The Linking Rings

by John Gaspard

  The host nodded in agreement as I got up and started to cross the room toward the television.

  “Of course,” Jake continued, “on the other hand, maybe your card is the leader of the pack. In that case, it’s easier to simply make the entire pack change color.”

  With that, he picked up the tabled deck, flipped it over, and spread the cards, revealing that the deck now had the same color backs as the host’s card. The audience did more than “ooh” at this revelation—they practically screamed before breaking into thunderous applause.

  I was standing in front of the TV now, staring at Jake as he smiled his million-dollar smile at the camera, and then turned and smirked at the audience as they applauded. I pivoted slowly and looked at all the magicians in the room. They were staring at me, clearly wondering what was wrong.

  “That’s my routine,” I finally said when I found my voice. “He stole my routine.”

  Chapter 7

  If you ever want to grab the attention of a room full of magicians, the only four words you need to utter are “He stole my routine.”

  I turned back to the TV screen and watched as Jake completed the final phases of my trick, feeling a little woozy as I came to the realization that one of my signature bits was being broadcast throughout Great Britain. And I was not the magician performing it.

  “That’s your routine?” Roy Templeton asked as Jake wrapped up the trick, revealing that—like a well-trained dog—the chosen card had learned to roll over in the middle of the deck.

  “Well, it is, admittedly, a pretty standard Ambitious Card routine. And I’m sure others have done the ‘a pack of cards is like a pack of dogs’ analogy,” I said. “But those are my variations, and that’s my patter, almost word for word. The thing is, I never published it or recorded it, so I’m not sure how he...”

  I let the words trail off as a fuzzy recollection began to form in my brain. While I struggled to retrieve it from the depths of my memory, the other magicians in the room began discussing the implications of my accusation.

  “Oh, that’s low, very low,” Roy Templeton said, patting my back paternally.

  “All it takes is one bad apple,” Laurence Baxter agreed.

  “Completely extraneous,” Angus said in a low growl and then noticed everyone was now staring at him. He thought back on what he had said and then quickly amended it. “Egregious,” he said with a nod of comprehension. “I mean it’s completely egregious.”

  “Oh, such a bad, bad thing to do,” Hector Hechizo added, shaking his head ruefully.

  Davis De Vries, who had apparently booked Jake to perform at the unveiling of his Catherine Wheel illusion, was gnawing on a fingernail and looking nearly as white as his hair.

  While the others continued to commiserate on my behalf, I had a sudden realization.

  “It was at the reunion,” I said, turning to Harry. “Remember when Jake was in town for our high school reunion?” Harry nodded in agreement, and I turned to the rest of the group. “I did that trick at our reunion, in front of him. In fact, as I remember it, he was dying after botching Vernon’s Triumph, and I stepped in and saved his ass with my Ambitious Dog routine. And now he goes and steals it...”

  I looked back at the TV, which was now onto another show. But that didn’t mitigate the anger I felt.

  “You’ll have to take him to task on this, Buster,” Harry said. “Take him to task, and I mean pronto. We all know what happens if you let this sort of thing drag on, right?”

  He turned to his peers, and they all nodded in agreement.

  “Or it will be Archie Banks all over again,” Borys suggested. His comment was greeted with more vigorous nods and grunts of approval.

  “Who’s Archie Banks?” I asked, although there was something vaguely familiar about the name.

  “He was one of the Magi with all of us, early on,” Harry explained. “A talented man, but sadly he possessed a tendency toward performance larceny. On a grand scale.”

  “He was a tosser,” Angus added. “Stole with both hands, didn’t care from who. A real pyromaniac.”

  “Kleptomaniac,” Harry corrected.

  “Whatever.” Angus took another long sip, clearly disgusted we’d raised the memory of Archie Banks.

  “He stole my book test, word for word, and that was the jewel of my act,” Borys said, starting to fume at the memory.

  “He copied three of my best big-box illusions, really smart stuff,” De Vries added, a little relieved, I think, the subject had veered away from Jake North. “Not only copied them for his act, but then he had the temerity to sell knockoff copies as well. And then, to add insult to injury, he accused me of stealing the ideas from him!”

  “The SOB even snuck in and nicked my best ad libs, choice stuff,” Roy said as Baxter refilled his glass.

  “Well, with any luck, Eli’s current situation can be resolved with less acrimony,” Baxter said as he continued around the room, refilling glasses. “And certainly less bloodshed.”

  That got my attention. “Bloodshed?” I said, looking from Baxter to Harry for some clarification. The two men exchanged looks and reached a soundless decision as to who would provide the explanation.

  “Sadly,” Harry said, “Archie Banks died. A failed failed suicide attempt.”

  That phrasing struck me as odd. “A failed failed suicide attempt,” I repeated slowly. “But wouldn’t that mean he survived?”

  “Only if his goal was to kill himself,” Harry said.

  “Are there other goals in a suicide of which I’m unaware?” I asked, feeling like we were headed into some sort of morbid Who’s On First routine.

  “The feeling at the time was Archie was only attempting suicide, with the goal of being prevented before the act was completed,” Baxter explained.

  “God knows he had tried it before, always pulling out at the last second,” Harry mused.

  “I remember he called me once, middle of the bleeding night, said he had taken a handful of pills,” Angus said, shaking his head at the memory.

  “He was going to jump off a bridge. He was going to shoot himself. He was thinking of hanging himself,” Roy continued, ticking off each method with his fingers. “Got so annoying, I was ready to do the deed myself.”

  This brought the group up short. Realizing the implications of what he had just said, Roy laughed it off. “But you know me, my follow through is rubbish.”

  “Unfortunately, in this one instance, Archie was not stopped and was, therefore, successful in his suicide,” Harry added. “But unsuccessful in his suicide attempt.”

  “A failed failed suicide attempt,” I repeated quietly, right on the edge of understanding. “How did he do it? What method...?”

  “Gas,” Harry said. “He had expected his girlfriend to come home and discover him in time. And, as luck—or fate—would have it, she didn’t. Instead, she found Archie with his head in the oven and a suicide note on the kitchen table.”

  “Yikes,” I said.

  “Yikes indeed,” Laurence Baxter agreed, taking a slow sip from his drink.

  “That poor woman,” Harry said quietly.

  “I didn’t even know he was dating anyone,” De Vries added. “Very private type, Archie Banks. Secrets within secrets, that sort of thing.”

  “I never met her, but he claimed she was quite a looker,’” Angus confided to me quietly. “He said she hailed from Australia, you know, down under. Met her on a cruise gig or some such thing. But, if you ask me, I think it was just a cover.”

  I looked over at him, not fully understanding his words.

  “Wouldn’t have been surprised,” he said, his voice getting even lower, “if Archie worked both sides of the street, if you get my meaning.” This was followed by a very deliberate wink.

  “He blamed us all,” Roy Templeton said loudly, pulling me back into the main
conversation. Roy switched off the television.

  “He steals from us, and it’s our fault he gets kicked out of The Magic Circle? Preposterous!” De Vries said, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had added an indignant “harrumph” to the end of his statement.

  “I’m not saying his feelings were reasonable,” Roy replied. “But he was essentially blackballed by the industry and couldn’t work.”

  “A man like that, without honor, he does not deserve to be a magician,” Borys said, setting his teacup down.

  “No honor,” Hector agreed. “No honor at all.”

  We all sat silently for several minutes. Some of us were doubtless considering the sad fate of Archie Banks.

  However, nothing that profound was occupying my mind.

  I was thinking about inventive and painful ways to kill Jake North.

  The old guys were longtime drinkers, professionals really, far more skilled than me. So I don’t think any of them were surprised when I excused myself early, begging off for some much-needed sleep.

  “We’ll figure out a plan of action in the morning, don’t you worry,” Harry said as I got up to leave. “Jake won’t get away with this.”

  This statement was greeted with echoes of agreement throughout the room, and I was pleased this kerfuffle with Jake—annoying as it was—appeared to have taken my uncle’s mind off his current standing as suspect number one with Scotland Yard. While I appreciated his concern, my issue with Jake was small potatoes compared to a potential murder charge. I vowed that the next day—in addition to tracking down Jake and telling him off in the strongest possible terms—I would make some progress on clearing Harry of any and all charges.

  As I made my way through the massive house toward the sleeping quarters, I was reminded of Harry’s earlier comment to our host about the need to leave a trail of bread crumbs to find your way back to your room. The layout wasn’t all that byzantine, but it was dark, the path was a bit twisty, and I had consumed enough port to be feeling its effects on my already jet-lagged motor skills.

  This was, of course, really no excuse, but it did help explain why I yelped like a frightened dog when I rounded a corner and found myself face-to-face with the daunting Miss Hess.

  “Looking for your room?” A simple enough phrase, but it came out of her mouth with such a wave of menace I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Not only stand up but start to pack their bags and update their passports.

  “Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I know where it is. Just headed there now,” I added, as I sidestepped around her. “Thanks, have a good night. See you in the morning,” I added for some inane reason.

  “Be careful in the dark,” she said as she turned the corner. “We wouldn’t want any accidents, would we now?”

  I was surprised Megan wasn’t in our room when I finally found it, but she showed up minutes later as I was beginning to get dressed for bed. I recognized instantly she had consumed much more alcohol than I had.

  “Did you have any idea how much Roxanne hates Laurence Baxter?” were the first words out of her mouth. I jumped up from the task of removing my shoes and rushed to shut the heavy door behind her before she could head any further down that particular train of thought.

  “I mean, she loathes him,” Megan went on, not adjusting her volume despite my obvious steps to minimize just how far her voice might carry.

  “I’ve suspected as much,” I replied quietly, hoping she might get the hint and modulate her volume. “She jokes about it, but there’s always a bit of a bite behind those jokes. There are a number of the Magi who she doesn’t seem to care for, but she’s saved the strongest vitriol for poor Baxter.”

  “Tell me about it,” Megan said, sitting on the bed a little harder than she had anticipated. “What did he ever do to her?”

  “I think it has more to do with what he may or may not have done to her husband,” I said, again demonstrating a volume level I was hoping she would imitate. “Early in their careers, they were both up for some of the same gigs, and Laurence always seemed to be the one to get them.”

  I sat down in a nearby chair and continued the process of removing my shoes.

  “Which happens all the time with magicians,” I said. “I mean, there are only so many jobs to go around.”

  “However,” I continued, struggling with an obstinate shoelace knot that refused to come undone, “Roy Templeton and Laurence Baxter’s acts are so radically different, I find it hard to believe they were ever really going head-to-head. But there is no denying Baxter’s level of success has clearly eclipsed Roy’s—and everyone else’s for that matter.”

  I achieved victory with the knot on the left shoe, and it looked like the right shoe wasn’t going to be nearly as difficult. Until it was.

  “I think it’s true of all the Magi, because they were all coming up around the same time,” I said, tugging at the lace, which only made things worse. “They were all young and hungry and jostling for the same opportunities. Some people did better than others. Resentments were formed. Jealousies developed. And a few of them have held onto their bitterness longer than others.”

  The last of the troublesome knots finally unfurled, and I pulled off both shoes, feeling like I had won a contest of some kind.

  “Of course,” I went on, “Harry has always said if he had lost all the jobs he got in his career and had gotten all the jobs he’d lost, he would basically have had the same career. I guess things just work out the way they work out.”

  Sadly, Megan missed these last meaty morsels of wisdom. When I looked up from my completed task, she was sleeping soundly on the bed, blissfully uncaring that both her shoes were still firmly on her feet.

  I removed her shoes with envious ease and then repositioned her on the bed so her head was at least in the vicinity of her pillow. Then I covered her with a blanket, got into my pajamas, and fell asleep moments later.

  I woke up once in the middle of the night, and the house was dead quiet. I wouldn’t realize until morning what an apt description that turned out to be.

  Chapter 8

  The “casual” lunch Laurence Baxter had offered the day before had me anticipating what breakfast might be like from the moment I woke up. I doubted the traditional English breakfast atrocity I had undergone at Fawlty Towers would be duplicated in these more posh surroundings. And, once again, Baxter and his staff did not disappoint.

  When we found our way to breakfast, Megan made a beeline for a cup of coffee, as she was still feeling the effects of her late-night girl-chat session with Roxanne. Uncle Harry, Hector, and De Vries were all seated around the table, each working on breakfasts in various stages of completion. I was just pulling up a chair when Laurence came in, dressed like the country gentleman he was (or at least, had become), a newspaper folded neatly under his arm.

  “Ah, the dead awaken,” he said with great cheer when he saw me and Megan. He placed the newspaper at the head of the table and walked to the swinging door in the kitchen, opening it just enough to speak into it. “Two more for breakfast, Gwen,” he said and then turned back at the sound of other people entering the room—the Templetons and Angus Bishop, all looking to be in about the same shape as Megan. “Strike that, five more,” Baxter said. “And more coffee, by the looks of it. Lots more coffee.”

  For a moment I tried to picture what it would take to fit a crowd of this size for breakfast in my small apartment and realized I easily could accomplish it, as long as guests were willing to eat in shifts of two at a time. Baxter’s table was set for twelve, and even with nine of us in the room, the space didn’t feel the least bit cramped.

  “Gwen will be out in a moment to take your breakfast orders,” Baxter said as he took his place at the head of the table. “As you can see,” he continued, gesturing at the folks already eating the food in front of them, “Cook can throw together just about anything your heart
desires.”

  He looked more closely at what Harry, De Vries, and Hector were eating. “Anything from steak and eggs...to a traditional English breakfast...to...I’ll just say it’s something Spanish involving eggs and cheese, am I right Hector?”

  Hector was in the middle of chewing, but he nodded enthusiastically.

  I glanced at Harry’s steak and eggs—which would never have been allowed back home in Franny’s kitchen, given his cholesterol levels—and then stole a peek at De Vries’ traditional English breakfast. I was prepared for the worst, but unlike the freak show I’d been served earlier in the week, what I saw on his plate not only looked edible but actually quite enticing.

  The eggs were poached perfectly, the bacon looked crunchy and inviting, the toast was browned impeccably, the tomatoes looked appealing, and even the dollop of baked beans didn’t seem entirely out of place on the fine bone-china plate. The contrast with my first encounter with the traditional English breakfast could not have been starker. The version Baxter was serving looked like it had been created for a high-end gourmet cooking show. The one I had been served earlier in the week was more suitable for a horror film.

  My decision made, I took a seat and poured myself some orange juice. Then, when the young maid, Gwendolyn, asked me what I would like for breakfast, I happily announced to one and all that I would like the traditional English breakfast, thank you very much. This was, as it turned out, a bigger deal to me than anyone else, and soon the conversation turned to that night’s show at The Magic Circle.

  “My understanding is we are safe to continue our week-long Magi Festival this evening,” Baxter said as he buttered a piece of toast taken from an odd device on the table in front of him. It looked to be made of metal, and it secured each singular piece of bread in its own tiny toast corral. As he was the head of the club’s board, I sensed this decision to resume the shows was actually his to make. But I guessed he wanted to give the impression he was just one of the guys, and no one seemed to want to contradict him on this, even though everyone knew he wasn’t.