The Bullet Catch

by John Gaspard

  Terry had broken that sacred pledge and had pretty much been blackballed out of the business from that point on. In desperation he had returned to his traditional magic act and took gigs wherever he could, finally ending up doing a second-rate act in third world countries.

  “He got work, though, because he was one of the only performers willing to do The Bullet Catch,” Jake continued, “and that got him work in those far-flung performance venues.”

  “Until someone killed him.”

  “Yes. Until someone killed him. While he was doing The Bullet Catch.”

  Jake had a distant look in his eyes. I tried to pull him back. “And you play Terry?”

  “Yes,” he said, snapping back into the conversation. “It’s a challenging role. The script is lousy, so we’re diverging from it at every point possible. But I think, in the end, I will have created a fully-rounded character with layers and depth.” He took a big gulp of what I was sure was still pretty hot coffee, but he showed no reaction to it. “But what’s got me more concerned—much more concerned—is that I’ll have to do The Bullet Catch.”

  “But it’s a movie,” I said. “I mean, you don’t have to do it for real. Right? They have stunt guys and CGI and editing tricks.”

  “I know, I know,” he said with no real conviction. “But I just have this gut feeling...” His voice trailed off. I wasn’t sure what to say to help him out.

  “Certainly they’ve got experts working with you on this?” I finally offered.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said quietly. “I trained with some of the top magicians in LA for six months. I can do Terry Alexander’s whole act, start to finish.”

  “So why are you so concerned about this one part of the act?”

  “Right now, this flick is just a blip on Hollywood’s radar. A little Indie about a famous, unsolved crime. But,” he said with a mix of anticipation and dread, “if I actually died while doing The Bullet Catch?”

  “Yeah?” I didn’t like where this was heading.

  “Then it will be a hit. A monster hit.”

  “You’ve developed some real chops,” I said, genuinely impressed.

  Our coffee was cold and I had steered the discussion away from Jake’s fear of dying and asked him how he was doing the rest of the magic in the movie.

  “The producers found some guys at The Magic Castle in LA,” he said, casually dropping the names of three well-regarded magicians.

  Training from any one of them would have produced outstanding results and I was curious to see what he had learned from this trio of masters. I handed him the deck of cards I always carry and asked for a demonstration.

  Jake took the deck tentatively at first, then executed some nearly flawless moves—a slick top change, a false shuffle I hadn’t seen before, and some flashy card flourishes that skirted the sometimes thin line between magic and juggling. His work was impressive and he was clearly well-trained, but it was all done by rote. He lacked the craft to be able to deviate and improvise. However, he handled the cards well and comfortably, and for those moments I believed he might actually bring Terry Alexander to life on screen. If he didn’t die trying.

  “So what makes you think your life is in danger?”

  “Well, it was small things at first,” he said quietly. “Like when I found out they weren’t working with my LA trainers on The Bullet Catch. Those guys know their stuff, but the director said he had another resource in Las Vegas. Turns out the guy the director got is just a buddy of his from college. He runs a shooting range, but has no real training in this. But the thing that really unnerved me was when I saw the shooting schedule. They had scheduled the filming of The Bullet Catch scene last. Dead last.”

  “Is it the last scene in the movie?”

  “Yes and no—it’s all told as a flashback from the moment the bullet is fired from the gun. That might change in the editing, who knows. But these things are hardly ever shot in order. And that’s the very last scene I’m going to shoot. Last day, last scene, last shot.”

  “A coincidence?”

  “Maybe. But then I was at the director’s house in California, doing a read-through of the script with some of the cast, and I noticed a DVD box on the TV. He had been watching ‘The Crow.’”

  I shrugged. “I’m missing the connection.”

  “The actor Brandon Lee died while making ‘The Crow.’ He was shot when a prop gun misfired. It was tragic, but it didn’t hurt the film one bit. Some people say it helped to make it a hit.”

  “And you think the same thing could happen here?”

  “Hey, if your job was to sell a movie about Terry Alexander, you’d probably have a pretty tough time of it. Sure, it’s an unsolved mystery: Who killed Terry Alexander? But the downside is there’s no stars, no pre-sale name value to the property, it’s low-budget and under the radar. But if the lead actor gets shot and killed while in the process of recreating the scene where the main character got shot and killed...”

  His voice trailed off and then he added, “That’s a film people are going to want to see. Hell, if I weren’t dead, I’d want to see it.”

  We crossed the street and stood on the corner across from the coffee shop, quietly assessing each other.

  “So, what can I do to help?” I finally asked.

  Jake nodded, considering his words. “I’d love to bring you on as my personal magic coach on the set. There’s money in the budget and Lord knows I could use the help. Particularly when we shoot The Bullet Catch.”

  “I can do that. Might be fun.”

  Jake smiled grimly. “Yeah, film sets are a non-stop riot.” He took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. “We finished the bulk of interiors in Vancouver, where they recreated Terry’s early years and the TV specials. We’re in Minneapolis mostly to do the Ecuador scenes—the traveling circus.”

  “Minneapolis is their choice to recreate rural Ecuador?”

  Jake chuckled. “Hollywood magic. They’re re-dressing the Renaissance Festival grounds outside of town to look like an Ecuadoran village. It was cheaper than going to South America, and Minnesota finally put in some tax breaks for filmmakers. It’s economics. In Hollywood, it’s always economics.”

  We were standing in front of “Chi & Things,” the store on the corner of the block that includes “Chicago Magic.” We stepped aside to let some customers pass and I stole a peek into the shop through the opened door, hoping to catch a glimpse of Megan. I thought I saw a hint of her curly brown hair in the back of the store, but whoever it was disappeared out of sight behind some shelves.

  I hadn’t been in the store—her store—since the breakup, and the few sightings I’d had of her had been way too distant and far too brief. But we both worked on the same block and the odds were at some point or another our paths would have to cross.

  I wasn’t sure how I would react when we finally did bump into each other, but that didn’t make me want it any less. Somewhere in my brain, I was convinced that just the sight of me would be enough for her to throw back her head, give a coquettish laugh and say, “Eli, Eli, what was I thinking?” before throwing herself into my arms.

  “What?” I asked, realizing that Jake had said something.

  “I said, you don’t have to decide right now about being my magic coach. We can talk about it at the reunion.”

  I turned back, not sure what he meant. “The reunion?” I repeated.

  “Yeah, our fifteenth high school reunion this weekend. You’re going, right? I mean, come on.” He gave my arm a playful punch. “Two successful single guys like us. We’ll rock the place.”

  “I don’t know,” I said slowly, shaking my head. “I went to the tenth reunion and it was really sort of a drag. And anyway, I didn’t see you there,” I added accusingly.

  “Nah, I skipped the tenth. I hadn’t attained my reunion goal at that point.”

  �
��Your reunion goal?”

  He smiled a wicked grin. “I swore I wasn’t coming back to a reunion until I knew for sure no one would have to ask what I was up to. Because I would be so famous, they would already know. And I think I hit my goal this year with ‘Bluff.’”

  I had to agree he was probably right. Two more customers stepped past us to get into Chi & Things. I held the door for them, using it as an excuse to once again scan the store for Megan. And that’s when I realized she wasn’t in the store. She was one of the two women going into the store and I was holding the door for her.

  Megan was clearly as lost in thought as I was. She turned to thank me for holding the door, then stopped cold, realizing who I was. Her companion turned and I recognized her elderly friend, Franny, who recognized me right back.

  “Eli. Good to see you,” Franny said, breaking into a wide grin. “Holding the door like a polite doorman. That uncle of yours raised you well I see.” She turned to Megan and then, seeing the stricken look on her face, turned back. “Oh, I forgot. You two are on a break. Well this is awkward. Very awkward.”

  Franny chuckled as she looked from Megan to me and then back to Megan, clearly enjoying the small drama she had stepped into. She glanced over at Jake.

  “And who is this tall drink of water with the dish mop on his head?”

  I had actually forgotten for a moment he was standing there. “Oh, this is Jake.” I gestured to the two women. “Jake, this is Franny. And Megan.”

  Megan nodded at Jake and then turned to me, looking me in the eye for the first time. “Hi, Eli,” Megan finally said, her voice just barely above a whisper.

  “Hi. Hello.” My voice didn’t do much better.

  “I’m surprised we didn’t see this coming,” Franny said with a laugh. No one else joined in.

  “Franny and Megan are psychics,” I said to Jake by way of explanation.

  “I understand,” he said without a note of skepticism. “I live in LA.”

  A pause. I sifted quickly through my thoughts, trying to find the most appropriate comment and coming up short.

  “So, how’s that Uncle Harry of yours?” Franny interjected, seemingly ignoring the tension that had formed within the small group.

  Megan looked at me again. I returned her gaze, trying not to look too intense. Nonchalance was a hard nut to crack with so little warning. I turned to Franny.

  “He’s good. Still cranky. But good.”

  “Nice to hear. Tell him Franny said ‘Hey!’”

  “I will. I will.”

  Our conversation gap started to get wider and wider, moving quickly from a small fissure to Grand Canyon-style gaping hole. None of us knew how to close it. Megan finally took action.

  “Well,” she said to Jake, “Nice to meet you.” She shook his hand and then turned to me. “Good to see you, Eli.”

  Megan moved in for a handshake, which I misread as an impending hug. The resultant body mash was a messy mix of both. She then disappeared into the store. I held onto the door handle, not quite ready to let it go. Franny lingered behind, clearly waiting until Megan was out of earshot.

  “I’m glad I ran into you, Eli,” she said with sudden seriousness. “I had a ping about you this morning. Out of the blue. I don’t often get those, but when I do, I’ve learned to listen to them.”

  Franny makes her living as a phone psychic. Literally. That is, she usually only gathers insights while on the phone. No standard in-person, one-on-one live readings for her; it’s on the phone or nothing. And she really runs it like a business, putting in banker’s hours and turning off the phone on evenings and weekends. As she likes to say, “I leave work at work.”

  I nodded, waiting for her to continue.

  “I saw a gun. And a bullet,” she said quietly. “A man gets shot. Somehow you are involved. And, this was the weird part: the man who got shot was the man who got shot, but he wasn’t. It didn’t make any sense to me. I hope it makes sense to you.”

  She patted my arm warmly, and then disappeared into the store. I released my grip on the door handle and the door swung slowly shut.

  I turned back to Jake. I have to admit I wasn’t particularly surprised to see that his face had gone completely pale.

  Chapter 3

  “Terry Alexander was a cad. A bounder. A louse.”

  “On his best days he was a louse.”

  “He was so low, he’d get the bends every time he stood up, the rat bastard.”

  I wasn’t entirely clear on what that last crack meant, but I was certain I had come to the right place. That place was Adrian’s, a bar which has stood next to Chicago Magic as long as Chicago Magic has stood. When I returned to the magic shop after coffee with Jake and found that Uncle Harry wasn’t in the store or in his apartment upstairs, I knew it was a pretty good bet he was next door. He spends a good portion of each week swapping stories and insults with a group of aging magicians that officially called themselves “The Minneapolis Mystics,” although my late Aunt Alice had always referred to them as “The Artful Codgers.” Their numbers were thinning more than their hair, but they had a fair turnout for today’s bull session.

  I pulled up a chair and didn’t interrupt the flow of conversational insults, waiting for an opening to bring up the topic at hand. Sitting across from me was Abe Ackerman, a hypnotist of the Kreskin variety, just never as famous. It might have had something to do with his looks. If Boris Karloff and Abe Vigoda had a love child, he would have grown up to look like Abe Ackerman.

  On his right was Sam Esbjornson, a magician who specialized in coin work. Although one of the oldest in the group, he was still phenomenal, even at this late stage in his life. He had absently picked up two coins off the table and was rolling them up and down the back of his left hand. It was such an ingrained habit, I’m not sure he was even aware he was doing it.

  And on Abe’s left was my Uncle Harry, quietly stroking his grey beard. Up until this point, Harry had been silent on the topic of Terry Alexander. This had not gone unnoticed by Abe.

  “So, Harry’s being a bit mum on the topic of this louse, it seems to me,” Abe said.

  “I was raised to not speak ill of the dead,” Harry said quietly. “Regardless of what we may have said about them when they were alive.”

  “Who’s not alive? Did I miss something?” The gravelly voice came from behind me and I turned to see Max Monarch, the best card man in the group. He was struggling to take off his windbreaker as he toddled toward us. I got up and pulled another chair up to the table.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Max continued, carefully hanging his windbreaker on the back of the chair. “I swear I hit every red light between here and downtown. Every red light. Back in the day, the city had the stoplights timed, you drive twenty-eight miles an hour you can soar down Portland like nobody’s business. But ever since that fercockta light rail train came in, I swear, every traffic light is marching to the beat of its own drummer. In my entire life, I swear I’ve spent thirty years sitting at red lights. And that’s not an exaggeration.”

  Max settled himself in the chair, looking around for a reaction, but the group had listened to Max complain about red lights for so long it no longer even warranted a comment. He waved to the waitress with a hand signal for his regular, a ginger ale with no ice, and then turned to the group.

  “So, who died?” he asked, trying and failing to temper his enthusiasm with an attitude that appeared more somber.

  “Terry Alexander,” I said.

  “Yesterday’s news,” Max snorted. “The rat bastard louse.”

  “I remember when he exposed my classic envelope switch,” Abe grumbled. “Couldn’t do it for two years. Ruined it. Absolutely ruined the bit.” He shook his head in disgust at the memory.

  “Not me,” Max countered. “When he exposed the Dancing Queens, I put them back in my act the next night. The next night
,” he added for emphasis.

  “The Dancing Queens never left your act,” Sam said. “Nothing ever left your act. You’re thinking of Lance Burton—he’s the one who put an illusion back in his act the night after Terry Alexander exposed it.”

  “Me, Lance Burton, the point is still the same,” Max said as the waitress brought him his ginger ale. He smiled up at her and she returned the smile and then headed back to the bar. “Ah, to be young again,” Max sighed.

  “Ah, to be sixty again,” Abe added.

  “Sixty, hell, I’d take sixty-five,” Sam said.

  “My point,” Max continued, “is that exposure is all in your point of view. When people would say to me, ‘Hey, I know how that’s done—I saw the Cloaked Conjurer do that trick,’ I’d always have the same comeback. I’d say, ‘Yeah, he does it the easy way. Anyone can do that. I do it the hard way.’”

  “Knowing you, you did it the wrong way,” Sam grumbled.

  “Stick it in your ear,” Max shot back.

  “Ah, stick it in your act,” Sam retorted. “It’ll hurt more people that way.”

  “Guys,” I said, interjecting myself into what looked to become another escalating exchange. “I need you to look at something.”

  They say you can find anything on the Internet and I’m beginning to believe it’s true. A relatively short search had produced a grainy, poorly-shot video of Terry Alexander performing his most famous—and last—illusion: The Bullet Catch. His was the final act in what appeared to be a mangy, flea-encrusted traveling circus that was tottering on its last legs somewhere in the poorly-lit outskirts of Ecuador.

  I held the iPad for the four older magicians as they strained to see the highly-pixilated images on the screen. The performance itself appeared perfunctory. Terry Alexander, dressed in his usual black t-shirt and black jeans, selected two volunteers from the audience. The sound recorded by the small camera or camera phone was muffled and completely indecipherable, but since the conversation was likely all in Spanish, it wasn’t a big issue.