by Jeff Garvin
Ripley whispered, “How do we get in?”
“Stop worrying. They’re not going to check our IDs.”
“No, I mean, literally, how do we get in? There’s no door.”
The evening’s host, who looked like a maître d’–slash–secret service agent, stepped forward to greet us.
“Welcome to the Magic Castle,” he said. Then, turning to Ripley, “Kindly step up to the owl and say the magic words.”
Ripley goggled as if the guy had just cursed at him in Portuguese. I pointed to a tarnished brass owl perched on one of the bookshelves. “Say, ‘Open sesame.’”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Not even a little.”
“Open sesame?” he said. The owl’s jeweled eyes glowed red, and the bookshelf slid to one side, revealing a hidden passage. After all this time, it still gave me goose bumps.
“Is this happening?” Ripley said, eyes wide. “Wait, am I dead right now?”
Liam gave a genuine belly laugh, and it lit me up inside. For some reason, it was crucial to me that these two guys liked each other.
Liam and I followed Ripley and Jude through the secret door. The décor of the bar hadn’t changed, either: the elaborately carved banister, the navy carpet with its gold floral pattern, the dark red walls. But most of all, the art. Vintage posters featuring Thurston, Blackstone, Houdini, Silvan, Doug Henning, and countless others dating back a century. Etched portraits of ladies in petticoats and men with handlebar mustaches. The place smelled like gin and cinnamon and cigar smoke. I never wanted to leave.
As we approached the bar, I spotted Jif Higgins leaning against the long mahogany slab. He wore a loud cobalt-blue suit and nursed a glass of something orange with a celery stalk poking out of it. When he saw me, he raised his glass.
“That was epic,” he said as the four of us approached. “Everyone thought you were going to drown. People were freaking out.”
I had an impulse to tell him how close I had come, but I suppressed it.
Rule number three: Always keep them guessing.
“Good to see you, Ripley,” Higgins said as the two exchanged an awkward handshake.
I made the rest of the introductions.
“Nice suit,” I said to Higgins.
He glanced down as if he didn’t remember what he was wearing. “It is, isn’t? I bought it forty minutes ago so I could meet this joint’s draconian dress code.” He struck a pose.
I laughed, but it came out a cackle. I wondered if anyone else heard the mania in it.
Liam ordered four Sprites with lime while Ripley and Higgins compared notes on my performance. I pretended not to eavesdrop. Jude gaped around at the room for a minute, then popped his earbud back in and retreated into his phone.
When our drinks finally came, I turned to Higgins. “Want a tour?”
“I really do,” he said, glancing at his Apple Watch, “but I have a plane to catch.”
“LAX?” Liam asked.
Higgins frowned. “No. My jet is waiting at Burbank.”
Ripley laughed, then realized Higgins wasn’t joking and took a gulp of his Sprite.
“Hey, Higgins,” I said, moving a little closer to put my hand on the arm of his new suit. “Thank you.”
He gave a dismissive wave. “That stuff was collecting dust anyway.” He looked genuinely uncomfortable; I wondered why he was so allergic to gratitude. “Plus, like you said, it’s going to be worth way more now.”
I smiled. “I hope so.”
He stared into his unfinished drink. “And, uh, thank you, too. For the whole . . .” He mimed flying around like Peter Pan. “That was awesome.”
“It was a thing to behold,” I agreed.
He took another sip of his drink, then set it on the bar with a clink of finality.
“Well. Next time you’re in Vegas, look me up.” He gave me an awkward smile. “I have a lot of free time.” Then he nodded, turned, and headed for the exit.
Ripley watched me watching him leave. “That guy is a unicorn.”
When we had finished our drinks, I gave Liam, Ripley, and Jude a VIP tour. I introduced them to Irma the invisible pianist, who knew every request—even the Drake song Jude called out. Then I took them downstairs to the museum to walk through the aisles of dusty props and costumes, some of them over a hundred and fifty years old. Ripley and Jude stopped to examine an antique Zoltar machine, giving Liam and me a chance to be on our own. It was nice to have a moment alone with him in a quiet place. We didn’t say anything, just walked together, fingers intertwined.
Liam paused in front a large framed poster. It was a sepia-toned illustration of a grim-looking African American man wearing a tuxedo and sitting on a globe. The caption read: Black Herman, The World’s Greatest Magician. Secrets of Magic, Mystery, and Legerdemain. The date on the bottom right corner read: Printed in 1938.
Liam pointed at the caption. “What’s legerdemain?” he asked.
“Close-up magic,” I said. “Coins, cards, stuff like that. But I’ve always liked the literal translation: lightness of hand.”
We caught Georges-Robert’s mentalism and fork bending in the Parlour of Prestidigitation, Yuji Yamamoto’s classic silk production in the Palace of Mystery, and then headed to the Close-Up Gallery to watch Johnny Ace Palmer, the best close-up magician alive, perform his famous version of Cups and Balls to a standing ovation. I still don’t know where he hides those live baby chicks.
The night was next to perfect; the only thing missing was Dad. Throughout the evening, I took dozens of pictures so he could relive the night with me the next day, adding his quips and comments and memories. It would almost be like he’d been there.
Just before midnight, I excused myself to use the restroom. I put a damp paper towel on the back of my neck and looked in the mirror. My eyes were bright, my skin was clear, and my smile looked genuine. I felt invincible.
Then I noticed the subtle red rings around my eyes; they were my tell. The one reliable indicator that this burst of joy I felt was nothing more than a neurological fireworks display—and that soon enough it would end, leaving behind only trails of smoke.
But I smiled anyway, wide and bright, as if none of that were true. As if those thoughts were just the dark fantasies of a self-indulgent girl. I would suffer soon enough; tonight, I would celebrate.
I was halfway back to the table when I heard another familiar voice call my name; apparently, it was my night for familiar voices.
“I told Devereaux he should have hired you before you got famous.”
“Rico!” I turned and pretty much ran into him.
“Whoa. Hey,” he said, laughing as he returned my awkward hug.
“Did you see it?” I asked.
“I saw you thrashing around like a wounded sea lion, if that’s what you mean.”
I swatted his arm. “You saw it!”
He smiled. “Front row. Daniel insisted that I come.” His smile faded, and he put his hands on my shoulders. “That was, hands down, the coolest escape I’ve ever seen live.”
“Really?”
He paused. “Well, the coolest one that didn’t involve lava or the Space Shuttle.”
“I’ll take that.” I grinned. “Oh, hey, do you know if Devereaux watched? Probably not, right? I mean, he’s still prepping his new show. He was probably—”
“Actually,” Rico said, running a hand nervously over his bald head, “he watched it on TV. He thought you were good.”
“No way!”
“Yeah,” he said. Then, sheepishly, he pulled a folded document from his jacket pocket and handed it to me.
“What’s this?” I said, unfolding it.
Rico grimaced. “That’s a restraining order. You can’t go within one hundred yards of Daniel, his warehouse, or the Tangiers.”
“Are you serious?”
He nodded. “Higgins is getting one, too. And your dad. Between you and me, I think you got off pretty easy.”
I looked down
at the paper. “Do you still have your job?”
“I do.”
“Then this doesn’t bother me,” I said, and stuffed it into my purse.
Rico let out a relieved breath, then jutted his chin in the direction of my table. “Who’s the dude?”
I glanced over my shoulder at Liam, who raised a hand.
“He’s my boyfriend,” I said, and found that I liked the way the word felt on my lips.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. And you’re too old to be jealous.”
“I’m not old. I mean, I’m not jealous.”
I introduced Rico to the gang, and to my surprise, he and Ripley hit it off. It turned out they shared a penchant for 1970s fashion and indie rock bands. While the four of us talked, Rico pulled out a gold dollar coin and started fidgeting with it. I think he was trying to show off in front of Liam, but he was clumsy as hell with sleight of hand; the guy could tell you how to vanish a skyscraper, but he couldn’t do close-up to save his life. I snatched up his coin and showed off my French Drop, appearing to make the coin change hands, then producing it from the bottom of his glass, Ripley’s ear, Liam’s inner coat pocket. A couple of tourists wandered over, and Rico lent me a deck of cards. I started doing card magic, and after a few minutes, a small crowd had gathered. I’d seen it happen at the Castle when my dad was the one behind the table; he was a master of small-crowd patter, and his card magic was solid. Tonight, mine was flawless.
I started doing more complex tricks, forcing cards, faking mistakes, working the crowd. Then a very tall man appeared at the back of the congregation. It was Flynn.
“Excuse me,” he said, and the crowd parted for him.
Somebody said, “Holy shit, is that Flynn Bissette?”
Kellar was with him, hands stuffed into his pockets. Again, something about his posture reminded me of a little boy. When they got to the table, Flynn looked around at the crowd, drawing their attention like a lamp attracting moths.
“Young lady, we have some business to settle.” He sounded serious.
“We do?”
“We do indeed. Kellar?”
Kellar held up his right hand to show that it was empty, then reached into my purse. When he pulled it out again, he was holding an oversized playing card—the nine of hearts. I smiled at him, and he smiled back. Then he reached into his jacket pocket, produced a butane cooking torch far too big to have fit in there, and lit it. He held it to the corner of the nine of hearts until it burst into flame. The onlookers oohed. And then, suddenly, he wasn’t holding a burning playing card anymore but an envelope, charred around the edges and smoking slightly. Without a word, he smiled and handed it to me.
“Open it,” Flynn said.
I looked at him, at Kellar, and then at Ripley, who nodded. I slid a finger under the flap and pulled out the contents. It was a check.
“Jesus Chr— I mean, I thought it was supposed to be . . .” I leaned in and whispered, “Fifteen thousand! But this says . . .” I read it again, still not believing:
Pay to the Order of Elias Dante Jr.
Twenty-Five Thousand Dollars
“The fifteen figure was for your dad. But we didn’t get him. We got a talented up-and-comer, and for her”—he tapped the check—“that’s a fair price.”
For the second time that night, I felt a wide, sloppy grin cross my face. The crowd around us, most of whom had no idea what this was all about, began to applaud. Flynn pulled a Sharpie from his inner pocket.
“Hold out your hand,” he said.
I did, and he scrawled ten digits on my palm.
“That’s my personal cell-phone number. Give me a call if you come back to Vegas. I have some stalls you can muck out.” Then he turned and walked away.
Kellar watched me for a moment, then leaned toward me and said, “You didn’t suck.” He dropped me a wink and disappeared into the press.
The appearance of two bona fide celebrities had outshone my impromptu performance, and the crowd quickly dispersed. I stared down at the check, shaking my head.
“That was classy as shit,” Rico said.
I nodded.
“And it’s way more than you’re worth.”
I swatted him again.
Liam knocked back the last of his Sprite and said, “How are you going to spend all that?”
I thought for a moment. “I’m going to buy some drugs.”
EPILOGUE
Eight Months Later
THE SUN WAS JUST BEGINNING to set when I grabbed my water bottle and stepped out onto the tiny balcony of our new Las Vegas apartment. A wall of August heat hit me like the blast from a giant hair dryer, and I reached back to put up my hair, only to remember that I’d cut it short a week earlier—not out of some cliché need for emotional resurrection or anything like that. Vegas was just fucking hot.
When we moved back, Dad had vetoed my trailer-park idea, and we ended up in a two-bedroom on the third floor about six miles east of the Strip, not far from where I’d interviewed Renée Turner half a lifetime ago. I had absolutely hated it—until I stepped out onto the balcony. From up here, I could see the whole Strip, from Luxor to Stratosphere. Sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night, missing the rumble of the big diesel engine beneath me. But then I would come out here to look at the lights, and it felt like home.
A hot wind kicked up, so I poured the contents of my water bottle into the shriveled cactus on my balcony and went back inside to stand in front of the AC vent with my eyes closed and my head titled back.
Dad knocked on my bedroom door—I had an actual door!—and poked his head in.
“Are you heading out?” I asked. “I thought curtain wasn’t until eight o’clock.”
“Indeed,” he said, glancing at his old, but newly functional, gold watch. We’d paid the pawnbroker before we even started making a dent in Dad’s hospital bills; I had insisted. “But I want to run through Sub Trunk a few times before the show. My new assistant lacks your sense of timing.”
After the Live Retrospective, Dad got several job offers, including a headliner slot at the Four Jacks. But Dr. Houts insisted that he couldn’t go back to work full-time, so he had to decline. Then one night, Jif Higgins invited us over for dinner and offered Dad a show at his hotel, the Maxim, and said he could make his own schedule. He was thrilled—so now he worked three nights a week in a 250-seat theater. I had never seen him happier.
I, on the other hand, had been completely inundated with offers. I got calls from half a dozen casinos on the Strip, three in Atlantic City, and a touring company in Asia.
I turned them all down.
Dad was right; performing was in my blood. But I was scared of putting all my eggs in that basket. What if, even on meds, I couldn’t deal? I needed something stable to fall back on. I wanted to get my diploma, and then I had my sights set on UNLV’s theater design and technology program. That way, if performing didn’t work out, I could give Rico a run for his money in the consulting business.
So I enrolled at Nevada Virtual Academy, and then I called the number Flynn Bissette had scrawled on my palm in Sharpie. He offered me a job on their development team, designing new tricks for their Vegas residency, but there was a condition: I had to open for Flynn & Kellar, performing close-up magic at the Havana six nights a week.
I almost turned him down, too.
Bipolar II warps my self-image and distorts my judgment. For a long time, I was ashamed of what I perceived as a weakness. Sometimes I still am. Sometimes, when I’m down, I still think about holding myself underwater.
Our apartment has a shower, but no bathtub.
I told Flynn what I was dealing with, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He sweetened the deal by adding full medical insurance for me and my dad, including mental-health care. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.
Dad cleared his throat, reached down, and adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. “Want a ride to work?” he asked. He had bought a used green Hyundai with some of
our TV money. It was the same model as Heather’s.
“I’m off today,” I said. “Liam’s driving up. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
Liam had finally told his father that he didn’t want to play in the major leagues—and his dad had surprised him by supporting his decision. So he changed his major to business, and planned to work for Miller Logistics when he graduated. He had his eye on their hub in Las Vegas.
Dad ran a finger across his mustache. “He’s a good boy. Just don’t get too attached, Ellie. You don’t know where he’ll end up.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re going be late for work.” I moved forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t suck,” I said.
“It’s a promise.” He winked and headed out.
I grabbed my new phone off the desk and texted Ripley.
Me: It’s SOOO HOTTT HEEEERE
Ripley: I’m at school. Please stop obstructing my education.
Me: Turn your phone off during class then.
Ripley: Can’t. I’m recording this lecture on the history of screen printing. Did you know it dates back to the Song Dynasty in China?
Me: Zzz
Ripley: You’re a dick. Talk later?
Me: Can’t. I have a HOTTT date.
Ripley: Have fun. I’ll call you after Alateen. [Inebriated unicorn Bitmoji]
Me: Is it really healthy taking that Alateen stuff so lightly?
Ripley: Ugh. You’re so smug since you started therapy again.
I laughed and set down the phone. Ripley and I had been “crisis buddies”—his term—for so long that it felt weird to have normal conversations. Not that my life was perfect—my psychiatrist and I were still dialing in the right dosage. And anyway, it wasn’t a thing that would ever go away completely. There was no cure, only treatments. Drugs. Therapy. Meditation. Forever and ever, amen.
Ripley still had drama, too: Heather was out of their lives, which was hard, but their mom had left again, which he counted as a win. His dad was back in Narcotics Anonymous, and even though Jude had upgraded to cannabis, at least he was going to meetings. Ripley had plans to come visit for Labor Day. And if worse came to worst and he couldn’t make the drive, we’d both go to our local McDonald’s and video-chat over Sausage McGriddles. It was becoming a weekend tradition.
