Real Magic (8 page)

"How close to town are we?"

"Not far," Vincent said. Minutes later, they passed under a lone streetlamp. "You'll be able to find your way back from here, no trouble." He started to walk away, then spun with a snap of his fingers. It all looked rather choreographed to Duncan. Especially when Vincent said, "You know what you should do? You should try to join my magic club. It's an amateur group, mostly, but we get together at the Magic Emporium and trade secrets, work on effects, and have fun. It's a blast. It's also a good place to lay low without seeming suspicious."

Duncan didn't quite catch why being in a club would make him any less suspicious, and he figured Vincent's drunkenness was doing the talking here. But joining the club might help him learn the area a little faster, would certainly provide a few new contacts, and might be the right kind of people to learn about a magic door. At the least, it would be a place from which to conduct his search for the door. "Okay, I'll join your club."

"Hold on, there. Not so fast." Vincent pulled out a fresh deck of cards with a red patterned back. "I know you can handle cards well, but everybody in the club has had to pass this test. I can't go making exceptions just because I nearly killed you in a car. That wouldn't be right." He opened the deck and began to shuffle. "I'm going to show you a trick. All you have to do is figure it out. You do that, you can join the club."

"Are you serious?"

"I'm not so drunk that I can't pull off a card trick. And, yes, I'm serious. The club members are serious, too. They care about magic. I figured you were serious, too. Anybody willing to put in all the hours it takes to handle cards like you do has to be serious. Or crazy."

Duncan smirked. "I might be both."

"I suspect you are." Vincent sat on the side of the road. "You ready for this?"

Duncan sat next to him. "Okay. Let me see."

Vincent gave the deck to Duncan. "Go ahead and shuffle the cards."

As Duncan shuffled, he watched Vincent closely. When magicians performed tricks for each other, the tension always raised since they always knew they were being burned. In this case, though, Vincent invited, really demanded, that Duncan burn him — watch close enough to figure out the trick.

After the shuffle, Vincent took the cards and held them face down in his left hand. "Now, I'm going to deal cards until you tell me to stop, okay? Stop me whenever you want." Vincent started placing cards into a small pile on the road.

Duncan studied Vincent's hands, looking for a bottom deal or some other manipulation. After about eight cards, he said, "Stop." He hadn't seen anything wrong.

"Okay," Vincent said, a devious smile on his lips. He turned over the next card — the Seven of Hearts. "This is going to be our Magic Card." He then placed the rest of the deck on top of the card, so that the Seven was face up in the deck. He handed the deck to Duncan. "You go ahead and deal out as many cards as you want. Stop when you're ready and flip over the next card. That's your card. Remember it and place it face down on the pile you dealt."

Duncan took the deck and held it in a dealer's grip — the natural way a person holds a deck with the index finger at the upper side, the other three fingers on the right side, and the thumb resting on the left side. If Vincent had palmed a card or two, Duncan couldn't tell.
Not that I could tell,
he thought. Five or six cards missing, Duncan would feel the difference. But only one or two —
Pappy could do it, but I've never been that good.

"Just to be completely amazing, I'll turn my back for this," Vincent said and turned around.

Duncan dealt out a bunch of cards, then made a bunch of dealing noises by re-dealing the same card back into place — just in case Vincent was trying to count the number of dealt cards. After a little of this, Duncan stopped and flipped over the Five of Spades. As instructed, he placed this card face down on the pile.

"All done," he said.

Vincent turned back. "Great. Now put the rest of the deck on top of the dealt pile. Good. Now you can give the deck as many cuts as you want. Nothing fancy, just normal cuts."

Duncan cut the deck a few times but figured if he was being allowed to do this, it couldn't really matter that much to the trick. When he finished, Vincent picked up the full deck, shored up the cards, and began dealing two alternating piles.

"You can watch my hands as close as you want, but trust me here, I'm just dealing out the deck. Nothing very exciting."

Duncan watched carefully. At one point, he saw the face-up Seven of Hearts go by, but otherwise noticed nothing unusual.

"Okay," Vincent said when he dealt the last card. He picked up the left deck. "So far, we found a Magic Card, and you dealt out your own card. You then cut the deck as much as you wanted, and I've dealt out the entire deck. Your card could be anywhere. In fact, let's see what we have on top." He lifted off a few cards — King of Clubs, Nine of Diamonds, Three of Diamonds. "Those your card?"

"No."

He lifted off another card — Four of Clubs. "How about that one?"

"No."

Vincent put those four cards on the bottom of the packet he held. He placed this on the road next to the other packet of cards. "That's okay. Watch this." He then lifted one card from each pile and placed it face down in front of the pile. He kept doing this over and over — his left hand lifting from the left pile, his right hand from the right pile. Duncan had to admit that Vincent's hands moved with grace and presence like the best magicians. "We'll keep doing this until we reach the Magic Card," he said, and a few cards later, that face-up Seven of Hearts sat on the left pile. "Moment of truth time. Tell me, Duncan my new friend, what was your card."

"Five of Spades."

Vincent lifted the card on the right pile and turned it over. It was the Five of Spades. "There you are. All you have to do is figure it out, come by the Magic Emporium and show us. Do that, and you're in. Do that, and we can share all the card cheats and effects and illusions that we know."

Duncan played out the trick in his head a few times, going over all the basic maneuvers Pappy had taught him. He had never seen this one before and it had a lot of steps to it, any one of which could be the key to the whole thing. Or it could be the type of trick in which none of the steps matter, all of it is nothing more than misdirection, because the trick is essentially set up from the very start.

Vincent patted Duncan's shoulder and headed down the road. "You think on that, pal. And I'll tell you what — you come on by the Emporium tomorrow, even if you haven't got the answer yet. I want to introduce you to the gang."

"Wait," Duncan said. "Where are you going?"

"Home. Gotta sleep a little. Goodnight." Vincent hummed a roaming melody as he walked off, leaving Duncan standing on the road next to two piles of cards.

Duncan considered chasing after Vincent, but he needed to run through the card trick before he forgot the details. He plunked down on the road, scooped up the cards, and tried to recall the performance. He couldn't get the actual trick to work, but he could recall the steps presented and that was important if he wanted to deconstruct the whole thing.

After about fifteen minutes, he felt satisfied he had enough to work with. Brushing off his pants, he headed back into town. The trick rolled around his mind but no solution came to him. Not that he expected it. One thing he learned well from Pappy — when it comes to magic, a magician never makes it easy. The mystery and the challenge were all part of the show. Even with an audience of one stranger trying to get an "in" with a magic club.

As the town appeared ahead, Duncan realized he had a more immediate problem than figuring out the magic trick. He had no place to stay. Of course, he had a pocket full of cash and Vincent had mentioned a hotel, so he wasn't worried.

That sense of security didn't last long, though. Big round headlights cut into the darkness. A car stopped at least a hundred feet away and idled. Duncan stood in its beams and waited. No point in running. It was too dark and he didn't know the area at all. Chances were he'd break his ankle, run around in a circle, or head straight to wherever he didn't want to go.

He heard the car door open but couldn't see much beyond the headlights. A figure stepped in front of the car, lit a cigarette, and started walking up the street. Duncan saw a large, wide-shouldered man. He moved at a steady clip, jingling the change in his pocket. A few feet closer, and Duncan's stomach dropped. It was Freddie — the big guy from the card game. He wore a trench coat and a fedora. Sweat dribbled down his face and he huffed with his final steps.

"I've been looking for you," he said, his voice low and cold.

It took all of Duncan's drunken will to keep from laughing. Freddie sounded like a thug from an old black-and-white movie. But when he wrapped his meaty hand around Duncan's bicep and squeezed, the humor vanished.

"You're real lucky I got orders, 'cause I'd like to give you a taste of my knuckles."

"Sorry," Duncan said. "Maybe some other time." Normally, self-preservation would have kept him from saying such a stupid thing, but alcohol and nerves got the better of him.

"Real smart," Freddie said and yanked Duncan closer, their noses nearly touching. Duncan could smell a mixture of cigarettes and beer that made Freddie seem even more dangerous. "You won't be so cute when Mr. Walter is done with you."

 

By the time the car rolled up
in front of The Walter Hotel, Duncan had sobered extensively. Though not fully free of alcohol, he could walk straight and, he hoped, think straight, too. Freddie had jammed him in the back seat, sandwiching him between two equally large thugs. They reeked of cigars and sweat, and nobody said a word the entire trip.

For Duncan, the whole experience felt a bit surreal. When would Edward G. Robinson pop up? And like a movie, this would all end. Once he found the door home, none of this would amount to much. Just an amazing, bizarre experience. He would love to come back for a visit and spend time playing cards with Vincent, but he didn't have to worry about Nelson Walter and his thugs. Yet at the same time, a twinge of apprehension formed in his gut. Cavalier could only go so far. He had to be a little careful. After all, if he got injured or beaten badly, he'd have a difficult time getting back to the 21st century. And worse, if he got himself killed ...

Before the valet could take three steps toward them, Freddie stepped out of the car and pulled Duncan along. He kept a firm hold on Duncan's arm and steered him through the hotel. "I won't run," Duncan said, but Freddie grumbled and shoved him along.

The Walter Hotel would have made Donald Trump weep. Marble floors and crystal chandeliers, nude statues and groomed servants, and wherever one looked — gold-trim. An enormous fountain graced the lobby while a string quartet played near a sweeping staircase.

People mulled about, all wearing their finest clothes, all abuzz with anticipation for a wonderful evening. Some looked uncomfortable as if they only spent such sums once a year and didn't know all the etiquette involved in an opulent place such as this. Others looked bored at yet another evening of drinking and eating and reveling. Most, however, smiled and laughed and tried hard to let some of the gold glimmer upon them.

Guess not everybody suffers during the Depression.

Freddie escorted Duncan through a curtained archway and into one of three cavernous restaurants. The place hopped with activity. All the tables were occupied. The moment satisfied diners left, busboys hurried in to clean and set up. Before the diners had exited the room, new diners were seated and giving their menu orders. All of this danced to the infectious tunes of the house's twelve-piece big band.

Two couples used the dance floor that gleamed like ice from extensive polishing. Most people appeared more interested in eating. For further entertainment, a few men in long-tails and top hats worked the tables, performing close-up magic.

Duncan thought of the soup line from earlier that day and that people might still be waiting for an evening meal a few blocks away. It was like a science-fiction story — two parallel worlds co-existing in the same space.

"Over there," Freddie said, indicating a bank of three elevator doors. All the doors were open, and each housed an attendant dressed in a double-breasted uniform with a pillbox cap on top. Freddie pointed to the one on the end and the young operator straightened at their approach.

"What floor, sir?" he said, his voice still cracking with puberty.

"Mr. Walter's floor."

The boy paled but otherwise remained calm. "Right away, sir. Watch yourselves as I close the doors." With a practiced motion, he slid the main door closed and then an accordion gate. He glanced at Duncan before pulling the lever that engaged the elevator, and Duncan swore he caught a look of pity in the kid's eyes.

The elevators of 1934 left much to be desired. The start and finish lacked the smooth grace of a modern elevator, and no form of noise reduction had been employed, so Duncan suffered through listening to every creak and moan the machinery emitted. He had to keep reminding himself that the chances of the cable snapping and the elevator plummeting to the ground were remote. Yet each time a cable twanged, it reverberated through the walls, and Duncan's heart twanged with it. Making matters worse, there was little room inside. Duncan had to press against Freddie a bit, and neither man appeared to enjoy the experience.