The Magician's Tale

by William Bayer

  "You were told—no interviews."

  Vasquez starts up the front steps. I focus my camera ready to catch him when he turns.

  "We've already talked to Hale, Ricky, Wainy, and Jack," Joel says. "Only fair you get a chance to tell your side."

  Vasquez wheels, furious.

  Whap! My strobe glints off his glasses.

  "Bastards!" The word comes out of him in a hiss.

  "What's the problem, Lieutenant? We're going to write about this whether you cooperate or not."

  "You're scum! Get out!"

  Whap!Whap! Got him twice more!

  "'Journalist scum." Joel scribbles in his notebook. "Sir, can we quote you on that?"

  Vasquez squints at me. "Who're you?"

  "She's—"

  I wave Joel off. "Kay Farrow, Jack Farrow's daughter."

  Vasquez stares hard at me, like he's photographing me with his eyes.

  "Your dad ought to spank your behind," he whispers, with an intensity that makes me tremble. Then he mounts the last two steps, enters his house and slams the door.

  "He's bad," I tell Joel.

  We're sitting in a bar on Church Street, the nearest one to Vasquez's house. I'm still shaking from the confrontation. Joel's trying to calm me down.

  "I know what he said degraded you, Kay. But put it in context. How'd you feel if someone stuck a flash camera in your face?"

  "I'm not talking about being degraded."

  "What is it then?"

  "He's a bad cop."

  "Come on! He's head of Felony Prostitution. How bad can he be?"

  "I don't care what he's head of," I say. "I've known cops all my life. I know what they're like. He's got bad cops' eyes. Hale, Ricky, and Wainy didn't. They were only nuts."

  Joel spreads his hands. "I'll give it a couple days, write him a note, see if he's changed his mind about an interview."

  "He won't answer. Then you'll want to talk to Dad?"

  Joel meets my eyes. "Don't you think I should, kiddo?"

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The time has come to see the Judge. It's been a long while since we've exchanged a word. My only sight of him has been through the lens of my telescope. As far as I know, he has not seen me.

  I receive the summons midmorning. The phone rings, I pick it up, hear his voice. No secretary or clerk on first to announce the call, just that voice flowing from the receiver like rich warm honey. Hearing it, I feel my heart speed up.

  "I've missed you, Kay."

  It's the composed, rational, mellifluous voice that becalms all passion, melts all rage. A touch of cheer in it too. Today he's at his best, not judicial, stentorian or pompous. I hear the voice of the man I loved, the man who loved me, then betrayed me without even understanding how he had.

  "I need your wisdom," he says. "I'd like to see you, tomorrow evening if possible. But if you don't feel up to it, or would rather postpone . . . of course I understand."

  He wants my wisdom! Sweet Jesus!

  He was always good at this, making me feel special, singled out from the multitude. To tell me I am among those few to whom he would turn for counsel is to make me feel exalted.

  We make a date. I will come to his home at six tomorrow for a drink. He would make it for tonight if it weren't for the County Trial Attorneys Roast or some such affair.

  "Justice, remember, Kay, is also politics," he reminds me.

  "Yes, I remember," I tell him . . . and think: You taught me so much.

  I have trouble concentrating on Sasha when he comes—for this is the night I am to tie him up. Rope trick, rope trick—the words keep flashing through my brain. I seem to be getting things mixed up: my sex life, bondage, trickery, David deGeoffroy and his magic show. Am I so confused I feel tied in knots? Or am I merely haunted by the image of a shower of dismembered limbs?

  Thankfully I recover my concentration. Then Sasha and I start having fun. Wanting my bindings to be symbolic, I toss the ropes away.

  "I'm not going to tie you," I tell him. "Tonight your shackles shall be composed of will."

  He loves the discipline of the exercise, revels in it, thrashing and squirming as I gnaw. When he can't stand it anymore, dares to remove his wrists from the headboard, I admonish him ("Naughty, naughty!"), place his hands back where they belong and recommence the torturous raptures I'm inflicting upon his dusky flesh.

  "You're terrible, Kay. Wicked!"

  How can I not adore a man who calls me that?

  "Yes, a love witch!"

  I lap at the precise spot where he relishes it most and can endure it least.

  "Lord Vishnu, save me!"

  It's an act, but such a delightful one. We finally break down into giggles.

  Normally I care nothing about clothes, but here I am before the mirror nervously trying on combinations. Should I go as funky urban artist? The Judge used to like that look. How about stylish fashion photographer? That's how I was dressed the first time we met. Ingenue, the kid he fell for? I can probably put together a schoolgirl's outfit if I try.

  I'm disgusted with myself for being so indecisive, though I know this is how people behave when they're dressing to meet an old lover for a drink. We want to make ourselves as attractive as possible in the hope that he/she will feel a twinge of regret. Could the Judge be worrying about his wardrobe too? No, not him; he's too confident and mature.

  I finally decide on my "fine dining" outfit: black silk pants and blouse, black pumps, concha belt, silver earrings plus my liquid silver necklace from Santa Fe. I look good, I think, checking myself out before I leave. Actually it's hard for me to dress badly, since everything I own now is black, white or gray. Something I learned the hard way after years of making a fool of myself choosing clashing colors and wearing mismatched socks.

  Darkness comes early these late-autumn days. I take a Union Street bus up to Grant. When I get off it's just six o'clock. Thinking it better not to arrive on time, I kill five minutes in an antique store, then meander north via Lombard toward his building on Telegraph Hill, catching the aroma of wild fennel and resin from the conifers and Monterey cypresses that surround Coit Tower.

  The Judge's condo comprises the fourth floor and penthouse of a gray stone building, its facade broken by finely detailed bays.

  Ascending, I notice lush new carpeting on the stairs. My pulse, I note, is steady. Pausing at the third-floor landing, I take the measure of my sangfroid. No gloss on my forehead, no trembling in my limbs. Excellent! Even though I feel vulnerable (this being one of those few occasions when I've chosen to go out without my camera), I also feel strong.

  He's waiting for me in his doorway. Sparkling eyes, cleft chin, sleek combed-back hair. His neck is perhaps a bit more leathery than before, but that's appropriate for an ex-marine. The gray zone in his hair has expanded up his temples, but that only adds to the clubman appeal. He wears a dark blazer, chevron tie, striped shirt with pure white collar. Perfectly creased slacks, glowing shoes—he's the very image of a Man of Distinction stepping out of a Scotch whiskey ad.

  "Kay!

  He gently pulls me to him, kisses me lightly on the lips.

  "Been too long. So great to see you." He stands back. "You're looking great too!"

  Dare I blush!

  We take the spiral staircase up to the penthouse. The large Japanese plum blossom screen still adorns one wall, the Khmer bronze stands safe in its niche. The Judge, a collector of Far Eastern antiquities, heads the accession committee at the Asian Art Museum

  He uncorks a bottle of Napa Valley Cabernet, pours us each a glass, then slides open the terrace doors. I step out, go immediately to the railing. He follows, stands beside me. The sky is black, the air clear, horizon broken by the elegant outline of the Golden Gate Bridge, its traffic flowing like a distant molten river in the night.

  We stand in silence. I search Russian Hill, find my building, then the window through which I regularly aim my telescope. In his living room I noticed a small spotting scope on a tripod. I w
onder: Does he ever use it to snoop on me?

  "The view hasn't changed," I say. "The air here's sweet as ever."

  "Have you?" he asks. I turn to him. "Changed?"

  "I hope so." I peer at him. "How about you?"

  He gives the matter judicial consideration. "I hope so too." Then gently: "Do you have a lover, Kay?" A little taken aback, I admit that I do. He nods wistfully. "Lucky guy."

  "What are you telling me?" I ask.

  "What I told you on the phone—that I've missed you. I loved you dearly, Kay. I'm sure I always will."

  Not knowing how to respond, I merely nod. "Do you ever look over at my place?" I ask. "I look over here all the time."

  He smiles, shakes his head. "I try not to indulge myself. Better to steer clear of might-have-beens." He smiles again. "But if occasionally my eyes do fall upon your windows, I always tip my hat . . . even when I'm not wearing one." He raises his hand to eye level to show me how he does it.

  We go back inside. I sit down. He refills my glass, takes a seat on the opposing couch.

  "Tell me what you've been up to?" he asks, in a manner so sweet and avuncular I let down my guard.

  I tell him about my investigations into the old T case, my worries about Dad, that he may have been involved in something illegal. The Judge listens intently as I speak. At one point he gets up to turn on the exquisite Japanese lanterns that line the room.

  I lean forward. "If it turns out there was obstruction of justice and Dad was involved . . . I guess what I'm asking is—can what I'm doing get him in trouble?"

  Manicured fingers stroke the square cleft chin. "You're asking a legal question, Kay. I'm not your lawyer. I'm a federal judge."

  "But surely you can tell me the law."

  "I can . . . but should I? Is that really what you need from me tonight?" He pauses. "I think you need another kind of counsel. You want to know whether you should go ahead no matter the risk. Not the legal risk, but the risk to your integrity. Personal integrity's very important to you— I remember that."

  "I was brought up to believe it's the most important thing about a person."

  "Which is why I—" He smiles. "But I already told you."

  Which is why I loved you. Is that what he doesn't want to say again?

  "Nearly every lesson Dad taught had to do with truth and honor. There was one. . ." I tell the Judge the story, a bedside tale from my youth:

  A man was sent out on a treasure hunt, the kind where you find a note that gives clues to the position of the next note, and so on, until finally you locate the treasure. In Dad's story the hunt takes up most of the hero's life. He is told that when he finds the treasure he will discover "the most valuable thing in all the world."

  The man travels the globe, works out the clues, finds note after note, and after twenty years ends up less than a mile from where he started out. The last clue takes him to a rock beneath which, he's been promised, he'll finally find the treasure.

  He lifts the rock, digs beneath it, down five feet, ten, fifteen, but finds nothing. Feeling he's been tricked, he flings himself upon the ground. Then he notices that something's been carved on the bottom of the rock. Excited, he adjusts it to catch the light. There are five letters inscribed: T-R-U-T-H. Truly "the most valuable thing in all the world."

  The Judge laughs. "Your dad's great. That's a terrific story. And I think in it you may find your answer too. You were taught that seeking the truth is a lifetime's work. I think you must pursue it now no matter how the chips may fall."

  He's good tonight, the Judge is. I always thought he'd have made a great teacher. Now that he's shown me my answer lies within my query, I'm reminded of something similar Maddy once said: "We take pictures to discover what we can't see, the truth invisible to our naked eyes."

  "You make it sound so simple," I tell him.

  He smiles. "Most solutions are. Still I think you should consult a lawyer. I can give you several names. There may be some way of handling this whereby, depending on the outcome, the damage won't be too great."

  I thank him. We fall into silence. I'm waiting for him to tell me why he called. When he doesn't, I ask: "That business about needing my wisdom—you were joking, of course."

  He smiles again. "Perhaps wisdom wasn't the right word. Compassion—that's closer to what I meant."

  More silence.

  "I don't understand."

  He looks slightly nervous now. "You're involved in something, Kay—something you may have misunderstood."

  I tighten. "If this is about—"

  "Please!" He raises his hand. "No names. We can only speak of this if we don't use names. Agreed?"

  I stare at him. "If that's how you want it." I take a deep breath. "What have I misunderstood?"

  "It's not so simple. . . ."

  "Most solutions are," I remind him.

  He looks grim. I think: This may be the only time I've seen him at a loss for words.

  "Sometimes people engage in acts," he says, "acts that may strike others as wrong, immoral, but which are not as they appear. I mean, who among us has the right—" He smiles. "Pretty funny, I guess, coming from a judge. What I'm getting at, Kay, is . . . well, suppose someone takes a benign interest in a class of deprived young people who are living in a way we can't even imagine . . ."

  "Benign?"

  "You're smirking. Have I said something wrong?"

  "I don't mean to smirk, but what you're saying is absurd."

  "Look, I know what you think, but believe me, you've got it wrong. It's a matter of preferences, nothing more."

  "Just preferences? Are you sure?"

  "People like that, prominent people, don't relish having their private lives spread out for all to see. So, sometimes, they'll act in a self-protective manner, which, if you look at it from their point of view, makes perfect sense."

  "Just self-protective—is that really what you think?"

  "Wait a minute, please."

  "No, you wait." I stand. "I can't believe this, can't believe it. We're not talking about the same people. We can't be. If you'd only come out straight and say their names."

  He shakes his head.

  "Right. . . ." I move to the bronze Khmer figure, stare into its expressionless face. "You're the one's got it wrong." I wheel, face him. "I've been beaten! My life's been threatened! Do you know that? Did they tell you that?"

  He stares at me. "If that's true—"

  "It is."

  "Then my advice is go to the D.A.'s people, tell them your story, leave it in their hands."

  "I can't do that yet. I've got no proof."

  A thin smile. Now he must feel he has the upper hand. "That could mean there's nothing to be proven."

  "There's plenty."

  "Then let the justice system take its course. For your own safety, Kay, stop playing Private Eye."

  I nod, walk over to the plum blossom screen; note the austere elegance of the design.

  "I guess I don't really like that advice," I tell him.

  He's surprised. "It's good counsel."

  "'Playing Private Eye'—for me this isn't a game."

  "I didn't mean to diminish—"

  "I'm a photojournalist. A terrible crime's been committed. I'm investigating it. It's the subject of my book." I turn to him. "In your eyes I guess I'm still the pretty little art student with the too-big camera around her neck."

  "I didn't mean to make you angry."

  "Who says I am? Though I admit the last time we met I was."

  "Because I had a meaningless fling with someone who meant nothing to me?"

  "Because you made me feel meaningless. You still don't understand."

  "You left me. I got my punishment."

  "I got mine too . . . because I missed you more than I like to say."

  "Look, Kay, I never claimed to be a paragon." He shakes his head. "I'm human, flesh and blood, with frailties like everyone else. You held me to a standard I couldn't meet. That was your verdict. Painful as it was,
I had to accept it."

  "Which is why I forgave you," I tell him, though his comments remind me so strongly of Sarah Lashaw's mea culpa I feel sick. "The person you showed me wasn't the person I wanted to be with, so for me it had to end. And, admit it—you were starting to get tired of me anyway. I wasn't getting younger. Yet you gave me so much that for all my anger I still treasured you in my heart."

  God! I didn't come here to say all this. What kind of damn hole am I digging for myself?

  "Listen," I tell him, "a few moments ago you shushed me. That hurt. I want to discuss this thing up front. I want to tell you my side of it. Then I want your advice."

  He looks scared. "Don't!"

  I stare at him. "You mean that?" When he nods, I nod back casually, my heart sinking inside.

  He relaxes, smiles. We talk about our careers. I ask him if there's still a possibility he may move up to the appellate court.

  "There's a chance I may move even higher," he says smoothly. "For obvious reasons I can't say more."

  I nod. I'm satisfied. He has disappointed me, perhaps as I hoped he would. He has failed my integrity test, placed ambition above loyalty, making it possible for me to feel released. No longer need I long for him, wonder which pretty young woman he has lately seduced. And if he should manage to earn the high judicial appointment he seeks, I will hold close my knowledge that his rectitude's a sham.

  "Have you ever been compromised?" I ask him boldly.

  He stares at me as if I'm mad. "What kind of awful question is that?"

  I meet his eyes. "Sorry. I just wondered, in view of what you've said. I mean, these people are your friends, you're in their circle. They're wealthy. They have political clout. Perhaps they checked around, found out we were once lovers, so they decided to approach you, persuade you to intervene."

  "Act as a conciliator in a dispute between friends. Nothing wrong with that."

  "No, except they lied to you, tried to use you. I'd think that'd make you mad. But it doesn't seem to have had any effect, which tells me you believe their phony story—whatever it is."

  "I don't take sides, Kay."

  "That's right, you're a judge. And Justice is also politics."