Helpfully, visitors to the club who wanted photos with Felix interrupted the conversation every few minutes. Their chatter allowed him to duck any questions he didn’t like, or take his time forming answers. Reporters from Magic and Genii magazines asked to set up profile interviews. The second- and third-place winners came over to congratulate Felix and slap him (a little harder than necessary) on the back.
Mr. Fredericksson, who’d come in second place for his category, had stormed out following the announcement of the winner. He certainly wasn’t joining the afterparty, even at his own club.
At two thirty in the morning, Felix called it a night as well. Besides the nice fat check, winning the contest meant a lifelong membership to the club. He could come back every night of the week if he wanted. He was still pumped up with adrenaline, so he headed west to Sunset Boulevard and the Chateau Marmont, where he’d spent the previous night in obscene luxury. His old room had been taken, but he could upgrade to an eight-hundred-dollar suite. Why not? He had the money. He deserved it.
He also deserved a new car. Some tailored suits, custom shoes. After all, if tonight had taught him anything, it was that all he needed to do was look the part to become the part.
While the concierge set up his new digs, Felix turned on his cell for the first time all night.
Twenty voicemails!
Four were from Claire, time-stamped throughout the evening, starting from five minutes after he won the grand prize.
10:47 p.m.: [incoherent scream of joy, followed by laughing sobs] “Felix. I am so proud of you. You were brilliant. You were…you were…pure magic. [pause] There was that time when you could’ve—no, no, I’m not going to critique anything. You were brilliant.”
11:23 p.m.: [car door slams] “Felix. Me again. I’m at home. You could call me at the house, but I don’t expect you to, we can catch up later. Have fun at the party. You deserve it. Jesus, the place erupted at the end. They loved you. Loved you. [pause] I wonder if there was a point where we should’ve added a mention of quantum superpositions, or whether we should’ve been more explicit about how the poison was standing in for radioactive atoms…but maybe that’s too pedantic…it was great. I mean it really couldn’t have gone better. The old farts were speechless. Well done.”
Midnight: “Hi, hi, hi, I’m opening a bottle of champagne. Just wanted to say again what a success it was, hope you’re being feted appropriately. Can’t wait to hear every detail. Take notes. Ha-ha but really, I would like to know what people are saying. What did they like best, et cetera? What surprised them the most? Does anyone know how the multiple card selection was achieved? Let me know. [kiss sound] Mwaaah.”
In the last one, recorded at half past one in the morning, slightly tipsy from champagne, her voice rumbled in his ear, low and sultry. “I think you can afford that gold nightie now.”
His pulse raced, and he almost ran outside to collect his car and speed over to her house. But she’d left the message two hours ago, and was probably asleep, so their reunion would have to wait. Imagining it would be fun enough for now.
When his head hit the pillow, though, he fell instantly asleep. He didn’t dream. There was no need to. Everything he’d hoped for had come true.
Kaimi
In Hawaii no one she knew had car insurance because it was too expensive, but at least there were cops everywhere to direct traffic around even the smallest potholes, so drivers tended to be careful under so many watchful eyes. In comparison, LA was a free-for-all on crack. I don’t want to die in Burbank, Kaimi thought for what felt like the millionth time, having been cut off three times while attempting to merge onto the 101 South.
Ten a.m. on Monday, she and Landon met at Club Deception to sell the papers to Jonathan Fredericksson. The buyer from England hadn’t returned Kaimi’s latest messages, and even if Cal had the money—which Kaimi doubted—they couldn’t stop his wife from providing him a copy of the papers for free. The sooner they off-loaded the goods, the sooner Kaimi could get back to her family and set everything right.
“Don’t mention Saturday’s contest,” Landon advised Kaimi as they rode the elevator down to the depths of the club. “He came in second and it’s a sore spot.”
“Got it.”
“Once it’s handled, want to meet up tonight for Cal’s premiere party? I told Jess I’d be there.”
She grinned. “Sounds good.”
Landon held the elevator doors open so she could exit first.
Jonathan waited for them in the Silver Room, at the head of a long table.
“This is where the board meets,” Landon told Kaimi as they walked in.
“Leave the gun, take the cannoli,” she quipped. The room was dark, lit by a silver chandelier. A silver carafe, surrounded by goblets filled with ice water, sat in the middle of the table. A silvery blue, abstract sculpture of a naked woman’s torso was attached to the wall. Her breasts shone as though someone had spent considerable time polishing them. Kaimi rolled her eyes at it.
Jonathan glanced up when they sat across from him.
Kaimi set the Erdnase papers, encased in plastic protective covering, down so Jonathan could see them.
He barely acknowledged them. Wrote a check with a silver pen, tore it from the ledger, and slipped it across the table to Landon.
Kaimi squinted at it. Five thousand dollars. What the—!
“You’re missing a few zeros there, pal,” said Landon, sending the check back to Jonathan.
“Where’d you get these, ‘pal’?” Jonathan retorted with a smirk, stabbing his finger on the table next to the Erdnase papers.
“I inherited them.”
“We agreed to five hundred for the full set,” Kaimi snapped. “Well, guess what, here’s the full set.”
“Becca agreed. I did no such thing.”
“She was speaking on your behalf—”
“You’ll sell them to me for five, or you won’t sell them at all.” Jonathan capped his pen, set it down, and folded his hands.
“What!” Kaimi exploded.
“I’ll spread the word they’re fabricated. I’m very well connected. I’ll hold a meeting of the board, right here in this room, send out a special-edition newsletter to all our members, get the interns to post about it on every magic-related message board. I have an expert in magical artifacts who’ll verify what I say, warn every magician from here to China not to touch them because they’re worthless.”
Landon jumped to his feet. “They’re not worthless!”
“They’re only worth what someone is willing to pay for them.”
“You can’t do that,” Landon warned him.
“Keep your pit bull on a tighter leash, Kaimi,” Jonathan said.
“What did you just call me?” Landon asked, dangerously quiet. “I am a member of this club.”
“You’re a snake oil salesman. Your little self-help scam has made you some enemies, you know. Nobody will be surprised to learn you’re peddling Erdnase imitation goods.”
Kaimi stood next to Landon, forcing herself to sound calm. “You don’t want them? We’ll sell them to Cal. Good-bye, Mr. Fredericksson.”
Jonathan called her bluff, though not for the right reason. “If you think Calum Clarke can afford them, you’re delusional.”
“He’s not the only interested party,” Kaimi retorted, and packed up the papers.
Jonathan remained seated, a permanent smirk on his face. “Nigel Allen at Magic Crossroads? Who do you think my expert is?”
Kaimi stared at Jonathan. Her limbs felt weak. “You planned this with him?”
“Face it, kids, we’re the only game in town. What’ll it be? Five? Or should I make it two, at this point?”
* * *
Outside the club, Kaimi let out a muffled screech into the sleeve of her cardigan. Tears of rage filled her eyes.
“I already wrote my parents. I told them I was going to take care of them, that help was coming. I sent the letter yesterday.”
�
�We just have to think,” said Landon, punching his fist into his hand. “We just have to think…”
“He’s not getting away with this.”
“No, he’s not. We’re not going to let him.”
Felix
That same day, Felix woke in his room at the Chateau Marmont feeling confident. It had been two days since his triumph at Magician of the Year, and the online chatter about it was increasing hourly. He’d spent half the night poring over the message board threads devoted to his astonishing, “rags-to-riches” victory, copying and pasting the best ones to email to Claire. Then he drove to Merlin’s Wonderporium for a good old-fashioned Fuck You Very Much with his ex-co-workers.
“Whoop-whoop,” he said, arms in the air, fists pumping. “How’s it going, dickheads? You miss me?”
“All hail the conquering hero,” Roy deadpanned.
Spencer crouched on the floor and used a Swiss Army Knife to open some boxes. Didn’t even look up.
“Want me to sign anything while I’m here? Programs from last night’s show are fifty bucks on eBay and climbing,” he said.
Spencer finally deigned to acknowledge Felix. “Sure. We’ll add it to the Hyuks items.”
Out of habit, Felix squatted down to grab some books and help Spencer shelve them. “What do you mean?”
Spencer yanked the books out of Felix’s hands. “We know you didn’t turn into some kind of savant overnight.”
“It wasn’t overnight,” Felix huffed. “I worked my ass off.”
Roy and Spencer looked at each other and smiled. Some kind of unspoken agreement seemed to pass between them.
“I have two words for you,” said Spencer, crossing his arms. “Jonathan Fredericksson.”
Felix’s heart blasted in his chest like shotgun reverb. “What about him?”
“He was here five minutes ago looking for you,” said Roy happily. “He’s out for blood, says you stole his act. Which is the only way this makes sense.”
“What? No. He’s out of his mind, man. Anyway, I have to go.”
Felix’s thoughts raced as he bolted from the store.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Spencer yelled after him.
On the sidewalk, moving briskly to his car, he punched Claire’s number into his phone, but she didn’t pick up. He didn’t want to say anything incriminating on her voicemail, and he couldn’t show up at her house—what if Jonathan had gone there next?
Where on earth would it be possible for him to run into her?
The answer was so obvious he almost didn’t think of it.
You’re a lifetime member now. You can hang out at Club Deception anytime you want.
Jessica
On the way out the door to Cal’s premiere party, Jessica just barely remembered the cupcakes she’d baked that afternoon, running back inside to grab them from the fridge. She still felt bad about the way things had gone down with the club receptionist, not to mention the weird skinny guy Claire had insulted. She wouldn’t feel right showing up with bad karma following her around. Being Cal’s wife meant she should be extra nice to people there, not act like a diva. She wanted them to treat her nicely because she deserved it, not because they wanted to kiss Cal’s ass.
Cal was quiet on the ride over. Jessica chalked it up to nerves. This was the first time his peers would see the result of nearly three years’ worth of work. Naturally he’d want to impress them.
They stopped at a red light. “When this is done, we should talk about some things,” he said.
“You sound like me,” she pointed out.
“I’m serious. About boundaries, and privacy, and what we expect from each other.”
She didn’t like being scolded.
Not that she blamed him.
She quickly changed the subject to one she knew he would get lost in.
“When I was watching Jonathan’s show last night, I had the weirdest sense of déjà vu,” she said. “Did I tell you I saw him when I was a kid?”
His eyes gleamed. “Ha. It was probably the same act. He never was one for switching things up.”
“The assistant looked so familiar.”
“Most assistants do; they have to be a precise size and shape to fit inside the props,” he said.
Traffic stalled them further, and by the time they arrived they were forty-five minutes late.
“Cal! Great to see you. Congrats on the show, the big night, everything!” said the sour-faced receptionist, predictably, when they walked in. She avoided Jessica’s gaze, but Jessica strode toward her with a big smile.
“These are for you,” she said. She peeled back a corner of the Tupperware lid.
“What? Why?”
“We sort of got off on the wrong foot last time and I just wanted to let you know I appreciate how hard your job is and I didn’t take it personally. I hope you like raspberry buttercream frosting.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked, peeking inside the bin.
“No, she’s not, she lives on a planet of sweetness and goo,” said Cal, smiling at Jessica.
The receptionist struggled to understand. “Wait, so, all of these? Are for me?”
“Yeah! You can share them with whoever, or take them home.”
“Um, thanks. Wow. Thanks.”
“So bygones to all that? We’re bygonesies?” Jessica asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh, wait, sorry, I need to take one back,” said Jessica. She lifted the lid off the cupcakes and scrutinized her options.
Once downstairs at the bar, she scanned the room for the Ichabod Crane–looking guy Claire had humiliated. He stood in the corner where she’d first met him, as though he’d been backed into it, eyes watchful and guarded. There seemed to be a force field around him.
“What are you doing?” Cal murmured in her ear as she moved toward him. “He’s a hanger-on.”
“It won’t take long.” She approached, cupcake hand outstretched. “Hi. This is for you. I never meant for you to feel bad. I don’t know if you remember, but you showed me a trick when I first arrived and you did it really well. You didn’t flash.”
Ichabod regarded her with suspicion. Didn’t even look at Cal. “Claire’s the one who should apologize,” he said sullenly.
“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” Cal joked.
Ichabod’s eyes swiveled up to land on Cal. He mumbled something and made a hasty retreat, which ended up being a sort of sideways maneuver since his back was to a wall.
Cal took Jessica’s hand in his. “Now that you’ve spread a little sunshine, we have a clip show to introduce.”
The screening room sat fifty people in plush armchairs. Each chair had its own small, circular table, upon which sat a tiny lamp (with room for a cocktail beside it). Typically, the room was used to broadcast old TV magic shows from the ’70s and ’80s, or current magic specials airing only in London and Tokyo, with panel discussions afterward.
When Cal and Jessica stood at the podium to make a few remarks, a waitress approached with a tray of champagne flutes, shimmering like gold. Cal stared at them and Jessica could feel his body tighten, like a coiled spring waiting to leap.
“None for us, thanks,” Jessica said quietly.
“What’s that?” the waitress asked.
“None for us,” she repeated. “Thank you.” She pushed lightly at the tray in an effort to send the waitress on her way.
Cal watched her go, his eyes fixed on the glasses, and then on the recipients of the champagne. He fiddled with his necktie and cleared his throat.
“Hello everyone, and thank you, really, for taking the time to come out tonight. Please tune in tomorrow at eight, and then I swear I’ll shut up forever about the damn thing. However, if you don’t tune in, I have ways of finding out, and in that case I’ll keep talking about it. So those are your choices. You’ve been warned.”
Light laughter and applause followed.
The lights dimmed, the screen unrolled from the ceiling, a
nd the clip show began. On-screen, Cal performed his impeccable Bottle Cap trick at the Gold Coast Hotel. Jessica watched proudly, and then her jaw dropped. There she was, on-screen next to him.
Cal paused the projection and turned to Jessica, whose smile grew even wider.
“I performed a version of this trick nationwide, almost all fifty states, and on two separate continents,” Cal told his friends in the room. “We filmed every single version. But this one is special, because it takes place the night I met Jessie.” He cleared his throat again, looking emotional. “To my wife, Jessica.”
“To Jessica,” the crowd repeated, lifting their glasses. Jessica blushed and gave a little wave, reminding herself to stand up tall.
On-screen, the paused image lived forever. In a moment, he’d tap the bottle cap against the bottom of the bottle, and it would magically appear inside, trapped. But until then, it was just Cal and Jessica, falling in love.
He unpaused the video and whispered in Jessica’s ear, “A little souvenir.”
“Thank you,” she whispered back.
Next came a montage of Cal performing close-up magic around the world, on the street, in restaurants and bars, ski slopes, and even inside a hot-air balloon. The scenes were intercut with a brief documentary-style getting-to-know-you interview in which he revealed the reason he’d gone into magic.
“Anyone growing up in Britain in the mid-eighties will remember the Paul Daniels show on BBC. When I was ten, he had a special that blew my mind right open. He was placed in a wooden box on a racetrack, while a car sped toward him. We all thought he was going to escape, but he didn’t! He wasn’t fast enough, and the car smashed straight into him, crash, boom—we thought he was dead. Then the box opens up, revealing that Daniels is gone. And then the car that ran him over came to a stop—and who exits the car but Daniels. Absolutely classic. Never forgot it. But it was his smaller, more intimate work that really got me going. Aces in a wineglass, cups and balls, I wanted to do it all. I moved on to studying Cardini after that. Basically, I had no life. I was a real hit with the ladies, as you can imagine,” he said self-deprecatingly, which of course served to charm the pants off anyone watching. He was so damn cute, so damn unpretentious, so damn fuckable.
Club Deception Page 25
