Mind Scrambler by Chris Grabenstein Page B

was worth. “The greatest treasure of them all: fortune cookies!”
    He plucked one out of the air.
    I could feel the crowd heave a collective
“Hunh?”
    Now the giant TV screen behind Rock showed a slow-motion shower of cash.
    â€œYou will win a great deal of money,” said Rock, reading the tiny slip of paper from inside the cookie.
    Then he turned it over.
    Several times.
    â€œBut wait—where are my lucky numbers? Wise sages through the ages have told us, the fortune inside a fortune cookie will only come true if the reader plays his lucky numbers in a game of chance! Where are they? Where are my lucky numbers?”
    Ceepak leaned over. “This must be his famous Lucky Numbers illusion,” he said.
    I was sort of thinking the same thing, but Ceepak said it first, so he was still, officially, the smartest boy in the class.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I sensed Lady Jasmine leaning forward in her seat. I glanced over and saw her gesturing for everybody else in her box to settle down and pay attention.
    Rock stared at the cascading cash on the JumboTron at center stage.
    â€œI’ll bet I could win a whole heap of money if I played my lucky numbers out on the casino floor! But I don’t have any lucky numbers in my fortune cookie.”
    He turned to the audience. The house lights brightened.
    â€œDo any of you folks have a lucky number?”
    Hands shot up. People started shouting.
    â€œHold your horses. I need another volunteer. You there. Yes, you.”
    A woman sitting about six rows back with her husband and kids stood up.
    â€œDo you have a lucky number, ma’am?”
    â€œYes, sir. I sure do.”
    â€œHave you ever attempted to use it to win money?”
    â€œOne time. The lottery.”
    â€œAnd you won?”
    â€œNo.”
    Rock did a comic frown. “You lost?”
    â€œYes,” the woman giggled it out.
    â€œDang—and it’s still your lucky number?”
    â€œI hope so.”
    â€œMe, too.” He flicked his wrist again. Produced a purple-striped poker chip. Moved it artfully across and through his fingers. In the close-up on the TV screen, I could read the center of the chip:
Fifty dollars.
    Rock gestured for the woman to join him onstage.
    She giggled the whole way up the steps.
    â€œWhat is your name, ma’am?”
    â€œCassie. Cassie Hannington.”
    â€œCassie, have we ever met before?”
    â€œNo,” she said. “Unfortunately!” Then Mrs. Hannington grabbed hold of Rock’s tux and nailed him on the cheek with a quick but noisy kiss.
    â€œPlease,” said Rock. “Not in front of my wife!”
    Jessica Rock—now dressed in a different low-cut gown more dazzling than all the rhinestones in Nashville—strolled across the stage like Vanna White heading over to the big board to flip a few vowels.
    â€œSorry,” said the audience volunteer. “You’re just too handsome.”
    â€œAin’t it the dadgum truth?” said Rock. Then he gave her a grin and a wink to let her know he was just joshing her.
    Their whole little scene was playing up on the giant TV screen behind them, which is where my eye always goes in any kind of arena-type situation. Even if I’m at Madison Square Garden and Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band are live onstage, I’m focused on the JumboTron, watching TV Bruce instead of Live Bruce.
    â€œVery well, Cassie Hannington. You say you have a lucky number?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIs it between one and thirty-six?”
    â€œYes.”
    Mrs. Rock disappeared into the wings and returned with a rolling easel that had a white marker board propped up in its tray. Then she smiled and pointed and posed some more.
    â€œExcellent,” said Rock. “You know, numbers can be dadgum powerful. Now, I know what you’re thinkin’: my cow died so I don’t need your bull anymore. So, I’m gonna prove it to you.