Table of Contents
Coffee with Count Presto
Michael Penkas
Killing Curses, a Caught-Heart Quest
Krista Hoeppner Leahy
Notes from a Pleasant Land Where Broken Hearts Are Like Broken Hands
Akashiyaki (Octopus dumplings, serves two)
Feeding Strays
Nicole Kimberling
Springtime for the Roofer
Vanish Girl
Andrea M. Pawley
Neighbors
Kamila Z. Miller
The Book of Judgment
Helen Marshall
About these Authors
Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet
January 2013 · Issue 28
Made by: Gavin J. Grant, Kelly Link, Jedediah Berry, and Michael J. DeLuca.
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Coffee with Count Presto
Michael Penkas
The invitation read, “One Man Audience for a One Man Show. You are cordially invited to witness the Amazing Eric, formerly Count Presto.” The address to the coffee house was beneath it, followed by a day and time. It was a black business card stenciled in silver ink. I’d found it in my mailbox three days ago.
Another Saturday night and I had nothing better to do than watch a free magic show in a coffee shop. It beat television, I guess.
There was nothing at the shop to indicate that there would be a performance: no tables pushed aside for an impromptu stage, no hand-written flyers, no photocopied picture of the Amazing Eric done in washed-out colors taped to the glass door. No one working there knew about the show either. It should have bothered me. Instead, I nursed a cup of coffee and watched the birds outside quarrel over half a dropped scone. No show, but at least it got me out of my apartment.
At ten past eight, a man in a faded black suit stumbled into the shop, eyes darting in every direction, but never focusing anywhere. His hair stood partially on end and he probably hadn’t shaved in a week. I figured he was a drug addict, probably recovering. Coffee shops were havens for recovering addicts of all stripes. The coffee kept them awake and occupied. The shop made for a cleaner substitute to the bars and crack houses. Sometimes I talked with them. I frequented a lot of coffee houses on this side of the city and I’ve been told that I have a welcoming face.
Sure enough . . .
The ragged man in the suit focused on me out of everyone in the shop and, coffee in hand, moved quickly towards me. He sat down without invitation or introduction. Then he just went into it. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s just gone from bad to worse and now I . . .” He went on for a couple minutes that way, pausing occasionally to take sips from his coffee cup, taking my silence as an invitation to continue. I caught maybe a tenth of what he was saying. His house, wife, car, girlfriend, bank account, daughter and friends had all been taken from him. His job was over. He seemed to think that I was his only hope.
Finally, I broke into his monologue to ask, “The Amazing Eric?”
It wasn’t just his voice, but some sort of internal noise seemed to go silent in the man. He blinked rapidly for a few seconds, shook his head, and asked, “You don’t . . . know who I am?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I don’t really get out much.”
I guess he thought that was funny, not being recognized, because his face seemed to lift into a smile verging on laughter. “It’s all right,” he whispered.
“You are the Amazing Eric?” I asked again.
He nodded. “Formerly the Great Count Presto. Formerly Eric Preston. Formerly Erik Prestovich. Peerless Prestidigitator. My card.” He extended a fist to within a couple inches of my face, so that I could see down his coffee-stained sleeve to the sweaty arm within it. Opening his middle and forefinger from the fist, I saw that there was a white business card between them, pulled from seemingly nowhere.
Taking the card, I read it to myself. The Amazing Eric, Formerly Count Presto. Magic for All Occasions. Available by Appointment. It gave his telephone number.
“The number’s no longer any good,” he mentioned. “They took my phone along with everything else. Have you ever heard of the Brotherhood of Magicians?”
I shook my head and, again, he looked sad for a moment before continuing.
“It’s the organization that we all join, a professional organization for stage magicians.”
“Like a union?”
He gave a quick laugh. “Something like that. Dues and meetings and monthly newsletters mostly.”
“And they . . . what . . . kicked you out?”
“More than that. You ever ask a magician how he did one of his tricks?”
I was about to answer yes, but then I thought about it. “I . . . I’m not really sure that
I’ve ever spoken with a magician before. I’m sure I’ve seen one perform, but I can’t quite recall . . .”
This seemed to upset Eric for a moment, but he quickly shrugged it off. “Doesn’t matter. If you had, the magician would have likely told you that it was secret. That, when we learn our art, we’re sworn to secrecy, sharing only with other magicians.”
I nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard that.”
“No one ever wonders what happens if a magician tells.” He finished off his coffee, then stared at the empty cup. “No one is supposed to wonder. No one is supposed to ask.”
“You told?”
He nodded. “I drink once in a while, say things I shouldn’t to people that aren’t supposed to know. It gets back to the Brotherhood and I’m out. Now my whole life’s doing a disappearing act.” He stared at me intently. “I’ve seen them do it to others.” Then he was quiet.
I tried staring out the window again. The birds were still pecking away at the half-scone, knocking each other aside to get at it. It’s funny to watch animals and how they behave. It’s what we’d look like if we didn’t care what others thought of us.
“They’re doves,” Eric said. I saw his pale reflection against the window, staring out at the birds with me. “White doves. I can pull them out of a hat, from inside my coat, out my sleeves. I was working on a trick where I unzipped my fly on stage and one peeked its head out. That would have been funny.
“The doves mean they’re close. I was given an . . . I was told to meet someone here. An old friend. A magician. But it looks like I was set up.”
I turned away from the window. “I was given an invitation too. One to meet with you.” I reached for the black card in my pocket, but he waved a hand to stop me.
“I’m sure you were. They want an audience. Not a big audience, but they can’t work the magic without one.” He smiled weakly. “See, I just gave away another secret.”
“Can I help?” Really, I didn’t want to help, but it seemed to be the thing I should say.
The magician shook his head. “Just keep me company until they come.” He looked from side to side, smiling like a kid itching to get into trouble. “Hey,” he reached into his vest pocket, “Want to see a trick?”
I was scared. I wanted to see. “Sure.”
He pulled out a small white pad of paper and an ink-pen. “Here. Write down your favorite trick on the pad. Don’t let me see it. When you’ve written it down, tear off the sheet and then fold it in half four times.”
I thought about the question for a few seconds. My favorite trick. I couldn’t remember ever seeing a magician perform, but I had an uncle. He knew a few tricks. I wrote down the first one I could recall, tore off the sheet, then folded it once, twice, three times and, with a little effort, a fourth time. The pen had sticky, difficult ink and I noticed that the words made an impression on the sheet below the one I wrote on. I could see how the trick worked and, yes, I was a little disappointed.
While I was writing, Eric was cleaning out his coffee cup with a napkin. He went through three napkins, apparently making certain that the inside of the cup was clean and bone-dry. I didn’t notice him do it, but he had also rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. “Ready?”
I nodded.
“All right. Put the folded piece of paper in the cup.” I dropped it in. White paper on the bottom of a white cup, it almost seemed to disappear. I nearly lost sight of the paper as he extended a hand towards me. “The pad and pen?”
I handed both over, paying special attention to the hand holding the pad of paper. He glanced at it briefly, his fingers brushing lightly over the indentations made by my words. He knew what I wrote. I knew how the trick worked, but I humored him anyway.
Putting away the paper and pen, he pulled a lighter from the same vest pocket. It flickered to life, touched the paper and a geyser of flame shot up from it, drawing attention from people at other tables. I thought that we might be in trouble for starting a fire in the coffee shop, but nobody looked angry. Just curious.
The attention was rather pleasant. I wasn’t accustomed to people noticing me, so I took a few seconds to drink it in. I already knew the trick and how it was done.
When I looked back at the magician, he was staring into his coffee cup. There was a layer of black ash on the bottom of it. “There’s your answer,” he said. “How will I read it now?”
I smiled. It was a friendly smile. I wasn’t going to let on that I knew the trick because, really, this guy was having a bad enough day.
He rested his left arm on the table, palm-side up, then dipped his right hand into the coffee cup, staining his fingers with the soot. Holding up his hand, he looked like a man about to be fingerprinted. “There’s your answer,” he said again.
Then he rubbed his black fingers along the underside of his left arm, leaving a dark patch. Inside the patch, black letters became visible. Pulling his hand away, the words DISAPPEARING COIN were there.
“How?” I asked before being able to stop myself.
His answer was a black finger raised to his lips, smudging his nose.
Wiping his hand on another napkin, he reached once again into his vest pocket and pulled out a small black wooden box, no bigger than his palm. His voice was lower now, more serious. “This box was given to me by my first teacher. You . . . you wouldn’t have heard of him, but he was a great magician. Once upon a time.” He opened the box with a faint click and the inside was polished black, top and bottom. The middle and forefinger on his left hand flicked up, revealing a quarter that wasn’t there before. His sleeves were still rolled up, so I had no idea where it came from. “The simplest tricks are often the hardest ones to figure out. Most of us can figure out how to make the Statue of Liberty disappear. But a coin in a hand not six inches away from your face?” He dropped the coin into the box, then snapped it closed. “You think you know how this trick is done?”
I honestly didn’t. I seemed to recall my uncle telling me once, but I couldn’t remember any longer, except that I’d been disappointed to learn the secret. The mystery was more interesting.
He turned the box over, then tapped it. “There’s no trap door on the bottom. And it’s still in there.” He shook the box and I could hear the coin rattling inside. He flipped the box over again and then again, fingers tracing over every inch of it. “But when I open it . . .”
A click and the box was opened once again to reveal nothing but polished black surfaces. The coin was gone.
I stared into it for a moment, trying to recall how the trick was done. My uncle had shown this to me, years ago, maybe with a box identical to this one.
Eric smiled, no doubt flattered by my confusion. “Well, that’s something to think about.” He clicked the box shut and began to place it back in his pocket when he stopped and considered me.
Then he set the box onto the table and slid it over. “A gift . . . for being such a wonderful audience. I won’t be needing it any longer.”
I placed a hand on top of the box, not knowing what to say. The magician’s eyes seemed to grow distant and suddenly very old. Truth to tell, in a shabby suit and unshaven, he could have been twenty-five as easily as fifty.
The door to the coffee shop opened and four people in black suits entered, three men and a woman. The suits were clean and all four looked quite elegant, ready for a night on the town. They spotted us immediately and made their way over. Eric merely nodded, resigned to his fate. “This should be quite a show,” he said to no one in particular.
Of the four people who approached, one was black and three were white. One was bald. Two looked to be in their late fifties. One was mid-thirties. One couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. One must have been nearly seven feet tall. One was maybe an inch over four feet. One smiled with a mouth full of silver teeth. One wore mirrored sunglasses even though the sun had g
one down over an hour ago. One of them held a package wrapped in red cloth. One wore a single wedding band and another wore rings on every finger. One of them walked with a limp.
One of them spoke. “Hello, Eric. It’s time to go.”
Eric turned to me and nodded with a wink. Then he stood up, still facing me. The package turned out to be simply an extremely large red cloth, folded over on itself again and again. It was unfolded and then draped over Eric. Looking down, I could see that the cloth pooled up on the floor, completely covering him.
“What are you going to do?” I asked. I realized that the entire coffee shop was watching this scene.
“Don’t worry,” the one with the silver teeth told me. “We swear an oath to never bring harm with any of the tricks we perform.” And then each of them drew out a silver dagger from their vest pockets. “Watch. Believe in magic.”
Turning to Eric, one of them asked, “Any last words?”
“Remember me.”
“We will,” one of them answered; but I knew that Eric was speaking to me.
Then all four of them ran the silver daggers into the red cloth. I should have stood up, but I just couldn’t believe what I had seen. No one seemed to believe it. On the other side of the coffee shop, two uniformed police officers weren’t moving either. As they ran the daggers through, the four people in suits stepped towards Eric, embracing him.
He didn’t make a sound, didn’t scream or even grunt. He seemed to sag within the cloth, however, to bend, to fold over. Each of the four kept an arm on Eric as they sheathed their blades and then, without flourish, let him go.
The cloth folded and fell flat to the floor. Whoever had been beneath it was gone. Two of the magicians picked up the cloth, revealing nothing underneath. They stretched it out for all to see. No blood. No cuts from the four blades that we all saw go in. Everyone in the coffee shop began to applaud as the red cloth was re-folded. Everyone but me.
Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, 28 Page 1
