Needless to say, the name of the club wasn’t on a sign above the door. At least he’d warned her about the sliding door with the peephole in it, upon which she knocked.
The slot opened and the face of a young woman appeared. Or rather, a rectangular screen projecting the face of a young woman appeared. The face’s owner presumably sat at a desk elsewhere in the mysterious building. The woman wore heaps of mascara seemingly designed to balance out the sparseness of her arched, plucked eyebrows.
“Hiya.” Jessica beamed, pleased at having solved the puzzle. “How’s it going?”
“Password?” the receptionist asked in a bored tone.
“Huh?” She leaned closer to the small circular speaker under the screen.
“The password, what is it?”
“I didn’t know there was one.”
“Then you must be in the wrong place.”
“What? No.” Jessica stood a little taller in her peach chiffon dress and matching heels, and announced in a proud voice, “I’m with Calum Clarke.”
“Then he would’ve told you the password.”
“But…”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” The receptionist gave her a disdainful look. “And next time? Wear a bra.”
Shocked, Jessica stumbled backward into someone and felt three fingers press into her shoulder, right at the tendon, to hold her in place.
“The password is ephemera,” said a flat, definitive, female voice. “I know because I chose it.”
The receptionist’s expression changed from haughty to horrified. On-screen, she pressed a buzzer that unlocked the heavy door.
The fingers on Jessica’s shoulders squeezed gently and released. “Off you go.”
Jessica stepped inside the dark lobby, followed by her savior: a tall, leggy blonde (But is she a Hitchcock blonde? What does that even mean?) whose tousled hair, pale-pink lipstick, aquamarine eyeliner, and intense green eyes suggested undersea tumult. She wore a black leather dress with blink-and-you-miss-them slashes of material cut out across the tops of her full breasts. Her black heels appeared to contain the missing straps. Leather cords, visible through a thigh-high slit in the gown, wrapped tightly up her calves and secured the precariously high heels in place. She reminded Jessica of a fawn in the woods learning to walk on thin, wobbly legs—but there was nothing doe-like about her eyes. This was a deer who shot back.
The lobby contained nothing but a polished chandelier, an unused pool table, a coat check, and a desk for the receptionist. Midnight-blue wallpaper with a vintage gold-leaf design gave the place a turn-of-the-century parlor look. At the clutter-free, antique secretary desk with foldout table, the receptionist had dissolved into a stuttering mess. She nearly fell off her small mahogany armchair in her haste to approach them.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fredericksson. I didn’t know she was with you.”
“Well, now you do.” Her voice was soft and slightly hoarse, as though she’d come from a smoke-filled blues lounge.
“It’s okay,” Jessica said quickly. “Are you Claire?” she asked, hoping to redirect the blonde’s attention.
“What? Yes.” But Claire wouldn’t be deterred from berating the receptionist. “If I hear you speak to a guest that way again, you better start polishing your résumé.”
“It’s really okay—” Jessica said.
“This is Cal’s wife,” Claire snapped.
The receptionist looked shocked. “I…” she stuttered, “I…had no idea he got remarried.”
Claire’s blond eyebrows shot up. “Why would you have?”
“Will she…is she…what rooms does she have access to?”
“Any room she wants.”
Claire half pushed, half guided Jessica to the left, where a thin elevator door opened for her. Noticing Jessica’s perplexed expression, she said, “Be glad it’s not a trapdoor and a stepladder anymore. Welcome to Manderley.”
“Um, okay…” Jessica gingerly walked inside the elevator and turned around. “Will we both fit?”
But Claire had vanished, leaving only a faint scent of lavender and lime in her wake.
The elevator doors closed, and Club Deception swallowed Jessica whole.
* * *
Upon arriving downstairs at the dimly lit bar, Jessica’s attention flew to the enormous gilt-framed lithographs of Carter the Great, Chung Ling Soo, Harry Houdini, Alexander Herrmann, and Dante (who, as in Cal’s posters of Thurston and Blackstone at home, was surrounded by vibrant red demons). They glowed like stained-glass windows, hauntingly beautiful, suspended by near-invisible wires that hung from the ceiling. At first glance they appeared to float.
Until she’d met Cal, Jessica had never traveled beyond the Midwest, but she’d seen photos of European cathedrals, and it was these houses of worship that came to mind while standing in Club Deception. The sense of history…the reverential admiration…the hush in the air…
Club Deception was the Vatican of magic clubs.
The elevator doors began to close. She stepped out of their way and gazed up. And up. The ceiling had to be thirty feet tall.
Each private table and set of chairs was nestled in its own recessed alcove along the wall, reachable only by thin staircases of freestanding rectangles that lit up upon contact. When not in use, they, too, appeared invisible. She imagined them flickering to life in a pattern of movement, like the sidewalk panels in the music video for “Billie Jean.”
At the top, Jessica could just make out a separate balcony overlooking the room. But there didn’t seem to be any way to access it.
To her left, a door opened and three magicians emerged. She craned her neck to look past them into the room. It looked like a hall of mirrors from floor to ceiling. The door shut behind them, its dark coloring merging with the wall. Without a telltale doorknob, she’d be hard-pressed to find it again.
She felt like a visitor inside someone else’s hallucinatory dream.
A drink would help. She approached the L-shaped bar, whose smooth, see-through surface revealed vintage magic coins from around the world embedded within, trapped like glossy relics. The cocktail menu, printed on the back of an enlarged Ace of Spades card, listed modern drink specials as well as a few classics (Gin Rickeys, Sidecars, Dirty Martinis, Gimlets, and absinthe). Below the list was a recipe for “the magic trick of the week.” This week’s was Twisting the Aces by Dai Vernon. Members were encouraged to discuss it and practice it together. (Cal referred to this as “sessioning.”)
Men of all ages in suits and ties sat together, hunched over their tables, nursing drinks and manipulating decks of cards. She stood transfixed and delighted in the center of the room.
A pale, Ichabod Crane–looking fellow in a loose suit approached her. He was thin, but not in a charismatic way like Cal. This guy was cadaverous, sunken, and the bags under his eyes reminded her of bruises. She guessed he was about fifty. “Care to see a little sleight of hand?”
“Sure,” Jessica replied, and followed him to a low, circular ceramic table between two blood-red velvet love seats framed in wood trim.
Ichabod pulled out a deck of cards. His movements were elegant but his hands trembled as he cut and fanned the cards. Jessica selected one, memorized it, and returned it to the deck. A flourish of movement, a dramatic pause, and he produced it again.
She clapped and smiled, impressed. At the same time, however, she was keenly aware a trick was happening. With Cal, you didn’t realize a trick had happened until halfway through the next day, and even then you second-guessed yourself.
During the magician’s demonstration, a bartender sauntered over with a tray of Martinis. Then, turning his back to Ichabod, the bartender dropped a napkin into Jessica’s lap, a message written on it in aquamarine eyeliner: “Say ‘You flashed.’”
“You flashed,” Jessica read aloud without thinking.
Ichabod set his drink down on the ceramic table with a clatter. “What?”
“You…flashed?” she repeat
ed, equally confused, then showed him the napkin. “I don’t even know what that means.”
He whirled around, scanning the bar. “Oh, I get it,” he said angrily. “Ha-ha, very funny.”
Jessica followed his gaze. There was Claire, sitting by herself on the farthest bar stool. Her endless legs crossed at both the knee and ankle so she could swivel in her chair without, well, flashing anyone.
Jessica turned her attention back to the magician. He sipped from his drink, looking sulky.
“To flash means to accidentally reveal the technique behind a trick,” he groused.
“You didn’t, though,” she assured him. “Honest. You were good.”
“Oh, who needs this?” He tucked his cards away in his suit pocket, then rolled up his dark-green velvet close-up mat and placed it inside his briefcase. “Go laugh in your corner. She’s waiting for you.”
Flustered, Jessica stood up and cut across the room toward Claire. “Where did you go? Why didn’t you walk in with me?”
She thought of the inaccessible balcony. Had Claire entered the bar from up there, and if so, how?
“I wanted to watch you experience the club for the first time. It’s rare for me to get to see that.”
All the fight left her, replaced by self-consciousness. “Oh. Did I pass the test?”
A warm smile spread across Claire’s lips. “With flying colors. You were appropriately awed.”
The vintage poster above Claire featured a dishy redhead brandishing a sword. Unlike the grandiose proclamations of Thurston and Blackstone, her advertisement read simply, ADELAIDE HERRMANN AND COMPANY.
“A woman,” Jessica remarked with surprise. “Who’s she?”
“Ah, yes. The patron saint of magician wives. She started out assisting her husband, Alexander, during the vaudeville era. We also have a poster of Ionia the Enchantress in the women’s bathroom.” She seemed proud of this fact. “It took six months for the board to approve it, but it was worth every fight.”
“What kind of magic did Ionia do?”
“Grand illusions, pantomime. Her first husband was in the circus but she wised up and hitched herself to an Austrian royal later on.”
“Outside, you said you chose the password?”
Claire nodded. “My husband is president of the club, and he farms out that particular chore to me.” Claire explained how the password, altered daily, worked. Members received a Snapchat message that disappeared after it was viewed.
It had apparently slipped Cal’s mind to tell her about it, and Jessica felt a flicker of irritation as she remembered standing in the alley feeling foolish. This in turn reminded her she was still irritated with Claire. She glanced over at the Ichabod Crane fellow. “Wasn’t it kind of mean to show that guy up?”
“Of course not,” said Claire. “You can’t be expected to spend your time humoring amateurs. Not when you’re married to Cal.”
“How could you tell he was an amateur?”
“His execution was sloppy, his hands shook like we were in the middle of an earthquake, and he had no charm. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s a lawyer or an accountant in real life, and he gets off on the idea of playing magician two nights a week. He pays extra dues for the privilege of coming here on a probationary basis until he passes the skills test, which I’m guessing he’ll never be able to do.”
“Ouch.”
Claire drained the clear liquid of her drink, until only a thin slice of lime remained at the bottom. She motioned to the bartender. “Another gin for me, and she’ll have a Bellini.”
“I will?” asked Jessica.
“You want your insides to match your outsides, don’t you?”
“Fuck me,” Jessica said happily. “How’d you know? Are you a mentalist or something?”
Claire cringed at Jessica’s choice of words and looked at her like a Realtor assessing a property. “No, I leave that to the professionals. But I do have a functioning nose. Let’s see. Peach dress, peach nails, peach body wash, peach conditioner,” she rattled off. “At least you’re consistent.”
Now it was Jessica’s turn to cringe. She looped a strand of brunette hair tightly around her finger, self-conscious again. “Did I put on too much? Is it bad?”
“Not at all,” Claire said. “You’re newly wed. You want to be perfect for Cal tonight, no matter how late he gets home, don’t you? Prepped and ready for him in all your peaches ’n’ cream, peachy-creamy glory.”
The bartender gaped at them, his mouth open. Eventually, he found his voice. “Did I hear you married Cal?” he asked.
Jessica beamed. “That’s right.” She dangled her left hand out for him so he could admire the band tattooed on her ring finger.
He gave a quick nod. “Nice.”
The bartender’s eyes darted to Claire’s. She returned his gaze, her expression unreadable.
“I’m surprised he came back,” he said carefully.
“What do you mean?” Jessica asked.
“Oh, just—nothing. Anyway.” The bartender slapped his thin cotton towel against the side of the bar. “Congratulations. Um, a Bellini, right?”
“With an ounce of Aperol if you’ve got it,” Jessica said. “Thanks.”
Once he was out of earshot, she leaned in toward Claire.
“What was he talking about, ‘surprised he came back’?”
“When he skipped town,” Claire said, “no one expected to see him again. Not after what happened with Brandy.”
Jessica swallowed. “Oh.” She knew very little about Cal’s first wife, who had passed away.
An awkward silence fell between them.
“Aperol,” Claire remarked, once they’d been served. “I wouldn’t have thought to add that.”
“IBA contemporary classic.”
“Where’d you bartend?”
“The Gold Coast Hotel? In Chicago?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Both. I’m telling you, while asking if you’ve heard of it. I’m being polite.”
“Oh, you’re being polite. I thought you were being insecure.”
Jessica lowered her head. “Maybe a little. It’s kind of intimidating, being here.”
Claire’s expression softened. “Hmm. I can help you with that.” She clinked her glass to Jessica’s. Their bare arms brushed against each other’s.
Before the first drop of alcohol hit her tongue, she felt intoxicated—by Los Angeles, by the club, by Claire. Were all the women in LA this beautiful? She wanted Claire to like her—and she had no idea how to make that happen.
“First lesson.” Claire set her drink on the bar. “Every magician has another magician he hates. Doesn’t matter if you’re a hobbyist or a top performer, a stage illusionist or a close-up expert. Somewhere, for whatever reason, another magician hates you.” She paused. “Your job is to back up your husband on any move he makes against this magician.”
“Was…did Brandy do that kind of thing? For him?”
Claire ignored the question. “Your job is also to remind him he’s talented and worthy of respect, because the outside world won’t always provide that reassurance. With Cal, it shouldn’t be a problem. He was made for TV.”
Saddened by the earlier part of Claire’s lesson, Jessica asked, “The magicians all hate each other?”
“Not exactly, but there have always been rivalries. I mean, look at the posters: the Greatest this, the Greatest that, the World’s Best. It makes for good business, but it’s also a pain. For us, I mean.”
“How do you know who wins?” Jessica asked.
“No one wins.”
“Or, like, what if they’re equally good?”
“Then you just have to wait for the other one to die. That’s how Kellar beat Herrmann.” Claire nodded to the poster of Adelaide, Herrmann’s wife. “Did wonders for her career, at least.”
“How do you mean?”
“She took over the act.”
“But if Herrmann wasn’t around to know tha
t Kellar beat him, how can that count?”
Claire regarded her, all warmth gone. “It counts.” She cleared her throat. “Second lesson: Invest in a strapless bra.”
Jessica crossed her arms over her chest, mortified. She’d figured the receptionist was just being spiteful. Apparently not.
“I don’t mind if you go without; you’re perky enough to pull it off. The other WAGs might, though. Especially on dress-swap day.”
Blushing, Jessica knocked back the rest of her drink and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “How many are there?”
“How many who?”
“Wives and girlfriends.”
“Oh, WAGs doesn’t stand for ‘wives and girlfriends.’ It stands for ‘widows and girlfriends.’ Wives don’t exist to these guys. Once you tie the knot, and the chase is over, you’re dead to them.”
The room felt chilly all of a sudden. “Wait, what? But you just said…and what about your husband?”
“What about him?”
“Where is he?”
“I have no idea.”
Jessica was dumbfounded. “He’s not here?”
Once again, Claire ignored the question. Instead, she expertly turned the spotlight around: “Let me guess: Cal’s working tonight.”
“How’d you know?”
“They’re always working tonight.” She stood up and tossed a ten-dollar tip on the bar. “Want to have a look around?”
Jessica nodded, unable to concentrate on anything beyond the word widow.
We barely touched down in California and he left me on my own, my first night in a new city.
Their five weeks of bliss, first in Chicago, and then on their honeymoon, were over. They were on his turf now.
A shiver ran through her.
What if I uprooted my entire life for a man who no longer sees me?
Claire
Jonathan would expect a recap of the other magicians’ comings and goings tonight; Claire was his spy in the House of Houdini, but considering he was currently making the master bed creak and groan, she didn’t feel particularly inclined to analyze which of his competitors for Stage Magician of the Year were worthy of discussion.
Club Deception Page 2
