“Hm-m-m—I think I see what you mean.”
“I believe,” Waldo said seriously, “that he regards our manipulations with gadgets as rather childish.”
“I suppose. Tell me, what do you intend to do with yourself?”
“Me? I don’t know, exactly. But I can tell you this: I’m going to have fun. I’m going to have lots of fun. I’m just beginning to find out how much fun it is to be a man!”
His dresser tackled the other slipper. “To tell you just why I took up dancing would be a long story,” he continued.
“I want details.”
“Hospital calling,” someone in the dressing room said.
“Tell ’em I’ll be right there, fast. Suppose you come in tomorrow afternoon?” he added to the woman reporter. “Can you?”
“Right.”
A man was shouldering his way through the little knot around him. Waldo caught his eye. “Hello, Stanley. Glad to see you.”
“Hello, Waldo.” Gleason pulled some papers out from under his cape and dropped them in the dancer’s lap. “Brought these over myself as I wanted to see your act again.”
“Like it?”
“Swell!”
Waldo grinned and picked up the papers. “Where is the dotted line?”
“Better read them first,” Gleason cautioned him.
“Oh shucks, no. If it suits you, it suits me. Can I borrow your stylus?”
A worried little man worked his way up to them. “About that recording, Waldo—”
“We’ve discussed that,” Waldo said flatly. “I only perform before audiences.”
“We’ve combined it with the Warm Springs benefit.”
“That’s different. O.K.”
“While you’re about it, take a look at this layout.” It was a reduction, for a twenty-four sheet:
THE GREAT WALDO
AND HIS TROUPE
with the opening date and theater left blank, but with a picture of Waldo, as Harlequin, poised high in the air.
“Fine, Sam, fine!” Waldo nodded happily.
“Hospital calling again!”
“I’m ready now,” Waldo answered, and stood up. His dresser draped his street cape over his lean shoulders. Waldo whistled sharply. “Here, Baldur! Come along.” At the door he stopped an instant, and waved. “Good night, fellows!”
“Good night, Waldo.”
They were all such grand guys.
Magic, Inc.
“Whose spells are you using, buddy?”
That was the first thing this bird said after coming into my place of business. He had hung around maybe twenty minutes, until I was alone, looking at samples of waterproof pigment, fiddling with plumbing catalogues, and monkeying with the hardware display.
I didn’t like his manner. I don’t mind a legitimate business inquiry from a customer, but I resent gratuitous snooping.
“Various of the local licensed practitioners of thaumaturgy,” I told him in a tone that was chilly but polite. “Why do you ask?”
“You didn’t answer my question,” he pointed out. “Come on—speak up. I ain’t got all day.”
I restrained myself. I require my clerks to be polite, and, while I was pretty sure this chap would never be a customer, I didn’t want to break my own rules. “If you are thinking of buying anything,” I said, “I will be happy to tell you what magic, if any, is used in producing it, and who the magician is.”
“Now you’re not being cooperative,” he complained. “We like for people to be cooperative. You never can tell what bad luck you may run into not cooperating.”
“Who d’you mean by ‘we,’ ” I snapped, dropping all pretense of politeness, “and what do you mean by ‘bad luck’?”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said with a nasty grin, and settled himself on the edge of the counter so that he breathed into my face. He was short and swarthy—Sicilian, I judged—and dressed in a suit that was over-tailored. His clothes and haberdashery matched perfectly in a color scheme that I didn’t like. “I’ll tell you what I mean by ‘we’; I’m a field representative for an organization that protects people from bad luck—if they’re smart, and cooperative. That’s why I asked you whose charms you’re usin’. Some of the magicians around here aren’t cooperative; it spoils their luck, and that bad luck follows their products.”
“Go on,” I said. I wanted him to commit himself as far as he would.
“I knew you were smart,” he answered. “F’r instance—how would you like for a salamander to get loose in your shop, setting fire to your goods and maybe scaring your customers? Or you sell the materials to build a house, and it turns out there’s a poltergeist living in it, breaking the dishes and souring the milk and kicking the furniture around. That’s what can come of dealing with the wrong magicians. A little of that and your business is ruined. We wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?” He favored me with another leer.
I said nothing, he went on, “Now, we maintain a staff of the finest demonologists in the business, expert magicians themselves, who can report on how a magician conducts himself in the Half World, and whether or not he’s likely to bring his clients bad luck. Then we advise our clients whom to deal with, and keep them from having bad luck. See?”
I saw all right. I wasn’t born yesterday. The magicians I dealt with were local men that I had known for years, men with established reputations both here and in the Half World. They didn’t do anything to stir up the elementals against them, and they did not have bad luck.
What this slimy item meant was that I should deal only with the magicians they selected at whatever fees they chose to set, and they would take a cut on the fees and also on the profits of my business. If I didn’t choose to “cooperate,” I’d be persecuted by elementals they had an arrangement with—renegades, probably, with human vices—my stock in trade spoiled and my customers frightened away. If I still held out, I could expect some really dangerous black magic that would injure or kill me. All this under the pretense of selling me protection from men I knew and liked. A neat racket!
I had heard of something of the sort back East, but had not expected it in a city as small as ours.
He sat there, smirking at me, waiting for my reply, and twisting his neck in his collar, which was too tight. That caused me to notice something. In spite of his foppish clothes a thread showed on his neck just above the collar in back. It seemed likely that it was there to support something next to his skin—an amulet. If so, he was superstitious, even in this day and age.
“There’s something you’ve omitted,” I told him. “I’m a seventh son, born under a caul, and I’ve got second sight. My luck’s all right, but I can see bad luck hovering over you like cypress over a grave!” I reached out and snatched at the thread. It snapped and came loose in my hand. There was an amulet on it, right enough, an unsavory little wad of nothing in particular and about as appetizing as the bottom of a bird cage. I dropped it on the floor and ground it into the dirt.
He had jumped off the counter and stood facing me, breathing hard. A knife showed up in his right hand; with his left hand he was warding off the evil eye, the first and little fingers pointed at me, making the horns of Asmodeus. I knew I had him for the time being.
“Here’s some magic you may not have heard of,” I rapped out, and reached into a drawer behind the counter. I hauled out a pistol and pointed it at his face. “Cold iron! Now go back to your owner and tell him there’s cold iron waiting for him, too—both ways!”
He backed away, never taking his eyes off my face. If looks could kill, and so forth. At the door he paused and spat on the doorsill, then got out of sight very quickly.
I put the gun away and went about my work, waiting on two customers who came in just as Mr. Nasty Business left. But I will admit that I was worried. A man’s reputation is his most valuable asset. I’ve built up a name, while still a young man, for dependable products. It was certain that this bird and his pals would do all they could to destroy tha
t name—which might be plenty if they were hooked in with black magicians!
Of course the building materials game does not involve as much magic as other lines dealing in less durable goods. People like to know, when they are building a home, that the bed won’t fall into the basement some night, or the roof disappear and leave them out in the rain.
Besides, building involves quite a lot of iron, and there are very few commercial sorcerers who can cope with cold iron. The few that can are so expensive it isn’t economical to use them in building. Of course if one of the café society crowd, or somebody like that, wants to boast that they have a summerhouse or a swimming pool built entirely by magic, I’ll accept the contract, charging accordingly, and sublet it to one of the expensive, first-line magicians. But by and large my business uses magic only in the side issues—perishable items and doodads which people like to buy cheap and change from time to time.
So I was not worried about magic in my business, but about what magic could do to my business—if someone set out deliberately to do me mischief. I had the subject of magic on my mind anyhow, because of an earlier call from a chap named Ditworth—not a matter of vicious threats, just a business proposition that I was undecided about. But it worried me, just the same . . .
I closed up a few minutes early and went over to see Jedson—a friend of mine in the cloak-and-suit business. He is considerably older than I am, and quite a student, without holding a degree, in all forms of witchcraft, white and black magic, necrology, demonology, spells, charms, and the more practical forms of divination. Besides that, Jedson is a shrewd, capable man in every way, with a long head on him. I set a lot of store by his advice.
I expected to find him in his office, and more or less free, at that hour, but he wasn’t. His office boy directed me up to a room he used for sales conferences. I knocked and then pushed the door.
“Hello, Archie,” he called out as soon as he saw who it was. “Come on in. I’ve got something.” And he turned away.
I came in and looked around. Besides Joe Jedson there was a handsome, husky woman about thirty years old in a nurse’s uniform, and a fellow named August Welker, Jedson’s foreman. He was a handy all-around man with a magician’s license, third class. Then I noticed a fat little guy, Zadkiel Feldstein, who was agent for a good many of the second-rate magicians along the street, and some few of the first-raters. Naturally, his religion prevented him from practicing magic himself, but, as I understand it, there was no theological objection to his turning an honest commission. I had had dealings with him; he was all right.
This ten-percenter was clutching a cigar that had gone out, and watching intently Jedson and another party, who was slumped in a chair.
This other party was a girl, not over twenty-five, maybe not that old. She was blond, and thin to the point that you felt that light would shine through her. She had big, sensitive hands with long fingers, and a big, tragic mouth: Her hair was silver-white, but she was not an albino. She lay back in the chair, awake but apparently done in. The nurse was chafing her wrists.
“What’s up?” I asked. “The kid faint?”
“Oh no,” Jedson assured me, turning around. “She’s a white witch—works in a trance. She’s a little tired now, that’s all.”
“What’s her specialty?” I inquired.
“Whole garments.”
“Huh?” I had a right to be surprised. It’s one thing to create yard goods; another thing entirely to turn out a dress, or a suit, all finished and ready to wear. Jedson produced and merchandised a full line of garments in which magic was used throughout. They were mostly sportswear, novelty goods, ladies’ fashions, and the like, in which style, rather than wearing qualities, was the determining factor. Usually they were marked “One Season Only,” but they were perfectly satisfactory for that one season, being backed up by the consumers’ groups.
But they were not turned out in one process. The yard goods involved were made first, usually by Welker. Dyes and designs were added separately. Jedson had some very good connections among the Little People, and could obtain shades and patterns from the Half World that were exclusive with him. He used both the old methods and magic in assembling garments, and employed some of the most talented artists in the business. Several of his dress designers freelanced their magic in Hollywood under an arrangement with him. All he asked for was screen credit.
But to get back to the blond girl—
“That’s what I said,” Jedson answered, “whole garments, with good wearing qualities too. There’s no doubt that she is the real McCoy; she was under contract to a textile factory in Jersey City. But I’d give a thousand dollars to see her do that whole-garment stunt of hers just once. We haven’t had any luck, though I’ve tried everything but red-hot pincers.”
The kid looked alarmed at this, and the nurse looked indignant. Feldstein started to expostulate, but Jedson cut him short. “That was just a figure of speech; you know I don’t hold with black magic. Look, darling,” he went on, turning back to the girl, “do you feel like trying again?” She nodded and he added, “All right—sleepy time now!”
And she tried again, going into her act with a minimum of groaning and spitting. The ectoplasm came out freely and sure enough, it formed into a complete dress instead of yard goods. It was a neat little dinner frock, about a size sixteen, sky blue in a watered silk. It had class in a refined way, and I knew that any jobber who saw it would be good for a sizable order.
Jedson grabbed it, cut off a swatch of cloth and applied his usual tests, finishing by taking the swatch out of the microscope and touching a match to it.
He swore. “Damn it,” he said, “there’s no doubt about it. It’s not a new integration at all; she’s just reanimated an old rag!”
“Come again,” I said. “What of it?”
“Huh? Archie, you really ought to study up a bit. What she just did isn’t really creative magic at all. This dress”—he picked it up and shook it—“had a real existence someplace at some time. She’s gotten hold of a piece of it, a scrap or maybe just a button, and applied the laws of homeopathy and contiguity to produce a simulacrum of it.”
I understood him, for I had used it in my own business. I had once had a section of bleachers, suitable for parades and athletic events, built on my own grounds by old methods, using skilled master mechanics and the best materials—no iron, of course. Then I cut it to pieces. Under the law of contiguity, each piece remained part of the structure it had once been in. Under the law of homeopathy, each piece was potentially the entire structure. I would contract to handle a Fourth of July crowd, or the spectators for a circus parade, and send out a couple of magicians armed with as many fragments of the original stands as we needed sections of bleachers. They would bind a spell to last twenty-four hours around each piece. That way the stands cleared themselves away automatically.
I had had only one mishap with it; an apprentice magician, who had the chore of being on hand as each section vanished and salvaging the animated fragment for further use, happened one day to pick up the wrong piece of wood from where one section had stood. The next time we used it, for the Shrine convention, we found we had thrown up a brand-new four-room bungalow at the corner of Fourteenth and Vine instead of a section of bleachers. It could have been embarrassing, but I stuck a sign on it:
MODEL HOME NOW ON DISPLAY
And ran up another section on the end.
An out-of-town concern tried to chisel me out of the business one season, but one of their units fell, either through faulty workmanship on the pattern or because of unskilled magic, and injured several people. Since then I’ve had the field pretty much to myself.
I could not understand Joe Jedson’s objection to reanimation. “What difference does it make?” I persisted. “It’s a dress, isn’t it?”
“Sure it’s a dress, but it’s not a new one. That style is registered somewhere and doesn’t belong to me. And even if it were one of my numbers she had used, reanimation isn
’t what I’m after. I can make better merchandise cheaper without it; otherwise I’d be using it now.”
The blond girl came to, saw the dress, and said, “Oh, Mr. Jedson, did I do it?”
He explained what had happened. Her face fell, and the dress melted away at once. “Don’t you feel bad about it, kid,” he added, patting her on the shoulder, “you were tired. We’ll try again tomorrow. I know you can do it when you’re not nervous and overwrought.”
She thanked him and left with the nurse. Feldstein was full of explanations, but Jedson told him to forget it, and to have them all back there at the same time tomorrow. When we were alone I told him what had happened to me.
He listened in silence, his face serious, except when I told him how I had kidded my visitor into thinking I had second sight. That seemed to amuse him.
“You may wish that you really had it—second sight, I mean,” he said at last, becoming solemn again. “This is an unpleasant prospect. Have you notified the Better Business Bureau?”
I told him I hadn’t.
“Very well then. I’ll give them a ring and the Chamber of Commerce too. They probably can’t help much, but they are entitled to notification, so they can be on the lookout for it.”
I asked him if he thought I ought to notify the police. He shook his head. “Not just yet. Nothing illegal has been done, and, anyhow, all the chief could think of to cope with the situation would be to haul in all the licensed magicians in town and sweat them. That wouldn’t do any good, and would just cause hard feelings to be directed against you by the legitimate members of the profession. There isn’t a chance in ten that the sorcerers connected with this outfit are licensed to perform magic; they are almost sure to be clandestine. If the police knew about them, it’s because they are protected. If they don’t know about them, then they probably can’t help you.”
Waldo, and Magic, Inc Page 13
