Houdini's Last Trick (The Burdens Trilogy) (5 page)

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

“Y
OU
LOOK
LIKE
you could use some coffee.”

Houdini shot awake. The receptionist stood over him in her crisp white blouse and red pencil skirt. She shoved a teacup in his hand the moment he opened his eyes.

“Thank you.”

She offered a tight-lipped smile, then scuttled to the far side of the room before taking a deep breath. Houdini sipped the coffee.

He was sitting in an overstuffed chair in the waiting room of MGM Studios Head Louis B. Mayer. Everything in the room was creamy white—the walls, the drapes, the furniture, the plush carpet. It was as if he were sitting inside a giant cream puff. The decor only helped to magnify the filthiness of the magician’s suit.

Houdini barely noticed the smell by now. The worst part of his exit out of New York had been the train to Chicago, which he had paid for by selling his watch at a pawn shop. He boarded the train still soaked in sewage, causing passengers to repress gags. Well-dressed women huffed loudly and made little “
tsk tsk
” sounds. The conductor was going to kick him off at Columbus until he recognized who Houdini was. The magician had convinced him it was part of an elaborate escape—which was entirely true.

He had showered in Chicago at a YMCA facility near the train station, and had fully rinsed out his suit in a sink, but the smell clung to him like a second skin. He rinsed off again in a public toilet in Salt Lake City, and again in San Francisco at a church shelter for men heading south to pick fruit. By now his skin was raw from scrubbing, but there was still a residual something that he couldn’t wash clean. Maybe it wasn’t the sewage he was trying to escape. Maybe it was the image of Tommy Cipriano’s head getting bashed in.

The white double doors opened and Louis B. Mayer stepped out. Houdini stood.

“Harry!” Mayer said, holding his arms out as if he expected the magician to go running into them. He was a stout man with round glasses, neat gray hair, and a hawkish nose. Houdini smiled, nodded, and shook the studio head’s hand.

“Most people dress up for an interview with me,” Mayer said, taking in Houdini’s ragged attire. “You’re the only one I know who dresses down.”

“It was a last-minute trip,” Houdini said.

Mayer led them inside. His office continued the cream-on-cream-on-cream color scheme, with a massive oval desk that looked nothing short of presidential.

“I thought you ran a movie studio,” Houdini said. “It looks like you run the country.”

Mayer shooed away what he perceived as a compliment.

“Coolidge does a good enough job with that. Sit, sit.”

Houdini sat in another overstuffed cream chair facing Mayer’s desk.

“You want a scotch? Cigar?”

Mayer walked over to a glass-and-chrome bar next to a door that led into a private bathroom.

“Thank you, no. I rarely drink or smoke.”

“Good man,” Mayer said. “Neither do I. I only drink at weddings. And funerals, if I hated the guy.”

Mayer sat down behind his enormous desk. His chair was raised so that he’d sit a good six inches higher than anyone in the room. Houdini had the sense of visiting a king at his court.

“I like you, Houdini, I do. You’re good wholesome fun. Daring and dangerous, sure, but none of that sex and drugs and new-fangled jazz they’re playing in the seedy night clubs. You’re family entertainment.”

The magician gave a perfunctory smile. Like so many others before him, Mayer assumed Houdini was a prude because he didn’t drink, never cursed publicly, and was solidly married. But the magician had grown up in vaudeville, one of the bawdiest cultures in America. Mayer would be shocked to know the kind of people Houdini counted as friends.

“Let’s get down to business,” Mayer said. “I’ve got a job for you.”

He said it as if Houdini were an out-of-work juggling clown. But Houdini paid him no heed. Whatever movie Mayer wanted him to be in, Houdini had no intention of actually doing it.

The magician had remembered Mayer’s telegram as he was making his way out West. He was hoping Mayer would bankroll his visit there, since he had no money and no way to get a wire transfer with Bess hiding in their cabin. Besides, he was afraid someone might be watching his accounts.

All Houdini had to do was to listen to Mayer’s pitch, feign interest in the project, and ask for a week to think about it. Mayer would put him up in studio housing and, if he was lucky, offer him a per diem for food. He hadn’t eaten in nearly two days.

“I want you to perform an escape,” Mayer said.

“What’s the movie?” Houdini asked. “And who’s in it?”

“There’s no movie,” Mayer said. “I want this to be a live stunt. In front of a massive crowd.”

“To promote a movie?”

Mayer winked and leaned in conspiratorially.

“Actually, to downplay a movie.”

The man’s eyes twinkled with a kind of spiteful glee.

“Some independent studio is releasing a film they hope will save their crumbling business. It’s the most expensive film of the decade. If it bombs, the whole studio will go under.”

Mayer clenched his mouth but Houdini realized the man was trying to suppress a smile.

“Mr. Mayer, are you afraid of competition from an underdog?”

“I’m afraid of actors who think they’re producers,” Mayer said. “Just because they’ve been in a few movies, they now think they can make them.”

He sighed theatrically and looked out the window behind him.

“These ragtag companies are going to ruin the studio model we’ve worked hard to establish. Their ‘independent’ films could bring down the industry. They could ruin the economy of Los Angeles. The whole thing is very…un-American.”

To Houdini, it sounded like the most American thing imaginable.

“And what does this have to do with me?”

“The film is called
The Thief of Baghdad
and it’s showing at Grauman’s Egyptian Theatre. I want you to overshadow the premiere by performing your greatest escape—on Hollywood Boulevard, right across the street.”

Houdini’s heart leapt; he loved the challenge of an outdoor performance. For a moment he forgot that he was only there to feign interest.

“And what stunt would you have me perform? The Milk Can Escape? The Chinese Water Torture Cell?”

Mayer’s grin grew so big Houdini thought the ends of it would reach his beady eyes.

“I want you to perform the grandest escape you can imagine. I’ll pay you whatever you make for six month’s worth of shows, and cover the cost of whatever supplies and staff you need. The cost is of no concern.”

Houdini felt his palms begin to sweat as his heartbeat increased.

“I can do any stunt I want?”

This could be his one chance to perform the Hangman’s Death without Bess knowing. Once he did it and proved it was safe, he was sure she’d be amenable to him repeating it in New York.

No, you fool. You’d be telling that giant Atlas exactly where you are.

“I need some time to think about it,” Houdini said.

“You’ve got twenty-four hours,” Mayer said.

“That’s all? I was hoping for a week.”

Mayer shook his head.

“The premiere is Saturday evening.”

“This Saturday? That’s in five days. It can’t be done!”

Houdini usually took months to perfect his escapes.

“If anyone can do it, you can,” Mayer said. “I assume you’ll need space and privacy. I’ve already secured an apartment on the studio lot above a sound stage in which you can rehearse unseen. And you’ll get an advance, of course.”

Mayer slid a thick envelope across the table.

“Take it,” he said. “No strings attached. You can give me your answer tomorrow.”

Houdini pocketed the envelope.

There are always strings attached.

“Go get dinner at any of the hot spots in town,” Mayer said. “Tell them it’s on me; I have a tab everywhere. Afterward I’ll have a driver take you to your apartment. And for God’s sake, take a shower.”

Houdini stood and shook Mayer’s hand.

“I expect your answer by this time tomorrow,” Mayer said.

“By the way,” Houdini said, “what movie studio is it that you’re trying to sink?”

Mayer’s mouth puckered, as if he had bitten into a lemon.

“Some little operation called United Artists,” he said. “It’s Charlie Chaplin’s doing.”

Houdini nodded and walked through the double doors. They slammed shut behind him, as certain as the opportunity itself.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

H
OUDINI
SAT
AT
the bar of Musso & Frank Grill, dreaming about the escape he wouldn’t do. In front of him, he watched a sullen-looking bartender polish glassware for drinks he couldn’t serve. The liquor shelves were empty except for a meager cluster of flavored syrups to mix with carbonated water.

“I’ll take a Limetone soda,” Houdini said.

The bartender poured the drink in a highball glass and gave it a fancy twist of lime, but then pushed it over to Houdini as if he were disappointed by his own creation.

The restaurant was one of the most expensive in town, which was a bonus since Louis B. Mayer was paying for his meal. But the reason he chose it was because Musso & Frank, with its dimly lit booths and discreet wait staff, was the social hub of Hollywood’s elite.

The bistro appeared to be lifted straight out of a posh Parisian neighborhood, with dark wood paneling, white tablecloths, and a priggish maître d' who seemed to take pride in turning people away. The magician was grateful he had showered and purchased a new black suit before going.

Houdini had positioned himself where he could see guests enter. A man in a tan sport coat had been turned away, but two others in tuxedos were allowed in. A woman Houdini thought was either Lillian Gish or Clara Bow entered with a date. He often got these movie stars mixed up.

The front door swung open with force, and Houdini jumped in his seat. A dark, thick-set man in a sombrero and riding clothes stepped inside. He looked around as if he were the Cactus Kid sizing up a saloon. The maître d' took one look at the grime on the man’s face and snapped his reservation book shut.

“Good evening. You must be lost.”

The man’s skin was tanned from years in the sun and a thick mustache swooped across his face.

“I look for movie man,” he said. “I am here to make movie.”

He was from somewhere south of the border.

“Yes, you and every other person in this town,” the maître d' said. “You want Gower Gulch, eight blocks east. That’s where all the cowboys for hire loiter.”

“I tell great stories,” the man said. “Must make money for the revolution!”

“And I must make money to pay rent. Now get along, you brute.”

The man stood there a minute, his fingers twitching by a gun Houdini hoped wasn’t real.

“He said beat it!” the bartender shouted from behind the bar.

After a long, fearless stare at the bartender, the man turned and left the restaurant.

“We get all types here,” the bartender said. “The stars, star chasers, and the rubes who think they deserve a movie contract just for stepping off the train.”

“Speaking of stars,” Houdini said. “I hear Charlie Chaplin comes in here frequently.”

“Frequently? He and his pals practically sleep here. Try eight o’clock.”

Houdini checked his watch.

“He’ll be here at eight?”

“No,” the bartender said. “Your eight o’clock.”

Houdini turned and looked behind his left shoulder. There, in a corner booth in the darkest part of the restaurant, Houdini saw the famous comedian. He was sitting with another man, and they were laughing together.

As he took a few steps toward them, Chaplin looked up.

“Houdini?”

Chaplin jumped out of his seat and bounded across the room like a long-lost dog. Houdini stuck out his hand but the younger man grabbed him in a hug.

“You old goat! It’s been years. What are you doing here in Los Angeles?”

Houdini had befriended Chaplin in New York when the struggling comedian was doing his first show in America. But that was years ago. Now Chaplin was arguably the most famous entertainer in the world, and only thirty-five years old.

“I came to see you,” Houdini said.

“Me?” Chaplin said. “When this town is full of pretty women? Your priorities are all wrong.”

Chaplin tugged at his elbow.

“Come, meet my friend.”

Houdini followed him over to the corner. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he recognized the man slumped casually in the booth, a cigarette dangling from his hand.

“Mr. Fairbanks,” Houdini said, holding out his hand.

Douglas Fairbanks, the great swashbuckling movie star, set down his cigarette and shook Houdini’s hand.

“Yes, and you are?”

“Harry Houdini.”

Fairbanks’s eyes lit up.

“The magician! Of course. Come, join us. For a moment I thought you were an old man begging for autographs.”

Fairbanks flashed him an infectious grin, one that made Houdini feel as if he were on the inside of a velvet rope. The actor scooted to the center of the booth and made room for him.

A waitress brought Houdini’s meal to the table.

“Hattie, my dear,” Fairbanks said, “You wouldn’t happen to have any of that giggle water hiding behind the bar, would you?”

The waitress looked uncomfortable.

“You know we’re not supposed to bring that out in plain view of other guests,” she said.

Fairbanks gave her his best smile.

“Not even for your good friend Dougie? Come now, Hattie. A life of adventure doesn’t start until we take risks.”

He winked at her. Then he gave her a comical sad face. Finally the girl caved in, and she broke into a smile.

“I’ll see what I can do. But you’re coming to prison with me.”

She went to talk with the bartender.

“Charlie has always had wonderful things to say about you,” Fairbanks said to Houdini. “I’d love to see one of your shows.”

“Oh, he’s truly glorious,” Chaplin said. “He can escape from anything you trap him in: a cage, a safe, a conversation with my wife.”

“I didn’t think anyone could escape that,” Fairbanks said.

Houdini cleared his throat.

“I’m here because I need to see you,” Houdini said to Chaplin. “Privately. It’s about our…shared talents.”

He gave Chaplin a meaningful look.

“Oh! Well, if it’s a meeting of talents,” Chaplin said, “then Doug should stay.”

Houdini’s eyes slid to Fairbanks, who offered him a smile and a wink that twinkled.

But of course. I should have suspected.

Houdini removed the piece of deerskin from his pocket and unfurled it. Chaplin squinted as he struggled to read the list of names.

“Are you sure it doesn’t say Chorlie Chiplan? I know a fellow by that name.”

“Someone knew about us,” Houdini said. “I have an idea who. It’s a list of Burdens.”

“Burdens?”

Fairbanks sounded confused. It was a word Houdini hadn’t used in a long time. It was what Calamity Jane had called the great talents.

“They’re hardly a burden,” Chaplin said, “We practically run this town. My gift has made me the richest performer in Hollywood. And Fairbanks, well, he’s the third richest.”

“Who’s second?” Houdini asked.

“She is,” Chaplin said, looking up.

The magician turned and took in the woman standing beside him. Although she was about thirty, she looked much younger. She had golden rings of hair and playful eyes that Houdini found impossible to look away from.

“Hello,” she said. Houdini stumbled up from the booth to let her sit.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

“No, I’m Mary,” she said, holding out her hand for him to shake.

Mary Pickford. Douglas Fairbanks’s wife.

Houdini had seen one or two of the actress’s films, but the celluloid stripped away the true essence of her beauty.

“Are you going to shake my hand?” she asked. “Because it could be holding a drink.”

Houdini dumbly shook hands without taking his eyes off her.

“Harry,” he said. “Houdini.”

Pickford slid in next to Fairbanks while Chaplin went to find Houdini a chair.

The waitress returned with three clear drinks. It was probably gin and soda, but to anyone looking it might just as well be seltzer. Houdini pushed his glass over to Pickford.

“Have mine.”

“How very kind,” she said. “Thank you.”

Houdini gaped openly at the woman. He might not have guessed there was something unusual about Fairbanks, but Pickford was impossible to overlook.

Three great talents, working together. It’s unheard of.

“Mary, turn it down a notch, would you?” Chaplin said as he returned with a chair.

“If only I could,” she said.

Houdini turned inward to check his breathing and his heart rate, but he found his ability incapacitated. All of his consciousness was drawn outward, toward Pickford.

“You were saying, Mr. Houdini?” Fairbanks said.

He cleared his throat loudly.

“Houdini!”

The magician snapped his attention away from Pickford. He looked at Fairbanks, whose genial demeanor had grown suddenly sour.

“Won’t you please sit?” Fairbanks said smoothly, in the same tone he had used with the waitress.

The way he spoke, it was practically musical. It had substance, as if Houdini could feel its unique timbre tickling the insides of his ears. Houdini was aware internally of how much he suddenly wanted to do as Fairbanks asked. He sat.

“Now what’s all this about?” Chaplin asked.

“I’m in danger,” Houdini said. “And you are the only ones who can help.”

As briefly as he could, Houdini told them the story about Pope Benedict and the man he had come to call Atlas. He pulled on the chain around his neck and gave them a quick peek at Newton’s Eye.

“If even half of that story is true,” Chaplin said. “You’d have half of a great story.”

“Stop that,” Pickford said. “This isn’t a time for joking. You said the man’s strength was exceptional, Mr. Houdini?”

“I said it was unnatural,” Houdini said. “Like your beauty.”

Pickford said nothing but the flush of her face gave her away.

“Or Chaplin’s humor,” Houdini said. “Or Mr. Fairbanks’s—what is it, exactly—charisma? I believe this strong man has a great talent. As I suspect we all have.”

“And what is yours, Mr. Houdini?” Fairbanks asked. “Escaping from handcuffs?”

“No,” Houdini said. “I introspect.”

Fairbanks raised an eyebrow.

“What does that mean? You sit at home all day thinking about yourself?”

“Douglas!” Pickford said.

Houdini had never felt as if his gift were inferior to the others, but it was certainly the least flashy.

“Self-awareness is the gift no one wants unless they have it,” Houdini said.

“You’ll have to forgive Doug,” Chaplin said. “His mouth has a way of outrunning his manners.”

“I apologize,” Fairbanks said. “I do speak more than I listen. What exactly is it you want from us, Mr. Houdini?”

“I need you to come with me, back to New York,” Houdini said. “Together, I believe we can reason with Atlas. And if we can’t, I believe we could overpower him.”

Fairbanks sniffled and Pickford stirred her drink. Chaplin bit his lip. No one said anything for a long while.

“I’m sorry, Harry, I’m not sure what we could do,” Chaplin said. “We have talent, sure, but for entertainment. We’re the best at what we do, but not much else.”

“That’s where I think you’re wrong,” Houdini said. “I think show business is the very tip of your talent. Look at how Mr. Fairbanks got the waitress to do as he wanted with just a few charming words. Look at how every man in this restaurant is turned toward Mrs. Pickford. And you, Charlie, look at how your clever turn of phrase transforms the worst enemy into your friend.”

Chaplin shrugged and nodded noncommittally.

“We just can’t,” Fairbanks said. “We’re so busy right now. We’ve got this massive premiere coming up this weekend, and with interviews and promotions… We simply can’t escape. We’d love to, but we can’t.”

“Perhaps I could go with Mr. Houdini,” Pickford said. “While you take care of business here.”

“Certainly not!” Fairbanks snapped. “We’re too busy, all of us.”

Houdini couldn’t tell whether Fairbanks thought the mission too dangerous for his wife, or whether he simply didn’t want to let her be alone with another man.

“You fail to understand the gravity of the situation,” Houdini said. “People have died. The Pope himself gave his life to protect this object. This giant will kill me if he finds me.”

Houdini knew his story sounded unbelievable. Perhaps they even thought him a crazy old codger. It was a lot to take in, but he didn’t know any other way to convince them. He stood.

“Very well,” he said. “I can’t make you use your gifts for good, just like I can’t prevent Atlas from using his gifts for evil.”

“Harry,” Chaplin said. “This is all a lot to digest. Surely there’s some other way we can help. Some way that’s a little less lethal.”