamie Tyler — telepathic twins
    Performance times: 7:30 pm & 9:30 pm
    Tickets: $35 to $55. Senior citizens half price
    By twenty past seven that evening, a small crowd had gathered on the pavement, waiting for the door to open. There were about fifty people. Most of them had been attracted to the theatre by leaflets given to them by the receptionists in the hotels where they were staying. The leaflets promised "Five dollars off
    — this week only." In fact, there were five dollars off every week; the same leaflets had been handed out for the entire time that
    The Circus of the Mind had been playing. And the receptionists were only recommending it because they had been paid to do so. They would receive five dollars for every ticket they sold.
    The audience was already beginning to wonder if the show really was going to amaze or mystify them in the slightest. The dusty brickwork, the broken sign, and the single, amateurish poster were hardly promising. On the other hand, there wasn't much else in Reno that they could do for thirty dollars and it was probably too late to ask for a refund. There was a loud rattle and the doors swung open, pushed from inside. As one, the crowd moved forward. There were a few drinks and boxes of candy on sale in the lobby but they were overpriced and no one bought anything. Almost unwillingly, the audience members produced their tickets and passed through a narrow archway, into the main auditorium.
    The theatre contained two hundred seats and was shaped like a horseshoe around an elevated wooden stage. A red curtain — tatty and faded — hung down. At exactly half past seven, the sound system blasted out a burst of pop music and the curtain rose to reveal a dark, bearded man wearing sunglasses and a turban.
    "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he announced.
    "My name is Swami Louvishni and it is my great pleasure to be here all the way from Calcutta."
    None of this was true. It was just the first of many lies.
    The Indian fakir was, of course, a fake. His real name was Frank Kirby and he hadn't been farther east than New York. He had taken his stage name from a Tintin story and his tricks from a library book he had stolen when he was nineteen. Among the other attractions, Bobby Bruce was an out-of-work actor and had never been anywhere near the stars; Mr. Marvano, the illusionist, was Frank Kirby again but without the beard and the glasses and using another voice; Zorro was a drunk.
    The audience tonight was hardly enthusiastic. The summer had already arrived in full force, the hot breezes rolling in across the desert, and the air-conditioning in the building was working at only half strength. They were falling asleep in their seats. They clapped politely when the fakir laid down on a bed of nails and when the escapologist leaped out of a locked-up chest. But they barely acknowledged the illusionist, even when he suddenly produced — in an empty cage — a large, panting dog. Perhaps they knew that in Las Vegas, only a few hundred miles away, there were magicians who had done the same thing with elephants and white tigers.
    By the time the last act had walked onto the stage, the audience had clearly had enough. Some of them had already left. But as the music changed and the lights dimmed and then rose for the last time, something changed inside the Reno Playhouse. It happened every night. It was as if people sensed, without being told, that they were finally going to be given a little of what the poster had promised.

    The twins had appeared, now dressed in dark pants and black shirts open at the neck. The taller one was gazing out into the glare of lights with undisguised hostility. He had the look of a street fighter and, indeed, there was a large bruise on one of his cheekbones. His brother was somehow friendlier, more welcoming. It was just possible that he enjoyed being here. He was the one who spoke.
    "Good evening," he began. "My name is Jamie Tyler." He gestured at the other boy, who didn't move.
    "And this is my brother, Scott. For as long as I can