Magician

by Timothy C. Phillips

  “Why was Joe in the hospital?”

  “Diabetes. He had a bad episode and was in the hospital for observation for a week. After Joe got back, he and Samson went right back to bickering. Samson had picked up his gigs for him while he was in the hospital, and when Joe came back, Samson told him that we didn’t need him anymore, that he could handle Joe’s work.”

  “I take it Joe didn’t like Jokey’s gigs being run by Jovius, the big evil red clown.”

  “Oh, no mister. What Joe didn’t like was that Samson completely took over his act. Even his costume and make-up. He even did his voice. You couldn’t tell it wasn’t Jokey, if you weren’t one of us. That’s what got under Joe’s skin. A clown’s make-up is his property, and his alone. It’s part of his act.”

  “So Samson dressed up like Jokey? The clown in blue?”

  “That’s right. We all wear a different basic color, so the kids can tell us apart.”

  “Is it possible that he is still using Joe’s make-up scheme?”

  “Well, that’s possible. But I doubt it. Not around here, at least. There are other people around doing what we do, but we’d hear about it. I mean, we all know each other.”

  “So you think Samson isn’t clowning around anymore?”

  Sal gave me a wry frown. “No, I don’t think so. It wasn’t his first love, anyway.”

  “I’m sorry, Sal. Maybe I misunderstood. I thought you said that he loved the work.”

  “Oh, he did, no mistake there. But not just clowning. He’s a funny guy, but he has talents in other areas, besides clowning. He’s into entertainment, not just clowning. He decided to drop it when he left, so he could concentrate more on his magic.”

  I felt a lump rising in my throat.

  “Magic?”

  “That’s right. You saw the video. He did tricks for us, but what you saw was nothing. Samson was one hell of magician.”

  “Can you tell me where I can find Samson now?”

  “Well, I can tell you where he used to live.”

  I pulled a pad from my pocket. “Could you write it down here for me?

  “Sure. Be glad to.”

  Sal finished writing and set the pen down.

  “Sal, I want you to tell me what happened at the Champion’s house on Georgia Champion’s eighth birthday.”

  Sal looked at me for a moment before answering. “It was him that brought the liquor.”

  “Samson?”

  “That’s right. He had brought along his own cooler. First, I remember he got the Champions to drink a toast or two from their own bar. I guess to their little girl’s birthday. The Champions, they went along with it. They may have more money than Carter’s got liver pills, but they aren’t the smartest people. I didn’t see any harm in it, though. Well, then the mood got a little more relaxed.” He stopped and his face reddened a little. He ran his hand over his thinning hair and cleared his throat.

  “Then he brought out his own liquor. It was the only gig that day, and I thought we were pretty much wrapping things up. It started with everybody sneaking a nip at the van, but like I said, it got out of hand.”

  “Was Samson drunk, too?”

  “Mister, Samson Fain doesn’t drink. He won’t touch the stuff.”

  “Didn’t it strike you as odd that a man who doesn’t drink would want everyone else to get blotto?”

  “Well, I . . . ” He stopped suddenly and looked me in the eye.

  “What I’m about to say, I haven’t ever said to anyone. Joe and Ed have never said it to me, if they suspect. But there was something in that liquor. I think that there was something in the drinks he poured for the Champions, too.”

  My heart quickened just a little, but I managed coolly, “Why do you say that, Sal?”

  “It hit me hard. Too hard. I’ve had a few in my time, and a drop or two of bourbon never lays me out like that.”

  “Did you all fall asleep?”

  “No. The Champions did. I remember feeling really drunk, after just a sip or two. You know, really euphoric. Things got blurry. I can’t remember a lot of the details. But not an hour or two later, after we packed it in, I was fine again—except for a really bad headache. All of us were. If you’ve ever been drunk, you know alcohol doesn’t work that way.” His hands were trembling slightly.

  I said nothing. I knew, all right. “Sal, what reason could Samson have to drug you guys?”

  Sal looked at me and shook his head. “Jesus, mister, what do you want from me?”

  I met his glare. “The truth, Sal. The truth.”

  The older man smacked his fist into his open palm. Tears came into his eyes. He swallowed hard and his voice went bitter.

  “There are men in the business like him. You hear about them, sometimes you meet them. If you find them out, you send them packing. He was one. But with him it was such a waste.”

  “Sal.” I pressed him.

  “To get her alone.” He blinked quickly, and looked away. “The little girl. To be alone with her.”

  Chapter 8

  Samson Fain had not been living the ritzy life, that much was obvious. The address that Sal had written down for me was in the worst section of Ensley, where I had sometimes patrolled as a police officer. When I finally arrived at Jack’s Apartments, a run-down building near the Northside projects, I made my way up the stairs to a catwalk littered with garbage.

  From the street, it appeared as though the apartments were deserted, but the sounds of television sets crackled from inside some of the living quarters as I walked by them on my way down the dark hallway.

  I arrived at number five, Samson’s apartment, only to find the door wide open, the room empty except for a few scattered beer and wine bottles, left behind by squatters. I went in, anyway, the bitter smell of urine stinging my nose. There were pieces of paper here and there, and an abandoned television rack. Nothing else.

  I went back out to the end of the landing. Barely visible on a sign above the end apartment was a faded sign: Office closed. No new leases will be assigned at this location. For information call Oran Associates.

  Beneath this was a telephone number. I took out my notebook and copied it down. Samson Fain was proving very difficult to turn up.

  Back at my car, I dialed the number, half-expecting the line to be disconnected. I was pleasantly surprised when a cheerful voice answered on the other end. “Oran Associates.” The voice was that of an older black woman, distinguished, relaxed.

  “Yes ma’am. I was wondering where your offices are located.”

  “We are on Hoover road, just off Regent Avenue, in the strip mall. Look for our sign.”

  “Thank you.”

  * * *

  The strip mall was a new structure, and most of the offices featured cardboard signs in the window, advertising new businesses that would soon be moving in.

  Oran Associates was the only suite that currently featured blinds. A sign on the door advised me to come on in! I opened the door and went inside.

  A matronly woman behind the counter rose from her chair and offered me a charming smile.

  “Good morning,” she beamed, in the voice I had heard on the phone.

  “Hi. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Ah yes, just a few minutes ago. I’m Mrs. Truss. Can I help you?”

  “I wanted to inquire about renting an apartment.”

  “Excellent. We have several properties in the area.”

  “Actually, I was thinking of a specific set of apartments. Jack’s apartments.”

  Unexpectedly, the woman burst into a gale of laughter.

  “Oh, mister, I really don’t think you want to live there. That place is condemned.”

  “Really?” I asked innocently. “How long have you handled the property?”

  “About three years. We acquired it from another realty company that is now out of business. We had thought about renovation, but the appraisal decided us against that. The apartments that are there are to be torn down. We’re going to pu
t in some garden homes. The tenants that are still there—there are only three—have to be out by the end of next month”

  “Well, let me ask you a question. Do you remember any of the previous tenants?”

  Mrs. Truss gave me a quick look of reappraisal. “Maybe some of them. Anyone in particular?”

  “Samson Fain?”

  The glowing smile returned, and a mischievous gleam came into her eye. She turned and called into the back of the office. “Vivian?”

  An attractive younger version of Mrs. Truss appeared in the doorway. She was apparently finishing up lunch. “What is it, Mom?”

  “This young man wants to know about a former tenant of ours, by the name of Samson Fain?”

  The women exchanged wicked laughs. Vivian came forward and stood next to her mother. The young lady had sparkling gold eyes and a high, intelligent forehead. She regarded me with a look of appraisal similar to the one her mother had given me, but followed it up with a warming smile. I felt my hands straightening my clothes self-consciously.

  “Oh, I remember Mr. Fain. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “Would that surprise you?”

  “Not exactly. He was kind of . . . weird, I guess. He could be funny, but sometimes he was just plain scary.”

  “Mind if I ask what you mean by scary?”

  “Are you a cop?”

  I grinned at the inevitable question and showed her my ID.

  “Oh, a private detective. How exciting.” Mrs. Truss nudged her daughter’s shoulder, and looked up at me.

  Vivian Truss knitted her brow for a second. “When I say scary, I don’t mean like threatening. Sometimes he seemed, well . . . crazy.”

  She walked around the counter and came up close to me. She smelled nice, I noticed.

  “You’re a big man. He was bigger, though. Maybe six foot five. And very dense, and strong, you could just tell by looking at him. He would come in here to pay the rent, and then just stay. He would talk and joke for hours. He was nice enough so that you felt bad if you were rude to him. So he would sit there and joke, and talk to the other people who came in. But then, one day he came in when I was here by myself. Now that, I can tell you, was a strange day.”

  “Do you mind telling me what happened, Miss Truss?”

  “Not at all. Like I said, I was by myself that evening, because everyone had stepped out. Almost like he knew that I was alone, here came Mr. Fain. By that time I had come to dread his little visits. Anyway, he comes in and starts talking. After a few minutes he realizes that I’m the only one here. He starts making these comments about how lonely he is. He tells me that he’s never been with a woman. Starts crying, right there where you are standing.”

  I tried to envision a burly giant who burst into tears in a real estate office. I thought for some reason of Horace Champion, sobbing in my own office. At the same time, I knew Vivian must have been terrified. She went on.

  “I was really getting uneasy, when finally someone came in. I told him to excuse me, so that I could help them. He left, still sniffling.”

  “Is there any way that I could get in touch with Mr. Fain?”

  “Not that I know of. I’m pretty sure that he left no forwarding address.”

  “Well, please give me a call if you remember anything.” I gave her my card.

  “That we will.” Vivian took it and rewarded me with another glowing smile. Then she walked me to the door and opened it for me. “Tell me, just what do you think Mr. Fain did?”

  I looked down into her eyes, indulging myself for a moment. Those were very pretty eyes. “Maybe nothing. I need to ask him some questions about something he might have seen.”

  Like Georgia Champion’s feet sticking out of a bag.

  “Well, I’ve never met a private eye before. Are they all big, good-looking men?”

  I hoped my smile wasn’t too sheepish. “Just me and Philip Marlowe.”

  “Well, do keep me posted on the case. It’s all very interesting.” There was a hint of mischief in those lovely golden brown eyes.

  “I’ll do my best. Let me know if he shows up around here, okay?”

  “Now you’ve got me almost hoping that he comes back.”

  * * *

  As I pulled away from the curb, she was still standing at the door, with a slightly naughty smile.

  What cologne did I wear today? Sure is working.

  I thought again of Vivian Truss’ words. Tells me that he’s never been with a woman. Starts crying.

  I was left with the mental image of a man who was unstable. Could he have been in trouble in the past? I pulled out my cell phone as I drove back toward downtown, and hit a button on the speed dial.

  “Homicide.” The voice on the other end of the line was bored and brusque.

  “Is that your job or just your hobby?” I kidded my old partner. Detective Lester Broom was the biggest, meanest detective in Birmingham. He was also the man to go to if you needed information.

  “Roland. What’s shaking?”

  “Les, remember that five bucks you owe me?”

  “Do I ever. I’ll never play pool with you again. I never knew you were such a shark.”

  “Well, old buddy, maybe we can forget your huge debt. That is, if you can do me a small favor.”

  “Anything to keep you from breaking my legs.”

  I smiled at the image of me attempting that. Broom towered above me, and had the bulk to go with his size. His exact dimensions were subjects of considerable conjecture. I knew that Broom stood just an inch and a half below seven feet.

  “Let’s just say I’m letting you off easy. I need you to run a name through NCIC for me.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. Name?”

  “Samson Fain.”

  “Nice. Is that a stage name?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  There was the audible rata tat-tat of Broom’s keyboard, and after a minute there was a grunt from the big detective.

  “Good news and bad news.”

  “Give me both.”

  “The good news is, your boy does indeed have a criminal record.”

  “And the bad?”

  “It’s sealed. Apparently, he did his real screwing up as a juvenile—the stuff he got caught for, anyway. As you well know, Juvenile records aren’t available for perusal, even by dashing homicide detectives like myself.”

  “How about the names of his parents?”

  “Looks like the father, Robert Fain, was dead at the time of the last hearing. Both parents are listed on the first file, only the mom on the second. Mrs. Eileen Fain.”

  “Great. Well, thanks anyway, Les.”

  I turned my phone off, and shook my head. Strike two. Another dead end. So far, Samson Fain had proved that he knew one trick, and knew it well—how to disappear.

  Chapter 9

  I climbed the stairs to my office, and plopped down behind the desk. This one is a case for Hercule Poirot.

  I leaned back in my chair and thought for a moment. Sealed by the court. Then I leaned forward again and opened a desk drawer and took out a telephone book. I flipped through the pages until I reached the F section.

  I had never known a court order to quiet relatives. I found the number, still listed under Robert Fain, and dialed it. A young woman answered. “Fain residence.”

  “Hello. My name is Roland Longville. I’m an old school friend of Samson’s. Can you tell me how I could get in touch with him?”

  “Samson? Oh, my goodness. Hang on. I’m Sarah, Mrs. Fain’s nurse. I don’t really know how to get in touch with him.”

  “Could you ask Mrs. Fain for me, Sarah?”

  The voice became suddenly rigid and professional. “Mrs. Fain has advanced Alzheimer’s, sir.”

  “That’s terrible; I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I haven’t seen the family in years. Weren’t there a couple of aunts living in the area?” I stuck his tongue in my cheek.

  There was a pause. The woman on the other came to a decisio
n, and spoke again. “Yes, that’s right . . . what did you say your name was?”

  “Longville. Roland Longville.”

  “Well. Mr. Longville, Mrs. Fain does have a younger sister. I don’t know if you ever met her, her name is Anelda. She might know how you could get in touch with him, but I don’t really know if I should give out her telephone number.”

  “I understand completely. Feel free, then, to give her mine.”

  The nurse took down the number. “I can promise you that I’ll give it to her. She’s a very nice lady. I’m sure if she has any information about Samson, she’ll share it with you.”

  I was still sitting there a few minutes later, considering the dubious likelihood of getting help from a relative, when the phone rang.

  “Mr. Longville?” A woman asked in a voice that was both genteel and self-assured.

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Anelda Ames, answering your call. I’m the aunt of Samson Fain.”

  “Ms. Ames. How very nice to hear from you.”

  “Mr. Longville, I need to know one thing.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Just who are you, really?”

  “Why, Ms. Ames, what do you mean?”

  “What I mean, Mr. Longville, if that really is your name, is that you are no friend of Samson Fain’s.”

  “Begging your pardon, but how would you know that?”

  “Because Samson Fain doesn’t have any friends, and he never did.”

  “I’m afraid that you have me there, Ms. Ames. I’ll come clean. My name really is Roland Longville. But you’re right, I’ve never met Samson. I’m a private investigator.”

  There was a pause while she took this in. “And just what do you want to talk to me about?” There was caution in her voice, but something else, something that I had heard before. Samson Fain’s name had struck a chord in the woman on the other end of the line. I threw out a little information to see how she would react.

  “I’m looking into a matter for a family, Ms. Ames.”

  “Concerning?”

  “As you are probably aware, I can’t really divulge any details about a case—”

  “—Come now, Mr. Longville. I don’t really care who these people are. But can’t you at least tell me the nature of the matter you are looking into?”