The Amazing Harvey

by Don Passman

  “Huh?”

  “Your picture?”

  “Oh. Yeah, okay. I guess.”

  Dupont took a small camera out of the briefcase, came around in front of the desk, and clicked off a few shots.

  When Dupont stepped back against the wall, Morton said, “Where were you on February twenty-second? Around ten P.M.?”

  I felt myself leaning back in the chair. “I don’t know. What day of the week was that?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “I’m at the Magic Castle almost every night. I was probably there.”

  “That’s the magicians’ club you mentioned?”

  “Yes.”

  Morton picked up his Coke, drank the rest of it, and crushed the can with one hand. “Can anybody verify that?”

  “I have some friends there. I’ll ask if they remember.” I drained the water bottle and set it on the desk.

  Dupont opened the briefcase and took out a brown paper bag. He came over to the desk, carefully lifted my water bottle by the neck, and dropped the bottle in the bag.

  Whoa. These guys just took my fingerprints.

  I shifted in my seat as I watched him put the bag into the briefcase.

  Morton stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Kendall. That’s all we’ll need. For today anyway.”

  I stood up quickly, causing Lisa to dig in her claws.

  Dupont, clutching the battered briefcase that held my picture and fingerprints, opened the door.

  Morton said, “Don’t leave town, Mr. Kendall.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After taking the photo and fingerprints, Morton and Dupont left me sitting in the empty office. My heart thudded in my ears.

  My hand trembled as I stroked the feathers on Lisa’s chest with my index finger.

  Murder?

  Me?

  Why did their stealing my fingerprints feel like they’d stripped me naked?

  I looked at the blank wall for a clock.

  Is someone coming back to this office? I need some time to get myself together.

  Out in the hall, a school bell rang.

  Shit. I missed my entire class. Through the closed door, I heard the eruption of footsteps, students chattering, lockers banging.

  I need to get out before someone walks in.

  As I stood up, I could feel my pulse thumping in my neck. I dug into my pants pocket, took out one of the vintage Walking Liberty fifty-cent pieces that I always carry, and ran it over the backs of my knuckles. That usually calms me down.

  Not working.

  Maybe I should try the anti–stage fright routine that I use before big shows. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

  Then another.

  Still a little jagged.

  A few more.

  Better.

  Sort of.

  Gotta get outta here.

  I straightened up. Should I hide Lisa? Nah. I’ll get enough stares because of the outfit.

  Rubbing the bird’s chest, I opened the door and headed for my car, ignoring the looks from passersby.

  What the hell was that about? Why me? Obviously some massive mistake. Probably a computer error or something.

  I didn’t do anything.

  They’ll have to figure that out.

  Right?

  Absolutely.

  Won’t they?

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the morning buying birdseed, cleaning Lisa’s cage, and calling around for substitute teaching work.

  No one needed a substitute.

  Is that because of the cops?

  Don’t get paranoid. It’s not unusual that there’s no work. A lot of teachers have specific substitutes they like, so us floaters can go several days without assignments. Besides, knowing the school board’s efficiency system, the people who hire substitutes won’t know about the cops for a year or two.

  Right after lunch, my cell phone rang. When I answered, it, my mother said, “You need to come over. Right now.”

  Whoa. Mom never sounds like that. “What is it?”

  “Not on the phone.”

  * * *

  I walked up the concrete pathway to Mom’s tiny one-story ranch house on McCormick Street in Van Nuys, past a line of plaster baby ducks who were following their plaster mother across the lawn. The ducks’ white paint was peeling off in large splotches, which wasn’t so surprising, since the ducks had been left by the home’s previous owner some thirty-odd years ago.

  I opened the unlocked front door, with Lisa balanced on my shoulder. Mom’s three foster kids, Ed, Max, and Skye, ran toward me, yelling, “Uncle Harvey!” Skye hugged my leg as I picked up the six-year-old boys. Max said, “Show us a trick!”

  I said, “Where’s Mom?”

  “Where do you think she is?”

  That meant the backyard garden.

  Max said, “Show us a trick.”

  I shook my head. “Mom said she had to see me right away.”

  “C’mon. One trick. Pleeeeease.”

  “Yeah, pleeeease.”

  I looked toward the back of the house. “Okay, okay. Real quick.”

  I set down the kids and put the bird on Max’s head. That always made them giggle. They squeezed in close to me, eyes wide.

  What’s a fast one? I never go for vanishing a coin and pulling it out of a kid’s ear. It’s incredibly trite, though for some bizarre reason it’s amazed children for hundreds of years.

  Ah. Got it.

  I reached into my pocket and took out two foam-rubber rabbits, each about the size of a quarter. I had Ed squeeze the rabbits in his fist. After a few magic words, I told him to open his hand. Out popped the two rabbits plus ten little ones. The kids oohed.

  Ed said, “Good one!”

  I thought, When you’re older, you’ll have a whole different take on that trick.

  Max said, “Do another one.”

  “I gotta see Mom.”

  I took Lisa off Max’s head, put her on my shoulder, and walked through the living room, past the Wall of Photos. There was a large picture of me in the center, surrounded by twenty-plus pictures of the foster kids who’d lived with Mom after Dad died. I hurried through the den, past a cluster of handmade clay planters that overflowed with strands of ivy. The planters were remnants of Mom’s pot-throwing era. Hanging on the wall was a tie-dyed piece of cloth, which was a remnant of Mom’s pot-smoking era. Her current passion sat by the window—an easel with a half-finished painting. On a small table next to the easel were brushes on their heads in a jar of cloudy turpentine, along with a wooden palette with multicolor splotches that smelled like oil paint. The painting showed a man walking on a country path with what was probably supposed to be his dog, though it looked more like a weasel.

  In the backyard, I saw Mom on her hands and knees, wearing jeans and a loose paisley blouse that was supposed to hide the thickness around her middle. Her long gray hair was tied in a ponytail that trailed over her spine, with rubber bands clipping it every few inches, so that it looked like a string of gray mini–hot dogs. She was tickling a plant with a paintbrush.

  When she saw me, she dropped the brush and squinted at me through her purple-framed rectangular glasses. I heard her knees crack as she stood.

  Mom wasn’t smiling.

  I said, “What were you doing with the brush?”

  She pushed a few wisps of gray hair off her forehead. “Pollinating the vegetables. It’s been a bad year for insects, so I’m playing Ms. Bee and moving pollen from the males to the females. If the females don’t get pollen, I don’t get zucchinis.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty.”

  She didn’t laugh.

  Uh-oh. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  She bent down, grabbed the paintbrush, and stuck it in her back pocket.

  Mom dusted her hands on her jeans and lowered her voice. “Inside.”

  * * *

  Mom sat me at the kitchen table and hustled the kids into the den. She gave me a piece of toast with
peanut butter on top, cut into four triangles. My favorite breakfast when I was little. Lisa perked up on my shoulder.

  Mom stuck a teakettle under the faucet and turned on the tap. The water hissed against the metal pot.

  I took a bite of the toast. Why does food always taste better at Mom’s?

  She put the kettle on the stove, then came back to the table but didn’t sit.

  Through the sticky peanut butter, I said, “What’s the emergency?”

  She stood there, staring at me while I chewed.

  “Mom?” I took another bite.

  “The cops came by this morning.”

  Suddenly, the peanut butter clotted in my mouth. I set down the half-eaten piece of toast. “I’m really sorry.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “What is this about?”

  “It’s obviously a mistake. What did they say to you?”

  “They said they were talking to you about a girl who was killed. They asked where you were on some date in February. They wanted to know all about your childhood. I didn’t tell them anything.”

  I swallowed the gritty bits of toast. “They shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  Mom sat down and pulled her chair close to the table, squeaking the legs against the linoleum. She whispered, “I got busted when I was about your age.”

  “You did? For what?”

  “It’s not important. Just like it’s not important what you did.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  The teakettle shrieked on the stove.

  Mom got up and grabbed the kettle. It whimpered as she took it off the burner. She poured the boiling water into a cup, dropped in a tea bag, and came back to the table, working the bag’s string up and down. Mom sat and said, “I’ve contacted Michael Nadler, the criminal lawyer.”

  I pushed away the plate of toast. “That guy who’s always talking to reporters on TV?”

  “When you have a problem, you go for the best.”

  “Mom—”

  “Remember when your father needed his angioplasty? We flew to Houston because that’s where the best surgeon was. You need the best lawyer.”

  “Nadler’s a publicity hound.”

  “He got that former Miss America off a cocaine charge, and you know she was guilty as hell.”

  “But I’m not guilty. I can clear this up without a high-priced lawyer.”

  “Don’t be naïve. The government crushes little people like us.”

  I shook my head. “Nadler would cost a fortune.”

  She stood up, trying to tower over me. She was too short, even when I was sitting.

  Mom said, “This is not open for discussion. You have an appointment with him this afternoon at five o’clock. Here’s his card.” She pulled a wrinkled business card out of her jeans pocket and held it out.

  I didn’t take the card. “I can’t afford this guy.”

  “I’ll help.”

  “You can’t afford this guy.”

  She wagged her finger at me. “You’re seeing him at five o’clock.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  * * *

  That afternoon at five, I rode an elevator up to the Beverly Hills offices of attorney Michael Nadler. This is ridiculous, I thought. Why should I hire an expensive lawyer when I’m innocent? It’s obviously some mistake with the DNA. The cops will figure that out on their own. Otherwise, I can get a public defender for free. I’m sure my income is way below whatever the poverty line is.

  The elevator doors dinged open. I stepped into a waiting room that was decorated with ultramodern black-and-white furniture. There were three signed Roy Lichtenstein prints hanging on the blond wood walls. The largest was a cartoon soldier, done with big dots to look like newsprint. The soldier was crouching low, running forward with a bayonet, waving for unseen troops to follow him. The balloon over his head said, “This way, boys. For family and country!”

  I walked up to the receptionist, who sat ramrod-straight in a dress so crisp that it looked like she ironed it during her breaks. The woman looked at me. “Yes?”

  “I’m Harvey Kendall. To see Michael Nadler?”

  She looked at her computer, picked up the phone, dialed, whispered into the mouthpiece, then told me to take a seat.

  I sat on a white couch, feeling like I was staining the fabric.

  After a few minutes, I poked through the magazines on the glass coffee table. Time, Newsweek, Forbes. No Guns & Ammo? I settled on a month-old issue of Time.

  A few minutes later, I looked at my watch. Pretty rude to keep me waiting like this. I mean, when you’ve got a client accused of murder, doesn’t that rank some priority? I knew this guy was too big to give a shit about someone like me. Waste of time and money.

  About three magazines later, the receptionist said, “Mr. Nadler will see you now. Through the door to my left.”

  Her left … my right … Got it.

  I stood up, took out a fifty-cent piece, and rolled the coin over my knuckles as I walked. Ooops. Almost dropped it.

  The receptionist pushed a button by her desk. The door buzzed. I opened it and saw an older lady in an equally well-pressed suit. Probably last year’s model.

  She said, “This way, Mr. Randall.”

  “Kendall.”

  The woman smiled, like that was one of the better jokes she’d heard in a long time, then turned and started down the hall.

  I followed her toward Nadler’s throne room.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  When I walked into Nadler’s office, he wasn’t there. It was a large corner office, with views spreading all the way from L.A.’s downtown skyscrapers to the ocean. His desk, made of glass and chrome, stood on a platform about six inches higher than the rest of the office. The guest chairs were black leather poofy things. One wall had a giant painting that looked like a drop cloth but probably cost more than Mom’s house. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves held neatly arranged leather books, accented with silver-framed pictures of Nadler: Nadler golfing with President Bush, Nadler boarding a private jet, Nadler sunning himself on a yacht, Nadler with his arm around his recent client, Miss Cocaine America.

  A door on the other side of the office opened. Nadler came out of his private bathroom, with the sound of a flushing toilet behind him. The man looked like he was in his late forties and stood maybe five foot six. He was dark-complected, with a splotch of pigmentless white skin on his neck, and wore a pinstripe navy suit with a burgundy silk handkerchief folded neatly in the breast pocket. I had this incredible urge to grab the handkerchief and make it vanish.

  He came over and stuck out his hand. “Michael Nadler.” His grip was firm, and he looked into my eyes with an intense gaze that made me feel like I was the only thing in his life that mattered.

  Hmm. The guy’s way more magnetic than I expected. Maybe that’s why the juries love him.

  Nadler broke the connection, stepped up on the pedestal, and sat behind his desk. He waved in the direction of the guest chairs and said, “Have a seat.”

  I sank into one of the poofy black leather things. Nadler looked down at me. “I’ve done some checking with my connections in the police department. Frankly, you’ve got a serious problem. Now the first thing—”

  His phone rang.

  Nadler said, “Excuse me. They’d only put this through if it was urgent.” He picked up the phone and listened. His face brightened. “Yes, Senator.” Nadler swiveled his desk chair toward the window and started mumbling into the phone.

  After a few minutes of watching the back of his chair, I got up and walked around the office. I touched the cold chrome floor lamp and saw my fingerprint on the polished surface. Just like the cops got on the water bottle. I’m an idiot, falling for that.

  I went to the bookshelf and studied the framed photos. I’d noticed that Nadler was wearing a wedding ring. Didn’t see any pictures of a wife or kids. Unless he was married to Nelson Mandela.

  I picked up a leather-bound volume that had gold lettering on the
spine: Michael Nadler, Press Clippings, 2008. I opened it up. Newspaper articles mounted on parchment paper. I thumbed through the pages, then put it back in line with the other volumes.

  Nadler was still mumbling into the phone. I went over to his desk, where there was a sword-shaped letter opener stuck in a glass globe, as if it were waiting for King Arthur to pull it free. I stepped onto the raised platform, took out the sword, and waved it over my open palm like a wand. I closed my fist and waved the sword again.

  Nadler swiveled around in his chair and hung up the phone. When he noticed the sword in my hand, he scowled. I put Excalibur back in its rock. He made a microscopic adjustment of the sword holder’s location on his desk, then gestured for me to sit. In other words, Get off my platform.

  I stepped off the raised area and kept standing.

  Nadler said, “Sorry about the phone call. It really was an emergency.”

  I nodded.

  He said, “So. As I was saying. I’ve spoken to my friends with the police. The DNA match is a serious issue. The cops have definitely focused on you.”

  “If they’re focused on me, why haven’t I been arrested?”

  “They don’t consider you a flight risk. Besides, they’re still building their case. As the cops say, when they arrest someone, they want them to stay arrested.”

  I shifted my weight to the other foot.

  Nadler took a yellow page of scribbled notes from the stack on his desk and looked at it. “The victim’s name was Sherry Allen. Is there anything to connect you to her?”

  “No. I never met her. Mr. Nadler, what’s the charge for this?”

  “They’ll likely go for second-degree murder. Maybe first.”

  “Not the criminal charges. How much are your fees?”

  Nadler dropped the page and looked at me with his mouth open. From his expression, you’d think I’d asked if he liked having sex with goats.

  He said, “Excuse me?”

  “What do you charge?”

  “Your mother’s already taken care of that.”

  “How much is she paying you?”

  He blinked a few times. “She asked me not to discuss it with you.”

  I stepped back onto his pedestal. I said, “Aren’t I the client, here?”

  “Well … yes.”