Malcolm hears the call, the invitation, and rises from his seat, his wife Ginger’s hand like a heat phantom floating in the air behind him—pushing him forward? staying him? it’s hard to tell. And now Malcolm climbs stairs, mounts the stage, says hello to the thin magician, shakes his hand, steps into a box windowed by lucite, pinned by light. And—seeing the man with the cape furl something huge and purple, something velveteen, up and into the air over the box (if there is sound—sound hushed) then seeing no more, seeing nothing because seeing leaps beyond vision, becomes gemcolor before anything’s seen, some essential ardor of emerald, ruby, some hardcolor truth in a gale wind that sucks every bone into his breath, Malcolm feels himself hurled then hurled—somewhere North, North off the stage, out of the theatre, casino, resort: out of town finally, across one state line, possibly two, where it smells like juniper, a thousand edgeless rocks, heronfeathers. One can imagine Idaho. Why not? A sign, print burned into wood then stained, says Magic Reservoir. Why not. Malcolm listens for clues and hears only a world-beyond-traffic.

2.

All I ever wanted to be was funny. But fate deals. They call sports the gateway into whatever you’d do if you had brains or talent. I was a second-string All American, playing four years with the Cincinnati Bengals, four more with the San Diego Chargers. Truth’s funny when you say it right. And we get second chances. So funny was what I tried to be broadcasting Monday Night Football with The Wildebeest and The Prince of Nose Candy, but the network saw what-I-thought-hilarious differently, told me shut up or leave. Be reasonable. How does a broadcaster shut up? So I left, made a little noise, went on talk shows for a year—did you know Boomer Esiason?—nevermind—got sued twice, run down by a car (not an accident), body knocked into a ditch in a remote Saskatchewan I-think-the-word-is-village. For a week I was the missing body. But then I regained what I’ve realized, since then, is more-than-consciousness, found myself, climbed up onto the road, got found, came here and, now, do what I do: try to employ my more-than-consciousness, find other people, audition, do the comedy clubs.

True story: I’m taking lunch at The Mirage California Pizza Kitchen so I can watch the sportsbook with a pair of hundred-power Bushnells, and this woman comes up—handsome, mid-40s; jewelry, nicely accessorized—asks am I who I am? is my casebook full? good because she has a missing body

The missing body’s her husband. They went to see Lance Burton at The Monte Carlo last night. Great show! she said, great show! have you seen it? Of course. Somewhere around—she looked at her watch—10:46, Lance asks for someone in the audience. Woman’s husband’s a magic freak, been one since he was a kid, pops up out of his showroom seat, goes up, steps into the box; Lance makes him disappear, does seven other tricks, levitates himself on a motorcycle, roadtrips the air—blue smoke. The show ends, the theatre empties. My lady’s waiting; waiting. She’s the only one in the theatre except a stagehand; he says, Ma’am? She says, Lance Burton made by husband—my husband, Malcolm—disappear; where would he—? Stagehand has no idea. Wait here, he says. It’s five, ten, fifteen minutes. Man comes out in a suit, looks very casino: Would you come with me, he asks. My lady follows; the

two go into an office. Clearly executive, clearly management; office is like a suite, full bar, entertainment center; What would she like to drink? the executive asks, any parushki? dolmanthes? She repeats her story: Where’s my husband? Sit down, the executive suit asks. Please. I need to explain something, but first he makes her sign saying all he tells her will be in strictest confidence.

She does. She tells me: as much of a suit as the executive is, the guy is shaking; he’s a man probably plays golf six out of seven and he’s white. Something tragic is happening, he says. Lance Burton—one of the great magicians of the world and for whom the Monte Carlo built and designed their present showroom—is losing his memory. Hands are fine, Executive says; skill...skill’s as nimble as ever. The man defines ‘dexterous.’ Short term, though, is another matter. Where’s my husband? my lady asks. We wish we knew, Executive says. He’d asked Lance: “Lance: you remember making the gentleman in the black turtleneck, brown houndstooth disappear?” Lance said, “Yes.” I asked, “So, do you remember where you disappeared him to?” Trust me: Lance feels terrible. He feels humiliated. He knows this is happening to him. And I have to tell you: it’s unforgiving; it’s cruel. One of the great magicians of the world.

You learn to ask the obvious: Where does Lance disappear most of his things, people? What my lady’d been told was, Different places. Like—? Apparently, there’s no pattern. That was part of Lance’s fun. Sometimes the ballroom of the MGM. The further away the more the challenge, is what Lance had said. And in the last year—almost to defy loss of memory—he’d pushed. One time he’d made a horse disappear and the horse showed up on stage with Rosie O’Donnell in Atlantic City. Could I help? My lady had asked around, and I had a certain infamy for missing bodies. She’d read a hack piece in Sports Illustrated about the network firing me and how that had led, in ways, to me finding missing bodies. The Monte Carlo would pay. Would I talk to Lance? Would I take the case?

One of the funniest books in The Old Testament, I think, is Job. His boils kill me. It cracks me up how Job says, “Let the night be solitary.” How do you come up with a line like that? Job’s like Chaplin; he’s like this ancient Little Tramp who can’t get anything; it’s a riot. Chapter 10 is like comic genius. Verse 10: “Hast thou not poured me out as milk, curdled me like cheese?” I mean, it’s just one of those things that is funny—in the way Wisconsin is funny. Except I would have ended Job differently. In Chapter 41 and cut Chapter 42, had it end where the darts are counted as stubble and he’s laughing at a shaking spear. I’m working up a whole Job routine, and I wouldn’t mind being a warm-up at the Monte Carlo.

So I say Yes: Have the Monte Carlo call Lance. Also, have them agree: the missing body in return for one night in Lance’s Evening of Magic. Do you have even an intuition? my lady asks. I see fields of mission-bell, bitterroot. Idaho, I say. Idaho? she puzzles. But there’s no connection; we have no connection whatsoever with Idaho; we’ve never been there. All the more reason for the intuition, I say.

Lance is a loss when, over the phone, I take him through guided imagery. His voice sags on all the unaccented syllables. He tries, but.... Which is so many people—isn’t it? Still, he comes up with postcards: lavarock, watercress, a blue heron. I’m missing a dove, he tells me, a small water fountain...half an assistant. I’ll keep my eyes out, I tell him. A dove, a small fountain, half an assistant—lavarock, watercress, a blue heron. I take the elevator to the top of The Stratosphere, walk around and around the observation. I call my lady whose name is Ginger. Any word? I ask. The phone rings—then Whoever hangs up, she says; any chance it’s Malcolm? It’s the Monte Carlo, seeing if she’s still in town, but I don’t say that.

I take a cab up The Boulevard, walk around backstage, get let into the Magic Room, touch boxes, blades of swords, birdcages. Idaho! everything whispers—like sex, like the relics of saints—Idaho! There are three blood carpeted stairs to a small platform; I climb them. I disappear, just for a moment, then reappear again. My breathing’s shallow, rock-washed, filled with ozone. I leave the Magic Room, call Ginger. Meet me at Sfuzi’s, I say, seven o’clock, in The Fashion Mall. It’s across from The Dive.

I root out Ginger’s executive-in-charge—a man with sunken eyes, sunken cheeks and nose that’s listing. I say, Mr. Castelli: I need an hour with Lance. Castelli’s voice wants to scramble my signal. He’s all distrust-pretending-to-be-cooperation. He says, I guess; okay; if a lawyer’s present. But don’t get any ideas; you’re going to have to prove magical negligence.

Lance Burton’s by his pool, with lawyer. The air’s sheeted like phyllo; light’s like lavarock. Make something disappear, I ask. I’m just trying to find a handle. It doesn’t have to be difficult; anything. He chooses the water in the pool; it’s gone; the pool’s dry; then it’s back again. Interesting, I say. Do it again. Something else. He’s wearing a bathing suit with fish. The fish disappear; it’s a solid blue suit; then the rainbows are back again. One more time, I request. He’s eating a salad. He waves his hand, and that’s the end of the watercress; it’s just radicchio. You’re good, I say; that’s the word on the street and I can’t dispute it. Bring the watercress back. Bring the what back? Lance Burton says, and the lawyer whispers something into his ear.

We do word-association and it might as well be sand blasting. I say coriander; he says sigmoidoscopy. I ask: had he ever seen Malcolm prior to last night—in videotape, perhaps, photograph? And prior conversations with Malcolm’s Ginger? The Monte Carlo lawyer leans in, whispers. We take exception to your implications, he says. Mr. Burton’s no hit magician. Except he is a hit magician, I say, and though it’s reasonably quick, it’s not funny.

I meet Ginger at Sfuzi’s. When the hostess asks: inside or outside, I say: it’s the story of my life. Ginger prefers inside—where she feels more volume, she says, more shape. They have conditioner ducts the color of jicama. We split an insalata mista and I order a bottle of Marilyn Merlot—you take your laughs wherever. What’ve you found? Ginger asks, and in this particular night—full moon, Strip traffic like gelatin, the sound of The Dive next door hitting the bottom of the ocean—What’ve you found out? seems such a delicious question.

I have a theory about inevitability. Greek tragedy used to be comedy before it was tragedy. The House of Atreus was originally a Funhouse; something happened to the mirrors; Sophocles broke one of the mirrors, then figured fuckit, broke them all. Discoveries used to be marriages before they were blindings; people spilled wine not blood; professional football used to be professional magic before special teams. It’s the mirror thing all over—again and again. Back at the beginning, fish had feathers.

So: what had I found out? Ginger had merlot on her upper lip, the unwashed crust of a crying jag on one cheekbone. Bodies get lost—isn’t that amazing?!—but not forever. That you can find the missing body again and again is, I think, a miracle. What had I found out?

—It’s indisputable, I say.

—What’s indisputable?

—Idaho.

—Idaho’s indisputable?

—Absolutely.

—How can Idaho be indisputable?

I say—you’re wild, Ginger.

She says—seriously.

I say—because: look at us; look at where we are.

She says—yes.

I say—smell the night.

She does.

I say—Idaho’s the next state.

3.

Malcolm supports himself against a lodgepole at the foot of the spillway. I was somewhere, he thinks: somewhere in a world not here—where was that? Folded on the stones are his black turtleneck, brown houndstooth. There are plovers, stellar jays on branches. Indigo buntings browse the groundthatch: seeds? with each inquiry of beak: seeds? seeds? The water falling sounds like applause.

Where was it that he....? Memory, in this place, seems very much like a binnacle in a kitchen in Oklahoma—a thing unnecessary. Malcolm thinks: the inevitability of water! comedy of light! and he forgoes connections—because there are open birdcages in a logjam of tamarack and black hawthorn, nesting cinnamon teal, rock dove. And there’s a small fountain lodged in a listing Engelman. Colored scarves blow by like sheeting rain. And in a field beyond which horses dance, field rife with Russian thistle, is half a woman. Upper.

—Oh, my dear! Malcolm says.

—Hello! the half-woman says. —Take a card-any-card! My name’s Sheila!

—What happened? Malcolm says.

—Isn’t this all wonderful? Sheila says. —Finally? At last?!

—But you’re only half-here, Malcolm says.

—For me: at least I’m half here, Sheila says. And then—Look! oh, look! and points, and a purple cape floats by on the Big Wood River.

Then two others—man, woman—climb the horizon of barbed wire, up over what-seems-a-stairway down; the man, a man overburdened with sinew and lank; the woman’s wrists mirrors of atmosphere. Between them—a picnic basket and boombox. The boombox plays Kenny G.

—Ginger! Malcolm says.

—Idaho! Ginger says.

And the lank man, wishing-he-could-be-funny-only, points behind, to a point where the two climbed.

—Sportsman’s Access, he says.

—It says Magic Reservoir Sportsman’s Access.

David Kranes is author of Low Tide in the Desert. He lives in Salt Lake City.