Uri Geller - Dead Cold

[dem bones]

Uri Geller - Dead Cold (Headline, 1999)

Blurb

Mikki is a psychic. At least that's what the listeners to his popular radio show think, believing the charming, wise-cracking New Yorker really can read their minds on-air.

Other people think he's a fake. Like Johannes-Kristian Ingman, professor of parapsychology and obsessive fraud-hunter, who's determined to expose him. And when Mikki agrees to submit to Ingman's parapsychology tests, he unwittingly gives him the vital ammunition he needs.

But that's just the start of Mikki's problems. When Ingman's charred corpse is discovered in his university office, where Mikki just happens to be trying to steal back the incriminating test papers, he becomes the chief suspect in a murder inquiry.

If Mikki's going to stay out of jail and keep his career from being destroyed, he's going to have to start developing some very special talents in double-quick time ...


Handsome, curly-haired Panagiotis 'Mikki' Michalakopoulos, popular 'psychic' radio presenter at PrimeTime London Radio, is a skilled confidence trickster with a knack for telling the phone-in crowd what they want to hear. Unlike the author, this fellow is not only a phoney, he has a bit of an ego ("They were playing my song. One of my songs, anyway. New York, New York. Sinatra. Anything by Sinatra rates as one of my songs. I claim them as my own."). His 'gift' is entirely reliant on the useful titbits of information young Mimi can winkle from the callers before she allows them access to the mystic one. Mimi is so exceptionally good at her job that Mikki never fails to satisfy his adoring public.

Until today.

Somehow, his trusted assistant has allowed renowned hoax-buster Professor Johannes-Kristian Ingman to sweet-talks his way under the radar and onto the show, where he issues a public challenge. Ingman offers Mikki the chance to earn £5, 000 for two hours of his time. All that's required of him is his participation in a simple experiment in telepathy. Mikki doesn't like the sound of Ingram, lets him know as much, and then relents - the last thing he wants is for the listeners to suspect he's rattled. He grudgingly assures that he'll give the matter due consideration, although the mere idea of accepting money from his God-given talent is, quite frankly, abhorrent to him. It's a bad start to a day that gets even worse when Jane, his detested wife, summons him to dinner at an exclusive Kensington hotel.

Jane Lyons, a wealthy, fifty-something widow, contacted the celebrity medium in good faith shortly after the death of her first husband. Mikki, desperate to extend his soon-to-expire work permit, and in urgent need of cash to settle a Stateside debt, duly channelled several cheering messages from dear, departed Ambrose. Having cynically pursued a marriage of convenience with some vigour, Mikki must now face the consequences, for this is one crisis he can't bluff his way clear of. Jane is on to him. Not only is he a charlatan but "it appears to me that marrying your English woman has left you free to f**k everything in a mini-dress between here and Islington."

In the midst of his angry denials and declarations of undying love, Jane introduces Mr. Marsh, the private detective she hired when Mikki spent one too many late nights at the office. The grainy photographs of his arrival at his glamorous co-presenter, Kerry Allison's flat are easily explained away as top secret PrimeTime Radio business. The orgasmic moans and groans on the tape recording - which Jane insists Mr. Marsh play at top volume for the benefit of their fellow diners - are a trickier proposition.

His guilt established beyond a shred of doubt, Jane, who has taken the precaution of cancelling their joint credit card, walks out with Mr. Marsh, leaving Mikki with a lap full of scalding hot coffee, a tab he can't pay and a very irate manager who happens to be the size of a Gorilla. All looks lost until a complete stranger steps in, settles the bill, and enables the miscreant to escape to Kerry's flat.

Explaining that his wife's kicked him out, Mikki beg a couch for the night (he's careful not to mention Mr. Marsh, the photographs and tape recording. Kerry is also unaware that he was sleeping with Mimi when first he seduced her. Mr. Michalakopoulos is quite the ladies man).

Time to consider the Professor's generous cash offer ....

There's 372 pages of Dead Cold but the print is on the large side and having ploughed through nine chapters in little over an hour, there's a possibility I might actually complete a .... a Uri Geller novel. i know, i know. That it should come to this!

[cauldronbrewer]

Sept 23, 2013 22:22:22 GMT dem bones said:

Mikki is a psychic. At least that's what the listeners to his popular radio show think, believing the charming, wise-cracking New Yorker really can read their minds on-air.

Other people think he's a fake. Like Johannes-Kristian Ingman, professor of parapsychology and obsessive fraud-hunter, who's determined to expose him. And when Mikki agrees to submit to Ingman's parapsychology tests, he unwittingly gives him the vital ammunition he needs.

But that's just the start of Mikki's problems. When Ingman's charred corpse is discovered in his university office, where Mikki just happens to be trying to steal back the incriminating test papers, he becomes the chief suspect in a murder inquiry.

So Geller wrote a novel in which he fantasizes about the immolation of a thinly disguised James Randi? Next thing, you'll be telling us that it also includes the spectacular murder of a talk show host who suspiciously resembles Johnny Carson.

[dem bones]

Sept 24, 2013 17:12:58 GMT cauldronbrewer said:

So Geller wrote a novel in which he fantasizes about the immolation of a thinly disguised James Randi? Next thing, you'll be telling us that it also includes the spectacular murder of a talk show host who suspiciously resembles Johnny Carson.

With yesterday's two exciting new arrivals, steady progress on Dead Cold came to a temporary standstill - and just as the Professor was coming on all slimy, too - but i'm determined to finish it.

I had no idea Mr. Geller marketed any of his written work as fiction until a well-thumbed ex-library copy of Dead Cold turned up in the 4-for-£1 section, snapped it up before you could say "I bet that's really disgusting!" You'll doubtless be surprised to learn the inside cover comprises a full page colour photo of the great man looking intense. Headline had earlier published something called Ella, "the story of a young girl blessed - or cursed - with incredible mystic powers", according to James Herbert, who seems to have been a fan. Colin Wilson's endorsement? "The most exhilarating novel I've read in years."

Anyway, am trying to be frightfully 'professional', accept the novel on it's own merits regardless of the author's - to me - somewhat off-putting public persona. If the rest of Dead Cold lives up to the first hundred pages then fair dues, Mr. G. will have kept one reader entertained.

[Jojo Lapin X]

Sept 25, 2013 15:25:20 GMT dem bones said:

If the rest of Dead Cold lives up to the first hundred pages then fair dues, Mr. G. will have kept one reader entertained.

Are you entirely sure he actually wrote it himself?

[dem bones]

Sept 25, 2013 17:05:43 GMT Jojo Lapin X said:

Are you entirely sure he actually wrote it himself?

I'm not, but assuming Mr. Geller is the control freak he's painted, would he trust the writing to anybody else? That said, whoever is responsible for 'Dead Cold' has a warped sense of humour. Geller's alter-ego is so close to the real thing - or, at least, the carefully cultivated public persona of the real thing - that the novel has a mock-confessional feel to it. Mikki is a confidence trickster, a cold reader of some talent who, once he's divined what his callers want to hear, gives them just that. "The point was taking it seriously. I pulled a grave face when people suggested paranormal party tricks, like spoon-bending." Several sequences show him to be an an utter cad, not slow to take advantage of a friend if it suits his present purpose. To date he's not threatened the professor with litigation, but, as he's yet to receive his fee for participating in the telepathy challenge, it can only be a matter of time.

Incidentally, the novel is "Dedicated to the memory of the Chairman of the Board,
Frank Sinatra,
who died during the writing of this book.

Panagiotis Michalakopoulos"

[dem bones]

"She could do a real job on me. Say, give the results to The Daily Mail, with a gaudy version of how I wooed her. Spill the beans about Leaping Deer, and the messages from beyond the void, and the size of her bank balance. Spruce it up with a frank disclosure about our sex life. I'd be finished ..."

Mikki owes $50,000 to the Benji brothers back home, so a return to Brooklyn is inadvisable in the foreseeable future. With his work permit due to expire, there's nothing for it but to bag himself an English wife in double-quick time. Unfortunately, he opts for the next wealthy widow to phone the show. Jane Lyons, over two decades his senior, who, having recently lost her dear old Arnold, is desperate to continue the persecution beyond the grave. With the help of his non-existent "spirit guide", the aforementioned Leaping Deer, Mikki convinces the vindictive harridan that, not only is her spouse content in the afterlife, he wishes her to remarry. Mikki, having been such a rock through the bereavement, is the obvious candidate. It doesn't hurt that, as he keeps reminding us, he's such hot stuff between this sheets no woman can resist. Jane, however, is cuter than he takes her for, and is about to pull the rug from beneath hit. Between them, she and Prof. Ingman concocted the 'experiment' to expose him as a fraud. Won't the listeners be pleased to learn live on air that 'Leaping Deer' is just mystic Mikki speaking in a ridiculous falsetto?

There's only one thing for it. He'll have to break into the University and steal the incriminating dossier containing his rubbish results.

Whoever murdered the Professor made a production of it, if indeed, anyone did. His charred corpse is in a terrible state, consistent with that of a victim of spontaneous combustion. For once Mikki's conscience gets the better of him, and, to spare Louisa Simons, Ingman's attractive young redhead assistant, the trauma of discovering the body, phones an anonymous tip off to the cops. Then he calls Miss Simons, who, conveniently, lives directly opposite the Uni, and invites him over.

Louisa is genuinely psychic and knows lover-boy is no murderer. She agrees to leave the corpse where it is for the night so that his name isn't dragged into the police investigation. Besides, she didn't like Ingman who was a bit of a randy old goat. She even allows Mikki to sleep on her sofa, but hardly has he dozed off when the police storm the apartment ...

Perhaps the dedication should have read "to Raymond Chandler" ....