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brought me a long way and paid me a lot of money to say that. A phone call would have been cheaper.”
    â€œMy employer wanted to see you. He thinks there might actually be something to you. Unfortunately for you, I don’t. And nobody gets to him without going through me first. I think you are a con artist. I think you’ve convinced some rich old men and women that you have superpowers, and you’ve gotten by on luck and—what did you say?—‘hundred-year-old magic tricks’ until now. But I see no reason why I should allow you to waste my boss’s time, or even get in the same room with him.”
    His self-satisfaction is practically gleaming through that perfect skin of his.
    â€œYou want a demonstration?” I ask. “I could tell you that you’ve got just over sixty-three thousand dollars and change in your checking account, at least as far as you can remember. I can tell you that you forgot to call your wife before I showed up, and now you’re thinking you won’t get another chance until after lunch. You’re still worried about the appraisal on a piece of property in Wyoming that you’re considering for a mini mall. And you’ve got a Glock nine-millimeter in the right-hand drawer of that desk.”
    The gleam dims a little. He struggles to get it back.
    â€œThat doesn’t prove anything. I’ve heard that you guys can read stuff from body language, that you hire private detectives to do your research. You might even have a camera in this room, for all I know.”
    â€œAll true,” I admit. “There are people who do that. But I’m not one of them.”
    â€œFine. Tell me something you couldn’t learn from a twenty-dollar Internet credit report. Tell me my boss’s name.”
    It’s right there in the front of his head, but I deliberately ignore it. “You asked for your employer’s name to remain confidential. I’m going to honor that.”
    He beams with triumph. “You mean you don’t know. You couldn’t get that info before the meeting.”
    â€œWe’re done,” I say. I stand and button my jacket. “There’s nothing else I can do that will convince you.”
    â€œThat’s not exactly true,” Gaines says.
    I feel Keith behind me, suddenly interested, an attack dog straining at his leash. David, the other security guy, is on alert too, but without the bloodlust. They step away from their posts at the door.
    â€œI’ve asked Keith and David to beat you stupid and dump you off the highway,” Gaines says.
    Keith’s mind is suddenly all sunshine and rainbows. David limbers up, not exactly happy, but willing to follow orders.
    Gaines smiles again. “So all you have to do, Mr. Smith, is keep them from crippling you right here on the carpet. Then I’ll be convinced.”
    Keith rushes me first. Waves of glee dance all around him. He’s been looking for an excuse to punch someone in the head all day.
    He doesn’t care that I haven’t turned to face him. Fighting fair doesn’t get a lot of emphasis in combat training.
    David is a step behind. He’s still more ambivalent, but I can see the moves he’s planning. He’s a good, efficient brawler.
    Keith’s fist comes up to clobber me. I see the back of my head through his eyes.
    
    All right, then. Here’s the Vegas act.
    I hit Keith with the physical memory of double-port chemo nausea from a late-stage cancer patient. His equilibrium shorts out, and his knees buckle. He’s suddenly folded in half on the cowskin rug, retching up the power-protein smoothie he had for breakfast.
    I’ll pay for that later, but it’s worth it.
    David wasn’t nearly as anxious to slaughter me, so I go a littleeasier on him. I only blank the visual input from his eyes to his occipital lobes. He’s