Real Magic (9 page)

When they reached the penthouse, the elevator operator opened the door and stepped out. "Mr. Walter's private floor," he said with a slight bow and a flourish of his hand.

Freddie stomped into the hallway, yanking Duncan along. As an afterthought, he tipped the boy a dime, and then waited until the boy rode the elevator back down. Voices echoed from the right end of the hall — a woman and a child.

"This way," Freddie said, pushing Duncan left toward a heavy wood door at the far end. On either side of the hall, statuettes of nude females posed in small recesses like devilish imps laughing at the approach of a fresh victim.

Freddie pushed open the door with one hand and shoved Duncan through with the other. He pointed to a high-backed chair with gold arms and grapevines carved into the wood. "Sit."

Duncan settled in the chair which was far more uncomfortable than it had appeared. It had been set in front of the most ornate desk Duncan had ever seen. The legs and edges were a mixture of silver and gold sculpted into a design of playing cards fanned out around the corners. The cherry wood top held two glass panels. A lamp with cloth tassels hanging from the shade sat on the far right corner. On the left corner, Duncan saw a phone — a more modern one than he had seen anywhere else since his arrival in 1934, one in which the speaker and receiver had been combined into one handset. Most importantly, he noticed two decks of cards. It was difficult to make out from the chair, but it appeared to be one deck on the edge and another fanned out on a felt cover as if someone had been practicing card tricks.

Like the desk, the office was a peacock's exercise in display — substituting wealth for plumage. Marble, gold, crystal, ivory — all of it spoke to power and money.
Possibly insecurity, too,
Duncan considered out of habit — his well-trained brain sought out an angle on every person he met, trying to locate the weakness to exploit.

Freddie stood by a small table on the left side of the room under an oil painting of a buxom woman hiding only half her body beneath a crumpled, red sheet. Duncan watched him for a moment but Freddie no longer appeared interested now that his task was complete.

Two other items caught Duncan's attention, and neither one made him feel good about meeting Nelson Walter. The first was the door behind the heavy-handed desk. Unlike everything else in the office, this door was plain. A simple, wood door with a boring, round knob. No paint on the door. The knob — black-painted metal. It was wrong, this door, and the fact that it had been given such an important position in the room — directly behind Walter's desk — Duncan had to wonder what kinds of things went on back there.

The second thing he noticed answered that question with sickening clarity. An empty umbrella can stood next to the simple door. Dark splotches covered the rim. Duncan knew dried blood when he saw it. His nostrils flared as he tried to keep the rest of his body from reacting.

When the door opened, however, Duncan flinched. A middle-aged man wearing brown slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled-up entered. He was short and heavy, at least 200 pounds, and brown suspenders strained against his bulk — no Depression-era starvation for this guy. He slicked back his hair to cover the balding circle forming at the crown. In all, he looked like an overweight, middle management-type. Until he faced Duncan with his startling blue eyes and his thick-lipped wolf mouth.

He stared at Duncan for a moment before thrusting a golf club into the umbrella stand. From the desk chair, he lifted a suit jacket, rolled down his sleeves, and slipped it on. Duncan couldn't help but notice the golf club had been put in with the club head sticking out of the stand. And the club head glistened crimson.

"You're Duncan, right?" the man said, his voice deep and dangerous. Duncan nodded. "I'm Nelson Walter. I hope we can work well together." He extended a hand.

"Pleased to meet you," Duncan said, surprised to hear the nervousness in his voice seeping out. He shook Walter's hand, choosing not to fight back when Walter crunched down on his fingers. It reminded him of how Pappy would shake hands — as if he were in a contest to see who could hurt the other more. As Walter let go, Duncan saw two little red specks on the man's white cuffs.

Duncan knew enough to stay quiet. Men like Walter wanted to be in control and the only way to control them was to make them think they ran things. Besides, for the moment, Nelson Walter did control things. Duncan had no choice but to ride this out until he had more information.

Walter lit a cigarette, sucked in the carcinogenic smoke, and blew it out with a long, satisfied breath. His mouth opened into a wide grin that sent a shiver through Duncan. "Freddie here tells me you're something special with a deck of cards. Is that true?"

"Wait, is all this because he lost money? Really?"

"You didn't answer my question," Walter said, his grin looking colder with each passing second.

"I'm okay, I guess."

"That's not what he said. He told me he couldn't catch you cheating all night, but he knew you were doing it."

Trying to regain his composure by looking relaxed under the scrutiny of this intense man, Duncan leaned on his elbow and crossed his legs. "If he didn't see me cheating, then what makes you think I was cheating?"

"Freddie?"

Freddie smirked. "Because I was cheating."

Walter spread his fingers in the air. "Wha-la. If Freddie set the cards one way but they kept coming out another way, that suggests that you were manipulating the cards. Is that what happened?"

"If you're after getting your money back —"

Walter slammed his open hand on the table top, his cuff with the two drops of blood fully visible. Duncan sat up involuntarily. "When I ask a question, you answer it. Got it?"

"I'm sorry."

"I said,
Got it?
That's a fucking question. Answer me."

"Yes," Duncan said, his sense of mental balance thrown awry. "Yes, I got it."

"Good." Walter sniffed back hard. He took a long drag on his cigarette before regaining a calm demeanor. "I don't want your money. You cheated it off a guy trying to cheat you. That seems fair to me." He nodded to Freddie who responded by leaving the office. Walter studied Duncan's face until Freddie returned with a glass of scotch on the rocks. After handing it to Walter, Freddie went back to his post by the card table.

Walter swirled the glass, the ice cubes tinkling against the side like a haunting wind chime. "You know, not all magicians are card cheats, but all card cheats are magicians. It's true. They may not think of themselves as magicians, but the skills they possess go hand-in-hand with good magic. You are clearly a card cheat, and I think you know you're a magician, too."

"Okay," Duncan said, crossing his arms unconsciously. It was a weak, defensive bit of body language, but once he noticed it, he didn't want to rapidly pull out of the move which would only betray his rising nerves more.

"That fellow you were playing with. What was his name?"

"Vincent. But I only met him today. If you got a problem with him —"

"He runs a little magic club. Did you know that?"

"He mentioned it."

"I'll bet he did." Walter's face twisted up for an instant. "Well, here's what I want you to do. I want you to get into that club and bring back to me every trick, every cheat, every oddity of magic knowledge you can find. You do that, and we'll forget about the money you owe Freddie."

"Hold on a sec," Duncan said, real confusion nibbling at him. "What's with everyone's interest in magic? I mean, I understand it's entertaining, but you're strong arming me to spy on a little magic club. Why?"

Walter's eyes lifted in surprise, shriveling his forehead in a mass of wrinkles. "Why did Houdini explore the magical arts? Why Dai Vernon? It's more than just ripping off a few bums at cards or making a seven-year-old boy laugh in amazement. Magic is about unlocking secrets. And let me tell you something — Houdini was no fool. He was on to something. And Vincent Day knows more than he lets on, too. Why the fuck do you think I came to this craphole in the first place? Do you know who I am?" It had been the fastest Walter spoke so far, and the man wheezed for a moment before washing his congestion away with his scotch.

He pointed a stubby finger at Duncan and spoke with a new urgency. He paced behind his desk, smoking, drinking, and spouting off his words like a mad poet. "I come from New York City. That's the real world. I don't know where you're from, don't really care, but I can see on your face that you spent many years playing with your blocks and sucking your Mommy's teat. Me? I got started running numbers when I was an orphan and I didn't look back. I've had women and booze and money like you couldn't even dream. Make those stupid Hollywood features look like table scraps. So now why would a successful guy like me ask his boss to send him out into this little nothing town in Pennsylvania? You get it yet? I asked to be here because magic, real magic, is far more important than anything else. Because guys like Vincent Day know things. Secrets. And only through those secrets will we uncover the truths that are going to protect us. I live in a dangerous world. A lot of people try to kill a man like me. I can't have that happen. You understand yet?"

Duncan nodded. He had no clue what Nelson Walter really meant by any of this, but he knew enough to agree with the crazy man. Besides, he wanted to join that club. Perhaps some of what Walter had said was true — not the mystic crap, but the idea that Vincent Day was a talented magician and knew things others didn't. That seemed like the kind of guy Duncan needed to help him find a truly magical door. Then he could walk through back into 2013 and forget all this.

And if none of that convinced him deep inside, Duncan had another strong motivation to play along with the crazy mobster before him. If he didn't, he would find himself on the wrong end of a bloody golf club.

"I'll do it," he said. "I'll help you."

Walter opened his arms wide and practically sang the words, "Wha-la." He sat in his big chair and patted a handkerchief on his sweaty forehead. "I know you're new to this town, so Freddie'll do whatever he can to help you settle in."

"Thanks, but that won't be necessary. I can manage —"

"I insist."

"Then it'll be a pleasure."

"Don't worry about him crowding you. If Vincent Day saw Freddie and you together, he'd never let you in the club. But Freddie'll be watching you. To help you, of course."

"Of course." And to Duncan's relief, his brain finally kicked into gear. "There is one thing I need."

With a magnanimous smile, Walter said, "Name it."

"I don't have a place to stay."

Walter broke into a hearty laugh. "Then it's a damn good thing I own this hotel."

Duncan smiled, but he couldn't muster even a chuckle.

 

Duncan stared at the ceiling
and listened to a clock tick along the night. He had never traveled well, jet lag dogged him in even the most minor time zone changes. Heck, daylight savings required a week to adjust. Apparently time travel would be worse. The night crept like a sloth and Duncan endured every ticking second of it.

Walter had him dumped in one of the worst rooms because "Hey, it's a roof over your head" and even if he hadn't been suffering from lag, Duncan's mind refused to settle down. Thoughts of magic doors, card tricks, Vincent, Freddie, and Nelson all swirled in a befuddling mess that only cleared long enough for him to be plowed over by the fact that he actually was lying on a bed in 1934.

He tried to keep calm about the whole thing, keep his mind focused on finding the door home, but waiting for the humid July night to end only served to rattle his nerves. The sounds of 1934 cars and 1934 drunks and 1934 life drifted in through the open window. Worse, sometimes no sound drifted through. Silence unlike anything he had experienced in 2013. A true absence of sound. No whirring laptop fan, no hum of a fluorescent light, no constant noise of traffic. Nothing.

Duncan grabbed a pencil and paper from the bedside table and worked on drawing the symbols on Pappy's door. Some came easily, some he struggled to recall. After a half-hour, he had an approximation that satisfied him. It still needed work, but at least he could see it again. The exercise had the added benefit of occupying his mind for a little.

When dawn finally arrived, Duncan found his way to the kitchen via an employee entrance that Freddie strongly advised he used. Walter didn't want any of the paying customers to know about Duncan. A black chef (probably another person Walter didn't want the paying customers to see) fried up some eggs, bacon, and threw on two slices of toast. He handed it over without a word or a smile. He hardly had time to blink considering the speed of orders ramming through.

Back in his room, Duncan ate his breakfast and thought over Vincent's card trick. After washing down the toast with a small glass of orange juice, he shuffled a deck of cards and ran through a few ideas. Nothing worked out but it killed time. By nine, Duncan decided the Magic Emporium had probably opened. Freddie provided an address, so Duncan cleaned up and made his way the few blocks over to the shop.

A bell jingled overhead as he stepped into the small store, a welcoming sound that cleared Duncan's head and brought a smile to his face. A glass counter ran along the right side of the store, displaying cards, gaffs, and all manner of basic illusions. Behind the counter, Vincent leaned close to a gangly, ginger-haired fellow wearing a suit with the pants hiked up high in the common fashion of the day. Round tables dotted the floor and a cash register sat on a little wooden table in the back. Behind the table was a blue door with a white handle.