The Amazing Harvey (18 page)

She said, “Harvey?”

“Oh. Sorry.” I turned around and told her to put her card back in the deck. As I closed it up, I dropped most of the cards.
Shit.
Some of them went between the couch cushions.

Carly helped me dig around until we collected them. I put them on top of the deck and awkwardly squared up the cards.

Since I couldn't give her the same card again, I had to restack the deck. I went through my phony shuffling, then forced her to take another card. This time, I got it back in the deck without mishap.

I handed her the cards and said, “Don't tell me your card. Spell out your card's number by putting one card facedown on the table for each letter. So if you had a five, you'd put down four cards for F-I-V-E.”

She dealt off three cards.

I said, “Now spell the suit the same way. Like if it's clubs, you put down five cards.”

She dealt off six cards.

I said, “Okay. What was your card?”

“You want me to tell you?”

“Yeah.”

“Two of hearts.”

I said, “Turn over the next card.”

She flipped over the two of hearts. Carly's eyebrows went up. She looked at me, looked back at the card. “Wow. You're really good.”

I said, “Take a look at this. You spelled H-E-A-R-T-S using these cards.” I flipped over the five cards she'd used to spell the suit. They were all hearts.

“Harvey. That's—”

“And”—I flipped over the three cards she'd used to spell the number—“you spelled T-W-O using the other three twos.”

Her mouth fell open. She started clapping. “That's … awesome! How'd you do that?”

“I used a trick deck.”

“Oh … Hey, it's my deck.” She giggled. “C'mon. How'd you do it?”

I gave her the old magician's line. “I did it very well.”

Carly scooched closer. “Guess I'll just have to charm the secret out of you.” She put her hand on the back of my neck and massaged.

Ohhh.

Still massaging, she leaned her head onto my shoulder. Her hair smelled like strawberry shampoo.

Joni Mitchell sang “Morning Morgantown.”

Carly stopped massaging my neck, took hold of my arm, and ran her hand up and down my biceps.

Now what?
I started to put my arm around her, then stopped. All that shoulder movement would jar her head. Will she pull away? She's hardly acting like she's going to pull away. I started to move again. Stopped.

What's the worst that can happen? Back to Saturday nights with my bird?

I left my shoulder where it was and carefully reached over with my other hand. I stroked her face. She
mmm
'd under my touch. Her skin was so smooth. I felt a warm bulge stretching my pants. It's been so long that this could be over before I get undressed. What do you do to make it last? Don't guys, like, think about baseball or something? I don't know anything about baseball.

I lifted my shoulder and put my arm around her. She moved in rhythm, waiting for my arm to fall in place, then settled her head against my chest. Does grass always speed up your heart? Can she feel it through my chest? She rubbed my stomach.

I leaned down to kiss her. Her mouth came up to mine.
It's been so long.…

Oh man. She tastes delicious. I closed my eyes.

Wait. I don't want to miss this. I opened my eyes. Hers were still closed.

We kept kissing for at least three Joni Mitchell songs. I moved my hand down to her blouse. Grabbed the top button and tried to wriggle it through the fabric. I twisted it the other way. Squeezed the damn thing with my fingers.

Are these buttons, like, sewn closed? Maybe grass isn't so good for fine-motor coordination. I tried another one-hand twist. Am I wrinkling the fabric?

I brought my other hand around. Carly laid back on the couch, looking amused. Using both of my hands, I got her top button open, then the next, and the next. Her blouse fell to the sides, leaving a strip of bare skin down the middle. I saw that her belly button was an outie.

Carly whispered, “Do you have protection?”

Not unless you count the condoms that have been in my dresser since the Pleistocene era.
I said, “Um…”

“Don't worry. I've got some.”

She got off the couch and took my hand. Her open blouse fluttered as she led me into her bedroom. When we got through the door, she reached against the wall and turned off the light.

We laid down under the black-light poster and pulled off each other's clothes. Carly turned on her side, away from me. I heard the slide of a drawer in her bedside table. She rolled back with a foil packet and tore it open. I laid on my back.

She unrolled the condom onto me. That feels so incredibly …
too good.

Hold on. Not yet. This has to last.

Wonder how the Dodgers are doing this year?

Carly laid on her back and pulled me on top of her. I easily slid inside. Oh man. I remember this. Just like riding a bicycle.

We started to move. She
mmm
'd softly.

Hold on, Big Guy.
Make it last. Make it last.

Take me out to the ball game.…

I moved harder. Her face beaded with tiny droplets. She closed her eyes and started to moan.

Hold on. Hold on.
Think about something else. Think about …

How safe are these condoms? What brand are they?

I craned to see the name on the crumpled packet. Couldn't make it out in the low light. Not that I'd know one from the other.

The poisons have been building up in my system for six months. Am I going to deliver such a gusher that it'll crash through the condom membrane?

Carly moaned louder, saying, “Yes! Yes!”

I pictured millions of sperm screaming toward her ovum. I saw one of them plant a stake. I pictured the cells fertilizing and dividing inside a woman who probably believes that life starts before I even come.

I'm not ready to be a father. I can barely support my bird.

If I stop now, it's not murder in anybody's book.

If …

I went limp.

It took Carly a few pumps before she realized she was pretty much on her own.

She stopped moving, opened her eyes.

Carly blinked at me and said, “You okay?”

“I … well … it's been a while.”

Carly reached down and touched me. She gave me a couple of squeezes, as if she couldn't believe anything could be that soft.

I rolled over on my back. “I think the grass made me a little sick.”

She propped herself on one elbow. “I'm sorry. It's usually great for sex.” She trailed her fingers lightly over my chest. Down my stomach. Lower.

She took hold of me, gave me a few strokes.

I closed my eyes.
Relax.

She stroked a little harder.

I really want it to get up. I really want …

I could feel myself flapping loosely.

I said, “I'm really sorry. This hasn't happened to me in years.”

She let go of me and rolled over on her side, facing away from me.

I sat up. “I feel terrible.”

“It's okay.” Her tone didn't sound like she meant it.

Carly reached down to the floor, grabbed her blouse, and draped it over herself.

I said, “I hope you'll give me another chance.”

Still facing away, she said, “No big deal. I gotta get up early tomorrow anyway.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 

Sunday morning, I dragged my ass out of bed around eleven. I took a step, stopped, wobbled in place. My head throbbed. My tongue had grown four sizes.

I didn't think you could get a hangover from grass.

Wrong about that one.

I stumbled toward the bathroom, gently touching my forehead with my fingertips.
Ow.

I stepped into the shower and turned it on.

I felt a little better when I got out, but it still seemed like I was walking through Jell-O.

*   *   *

After some black coffee, I drove to the Magic Castle's Sunday brunch. Gotta get my mind off my body.

I watched some of the close-up magicians. My head still pounded. I decided I'd better eat something. I went upstairs to the buffet and sneaked a few bites off the serving table without paying.

Just as I was grabbing a sweet pickle, Herb Gold, the magic-trick builder, came over. He clapped a catcher's-mitt hand on my shoulder and said, “Listen, bubbie. I've been thinking about your situation.”

I backed up a little. “I promise I'll pay you.”

“Yeah, yeah. What I mean is, I think Copperfield might buy your trick.”

Ron Wilson, one of the senior magicians, walked by in his Scottish-plaid coat. He waved at us. I smiled at him and waved back.

Herb said, “You hear me?”

I looked at him. “I heard you. The trick's not for sale.”

“I know. It's just that, you know, since you're having some financial problems, this could be a way out.”

“You said it yourself. That trick is my ticket.” I tossed the pickle in my mouth and crunched on it.

“He'd probably pay twenty-five grand.”

I stopped chewing.
Holy Shit.
“Twenty-five grand?”

I've never had that kind of money in my life. That'd take care of Hannah, and then some.

No more punching and filing.

I could sit back and wait for the right magic jobs.

Twenty-five grand?

I'm not getting any substitute teaching jobs. Magic work doesn't pay much even when I can get it.

The pickle juice tasted sour in my mouth.

On the other hand, I've got a gig coming up, and Marty said he can get a Vegas promoter to come see me. If he likes me, I'll get better work. Then I'm on my way. Besides, my trick is brilliant. Even Herb thinks so. Copperfield obviously does, too. I may never have an inspiration like that again.

I swallowed the pickle chunks. “Can't do it.”

“Maybe I could get him to thirty g's.”

Thirty
g's? “Herb…”

“Kid, just think about it.”

He winked at me and walked off.

*   *   *

When I got to Hannah's office on Monday morning, she was on the phone. I took a stack of papers from her out-box and started sorting them into piles on her desk.

I looked around at the stacks of papers in the office. I'm actually making a dent in the filing. If she'd just stop churning out more crap.

Hannah ended her phone call and immediately punched a blinking line, like a chain-smoker. I picked up a sorted pile and banged it on the desk to square it up. She didn't seem to notice. I banged it harder. She kept talking.

When she got off the phone, I said, “How was your weekend?”

“You mean, how was my mystery date?”

Yes.
“No. I mean, how was your weekend?”

“Fine. And yours?”

“Fine. So who was Prince Charming in the Mercedes?”

“His first name is None. Last name … Of Your Business.”

“Ah. I think I know his sister.”

*   *   *

In the afternoon, when Hannah got back from her daily meeting, she dialed into her voice mail. After listening a moment, she gasped, then slammed down the phone.

I said, “What?”

Her eyes were wide with panic. “That was a message from my sister. My father's in the emergency room.”

“What?”

Hannah quickly dialed. She stood and shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Susan? What happened? Where is he?”

Hannah closed her eyes in a “Thank goodness” expression, then opened them. “So they're sure it wasn't a heart attack? Okay. I'll be right over.” She shook her head. “No. I want to come.” She twisted the phone cord tightly around her hand. “Yes. Now.”

She hung up, snatched her purse, and spoke as she hurried out, “Cover the office. Not sure when I'll be back.”

*   *   *

A couple of hours later, Hannah called me at the office. “Could you please grab the Desmond file and bring it to my father's house?”

“How's your dad?”

“The chest pains turned out to be massive indigestion. Knocked him out, though.”

“Is he feeling better?”

“He's bitching constantly, so he must be. On the way over, would you mind stopping at Barnes & Noble? I want to get him some books. Grab a pen and I'll give you the titles.”

*   *   *

Bruce Fisher lived on Bristol Avenue in Brentwood, just north of Sunset Boulevard, in a neighborhood of huge homes on estate-size lots. Carrying Oliver Desmond's file and the books Hannah wanted, I walked up a brick pathway to a sprawling two-story Spanish house. It had beige stucco walls, a red-tiled roof, and decorative wrought iron surrounding the tall windows.
Man.
He must have over an acre of land. All this from keeping people out of jail?

I climbed the front steps and pushed the bell. Through the thick oak door, I heard the Westminster chimes, then the padding of footsteps. A young woman, around Hannah's age, opened the door. Her straight black hair caught the light as she studied me with emerald green eyes. She wore black jeans and a red-checkered blouse that was tied in a knot just above her bare stomach.

I said, “Hi. You must be Hannah's sister.”

“Actually, I'm her stepmother.”

“And I'm … Humiliated.” I felt my face flush.

She laughed. “You're hardly the first to make that assumption.”

Or the last.

She stuck out her hand. “Gillian Fisher.”

“Harvey Kendall. I work with Hannah.”

She smiled at me. I smiled at her.

Gillian cocked her head. She said, “Would you like to come in?”

“Oh. Right. Thanks.”

I stepped into a two-story entry hall with a sweeping staircase of red-tiled steps flanked by a black wrought-iron railing. The walls were hung with oil paintings of cowboys spurring horses, sprinkled with a few Navajo rugs.