by James Swain
Peter appraised his work. It was a decent likeness, only something was missing. He added a scowl to the man’s face. That did the trick. He’d captured the thing about the man that was so unnerving. He could watch innocent people die without caring.
They’d reached the 72nd Street exit on the east side of the park. Herbie got onto Fifth Avenue, and headed south to 62nd Street, where he hung a left. They pulled up in front of a nondescript brownstone on a street of quiet elegance.
“So what are you drawing?” his driver asked.
Peter passed the sketch through the partition. Limo drivers saw hundreds of faces every single day. Maybe Herbie could help.
“Ever see him before?” Peter asked.
Herbie had a look. He shook his head, and passed the pad back.
“If I gave you copy of this sketch tomorrow, could you e-mail it to other drivers you know, and tell them to be on the lookout for this guy?”
“Sure,” Herbie said.
“Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Peter climbed out of the limo. The driver’s window came down, and Herbie stuck his head out. “If you don’t mind my asking, who is that guy, anyway?”
The pad was clutched in Peter’s hand, the face staring up at him. The harsh streetlight accentuated the man’s utter callousness, and Peter could not help but shudder.
“He’s the Devil, Herbie, and we need to find him.”
“Got it, boss. See you in the A.M.”
Peter climbed the steps to his brownstone. The downstairs lights were burning brightly. Liza had stayed up. A warm drink was waiting, and something good to eat. She was wonderful that way, and made him happy in ways that no one had ever managed to before.
He hurried inside.
2
New York’s meat-packing district was not where people went to see live theater. Located on the West Side, the district’s once gritty meat-packing plants were now occupied by nice restaurants, late-night clubs, and fashion boutiques. The neighborhood had found new life, and a soul all its own.
Peter had chosen to stage his full-evening magic show in the district for this very reason. By avoiding bustling Times Square, he did not have to compete with the musicals, revivals, and serious dramas that fueled New York’s Theater District. He was the new kid on the block, and his fans ate it up. Each night, they flocked to his shows, desperate to find out what this young miracle-maker would do next in the abandoned meat-packing plant that was his stage.
Peter stood inside his dressing room. It took longer to get ready for a magic show than it did to perform one. He was nearly done with his preparations, and he adjusted the elastic pull that ran up the right sleeve of his jacket. The pull was one of his favorite props, and it let him make small objects disappear in the blink of an eye.
He stood in front of the mirror and tested the pull. Picking up a playing card, he secretly attached the card to the pull using a small clip. By extending his arms, he made the card race up his sleeve. To the mirror, it looked like real magic.
“Hey, Peter, can you talk?”
It was Liza, speaking through the inner-canal earpiece that he wore during his show. Along with being the love of his life, Liza was his assistant, the best he’d ever had.
“As well as the next guy,” he said into the tiny microphone sewn into his shirt collar.
“Very funny. Everyone’s in their seats. It’s a good crowd.”
“Sold out?”
“Yup. The last tickets got bought right before the doors opened.”
“That’s great. Is Snoop there with you?”
“He’s standing next to me. Ready to go over the details?”
“Let ’er rip.”
A magician’s assistant wore many hats. Liza and Snoop worked as ushers, and chatted with the patrons as they were led to their seats. Any valuable information they gleaned was passed to Peter before the show began. Magicians called this preshow work. It allowed them to know intimate details about the audience before ever stepping foot on stage.
“Here we go,” Liza began. “Row A, seats five and six are an older couple from Battle Creek, Michigan, named Wayne and Marilyn Barcomb. Their son, Michael, is about to graduate from NYU Medical School. Michael’s sitting in seat seven. He was talking on his cell phone as they got seated. I think there’s a young lady in the wings.”
“Engaged?” Peter asked.
“It sounds that way. She’s going to meet the parents on Sunday.”
“Did you get her name?”
“Suzanne.”
“Another med student?”
“Yes—how did you know?”
“Just a guess. Great job.”
“Thanks, Peter.”
Snoop went next. Before joining the show, Snoop had been a computer hacker, and had gotten his nickname because he enjoyed sticking his nose into other people’s business.
“You’re going to love this,” Snoop said. “Row F, seats eight through twelve are five ladies who could be stand-ins for Sex and the City, but actually work in the media department of the J. Walter Thompson advertising agency here in New York. One of them is celebrating a birthday, but I couldn’t find out which one.”
“The birthday girl’s sitting in seat number 10,” Peter told him.
“Cut it out.”
“I’m serious. I’ll bet you lunch.”
“No thanks. How do you know she’s in seat number 10?”
“Simple deduction. Five ladies are out on the town, and one is having a birthday. The birthday girl will sit in the middle so none of her friends will feel left out.”
“Wow. I’m impressed,” Snoop said.
“Merci. Keep going.”
Snoop recited the rest of the things he’d overheard while taking patrons to their seats. One lady had a poodle who’d eaten a box of chocolates, and nearly died. Another woman was worried that a passport for a trip to Paris might not come through in time. And one poor man was a recent victim of identity theft, and had been forced to cut up his credit cards. It was just enough information for Peter to open up the door to a person’s psyche, and plumb their thoughts.
“Want to add anything, Zack?” Peter asked.
Zack handled ticket sales and worked the door. He was a muscle head, and cut an imposing figure. Zack had once handled security for a heavy metal band, and had a sixth sense when it came to spotting trouble. “Sure do. A strange guy with a British accent approached me in the lobby, and asked if you still accepted challenges during the show. He had this way about him that bothered me. When I asked him what he had in mind, he told me to piss off.”
“Was he drunk?” Peter asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Stoned?”
“His breath was clean.”
“Off in the head?”
“No, he acted pretty normal.”
“Think he’s a troublemaker?”
“He sure came across that way. Want me to give him a refund, and ask him to leave?”
Everyone in show business had to deal with hecklers. Throwing the guy out on his ass was an option, only there was always the chance he’d file a lawsuit, and cause bigger headaches.
“Leave him alone,” Peter said.
“You sure?” Zack replied.
“Positive. Tell me what he looks like, so I can be on the lookout.”
“He’s in his mid-thirties, about six-foot tall, real athletic-looking, with a snarl on his face like a junkyard dog,” Zack said. “He’s got a bad vibe.”
Lying on his dressing room table was the sketch Peter had drawn after last night’s séance. He picked up the pad and stared at the man he’d nicknamed the Grim Reaper.
“Is he dressed in black?”
“Yeah. He looks like a funeral director. How did you know?”
Because I saw him last night talking to the dead. He continued to stare at the pad. What were the chances of the same evil man buying a ticket to his show? About one in a million. He tossed the sketch onto the table.
>
“Where’s he sitting?”
“Last row, on the aisle,” Zack said.
“Keep an eye on him. Any sign of trouble, throw him out.”
“You still didn’t tell me how you knew what he was wearing.”
“I guessed.”
“You’re going to have to tell me how you do that someday.”
A backstage buzzer went off. There were five minutes left before the curtain went up. They had a show to do, and Peter put the strange man out of his mind.
“Good job, everyone,” he said. “Now, let’s go make some magic.”
3
For an audience attending Peter’s magic show, it was about the experience.
Entering through blackened front doors, patrons stood in an unheated lobby listening to a haunting piano composition by avant-garde composer Philip Glass. No food or drink was sold, although eco-friendly programs were available, provided a ten-dollar donation was made to a homeless shelter which Peter supported.
Fifteen minutes before the curtain rose, ushers clad in black led ticket-holders down a long, claustrophobic hallway that had not been painted since the days a sausage-processing plant had occupied the building. The stains on the walls were dark and menacing.
The hallway led to a cozy six-hundred-seat theater designed by the magician himself. The stage had no curtains or visible props, just a handful of shadows produced by muted lighting. The seating was tiered, the chairs plush and comfortable. From the ceiling hung silk screen posters of famous magicians past. Houdini, The Amazing Dunninger, Thurston, Blackstone, and Carter the Great all gazed down.
Once in their seats, patrons were handed a sheet which outlined the house rules. Cell phones and cameras were forbidden, as was any electronic recording. During the show, Peter would invite members of the audience to request tricks from his repertoire which were not on the bill. Whenever possible, he would accommodate them.
The format was unique. Peter wanted the audience to be a part of the performance. To accomplish this, he took chances, and could not always predict how each show would come out. It was risky, yet he’d discovered it was why people came to this unlikely area of the city to see him work. They wanted to be part of something unique, and he was not about to disappoint them.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Anything’s Possible,” Liza’s voice boomed over the PA. “Before we begin tonight’s performance, please turn off your cell phones. Remember, no electronic recording of any kind is permitted. Thank you, and enjoy the show.”
The house lights flickered before going dark. The theater grew hushed. A flash of light hit center stage, followed by a curling puff of smoke. Peter stepped through the cloud wearing a perfectly tailored black Italian suit, his black hair worn short and slicked straight back.
“Good evening, and welcome to my show,” he said.
The applause was generous. He was becoming the face of magic to a generation that had grown up social networking on computers, his tricks endlessly discussed on forums, Web sites, and in chat rooms. For many, the scrutiny would have been unbearable; for him, it was simply another opportunity to showcase his art. He stepped to the foot of the stage.
“I was bitten by the magic bug as a boy. I bought my first tricks at the age of eight, and practiced until I could do them right. It took a long time. While I was practicing those tricks, I imagined all the things I would do if magic really was possible. This became the focus of my life: I wanted to turn the things I’d imagined into reality. I suppose you could say that I became a magician well before I was able to perform a single trick. Being a magician started in my imagination, and has never stopped. Please enjoy the show.”
He stepped back. A collective gasp filled the theater. The empty stage had been transformed into an enchanted sanctum filled with beautifully decorated props and apparatus. Like the young magician, they’d simply appeared out of thin air.
* * *
For the next hour, Peter did everything a wizard could possibly do. Objects appeared, disappeared, were burned and made whole, elongated, autographed, and vanished, without any visible clue to where they’d gone. A long darning needle was thrust through the magician’s arm, yet produced no blood or visible wound. Eggs became birds; cats turned into barking dogs; the lovely Liza was transformed into a ghost, her essence flying across the stage where it entered into a bottle like a genie. Before the audience’s disbelieving eyes, the bottle grew to giant size, with a giggling Liza curled up inside. A pistol was shown to contain real bullets. It was fired at the young magician, who caught the bullet between his teeth, and spit it on a plate. A member of the audience was asked to write the name of any playing card on a piece of paper. The paper was burned, and the ashes rubbed on the magician’s forearm, causing the name of the card to mysteriously appear. A borrowed dollar bill was given a vigorous shake. More bills appeared, the money floating into lucky hands in the audience.
To close the first half, Peter clapped his hands three times in quick succession, and a puff of smoke enveloped him. When it had cleared, he’d disappeared along with every prop on stage.
The audience cheered. It had been a breathtaking joyride of deception, with each trick building purposefully to the next. Now, it was time for everyone to catch their breath.
The intermission was short. Few people left their seats, content to talk among themselves, and compare notes about what they saw, and didn’t see, to try and make sense of it all.
The second act soon followed. For many, this was what they’d come for, the test of wills and skills that Peter presented to his audiences each night. It started innocently enough, with the young magician standing downstage.
“You just saw my favorite magic,” he began. “Now, it’s your turn. If you have a favorite trick, or something you’ve heard I’ve done, raise your hand, and I’ll try to accommodate you.”
Down in the first row, the five ladies from J. Walter Thompson smiled up at him. He leaned toward the lady celebrating her birthday with his eyebrow upraised. The psychological reaction was impossible to resist, and she raised her hand.
“Your name, please,” Peter said.
“Katherine,” the birthday lady replied.
“Today you’re celebrating your birthday, aren’t you, Katherine?”
“Why yes, I am.”
“And this is your twenty-ninth birthday, correct?”
Katherine was several years older than twenty-nine, and grinned.
“What trick would you like me to do, Katherine?”
“Read my future,” she replied.
“Certainly.”
Reading the future was Peter’s most requested trick. People who believed their future could be predicted were perfect subjects, and through body language and facial expressions, often communicated their innermost feelings and desires to him. He began slowly. “You are currently in the middle of a relationship, but are fearful it won’t work out. Give it time, and you’ll know exactly what course to take. Your job at the advertising agency is going well; there may be a promotion in the works. You own a dog which you adore, and you wish you could spend more time with him. I see many more pets in your future.”
“Oh, my God! You’re so right!” Katherine exclaimed.
He had batted a thousand with Katherine. It hadn’t hurt that her pants were covered in dog hair. Before he could field another request, a voice with a thick British accent rang out.
“Hey! I have a request. Pick me!”
The voice came from the last row. A patron rose from his seat, and the spotlight quickly found him. Peter could not believe his eyes. It was the Grim Reaper, in the flesh.
“Call 911,” he whispered into the mike in his collar.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Liza whispered into his earpiece.
“Just do it.”
“What should I say?”
“Tell them we have a dangerous person here.” To the man he said, “Your name, please?”
“If you were psychic,
you’d know that,” the man shouted back.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Whoever he was, he was about to ruin the show.
“I’m looking through the ticket log right now,” Liza said. “Here we go. The ticket was picked up at will-call. The name used was Wolfe. No first name.”
How appropriate, Peter thought. The Grim Reaper is named Wolfe. He brought his hand to his forehead, and pretended to concentrate.
“Your name is Wolfe,” he announced.
The man in the last row blinked. Score one for the good guys, Peter thought.
“Very good,” his heckler said.
“Thank you. I rather like it myself. Now, what is your request?”
“I have an object in my pocket wrapped in tissue paper. Tell me what it is.”
“Of course. Please come up on the stage.”
“No. Tell me what it is first.”
Zack appeared in the back of the theater, ready to hustle Wolfe out the door. Peter had something else in mind. If he could get Wolfe on the stage and stall, the police could come and arrest him.
“Sir, for all I know, you could have a dozen objects in your pocket, and want to trick me,” Peter told him. “If you’d like me to tell you what a particular object is, come onto the stage, and I’d be happy to oblige you.”
“You win.”
Wolfe hustled down the aisle, and climbed the stairs to the stage. He was built like a rugby player, and had one scar on his left cheek, another beneath the hairline on his forehead. The horrific image of dead people in Times Square flashed through Peter’s mind. It was him.
“Please take the object from your pocket so we all can see,” Peter said.
Wolfe removed the mystery object from his jacket pocket. It was wrapped in white tissue, and not very large.
“Tell me what it is,” Wolfe said.
The theater had grown deathly still. Peter gazed at the object. He’d been plumbing people’s thoughts since childhood, and didn’t think Wolfe would pose any problems.
