by John Gaspard
“I see,” he said, checking through his notes. “And how would you describe his relationship with his wife?”
“His wife?”
“You said you spent a good deal of time talking with her. What was your impression of the state of their marriage?”
“I’m not really sure it’s my place to say.”
He plowed on. “Did it seem strained in any way?”
I hemmed and perhaps even hawed to a degree before answering. “He’d had a lot to drink,” I finally said. “And I got the impression that wasn’t uncommon.”
“Anything else?”
“He spent a lot of time flirting with other women. And I got the impression that also wasn’t uncommon.” There was an uncomfortable silence, at least for me, while he made some more notes. “So, that’s what you think it was?” I asked. “A mugging?”
“Probably,” he said, looking up from his notes. “The simplest answer is usually the right one.”
“Occam’s razor.”
He nodded and almost smiled. “Yes, Occam’s razor. When you have two competing theories that make exactly the same prediction, the simpler one is the better.”
“What’s the other theory?”
He waited a moment before responding. “That it was more than just a mugging.” He closed his notebook. “Thanks for your time.”
As he reached the door, I felt the need to add one more, unrelated thought. “One more thing,” I said.
He stopped and turned, waiting for me to complete my thought. I came out from behind the counter and cut the distance between us. There had been something I had been wanting to say to him for a long time, and this seemed like as good a time as any.
“I know we’ve never really talked about you. And Deirdre. The affair you two had.”
He waited quietly for me to continue, no expression on his face.
“I just don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything,” I said. “Because of the affair.”
“I don’t.”
“I don’t want you to think that you’re...” I struggled to find the right word. “That you’re beholden to me.”
“I don’t.”
“Because you aren’t. Beholden to me.”
“I know.” He continued to stare at me. His face was expressionless, but in my mind I attached a flood of possible emotions to his blank countenance.
“Have a nice day,” he said flatly as he left the store.
Chapter 7
The sight of a Renaissance village rising up out of the farmlands twenty miles outside of Minneapolis is odd in its own right. Take that artificial environment and layer on a movie crew, with their large trailers, enormous lights on wheels, and dozens of crewmembers in shorts and t-shirts, and an overwhelming feeling of temporal dislocation seems a natural response.
I’d driven the mile of dirt road that takes you from the highway to the grounds of the festival, traveling over bumpy grasslands you’d think would be smoother, given the thousands who drive and park along these makeshift roads each late summer and early fall.
I crested the last hill and saw the festival grounds below me—a tall, wooden fence and imposing gate separating the acres of pasture parking from the confined and dusty world of royalty, knights and ladies in waiting.
A bored security guard leaning against the main gate used his walkie-talkie to announce my arrival to a squawking voice at the other end. Moments later, a harried production assistant ushered me toward the row of Winnebago motor homes that lined one of the many dirt streets encircling the center jousting ring.
“I’m on route with a visitor for Jay One,” she huffed into the walkie-talkie as we navigated around and between the motor homes. “He’s in mid-interview. What’s the ETA on his set time?” The response was piped directly into her earpiece, so all I experienced was her nodding along with the unheard voice. “Ten-four,” she finally barked into the walkie-talkie, before re-attaching it to the hook on her belt. She stopped in front of one of the nicer motor homes and climbed the three built-in steps, knocking tentatively on the door.
“Ten minutes, Mr. North. And you’ve got another visitor.” With that she jumped off the top step and disappeared behind the next trailer, her walkie-talkie back in her hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way,” was the last I heard before she was gone.
I turned as I heard the motor home door swing open and was completely surprised by the voice that greeted me.
“Well, my stars and garters, if it isn’t my favorite sorcerer!” The high British voice was unmistakable. I looked up to see Clive Albans, his tall frame scrunched awkwardly in the doorway. He jettisoned himself from the motor home and danced down the steps, landing in front of me in all his glory. As usual, he was dressed in a fashion all his own, mixing paisley and pinstripes and black and yellow checks with wild abandon. A silk polka-dotted scarf was wrapped around his neck. Before I knew it, he had engulfed me in an effusive bear hug, his cologne lingering like thick, oily smog.
Clive was a peripatetic journalist who dressed like Oscar Wilde and spoke like a fey character right out of Gilbert & Sullivan. I had met him the previous fall when he had been writing a freelance newspaper article on psychics and debunkers, but our paths had not crossed again since and I was surprised to find him still in town.
“I continue to turn heads with that trick you taught me,” he said conspiratorially. “The one with the two coins.”
“Scotch and Soda,” I said, remembering his delight at learning the secret behind that old chestnut. “It’s a classic, that’s for sure.”
“Yes, but I must stop by the shop and pick up something else to add to my repertoire,” he sighed. “I’ve run out of people to perform for, and I need something new. You understand that need, as a performer: to fill the endless maw that is my adoring audience.”
“Yes, that’s the curse of the amateur magician,” I agreed. “The old saying is a professional magician does the same six tricks for a different audience every day, while the amateur constantly has to learn new tricks to impress the same six people. Anyway,” I continued, “stop by the shop and we’ll find you something new that will shock and awe your audience.”
“Shock and awe, exactly,” he said. “But small enough to fit in a pocket, and nothing too difficult to master.”
“So you want something that is self-working, but packs small and plays large?”
He nodded. “Exactly.”
“You and every other magician on the planet. I’m sure I can find just the right item to help you out. And if I’m not there, Uncle Harry will look after you.”
“If you’re not there, I’ll come back another day. Your Uncle Harry puts the fear of God in me. And this coming from a man who has covered three war zones,” he added for emphasis. “Are you here to see Jake North? And if so, why? Dirt, please. I need the dirt.”
“I’m sorry, Clive, there’s no dirt. We went to high school together is all, nothing more sinister than that.”
“Ah, well, I have to ask. I am a modern day Sisyphus,” he continued, twirling where he stood, his head tilted back as he gestured toward an unseen mountain. “Rolling the large stone that is gossip up the unforgiving, uncaring slope each day, cursed to have to start again at the bottom the next with yet another unyielding stone.” He stopped twirling, looking lost for a long moment.
“Well,” he finally said, his head appearing to clear, “I’m going to hit the craft services table and then see what dirt I can find in the wardrobe tent. Isn’t this exciting?” he added. “One of the great mysteries of our age: Who killed Terry Alexander? Not since Jack the Ripper has the identity of a killer been so wrapped in mystery. Who was it?”
He held up a finger for each of the suspects as he breathlessly named them. “Was it the angry and greedy manager? The former girlfriend and current onstage assistant? The insanely jealous new girlfriend? T
he rival magician in the troupe? Or the sociopathic local drug kingpin? Oh, goodness, it’s such a juicy tale, bound to thrill the masses and fill the coffers! I love it!”
I remembered Harry’s assessment, that it was a trick gone bad due to the incompetence of the performer, but since that view wasn’t meant for public consumption, I kept silent on the issue.
It hardly mattered, as Clive had already disappeared down the row of motor homes, his high-pitched laughter echoing in the aluminum canyon.
“Ven si quieres, la puerta está abierta!”
It took me a moment to understand the voice responding to my knock was responding in Spanish. At least, it sounded like that language to my high-school Spanish-trained ear. Granted, all that remained from that education was my ability to inquire as to the location of Pepe’s house and to comment excitedly about the pen’s current location on top of the table. But it did sound like Spanish and the tone suggested I should come in, so I did.
Walking into Jake’s motor home was not unlike walking into a miniature version of our magic shop. Magic posters lined the walls and every available surface was covered with decks of cards, jumbles of coins, and exotic-looking gizmos and gaffs.
“Hey, man. Qué pasa?” Jake was stretched out on the couch, but if I hadn’t recognized the voice I’m not so sure I would have recognized him at all. He was in costume as Terry Alexander. His face was pale with exaggerated eye makeup and black lipstick giving him the look of a feral raccoon. He was dressed all in black, his hair was long, dark and stringy, and his bare arms were a mosaic of tattoos. He held a script in one hand and a pen in the other.
“Just doing a quick re-write of today’s scene,” he said, finishing with a flourish. “Trying to get some heart into this sucker, but it’s an uphill battle.”
“Sisyphean?” I suggested, thinking back to my conversation with Clive.
“Herculean,” he responded, tossing the script on top of the table. “And old Mr. Williams said we’d never remember anything from our Classics class,” he added with a grin. “Proved that old fart wrong. Or, I suppose I should say, demostró que pedo viejo mal.”
“What’s with the Spanish?” I asked. “That is Spanish, right?”
“Yeah, I’m not going all Method or anything, but Terry did learn to speak Spanish toward the end, so I thought I should do the same.”
“Wow. You’ve learned magic and Spanish. Quite impressive.”
“Yeah, if I could just learn to act, I’d have the hat trick.”
“False modesty?”
“Or a dead keen assessment. Depends who you ask.” He set the script down and looked up at me expectantly. “So, you’ve buried the lead. The cops think Trish shot Dylan?”
“You read the papers?”
“Who reads papers? It’s all over the Internet. So they think she killed him?”
“Well, the detective I talked to didn’t come out and say that, but that was the impression I got, yes,” I said. “Killed him or had him killed. Something like that.”
“Wow,” Jake said. “Well, given his behavior, you’d be hard pressed to blame her.”
“I suppose,” I said. “But I don’t think that would hold up in court. It doesn’t look like self-defense.”
“What’s it look like?”
I thought about it. “It looks like a mugging gone bad,” I offered. “But what do I know?”
“Well, at least one positive thing came out of it,” he said, stretching and cracking his neck.
“What’s that?”
“At least now she’s single.”
There was a knock at the door and I heard the strained voice of the production assistant who had guided me to the motor home. “We’re ready for you on the set, Mr. North.”
“Gracias, estoy en mi camino,” Jake shouted back as he pushed himself up from the couch, grabbed the script from the table and headed toward the door. “Come on,” he said, gesturing toward me. “You can experience the magic of moviemaking first hand.”
Magic might have been an overstatement. Tedium would have been a better word.
The next hour was spent shooting—and shooting and shooting—a shot of Jake walking across a dusty street, spotting a Venezuelan street urchin, and bending down to perform a small magic trick for him.
In my capacity as magic consultant to the star, I was called in immediately to oversee the simple card trick Jake had intended to perform. He demonstrated it for me under the watchful eye of the director—a husky twenty-something in a beard, wearing a Spiderman t-shirt—who grunted along favorably as Jake executed the trick. When it was done, they both turned to me. My facial reaction must have indicated my distaste for the illusion.
“What’s wrong with it?” Jake asked, as he performed the trick again at double speed.
“Card tricks don’t generally work on kids that young,” I said, gesturing to the child actor who, for all I knew, may have been in his teens but looked to be no more than five years old. “Kids that age don’t know cards. They don’t know suits, they don’t know values, and so changing one into another isn’t really all that magical.”
“At film school, they taught us never to say ‘no,’ unless you can follow it up immediately with a ‘yes.’” The director stood back, waiting for the ‘yes’ he felt I owed him.
I pondered the situation for a moment and then dug into my show bag, which I’d retrieved from the car. After some rummaging, I found what I was looking for: a silk transformation.
“This is pretty simple,” I said as I began to demonstrate the trick, “But it’s visual and it’s colorful and kids love it.” I showed them the bright yellow silk, which I stuffed into my closed fist. I gave the fist a quick shake and then pulled the silk out again, but it had now changed to bright red. I concluded the trick by opening the fist, showing it was empty.
“Nice,” the director whispered. “Colorful, visual, and I like how it corresponds to where Terry Alexander is at this point in his arc, in the midst of his personal transformation.”
“Yeah, I like it,” Jake agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I just need to figure out the Spanish word for silk.” He signaled to a production assistant who scurried over, an English-to-Spanish dictionary in his hands. Clearly this was a frequent request on the set.
“No, don’t say silk,” I said as Jake began to page through the dictionary. “Nobody says silk in real life, so the magician shouldn’t either,” I continued, parroting words I’d heard from Harry my whole life.
“How about bandana?” Jake asked, as he flipped to the front of the dictionary.
“That will work,” I said, and once he’d found the right words, I set upon the task of teaching him the trick.
The trick, like the shot, was very simple: cross a street, see a kid, perform a quick illusion (“Mira este pañuelo amarillo!”), and then keep moving.
To my eye, Jake nailed it on the first take, but I’m not the director. The director needed to see it nearly thirty more times, with no discernible difference in the action I could spot.
So they did it again. And again. And again. After every take, the director would get up from in front of a video screen, one of many monitors shielded from the sun under a large, open-side tent, and amble over to Jake and the young actor for a whispered conversation.
He would then stroll back to his chair while another crew person announced “We’re back to one, folks” through a bullhorn.
As we neared the thirtieth take, I realized the person next to me was sighing, audibly and louder, every time the director yelled, “Cut!” Trying my best not to be obvious, I turned to see a short, dark-haired guy of about forty, dressed in khakis and a black polo shirt. He wore rimless glasses and held a black binder in one hand and a large cardboard coffee cup in the other. He was shaking his head and rolling his eyes and I was going to ask him if he was okay, but was interrupte
d by the sound of the director saying “Action” in a stage whisper that was amplified through the bullhorn.
Once again, Jake made his way across the street, saw the boy, bent down and began to perform the silk illusion. Before he was halfway through his question to the boy, he was drowned out by the director’s amplified voice yelling, “Cut!” All action ceased while the director made the long trek across the outdoor set to his two actors for another hushed conference.
“He’s trying to out-Kubrick Kubrick,” the man next to me muttered.
“Excuse me?” I asked tentatively.
“Oh, it’s these film school shits who think just because Stanley Kubrick shot a hundred takes of every shot, they have to emulate and surpass the master. Unless they leave the actors in tears, they’re not getting to the reality of the moment, or whatever the hell it is he’s looking for.” He took a sip of the coffee and then immediately spat it out. “And, to add insult to injury, this frickin’ scene—this whole frickin’ sequence—isn’t even in the script. I mean, my script.”
“So you’re the writer?” I ventured.
“Depends who you ask,” he replied as he tossed the cardboard coffee cup in a nearby trash container like he was tossing a tear gas canister into a building full of terrorists. “I’m only the one who came up with the idea, I’m only the one who did six years of research, and I’m only the one who wrote twenty drafts of the screenplay. So, yes, in some circles, I would be considered the writer. However, here,” he added, “I’m the jackass who keeps complaining.
“I’m not even allowed to stand by the monitor anymore,” he continued, gesturing across the set to the video monitors the director was studying. “Why? Because Herr Kubrick didn’t like that I kept sighing and shaking my head. And believe me, it was all I could do to limit myself to sighs and headshakes. A weaker man would have drawn blood, and not my blood I can assure you.”
