by Don Passman
We walked past a number of regulars, who all said hi to me.
I said, “Come see Irma.”
I took Hannah to a room behind the bar, decorated with stained-glass panels, red velvet curtains with gold fringe, and a baby grand piano that was playing “Feelings” by itself. In front of the keyboard was an empty chair. Gold-braided ropes hung between the chair arms and the piano to keep people from sitting there. Next to the piano, on a pedestal table, was a round gilded birdcage with dollar bills stuck between the bars.
I said, “Irma’s the ghost that plays the piano.”
Hannah gave me a smirk. “I’ve seen player pianos before.”
“It’s not a player piano.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right.”
When the song finished, a man and woman clapped. The man stuck a dollar bill into the birdcage, and the invisible bird chirped. A little swing inside the cage moved back and forth. Irma played “We’re in the Money.” The couple laughed.
When the song finished, I said, “Very nice, Irma.”
The piano hit two notes that sounded like Thank you.
Hannah cocked her head.
I said, “How old are you, Irma?” She played “Rock of Ages.”
I turned to Hannah. “You have a request?”
“Yeah. Let’s find your alibi and get out of here.”
I put on a half grin. “Well, aren’t you Mary Sunshine.”
“I’m probably going to lose the Desmond case, I just got my period, and I ran out of Midol. Find David.”
Maybe a little too much information … I said, “I don’t think he’s here yet.”
She rolled her eyes.
I said, “Come have a drink.”
* * *
We sat at the bar where David usually sits. When Jordan, the bartender, brought my fizzy water and Hannah’s Diet Coke, he said, “Harvey, you know where I can find a used prediction slate?”
“I’ve got an extra.” I may have a lot more than that for sale pretty soon.
“I can only swing twenty bucks.”
“That’s cool.”
He gave me a two-handed thumbs-up. “Thanks.”
When Jordan walked off, Hannah said, “You obviously come here a lot.”
“Under any other circumstances, that’d be a great opening line.”
She smiled at me, then sipped her Diet Coke. “The other magicians look at you like they admire you.”
Am I blushing? “It’s a nice community.” I stirred my bubbly water with my straw. “We’re all very friendly. We show each other new tricks. Exchange techniques.”
“You tell each other your secrets?”
“Sure. Except the ones we use to fool other magicians.”
She turned a little toward me on the stool. “What do you mean?”
I leaned in. “It’s no big deal to fool laymen. Once magicians reach a certain level, the challenge is to fool other magicians. That means doing a standard trick in a completely different way. You’d never notice the difference. Only a magician would.”
“Like what?”
I took a sip of water. “It’s a little hard to explain. For example, one way to keep track of a selected card is to keep a little break in the deck. If you did a card trick for a magician, you might hold up the deck and show all the sides, so he could see there’s no break.”
“Show me something.”
I can hardly think of a worse audience than someone who’s lost their Midol. “Well…”
“C’mon.”
“All right. Put out your left hand.”
She held out her arm.
“Open your hand.”
She turned her palm up and spread her fingers. I took a fifty-cent piece out of my pocket, placed it on her palm, and said, “Hold this tight.”
She closed her fingers around the coin.
I took hold of her wrist. I said, “I’m going to get the coin out of your hand no matter how hard you hold on.” I felt her muscles tighten.
I said, “You gotta look away.” She turned her head, still gripping hard.
After a moment, I said, “Okay, you can look now.”
She turned her head back. “I’ve still got the coin.”
“Let me see.”
She opened her hand. I grabbed the coin and said, “There. I got it.”
She gave a sarcastic Phhhh. “That’s the stupidest trick I’ve ever seen.”
“Possibly.” I smiled. “But see how you like this one.” I held up the watch I’d taken off her wrist. She looked at her naked wrist, back at the watch, and said, “How…”
I gave her my Ta-Da smile.
I felt a hand clap me on the shoulder.
I turned to see David Hu. He said, “Sorry I’m late. Hi, Hannah. Long time. You look … great.”
Hannah smiled politely. From her expression, she had no clue that she’d ever seen him before.
David walked around and took the stool on the other side of Hannah. When he got behind her, he pointed at her, stuck out his tongue, and panted, pantomiming that he thought she was hot. I picked up my glass and rattled the ice.
Without David’s ordering, the bartender clunked down a whiskey in front of him. David took a swallow and let out an Ahhhh.
He said to Hannah, “I heard you went to Harvard Law.”
“Yes. Harvey really appreciates your taking the time to meet with us. It’s an essential element of his case.”
“No problem.” David took another sip of whiskey.
Hannah said, “Tell me what you remember about February twenty-second.”
“I was here with Harvey.”
“What time?”
David shot his eyes at me.
I said, “From around seven until—”
Hannah spun around and glowered at me. “Please keep quiet. I need David’s recollection.” She turned back to him.
David finished his whiskey and motioned for another one.
Hannah said, “What time were you here?”
David ran his tongue over his lips. “From seven thirty to, I dunno, maybe eleven or so?” He looked at me. I nodded.
Hannah said, “How do you know it was February twenty-second?”
“Well, Harvey and I are here most every night.”
“Don’t you occasionally miss nights?”
“Yes.”
“So how can you be sure you were here on the twenty-second?”
I took the show schedule out of my pocket, held it up, and pointed at it.
David raised his head as if to say, Right! “I remember which magician we saw that night.”
“Who was that?”
“Um, I’m not sure right now. When Harvey first asked me, he showed me the schedule and that jogged my memory.”
Hannah spun around, saw the schedule in my hand.
She said, “I assume that’s the schedule?”
“Uh, yeah.” I handed it to her. Behind Hannah, the bartender gave David a new whiskey. He quickly took a drink.
Hannah looked at the schedule, then slid it across the bar to David. He picked it up, read it, and tapped a name printed there. David said, “Andy Valentine. I remember we saw Andy Valentine.”
I smiled at him, nodding broadly. He winked.
Hannah said, “This schedule says that Valentine was in the Close-up Gallery for a week. How do you know you saw him on the twenty-second and not the twenty-third? Or the twenty-first?”
“I, well … Harvey told me it was the twenty-second.”
“That’s the only way you know?”
“Well…” David drained the whiskey glass. “I trust him.”
* * *
After David’s interrogation, I walked Hannah to the front door of the Castle. As soon as we got outside, she said, “That guy is useless.”
The attendant saw me and started for my car. I motioned for him to stop and gave him Hannah’s ticket.
I said, “You were pretty hard on him.”
“Hard? I was a pussycat compared to
how the district attorney would fricassee his ass.”
“He’s a credible guy. Investment banker with a major firm.”
“First off, he doesn’t remember anything. Second, he’s an alcoholic, in case you didn’t notice. Most people think that impairs your memory.”
Hannah’s car pulled up. The attendant got out and stood there with the door open.
She walked to her car, saying, “In short, David is worse than no alibi at all. He’d just look like a clumsy attempt to fool the jurors.”
She got in and drove off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Son of a fucking bitch.
I stomped down the hall toward my apartment. Every goddam strand of hope I had was unraveling.
Son of a fucking bitch. How can this be happening to me? I bit off a chunk of cuticle.
As I passed the manager’s apartment, her door opened.
Mrs. Talia said, “Harvey?”
I snapped out, “What?” Her face blanched as she took a half step back.
I stopped and faced her and spoke through my teeth. “What?”
“I’m really sorry. The landlord filed an eviction proceeding because you didn’t pay within the three days.” The small gray-haired woman extended a trembling arm, holding out a packet of papers like she was feeding a vicious animal.
I snatched the papers out of her hand. “Great, perfect. Have a wonderful night.”
She quickly backed into her apartment and slammed the door.
* * *
I went to my apartment and threw open the door hard enough to bang it into the cheap fucking plaster wall. I tossed the eviction papers in the general direction of my living room and turned on the lights. Well, at least I still have electricity.
From the living room, I heard Lisa shrieking in her cage, like she always does when I come home. I looked around at the jumble of books, clothes, and papers.
Fuck it. The landlord can clean it up.
I sat down on the couch, leaned forward at the waist, and scratched my head with the fingernails of both hands. I could feel the dandruff fluttering off. I scratched harder.
Shit. I got no work. Even if I had a job, it’d take me ten years to pay Mom what I owe her. Not to mention the expense of the DNA expert. And God only knows what other bills are in that pile over there.
I stopped scratching. My scalp throbbed.
Shit. Only one choice.
I kicked through the living room mess, grabbed the phone from under a pile of clothes, and called Herb Gold.
When he answered, I said, “Did you talk to Copperfield about my trick?”
“He wanted to know if you were serious about that price.”
“You told him I was?”
“Yeah.”
“And…”
“His exact words were: ‘I wouldn’t pay a hundred grand for a trick if Houdini came back and offered it to me.’”
I started pacing. “What’s the best he’ll do?”
“He originally said twenty-five g’s. I don’t even know if that’s still good.”
Shit.
I let out a breath.
Well, twenty-five would pay off my rent, back bills, the DNA expert, and the rest of Hannah’s fees. I’d even have a few bucks toward Mom’s hundred grand.
Can I really sell? You get an inspiration like this once in a lifetime. Without it, I’m just another hack magician.
Assuming I don’t go down for Sherry Allen’s murder. Then, of course, it doesn’t much matter what I owe.…
I let out a breath. “All right. Tell him it’s a deal.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Next morning, as I walked into Hannah’s office, she said, “You’re late.”
”Sorry.” I rubbed my eyes. “I was up most of the night. My star witness is a lush. Every other suspect has an alibi. I owe my mother more than I can pay back in the next decade. I owe you, I owe the DNA expert, and I have a stack of bills from creditors whose names I can’t even pronounce. Oh, and I’m getting evicted.”
Hannah stood up. “Well, there’s a little good news. The cops haven’t been able to confirm that Sherry’s father was in Seattle like he says. I’ll take any reasonable doubt at this point.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
She looked at me sympathetically. “I can help with your eviction. Bring me the papers. I’ll stall it for a couple of months.”
“How much will that cost?”
“Just start showing up to work on time. We’ll figure out the finances later.”
I let out a sigh. “I can’t ask you to wait any longer for your dough. I’m going to sell one of my tricks.”
She wrinkled her forehead. “Sell what?”
I explained how I’d conceived my Crystal Fantasy trick, been working on it for six months, couldn’t afford to finish it, and decided to take Copperfield’s offer. I also explained how it would set back my career.
Her eyes softened. “I’m sorry.”
I shrugged.
Hannah twisted her mouth to the side. “Didn’t that Vegas guy hire you on the basis of the show you did the other night?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t have your new trick in that show, did you?”
“No. But he’s only hiring me for small-time gigs. To make the big leap, I need something spectacular.”
She sat down at her desk. “You’re a clever man. You’ll invent other tricks.”
“I appreciate your confidence. Unfortunately, that’s a little like telling Paul McCartney to just go write another Sgt. Pepper album.”
Hannah looked down at her desk.
* * *
I left for lunch a little before one o’clock and saw Hannah get in her car for her daily meeting.
What is this daily meeting of hers? Why’s she so mysterious about it?
As she drove out of the parking lot, I glanced over at my car.
Hmm.
I climbed in and drove after her.
* * *
A few blocks away, I spotted her stopped at a light. I stayed back a couple of car lengths and followed her down Lankershim to Moorpark, and onto the 101 freeway. A tractor-trailer, painted with a yellow “Have a nice day” face, cut me off.
Shit. Where’d she go?
Shit.
I got off at Coldwater Canyon and drove back to the office.
Whatever. She’ll be going again tomorrow.
* * *
When I got back from lunch, the phone was ringing. I rushed to grab it.
A familiar man’s voice said, “May I speak to Ms. Fisher, please?”
“She’s not in.”
“Mr. Kendall?”
I swallowed. “Hello, Sergeant Morton.”
He said, “I suppose this message is more for you than her anyway. We verified that Sherry Allen’s father was in Seattle on the night of the murder. That leaves you as the last man standing, Mr. Kendall. Why don’t you just tell me what happened and save everyone a lot of trouble?”
“My lawyer says I shouldn’t talk to the police.”
I clunked down the phone.
I sat in the chair behind Hannah’s desk and scratched my scalp with my fingernails.
My alibi, David Hu—gone.
Sherry’s father as a suspect—gone.
Father of her kid—in jail in Florida.
Boyfriend—three witnesses put him at work.
Her apartment manager will testify that I look familiar.
My DNA at the crime scene.
Hell, if I was a juror, I’d fry my ass.
How can this be? There has to be a mistake with the DNA. Has to be.
If we exclude the DNA, there’s only the apartment manager. After what Hannah did to David, I’m sure she can destroy that guy.
So without the DNA, nothing really connects me to the crime.
Without his having been seen by the entire audience, there was nothing to connect John Wilkes Booth to Lincoln’s assassination.
The DNA expert has to come
through.
No other choice.
What’s taking them so long? Are they deliberately slowing down because they haven’t been paid?
Shit.
* * *
That night, I sat home watching television with Lisa on my shoulder. I pointed the remote at the screen and flipped from a shot of an audience laughing to a wildlife documentary that showed a bunch of crocodiles splashing in a river.
I looked around my living room. I really should clean up the mess that the cops left in my apartment.
Tomorrow maybe.
I flipped the channel. A bunch of people in suits, sitting around an oval table, yelling at each other.
Should I call Carly? It’d be great to …
Why would I subject myself to another rejection?
Because the thought of her …
Am I an idiot to think about calling her? If she even answers, she’ll probably hang up on me. This is a woman who worries about the lives of fetuses. She thinks I’m a murderer of grown-ups.
Still … I’d really like to see her.…
I am a sick puppy.
I flipped to a program about old locomotives and grabbed the phone. I dialed all but the last digit of Carly’s home number. Can’t call the cell. She’ll see my number. Does her home phone have caller ID? The handset shrieked at me for not dialing. I hung up, dialed all but the last digit, and put my finger on the final button.
I hung up, sank back on the couch, and flipped through more channels.
I stopped on a bombastic preacher. He was a round man, dressed in a pinstripe navy suit and matching vest, pacing in front of a clear-glass podium with a huge bouquet of flowers on the floor in front of it. A scrolling message at the bottom of the screen invited me to send money to Reverend Jim.
Jim’s cheeks flushed as he spoke into a wireless microphone, pronouncing God as if the word had two syllables.
The preacher said, “How many miracles do we see on a daily basis? How many? Hundreds, perhaps? Yet we take them all for granted. Isn’t it a miracle that the sun comes up each morning?”
