Crush by Phoef Sutton Page A

scratch? Just so he could be close to that conniving cunt and her whining brat?
    Appalled at his inner monologue, Stegner checked himself in the rear-view mirror to see if he’d grown horns and a pointed goatee. Okay, that was an evil thought. But when it came down to it, did he really feel anything but relief that Richie was out of his life? He knew that men were supposed to love their sons no matter what, but he also knew that his own father had barely tolerated him. Why should he be any different?
    As he climbed out of the car, mostly to leave these taboo thoughts behind, and walked up to the house, a trio of screaming kids covered in some sugary substance nearly collided with him. A harried mother ran after them, apologizing, “Sorry! We shouldn’t have done this in the front yard, but the construction.…”
    She didn’t have to say anymore. There was always construction going on in these big homes. They reminded Stegner of the Winchester Mystery House—that place up north that had belonged to the widow of the inventor of the Winchester rifle who believed that, if she stopped building her house, the ghosts of those killed by her husband’s life-work would come get her. Stegner wasn’t sure what ghostly curse compelled people in the L.A. area to keep adding on to their houses, but the effect was the same.
    â€œNo problem,” he said, smiling affably. “I’m looking for Justin. Do know where he is?” Stegner didn’t know any child named Justin, but he felt it was a fair bet that there were as least two at this party.
    The mother looked around the chaos. “Um, you might try inside. With the magician.”
    Bingo.

    Bob Steinkellner was dying. He was dying in the show business sense, since his balloon tricks had already cleared half the kids from the room. And he was dying in the spiritual sense, since he was performing magic at children’s parties and living in a studio apartment off Yucca that his parole officer called “the worst piece of shit place” he’d ever set foot in. (And presumably a parole officer’s feet knew shit when they stepped in it.) And, finally, he was dying in the literal sense, sincehe’d been diagnosed with a particularly virulent strain of follicular lymphoma, which, his doctor assured him, could be treated by chemotherapy—chemotherapy that Steinkellner couldn’t afford and that he didn’t really want. Right now, his full head of hair was the only blessing he had.
    He finished two tricks early. The kids, looking slack-jawed and bored since they couldn’t control him with a remote, ran off to beat a SpongeBob piñata to death, and Steinkellner packed his scarves and cards and Dove Pans and Chinese Wands and Rubber Ropes and Professor’s Nightmare and Milk Pitcher and Needle Thru Balloon Trick and Hippy Hop Rabbits and Torn and Restored Newspaper and Mouth Coil and Egg Bag and Breakaway Wand and Magic Coloring Book neatly in his black carrying cases. He had another party to perform at in an hour. In Alhambra. Death couldn’t come soon enough, he thought.
    And he was only partly joking.
    â€œMr. Steinkellner?” The man who addressed him was a very unpleasant-looking fellow indeed. Dressed in a dark blue windbreaker, black slacks, and white shirt, he looked like a rent-a-cop who’d just taken off his tie to try to blend in with the crowd.
    â€œDon’t you mean Steiny the Magnificent?” Steinkellner replied wearily.
    â€œWe need to go somewhere and talk, Mr. Steinkellner.”
    â€œI don’t think we do. At least I don’t.”
    â€œHow long have you been out of prison, Mr. Steinkellner?”
    Steiny the Magnificent looked around—it didn’t do well to let people know that their children’s party entertainment was a convicted felon. No one had heard. No one was sticking around to ask for his autograph.
    â€œYou want to keep it down?”