by John Gaspard
“And don’t forget your hat,” Franny added, tugging a bright red stocking cap over his already disheveled gray hair and pulling it tight around his ears. He readjusted it and she batted his hands away, putting it back the way she had it originally. He gave me a smile.
“Franny knitted me a hat,” he said.
“I can see that,” I said. “I can give Franny a ride home,” I offered.
Harry shook his head. “That won’t be necessary,” was all he said.
He took her hand and they headed out the door and turned left. My curiosity got the best of me, so I pushed the lobby door open far enough to poke my head out. The two shuffled as far as the magic shop and then Harry pulled out his keys, opened the door and they disappeared inside.
I slowly stepped back into the lobby.
“Isn’t it adorable?” Megan said. She and Quinton had come up behind me while I was spying on my uncle and the woman who was, apparently, his girlfriend.
“They’re dating?” I said, not sure if that was even the right term to use for a couple whose combined age was pushing 150 years.
“They have been for weeks,” Megan said with a laugh. “For a magician, you’re not very observant. That’s why Harry’s been so tired, because Franny’s been keeping him up late just about every night of the week.”
Before I could even process this idea, Megan continued. “They’ve been taking line dancing lessons,” she continued. “Apparently Harry’s quite light on his feet,” she added, turning to Quinton.
“That does not surprise me in the least,” Quinton said, and then something across the lobby caught his attention. He raised his hand in a wave.
“I believe,” he said, shouting across the room, “that something of an apology on my part is in order.”
We turned to see Randall Glendower, in the midst of wrapping Jinx’s cage with an extra blanket. He looked over at us and smiled a crooked, quizzical smile.
“Apology?” he said.
Quinton moved toward him and we followed.
“Yes,” Quinton said. “I believe I unjustly maligned you and your monkey.” He extended his hand to Randall. “No hard feelings, I trust?”
Randall struggled to his feet, using Quinton’s extended hand for support as well as for its intended purpose as a sign of his apology.
“Oh, no, man, no problem,” Randall said once he was upright. “It’s not every day you get to be a murder suspect and your secret weapon is your monkey. In fact,” he continued, looking off into space, “that would make for a really cool comic book series. Man and Monkey. I like that.”
There was a short, sharp screech from inside the cage.
“Okay, how about Monkey and Man?” Randall offered. He took the complete lack of response from Jinx as his approval and began to zip up his large, furry parka in anticipation of the impending walk to his car. He picked up the cage and gave the lobby one last look.
“What happens to the theater now they are minus one manager?” he asked.
I had no idea, so I turned to Megan. “What does happen?” I repeated, then pivoted back to Randall to explain. “Megan is the landlord here. She owns the whole block.”
“Wow,” Randall said with genuine enthusiasm. “A land owner. Very impressive.”
“Thanks,” Megan said. “Well, the theater has been leased by an entertainment consortium out of Indianapolis for about the last ten years, so I figure they’ll put out a call for a new manager.”
Randall’s eyes narrowed and lowered his voice. “When is their lease up?”
Megan lowered her voice to match his conspiratorial level. “Two and a half months.”
“That’s a fun fact,” Randall said. “Very fun.” He looked at his watch. “Do you have a minute to talk?”
“About leases? Sadly, yes. Always,” Megan said.
He headed over to a corner of the lobby, in part to shield the monkey’s cage from the blasts of cold air which pummeled us every time the lobby door opened and in part to shield the conversation from anyone who might be listening. Not that anyone was.
“I’m going to go talk to Mr. Glendower about the lease,” Megan said. “Do you mind giving Quinton a ride back to his hotel?”
Before I could agree or disagree, she and Randall were already deep in conversation.
So, for the second time in the past ten days, I made the drive from Minneapolis to downtown St. Paul with Quinton Moon as my passenger.
“Here’s what I don’t understand,” he said, turning to me once we were well on our way. “One of the homicide detectives, the taller one…”
“Homicide Detective Fred Hutton,” I said.
“That’s the one. He said Tracy would be charged in the deaths of Tyler James and Clifford Thomas. But he made no mention of the two attempts on your life and the one on Harry.”
“That’s because she didn’t do them,” I said.
“But Megan told me someone had attempted to run you down with a car?”
“Someone did, but as it turned out, it was just some guy stealing a car which had been left running. He probably didn’t even realize he almost hit me.”
“All right,” he said, accepting that answer for the moment. “But what about the ice on the roof which was pushed down on you and Harry?”
I shrugged. “The police found no footprints on the roof and everything was melting that day. We get ice dams on the roof. And a bunch of it picked that moment to fall. Wrong place, wrong time.”
Quinton nodded slowly as he considered this. “So we were all victims of a post hoc fallacy,” he said.
I hadn’t heard that phrase before. “Post hoc fallacy? How do you mean?”
“If event B happens after event A, then it must be connected to event A,” he said. “You tap the box with the magic wand and then open the box to reveal a rabbit. The audience thinks the wand and the tapping somehow caused the rabbit to appear—they are always looking for causations, proximity, that sort of thing. Ah, well, the desperate human need to connect point A with point B. Where would we magicians be without it?”
I grunted in agreement, only vaguely understanding what he was talking about. We rode in silence, and then he spoke up again.
“But what about when Tracy was attacked?” he said. “When they pushed her off the ladder and then when she was attacked in the theater?”
“My best guess is both those events were courtesy of the goons she owes money to,” I said. “Tracy just cleverly incorporated them into the overall murder scenario, which helped to deflect suspicion away from her.”
“Ah, yes. Classic magic misdirection,” Quinton said. “It’s the same reason some of the best magic tricks work: Truth, truth, truth, half-truth, truth.”
I looked over at him. “Quinton, you think about magic way more than I do,” I said.
“Agreed. Some might say I think about magic too much,” he replied.
“It seems to work for you.”
Another pause in the conversation, and then Quinton turned to me again. “Eli, this may be an uncomfortable topic, but I can’t help think our relationship has something of a toxic strain to it that, unless addressed, makes its long-term viability doubtful.”
I processed the sentence as best I could and came back with the one word that expressed the totality of my comprehension. “What?”
“I believe our relationship—you and me—our potential friendship, has been poisoned by jealousy, and I so wish that weren’t the case.”
I was surprised at his perception, as I felt I had done a fairly good job of covering up my feelings the last two weeks. “Poisoned,” I said, “is a strong word.”
“I can think of no other word which fits the bill and I hold myself one hundred percent accountable.”
I turned to look at him for a moment, but his expression offered no further information.
“How are you accountable?”
He laughed. “I certainly can’t blame you for my all-consuming jealousy, can I?”
It took a moment for this to sink in. “No,” I said slowly. “I suppose you can’t.”
I decided silence would be the best tool for ferreting out where this was headed, and moments later my patience was rewarded.
“Oh, I would so much like to have a relationship like the one you’ve forged with the divine Megan,” he said softly.
“What’s stopping you?” I asked, then quickly added, “I mean, with someone other than Megan?”
“Magic,” he finally said, the word coming out like a sigh. “Here’s what I know to be true: You can’t spend eight hours a day, six days a week, throwing playing cards at high speed into watermelons and not expect it to have a detrimental impact on your adult relationships.”
“I suppose so. But look at the result? You’re a great—truly great—magician.” It felt good to say this out loud, and even better, I was surprised to discover, to say it directly to Quinton.
“As are you, my friend, with—I suspect—far less of the attendant angst and gnashing of teeth.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” I began, but he cut me off.
“I watched you performing in that ludicrous Rabbit and Hat costume—sorry about that, by the way. I wasn’t aware of the client’s plan in that regard.”
“It wasn’t so bad,” I said. “It proved to be an ideal icebreaker.”
“You were magnificent,” he said, punching the last word for full dramatic effect.
“I was just doing a little walk-around close-up magic,” I said with a verbal shrug, but again he cut me off.
“No, not in the least. You were performing miracles,” he said. “I watched your audience and they were swept away in the illusions. You’ve learned the one trick most magicians never master in a lifetime of performing, and you do it by second nature.”
“What’s that?” I was bowled over by his flow of compliments and more than willing to take one more.
“You never attempt to fool your audience, to one-up them, to outsmart them. Your goal is to create and share a true moment of magic and mystery with each and every one of them. It is the rare conjurer who has mastered that skill, my friend.”
He let this sink in, which was helpful as I was having trouble processing what he was saying.
“You’re no slouch yourself,” I finally said.
“High praise indeed,” he said.
I signaled to change lanes, heading toward the 10th Street exit into downtown St. Paul. I recognized the drive was more than half over and I still had one unanswered question.
“One thing I would like to know, if you don’t mind,” I began.
He spread his hands open in front of him. “I am all attention.”
“Okay,” I began, not sure how to navigate the delicate proposition of asking another magician how a trick is accomplished. “When you do The Miser’s Dream…”
“Ah, yes, The Miser’s Dream,” he said. “A true gem. As Henry Hay so wisely put it, ‘The Miser’s Dream will repay you for everything you as a magician put into it.’”
“You’ve clearly put a lot into it,” I said, still trying to navigate how to get to my question while simultaneously navigating the oddball street layout which is the heart and soul of downtown St. Paul. I could see the St. Paul Hotel in the distance, but the alternating one-way streets and sudden and unannounced direction-changing road construction was impeding my progress. I decided to put the time to good use.
“At the conclusion of the routine,” I said, “when you pour all the coins out of the bucket and then pick them up, handful after handful, and pour them back into the bucket…”
“Yes,” he said, a smile in his voice, clearly proud of where this question was headed.
“And then you turn the bucket over,” I continued, remembering the shock and surprise which I—and everyone in the audience—had felt when the bucket was revealed to be empty. Truly and completely empty, with the exception of one single coin falling out. I smiled at how that moment had thrilled me, and not in a “Hey, I’m a magician and he fooled me” sort of way. It had truly been, in the finest sense of the word, an illusion. A moment of pure magic. I couldn’t help but smile thinking about it.
“Yes,” he said, gesturing for me to continue. “You wish to know how that was accomplished?”
We had pulled into the circular driveway in front of the hotel and one of the valets or bellmen was racing to the car. Quinton held up a hand without even turning his head and the young man froze in his tracks. Quinton looked at me, to confirm my question.
I shook my head.
“No. On second thought, I’d rather not know how it was done,” I said. “I’m good.”
Chapter 24
Amazingly, there was an open parking spot right in front of the magic shop.
I slid into the spot and then almost slid under the car when I stepped out, not realizing how icy the road had become.
“Very smooth,” came a sultry voice from the sidewalk.
I used the door handle to maintain my balance and looked across the top of the car to see Megan, smiling at me from within a funky hat and scarf combination.
“Hey. How long have you been standing there?”
She gestured toward the theater. “I just finished up with Randall Glendower,” she said, smiling happily. The marquee was dark now, displaying what I assumed would be the last of the Parkway Double Plays: The Stuntman of La Mancha.
“Is Randall going to lease the theater?”
“Better,” she said as she stepped gingerly toward the car. “He’s buying the theater and paying way more for it than any sensible person should.”
“Will he still be scheduling Double Plays?” I asked, gesturing to the marquee.
“Better than that,” she said, her smile getting even wider. “He’s going to schedule both Double and Triple Plays. He’s already got the first Triple Play figured out.”
“Lay it on me.”
She took a moment, looking up, assembling all the words in her head. “The first one will be Close Brief Encounters of the Third Kind Hearts and Coronets,” she finally recited, nearly running out of breath in the process.
“He’s going to need a bigger marquee,” I said, looking at the limited space the current one offered. “And how is it going to feel selling off parcels of the land your grandmother left you?” I remembered the trouble that had come when Megan’s ex-husband had tried the same thing.
“It’s one less headache for me to deal with,” she said. “And don’t worry, I’ll still be your landlady. There’s no change happening in that area.”
“In that case,” I said, slowly and carefully negotiating my way around the car and toward the curb, “does my landlady have any interest in coming up to my place for a spot of dinner and whatnot?”
“Yes to the dinner and double yes to the whatnot,” she said, reaching out and taking my hand.
Together we helped steady each other as we moved slowly to the door of the magic shop.
I fumbled for my keys and in a matter of moments we were inside, where it was dark but warm.
“Shhhh,” I whispered like a wayward teenager as we made our way stealthily up the stairs which led to my apartment on the third floor. I gestured toward the door to Harry’s apartment on the second floor landing and Megan smiled and nodded, stepping even more quietly on the squeaky stairs. We had just passed his threshold when the door swung open with surprising speed, resulting in high-pitched yelps from both me and Megan—though I will argue hers was way higher.
“We thought we heard you two sneaking by,” Harry said with a laugh. He was in his pajamas, over which he wore a black watch plaid bathrobe I had never seen before. He opened the door farther to reveal Franny, who sported
an identical but smaller version of the same robe. Her long gray hair had been assembled into a quasi-bun on the top of her head, and she held two steaming teacups in her hands.
“Careful, this is hot,” she said as she passed one to Harry.
“You two getting ready to turn in?” Harry asked.
“We’re going to make dinner and then, sure,” I said, not used to having these sorts of conversations with Harry and certainly not with Franny. I may have even blushed.
“We won’t keep you,” Harry said, blowing on his tea and sensing it was still too hot. “I just wanted to give you this, before I forgot.”
He leaned back in the doorway and with his free hand reached up to where I knew he had a series of hooks. He pulled down a key and handed it to me.
“This is for you,” he said, beaming. He turned to Franny and she returned the smile.
“What is it to?” I asked, turning the key over in my hand. It was old and scratched, but had a familiar look to it.
“It’s the key to the shop,” Harry said.
They both continued to smile big dopey smiles at me.
“Thanks,” I said slowly. “But I already have a key to the shop.”
Harry laughed and shook his head. “No, I’m not giving you a key to the shop. I’m giving you the shop. Chicago Magic. I’m giving it to you. As a wedding present.”
This was a lot of information to take in over a short time, so I think I can be forgiven if it took me a moment for the last words to settle in.
“A wedding present?” I looked at Harry and then turned to Megan. “But we’re not getting married. Are we?”
Megan seemed as puzzled by the declaration as I was. We both turned back to Harry.
“We’re not getting married,” I concluded. “I mean, not now. Not right now.”
“Not soon,” Megan said. “Or maybe,” she added quickly.
“Or maybe, sure. We haven’t really…”
“I mean, I’m not ruling it out…”
