Professor Topaz’s hand stilled, just once, to let Ricardo hover there for one final beat on the brink of his release. Their lips met, deceptively gentle, and then another sure stroke sent Ricardo’s spirit aloft. He hovered there, weightless and sparkling, for a glorious moment before he floated back to earth.
Pearly semen webbed Topaz’s fingers when he pulled his hand from Ricardo’s slacks. He snapped his fingers, which would have ended with ejaculate spattered on his cape, for most people. Professor Topaz, however, wasn’t most people. Instead, a translucent white butterfly launched from his fingertips. Ricardo watched it dip and flutter, find an air current, climb higher, then make its way around the side of the bus shelter and out of sight.
“The secret of making something fly convincingly,” Topaz said solemnly, “is to allow it to sink a bit, first.”
“Thanks.” It seemed inadequate, but hell, language itself seemed inadequate at that very moment. “I mean, you’re the master. I mean, not in a weird way. Just that—”
Voices intruded in the extended moment they’d been sharing: chattering, laughter. Topaz took a step back, and Ricardo’s hand slipped from his shoulder. Ricardo hadn’t realized he’d still been clinging to his idol. A pair of teenaged girls talking on cell phones stepped into the shelter, and then belatedly realized they’d done so with two older men, one of whom was wearing a velvet cape and the other with rhinestones on his collar. They looked the men up and down with open, slightly disdainful curiosity, then exited the shelter to lean against the outer wall, instead.
“Forgive me.” Topaz took another step back. “This was not the time, nor the place. Thank you…for humoring me.”
Ricardo scrambled to find something to say, but he suspected “But you’re everything I ever wanted!” would only leave him sounding like a psycho. “Wait,” he said—and would it be weird to ask the Professor Topaz out for coffee? Or that phone number? Topaz was such a living legend, it hardly seemed possible to imagine him doing something as mundane as lifting a coffee cup or sending a text. In any event, Topaz did not wait. He turned and strode across the street, quickly but calmly, in traffic gaps that appeared, and then closed behind him as if they’d been choreographed to obliterate his passing.
Once Ricardo made it across the street himself, Professor Topaz had vanished.
Chapter 3
THE CONTRACT
“You’re not nervous,” Dick asked John. “Are you?”
John glanced up at the studio gates. Nervous? He hadn’t even realized they’d arrived. They’d been winding through overgrown residential Los Feliz side-streets with blue recycling bins out in front of the tile-roofed cottages, and older cars parked in their cracked driveways. Hardly the neighborhood where one would expect soap operas and game shows to be produced. But the residential street took a sharp turn where the terrain grew steeply hilly, and there, before them, the studio’s gates loomed—and beyond a line of screen trees, a parking lot glittered with Mercedes and BMWs, and of course a good number of hybrids, now that conspicuous non-consumption was slightly more in vogue. Slightly.
“I haven’t been nervous in ages,” John said. Which would have been true, if he’d been referring solely to being onstage.
“That’s the attitude. You’re the old pro—they need you. They need a good variety of actors for these gigs—speaking of which, you ever watch Weighty Matters?”
“No.”
“A competitive weight loss show with a bunch of tubbies exercising in front of the camera and crying about how food is their only friend, and they never got enough love when they were kids. A lot of times the oldest contestant is the one who really steals the audience’s heart. No one ever thinks the old fart’s actually gonna win…but they test real high with focus groups.”
John only half listened. He’d been up past midnight guiltily exploring www.ricardothemagnificent.com. Poring over the publicity shots—that mouth. Those lips. The lips he’d kissed. Reading the bio. John had pegged him for thirty, but he was older than that. Watching the clip where Ricardo glided across the stage, head held high, almost cocky, but not quite. Watching the clip, pausing, resuming, lingering over the swell of his chest and the bulge in his trousers…then staring at the “contact Ricardo” button. And realizing he hadn’t the faintest idea what he might type that wouldn’t make himself sound utterly ridiculous.
“Earth to John.”
“Hm?”
“I said, what’s your threshold? We’re probably looking at six weeks of work, if they make you an offer. So how low can I go? Eighteen K?”
“I hadn’t been aware it would be a paying job. I thought it was a competition.”
“For the quarter-mil, sure. But none of the pros do it for free. I’ll start high, of course. Too bad you’re non-union. There’d be a payscale in place.”
“Whatever you think best.”
Dick pulled his Caddy up to the gate and gave the guard his name. The gate swung open, and he pulled into the lot among the Mercedes and BMWs and socially-responsible hybrids. “You don’t come off as desperate. That’s what I like about going into negotiations with you. You’re a total pro.”
Little did Dick know he’d just cornered some poor magician at a bus shelter and thrust a hand down the young man’s pants. If that wasn’t desperation, John didn’t know what was. Watching Ricardo work the stage had been distracting enough, but that crystalline moment in which he’d seen Ricardo’s True abilities had left John completely sideswiped.
When he and Casey were young, it seemed like they met other people like themselves all the time. But these days, there were fewer and fewer True magicians.
So few that John had managed to convince himself he’d never meet another.
“You do seem a little nervous,” Dick said, “not that I’d notice if I hadn’t known you forty-some odd years.”
Nervous? Of course he was nervous. What if he ran into Ricardo? Or…what if he didn’t? He was counting on another encounter to somehow force his own hand, since he couldn’t bear to fill out that online contact form. “Forty-seven.”
“But who’s counting? Look, I know you’re not an effervescent kind of guy, I get it, I do. But at least try to show a little life in there. And make sure you come across as agreeable.”
John narrowed his eyes.
His manager sized him up for a moment, and then plunged ahead. They hadn’t managed to stay together as long as they had by mincing words. “They’ll want someone they can work with—and if you do sign on that dotted line, they’re gonna paint you however they want whether you’re in on it or not. You might be like that old fatty who lasted ’til the finals on Weighty Matters—an aging hero. Or they might cast you as the villain. Or the washed-up has-been. And if you can deal with that…they’ll be a lot more likely to play ball.”
John imagined everyone had played several of these roles over the course of their lifetime. Which facet of someone’s personality shone most brightly simply depended on which way the spotlight was striking it. “Don’t worry, Dick. I need to do this, and I will do what it takes.”
Dick clapped John on the knee. “Attaboy. A total pro.”
They joined a couple of interns and producer Marlene Perez in one of the smaller conference rooms. It had a big, round table in the center, a half-empty water cooler on one end, and a whiteboard that still bore traces of old ideas on the other. Marlene was a dark, dour girl, several pounds too thin, with quick eyes that nothing escaped. Her Cartier watch glittered with diamonds, and her frown lines belonged on the brow of a woman at least ten years older. There was no question about whether she was prepared to make an offer to Professor Topaz; she wouldn’t have wasted everyone’s time by meeting with them in person if she wasn’t. She spread the contract before them and went through all the particulars with Dick—and ostensibly with John as well. John’s mind was elsewhere. He trusted Dick well enough to handle the money without any input from him. The only thing he wanted to know was, “Have you chosen the other
contestants yet?”
Marlene shuffled papers. “We have a list right…here. As far as we can tell, it’s no one you’ve performed with before. Though if you know anyone on it, you’ll need to disclose that ahead of time so we can work it into the storyline. Old friendships, old rivalries, that sort of thing.”
She slid the list to John. He scanned it. Fabian Swan, Jia Lee, Chip Challenge, Ken Barron. Familiar names. He read to the end of the list. No Ricardo the Magnificent. And though it appeared that the list was comprised of stage names, he looked through it again searching for a Richard or a Rick.
There wasn’t one.
“I worked the Orange County Festival on the same bill as Swan.”
“He said the same thing. But that you didn’t really know each other.”
“No. Only in passing.” He didn’t care about Fabian Swan. Only Ricardo the Magnificent. He felt as devastated as if he’d participated in the ridiculous show and been voted out of the damn mansion already by a bunch of fickle viewers. Because the opportunity, and the money, and the chance at becoming a household name—what did it matter?
If Ricardo wasn’t going to be there, what did it matter at all?
“We’re going to need to develop friction between some characters. How about Swan—would the two of you be able to work with me on that? Although maybe you’d be better as allies. He’s got the black demographic and you’ve got the over-60 crowd, so we’d try to keep both of you as long as possible. Of course, the younger contestants are actually the ones competing for the prize….”
A haze settled over the room, like a film that’s been left in the developer too long, and all that was mundane became more two-dimensional and desaturated to John’s eyes. The interns? Dead inside. Marlene? The same. Dick? There was a spark in Dick, but only a small spark. Across the room, the traces of some writing on the whiteboard glowed, and formed the words, “Sitcom - aliens create talking cat.” Really? That idea would have captured the hearts and minds of millions, had anyone dared turn the pitch into an actual show?
There was just no accounting for taste.
Or perhaps the viewing public was so sick of reality TV that any new sitcom would be a welcome respite.
John looked from Marlene’s dead eyes to Dick’s eager gaze, and while part of him felt preemptively sorry for what he was about to say, he didn’t think he had the strength to go any farther with the ridiculous reality charade. “Ms. Perez, I’m sorry to have wasted your time, but I’ve changed my mind. I think I’m just not cut out for reality television.”
“You’re a stage magician. You have an issue with trumping up a rivalry for the cameras?”
“It’s not that.” The reasoning behind it—the market research and “demographics” were all a bit much. But mostly it was disappointment. Because he’d been positive he would meet Ricardo at this mansion where the show would be shot. And he’d wanted it so badly that he’d convinced himself he was actually foreseeing a Truth.
Pathetic.
“We can go to twenty-eight thousand. Not a penny higher.”
Dick prodded John’s ankle with the side of his foot.
“This isn’t about money,” John said.
“Mr. Topaz, if you’re going to lecture me about ethics and dignity, please, save it for a camera. You weren’t born yesterday, and you’re fully aware that the assistant never actually gets sawed in half.”
John looked at Marlene again, harder now. If he looked deep—very, very deep—he saw it. So small it was almost invisible, but there nonetheless. The Truth had not been snuffed out of her, not entirely.
Whether the tide of John’s magic was speaking to that tiny drop of vitality inside her, or she just thought the look in his eyes was peculiar, she added, “And although we can’t go over twenty-eight, there is one more thing I can throw in to sweeten the deal.”
Ricardo. John almost blurted out his name. That’s what he wanted. But he kept up the appearance of being calm, and simply said, “Yes?”
“Your Aunt Rose. We know about her.”
The room was silent, save the shuffling of papers, the hum of the lights, and an intern shifting in his seat.
“What about her?” John said deliberately. His utter stillness was all a front, of course. His panic at the thought of whatever they might tell him next had caused his vision to go starkly black and white.
Marlene tapped her papers into a neat stack, and then said, “I’m sure it was necessary back in the forties to have her refer to you as her nephew.”
Dick stood up so quickly his chair nearly overbalanced, “If you think we’re gonna just sit back and take it if you drag Rose’s name through the mud—”
“Calm down, Mr. Golding, and let me finish. I’m sure no one would bat an eyelash these days to find out Professor Topaz was not actually the nephew of magic legends Glenn Forrest and Rose. Illegitimacy is practically chic—and the snapshot of five-year-old Johnny as the ring-bearer at their wedding is priceless. We’d be doing you a favor by leaking that—talk about a human interest angle. No, what I was about to say was that we know Rose’s greatest wish was to have a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.”
“They were nominated twice,” Dick said. “In 1964 and 1969. Lost both times.”
“And Glenn Forrest has been dead nearly six years now….”
Dick finished the thought. “Long enough for a posthumous nomination for their act.”
Shades of gray were coming back into John’s field of vision, and then, touches of color. If they’d known all those things about his late mother, gone these past forty years, they must have done some serious digging. Did they know that when she’d taken a tumble down the basement stairs, she’d been doing the laundry in heels? How could they? Glenn had known that particular detail would scent the tabloid waters like chum—certain that no one would understand that it wasn’t the heels to blame, but some freak (and perhaps temporary) peculiarity of the stairway itself: a loose nail, a pebble, a splinter—and he’d swapped the sequined pumps out for sensible flats by the time the paramedics arrived.
“You can make that nomination happen?” Dick said.
“We’re prepping the paperwork as we speak. The Chamber will only award one posthumous star every year—and this year I’ve heard the competition’s not too fierce. It’d be a good year to give it a shot.”
John watched Marlene’s eyes, searching for some kind of indication of whether this was just about the star, or if there was something else she knew. Rose Topasna from Mangilao Village had never spoken to her only child of True things in anything louder than a whisper. There was no way anyone could have dredged that up on the Internet.
At least, he hoped not.
Chapter 4
THE CALLBACK
The first room in which Ricardo had bided his time early that morning held a dozen hopeful magicians, including himself. There were only six magicians in the next room. Half the number they’d started with.
The current room held three.
If they halved that number again, things might get messy. Then again, they might not. They were all magicians, after all.
“Aren’t we going to break for lunch?” Francis West whispered. Francis had introduced himself as “Foxy,” presumably due to his red hair. Everyone proceeded to call him Francis. He was convinced that while they thought they were alone between the rounds of questioning, they were actually being taped. Maybe they were, and maybe they weren’t. But if they were, whispering certainly wouldn’t do them any good. “It’s nearly two. My blood sugar’s tanking.”
Kevin Kazan, a white street magician whose “street” was almost certainly exaggerated, allowed a pointed look to settle on Francis’ soft midsection. Kevin’s abs rippled beneath his clingy black T-shirt—although Ricardo’s notice of them was purely professional. Ricardo could have punished his own abs into that state of excessiveness with fewer reps and heavier weights, but he didn’t work out just for appearances’ sake. His body was honed for balance.
Networking with middle schoolers would make it far more difficult to entertain the lie that his next big break was just around the corner. And he doubted they tipped nearly as well as drunk bridesmaids. Worse than that, what if he figured out a way to approach Professor Topaz and they ended up talking shop? Because eventually, the subject would come up. How could he admit to his hero that he’d been doing kids’ birthday parties without dying of embarrassment?
The bachelorette parties were bad enough.
Ricardo knew his career was on the line. Francis West appeared to be thinking no farther than his next meal. He leaned toward Ricardo and whispered, “Don’t you think we should break for lunch?”
“Have some water.” Ricardo gestured toward the water cooler. “It’ll take your mind off it.”
“But then I’ll need to use the restroom.” Francis squirmed in his seat, which Ricardo ignored. He’d trained himself to hold it for a few hours. One couldn’t very well have all the bridesmaids wait while he ducked out to tinkle.
Kevin Kazan steepled his fingers and declared, “You got too much sugar in your diet if you can’t skip a meal without feeling weak.”
“Or, Francis countered, “is there too much diet in my sugar?”
While a better comeback didn’t spring to mind for Ricardo, he still cringed. Not visibly, of course. Years of training allowed him to bury his emotions under a polished facade.
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