by N. C. Lewis
I sucked in my stomach, wondering whether I'd eaten too much at lunchtime. "Who is your friend?"
Peter smiled and turned to the man at his side. "This is my insect coach, Lenny Crispin."
"Peter, you have an insect coach?" I could not hide the surprise in my voice.
"Yep, got the idea from you, Ollie, your Maximum Dollar Minimum Stress coaching calls with Mr. Maxwell."
I tried to look wise, but had a foolish, baffled expression frozen on my face.
Lenny, the insect coach, spoke up. "This is a new service I'm offering to a select group of clients. Peter is among that very special group." Lenny extended his hand. It was firm, but he avoided eye contact as we shook.
"Thanks for letting me know you'll be attending the next Speaker Circle," said Peter. "My presentation on the red ant will be interactive. Lenny is helping with the preparations."
Lenny looked nervously around him. Then, in a low whisper, he mumbled, "Peter is going to take on the embodied form of the fire ant. I'm working with him, for a small additional fee, to help make the transition as lifelike as possible."
Then Lenny tilted his head to one side, and with the bravado of a salesman selling corndogs at a vegetarian convention, inquired, "Ollie, are you at all interested in insect life?" Lenny didn't wait for an answer but continued. "Peter, why don't you show Ollie part of the transformation?"
Peter reached into the sports bag and pulled out a headband with red wires sticking out the top. He placed it on his head and moved his neck slowly from side to side. The wires jiggled like leaves in a summer breeze. "Do they resemble ant antennae?"
The idea was so ludicrous I nearly laughed out loud.
"Peter, are you nuts, or am I?"
"Wait till you see this," was his reply. Again, he reached into the bag, this time pulling out a red cape embroidered with tiny ant figures. He wrapped the cape around his shoulders and opened his arms out wide. "This is only part of the transformation, Ollie, there's more to come. We are still working on that though."
At that instant, for some inexplicable reason, we fell silent and turned, as one, toward the barista. His lopsided eyes were closed, and his head tilted so his ears pointed like an electronic receiving set—in our direction. Peter's eyes grew wide as the barista's mouth opened and closed, repeating the exact same sequence of words Peter had just spoken.
After a moment or two, his carrot-shaped chin twitched with speed like a hand tuning a radio from a fading signal. Suddenly, he shook his head, opened his eyes and let out a startled gasp when he saw us staring at him. With the continuous flow of an Olympic floor gymnast he scurried to the storeroom behind the counter.
Peter, with a suspicious eye on the barista, leaned a little too close, the savory smell of brisket and barbeque sauce—his lunch—wafted into my nostrils. In a low, whispered voice, he said, "Lenny is part of the team at Mysterious Malcolm's Magical Masquerade show. He is an understudy to the great Mysterious Malcolm himself."
Lenny glowed. "Indeed, I have mastered many of the magical tricks that Malcolm performs, of course with my own personal spin."
We spoke for several minutes in hushed tones about the upcoming show. Then Peter and Lenny rose. "Got to practice now. We'll be in the alley at the side of the café if you want to watch," said Peter. No way, I thought, but kept my mouth tightly zipped for fear it would defy me and try to be nice by saying that I'd be delighted.
I waited until they were gone before getting up. The barista was still in the back storeroom when I left the café.
Into the Tahoe truck I climbed, started the engine and sat silently for a long moment, listening to the sound of my own breathing against the soft, steady, rumble of the engine. I closed my eyes, shivering at an image of Bryant Reynolds, his face beetroot red, furious at the disobedience of Liza. Opening my eyes, I peered out of the windshield. High in the sky, a tiny, scudding, black cloud temporarily blocked the sun. Somehow, I knew it was an omen of things to come.
Chapter 12
I parked the Tahoe truck in its usual spot on the dirt lot at Ealing Homestead. I walked briskly through the little iron gate and along the dirt path. There were lecture notes to prepare and student assignments to grade.
Inside, Bodie danced and pranced around my feet until I filled his food bowl. The hound devoured the food greedily, then climbed into his dog basket with a look of satisfaction on his face. He curled up and went to sleep.
I wandered around looking for things to do to avoid sitting down at the desk. After the kitchen was swept and mopped, bedsheets changed, bathroom cleaned, and living room dusted, I sat down at the office desk.
A tall stack of student assignments towered in one corner. I reached for the first paper and read. Ninety minutes later as I tallied the grade on the final student paper, the cell phone buzzed with a text message from Kidd Cole, the assistant instructor, at the dojo where I train.
Looking forward to seeing you at class on Tuesday. We are planning a special-weapons training session using the English quarterstaff. This promises to be a good one, so don't miss it.
As a student, I fought on the college karate team—which was over twenty years ago. These days, I was a little overweight, and a lot out of shape. The martial art classes were challenging, but I enjoyed them, and you never know when the skill might come in useful. I typed in my reply.
Yes, I will be at class.
Then, with my work for the day complete, I strolled through the bedroom to get ready for Mysterious Malcolm's Magical Masquerade show.
Chapter 13
It was such a lovely night, fragrant and tranquil with bright stars twinkling like glitter, in a clear Texas Hill Country sky. Large moths circled overhead, rising high then diving with their powdery wings fluttering into the attractive glow of the overhead streetlights.
I followed Johnny Spinner's instructions and pulled into the parking lot at the side of the Lilly building at 6:45 p.m. The lot was almost full, and it took several loops around to find an empty space. A small crowd of excited children and eager adults jostled their way toward the building.
The Lilly Building was a rambling, old place that had originally been a warehouse. It had been bought by the Lilly family during the 1990s and turned into an event center. But a certain seediness had begun to set in as the surrounding factories closed. There were plans on the town drawing board to regenerate the area, with upscale shops and a movie theater.
Most of the crowd walked toward the main entrance which required climbing several stairs and entering through a narrow doorway. It was a natural bottleneck which the crowd moved slowly through. There was also a wheelchair ramp at a side entrance. Several buses from nearby residential homes lined up as the occupants rolled up the ramp and into the building through the side door.
I glanced with growing frustration at the snake of people trying to squeeze through the main entrance, then across to the cluttered ramp of the doorway for the disabled. From earlier visits I knew there was an entrance toward the rear of the building.
"Better take the back door," I mumbled to myself.
Past the disabled entrance, I strolled. The pathway that led to the back of the building was well lit. I walked by a few stragglers talking into cell phones or clustered in small groups, making plans to meet up after the event was over.
The doorway at the rear was the same clay brown as the building. Two crew members—one lanky, the other short and fat—both wearing black, came out as I climbed the three or four steps to the door. For some reason I turned to look back. The crew members sloped off around a corner.
"What are you doing?"
The question came from a wild-eyed, gray-haired woman at the bottom of the stairs. At first, I thought the woman was talking to me, then I realized her head faced the two crew members.
"I don't pay you people to hang around smoking cigarettes. Get back inside and finish the job."
A shadow partially obscured the woman's face, but when she turned to look up toward the entra
nce I recognized her instantly. Rita Lilly, head of the wealthy Lilly clan, and owner of the building. She had been on the front page of the Medlin Creek Times over the last few months. Millie Watkins had even interviewed her. The woman had a reputation for a cruel mouth and a quick temper.
The crew members slouched back up toward the entrance; their rounded shoulders exaggerated the guilty glare in their eyes. "Excuse us, ma'am," said the lanky crew member, slipping past me to open the door. His short, fat colleague followed. As the door swung shut, something darted out. Small and furry—it moved so fast I only just saw it out of the corner of my eye.
"Get that rat off my property," shouted Rita Lilly as she moved toward the steps to block the creature’s progress. It looked back up the stairs to where I stood but the door was now closed, and I blocked its escape.
"It's a cat, a flea-bitten, feral cat," screamed Rita. "Get that nasty thing off my property."
The poor creature stood trembling as Rita approached it with a menacing look in her eyes. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a canister of pepper spray. "Disgusting critter—this'll teach you."
"Wait!" I shouted. "That's not a cat—it's a kitten." It was a tiny, underfed, disheveled, ginger-and-white kitten, and it trembled with fear at the menacing approach of Rita Lilly.
Rita hesitated.
Kneeling, I called it softly. "Over here kitty, over here."
The kitten's huge, dark eyes filled with terror. It glanced toward Rita, then toward me, and back to Rita again. Suddenly, it darted up the stairs and into my arms. It was as light as a feather and trembling so hard I thought the pitiful thing might fall apart. I clutched it close to my chest making soothing noises.
"What's the meaning of this?" demanded Rita, stomping up the steps toward me. "I don't allow cats on my property."
Again, I repeated, "Mrs. Lilly, it's not a cat. It's a tiny kitten, and it's terrified."
"I don't care what it is, get it off my land." Rita reached for the door handle. As the door swung open, she turned back and glared. "As for you," she raised a bony finger, "you are banned from this property."
I didn't waste time wondering what Mrs. Lilly was sour about. Down the steps I hurried, and back around to the side of the building and onto the car lot to find my vehicle. Talking softly and cooing to calm it down, I placed the kitten into the cat crate, poured out water from a bottle into a bowl, and opened a tin of kitten-formula food scooping it into the other bowl. "I'll drop you off at Augustine Granger's place tonight," I whispered into its fearful eyes.
The poor thing was devouring the food when I closed the door and turned back toward the Lilly building. Despite Rita Lilly's angry words, I was determined to see Mysterious Malcolm's Magical Masquerade. Tonight was my evening off, and I would not be denied.
Chapter 14
Crowds in the hundreds converged at the entrance. Dressed in bright colors and yapping into their cell phones, eager, expectant people poured through the lobby into the auditorium. It seemed everyone was gossiping about the show and celebrating an evening off work, thrilled at the fun to come. Swept along by the excited throng, I barely had time to process what had happened earlier.
The cell phone buzzed. I glanced at it. A message from Millie Watkins blinked across the screen.
Ollie, where are you? Speaker Circle members are on row one, center aisle. I've saved you a seat, you won't believe this, right next to Rita Lilly, the owner of the building!
I let out an exasperated sigh as the river of bodies pushed me into the auditorium.
Along a bustling aisle toward the front of the theater, I proceeded. Progress was halting as people peered at row numbers under the dim, houselights.
"Over here." Millie waved as I approached the first row. Roger Romantic, Bob Lukey, Peter Travis, and other members of the Speaker Circle chatted in eager anticipation of the show. My heart did a little dance of fear as I made my way over to my friends. Fortunately, Rita Lilly, the building owner, was not in her seat.
The lights dimmed, and there was a rumble of thunder through the speaker system and Mysterious Malcolm's Magical Masquerade show began.
A bright, white spotlight shone on the center of the stage, illuminating a mature woman dressed as a cowgirl. "Let’s chaw the rag," she said, waving her arms around in a welcoming fashion. It was Rita Lilly. "Tonight, the Lilly Building is proud to present an evening of illusion and mystery with world-renowned magician and entertainer to the stars, Malcolm Maskerlyne."
Two dancing cowgirls pranced onto the stage, bopping and jigging. They waved the audience onto their feet to the upbeat strains of Alan Jackson's Chattahoochee. The crowd shuffled and stomped, singing the chorus, as one.
The lights dimmed again, this time to almost blackness. A red spotlight darted across the stage. It settled on the center, illuminating the head of a figure dressed in black. Despite the heavy makeup, and fiery, red eyes, there was little doubt it was the man with the salt-and-pepper curls. I let out a gasp of surprise mingled with delight.
"I'm Malcolm Maskerlyne, known the world over as Mysterious Malcolm. Welcome to my show," boomed the head. It began a slow three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, a broad grin etched on the lips. Then it spun faster, a look of surprise on the face, then faster yet, until it was spinning so fast the head was a blur, only the mouth and eyes—wide open and laughing—were visible. There was a boom and a flash like lightning, and Malcolm Maskerlyne was gone.
He appeared an instant later, on the far left of the stage. Now, he was wearing a top hat and tails. His left hand encased in a white glove held a black-and-silver cane. His right hand held a cigar. His eyes, bright and white, looked in eager anticipation at the stick. It broke free from his hand and tapped a little jig around the stage as an instrumental version of "Everybody Loves My Baby" played softly in the background. Mysterious Malcolm clicked his fingers, and the cane disappeared.
Next, he brought the cigar to his mouth, inhaled, and to my utter astonishment, breathed out a torrent of flames that spelled the words Medlin Creek. The audience rose to their feet clapping and hollering.
Mysterious Malcolm raised his hands in acknowledgment. There was a loud clap like thunder, and a white flash like lightning, and he appeared on the right side of the stage—this time wearing a flowing robe with a big, white turban on his head.
"I want seven children to come onstage now," he said in a deep, rich, booming voice.
The lanky crew member appeared at the front of the stage. Behind him stood the short, fat crew member. There was a rustle of tiny feet as a horde of children broke free from their parents and rushed toward the stage. The tall, lanky crew member had difficulty holding the yelling children back, while the short, fat crew member selected seven candidates to go up onstage.
The children stood on either side of the robe-clad magician. From a plant pot placed on a little table, he placed a pinch of soil into the palm of his hand. As the children looked on, he closed his hand tight and mumbled some words. When he opened his hand, it held gold coins—chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil—which he handed out. The children squealed and clapped in delight as they gobbled down the tasty treat.
Once the children had returned to their seats, Mysterious Malcolm walked casually to the middle of the stage and sat on a tall stool. The lights went dim, and he spoke, again in a rich, deep sage-like voice, "Got a headache? This is what I do to feel better." He lifted his head from his body. As his head floated away, it nodded and winked at the audience. Then both the head and body disappeared, and the auditorium lights dipped into total darkness.
Mysterious Malcolm's voice boomed into the pitch-black, "Here is my lovely assistant, Luxurious Liza."
A spotlight illuminated Liza. She stood with her weight on one hip, in a glittering catsuit, the soft spotlight turning her beautiful form into a Renaissance work of art. The audience let out a gasp of awe at the real-life, Paris-catwalk beauty before their eyes. I gasped too, although more in jealousy.
Su
ddenly, Liza had two flaming rods in her hands. They crackled and hissed, throwing out their bright light into the gloom of the auditorium. Mysterious Malcolm took the first flaming rod, then the second, and plunged both deep into his throat. The sound of an angry hiss emanated through the auditorium. He staggered backwards as if stricken by a fatal blow. Gasps and cries went up from the crowd. A drum beat frantically from behind the stage, and Mysterious Malcolm turned to face the audience with a huge smile on his face.
Next, Luxurious Liza picked up two swords and swung them in the air. The whooshing sound was clearly audible and held a hint of menace. She struck the swords together with a resounding clatter. I jumped. Mysterious Malcolm took the swords, and in a move almost too incredible to believe, plunged them deep into his throat, together. Again, he twirled around, staggered, as a drum beat fanatically in the background. Then slowly, he withdrew the swords and with arms outstretched bowed in acknowledgment of the audience. The crowd roared with a mixture of appreciation and relief as Mysterious Malcolm tipped his head back and laughed a deep, rumbling laugh.
Now, came the most astonishing part of the show. Luxurious Liza climbed into a large wicker basket. Several members of the audience came forward to examine the basket. They did so thoroughly. Satisfied the basket only held Liza they returned to their seats.
Mysterious Malcolm placed a cloth over the basket covering it entirely. He mumbled some magical words, then with swift hands tore off the sheet. Luxurious Liza was gone.
Next, he covered the basket, this time walking around all four sides and reciting words in a foreign language. Abruptly, he stopped at one side of the basket, spread his arms out wide, and the sheet began to rise toward the heavens. Mysterious Malcolm watched it for several seconds, then with a quick snap of his fingers it disappeared.
The crowd let out a wild cry of surprise as there in the basket stood a peach tree in full bloom laden with fruit. Again, Malcolm made the call for children to come onstage. This time without restriction to numbers. They surged forward each with a little wicker basket. While the children picked the fruit, two dancers performed acrobatic tumbles.
