The Linking Rings

by John Gaspard

  For his part, MacKenzie’s cool attitude toward Baxter from the moment we had arrived showed no signs of thawing. As the President of the Board, Laurence Baxter was technically MacKenzie’s boss; however, this seemed to have no dampening effect on his manner toward Baxter, which could be best defined as just this side of pissy.

  “Yes, well, the gist of it,” Gareth MacKenzie said as everyone turned their attention back to him, ‘“is that magicians—regardless of whether or not you’re a member of this organization—have a sacred duty to protect secrets. And while that is generally perceived as keeping the inner workings of their illusions out of public scrutiny, it also means one magician shall not take the secrets of another and call them his or her own.

  “My understanding,” he continued, looking from Jake to me and back again, “is there is the suggestion that Mr. North may have presented one of Mr. Marks’ illusions as his own on a television broadcast, without prior communication or consent.”

  I looked over at Jake, who had a puzzled look on his face.

  “Say what?” he said. Despite his recent success and increased level of fame, he had lost none of his California “dudeness.” In fact, it may have intensified.

  “Jake, you did my Ambitious Dog routine on TV this week without my permission or any credit,” I explained.

  “Oh, that,” Jake said, breaking into a wide smile. “That was just, you know, an accident.”

  “You accidentally did his trick,” MacKenzie repeated slowly. “And how, exactly, would such an event come about?”

  Jake shrugged. “Things were going really well on the show, and the crowd was loving me. Then the host asked me to do one more trick, and I was already running on empty. You know how it is,” he suggested, looking around the room. MacKenzie said nothing, while Laurence Baxter provided the slightest of nods in agreement at the notion.

  “So you did my trick, just on the spur of the moment?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. Never planned to do it. It’s your trick, man,” he added jovially, falling just short of giving my arm a playful punch.

  “Then I can’t see there is any objection on moving forward with Mr. North presenting my new illusion here this week,” Davis De Vries declared from his position in the hallway, as if the matter were entirely wrapped up to everyone’s satisfaction. Jake and his publicist started to get up, but Gareth MacKenzie held up a hand to stop them.

  “One moment, please,” he said, summoning his most authoritative voice. It fell short of truly commanding the room, but it did succeed in preventing a sudden exodus. He turned to me. “Mr. Marks, are you satisfied with this explanation?”

  “Not entirely,” I said, looking up at Jake, who was poised to make a quick exit. “The trouble with doing my Ambitious Dog routine on the fly, as it were, is it requires a very specific gaff.” I recognized, with the publicist in a room, I couldn’t go into any detail on the nature of the device. “Let’s just say it requires a unique and special item, which one would be unlikely to have on one’s person. Unless they intended to perform my Ambitious Dog routine,” I added, deciding I had used the word ‘one’ enough for the day.

  “I admit to being unfamiliar with the workings of your illusion,” MacKenzie said as Jake reluctantly sat again. “But you’re saying it is not an impromptu effect and that it requires deployment of a special element or device?”

  “Yes,” I said simply, feeling the Executive Director had covered all the salient points.

  MacKenzie nodded, and then looked to Jake. “Mr. North?”

  There was a tense moment, and then Jake broke into a big smile. “What can I say, I love the bit. I do it all the time for people, and I always have the gaffe on me,” he added, turning to me and increasing the intensity of his grin. “Believe me, I always tell them it was created by my old pal Eli Marks. I always give credit where credit is due. This one time I forgot to say it, and for that, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  He put out his tanned hand, and I looked at it for a long moment before extending my own paler version. We shook hands, and as we did, I heard a small muffled whoop from the hallway. De Vries, still standing in the doorway, was grinning widely as he glanced down at his watch.

  “Excellent,” he said. “So glad you two were able to bury the hatchet and put this behind you. We are good, correct?” He looked over at Gareth MacKenzie for confirmation.

  “That depends.” The Executive Director turned to me. “Mr. Marks, are you satisfied with Mr. North’s explanation?”

  I felt all the eyes in the room were on me, with De Vries giving me the most intense scrutiny. I considered my options.

  “Sure, I guess,” I finally said.

  “Excellent,” De Vries said quickly, once again taking a look at his watch. “Then why don’t we all go up to the theater and steal a quick peek at the Catherine Wheel?”

  Jake jumped up and slapped me on the back. “Come on, dude, let’s take a look at this sucker,” he said with more exuberance than might have been necessary. He followed De Vries and his publicist out of the room. I looked to Laurence Baxter, who smiled back wryly.

  “I guess that settles that,” he said, gesturing me toward the door.

  I grunted in agreement, still not sure what we had actually accomplished.

  “You joining us, Gareth?” Baxter said warmly over his shoulder on his way out.

  I turned back to see if Gareth MacKenzie was following us, but the small, bald man in oversized clothes was staring at Laurence Baxter as he headed down the hallway.

  His expression was hard to read, but it felt anything but warm.

  Once we made it to the theater, it quickly became apparent why De Vries had been so antsy, continually checking his watch during the meeting with the Executive Director. As it turned out, someone had summoned the press, and consequently, we all walked into an impromptu press conference. A small contingent of media people had arrived and were set up by the front of the stage for the unveiling of the Catherine Wheel, which was currently safely out of sight behind the red velour curtain.

  “I’m so happy to be here today to unveil Davis De Vries’ Catherine Wheel,” De Vries continued once he had carefully stepped up on the stage. “It’s an illusion years in the making, and it will, I hope, join the ranks of other stunning illusions I’ve designed and created in my long and happy tenure within the magic community.”

  He then segued into a not-so-quick recap of his career as the designer and builder of iconic magical illusions—most of which were connected, in the public’s eye, not to De Vries but to each magician who had originally performed the illusion. At the conclusion, a reporter raised a hand.

  “So, Mr. De Vries, with the Catherine Wheel—”

  De Vries cut him off immediately. “Sorry, but I should nip this in the bud right away,” he said with a quick laugh which almost sounded convincing. “The correct name for the illusion is ‘Davis De Vries’ Catherine Wheel,’ which I should also point out is trademarked.” He ran his hand through his perfectly coiffed white hair and then gestured to the reporter to continue with his question.

  “Looks like De Vries is making a last grab for posterity with this one,” Harry growled under his breath to me. I’d discovered him seated in the back row of the theater, along with Angus Bishop and Roy Templeton, all of whom were waiting for some much-needed tech rehearsal time on the stage. But that would have to wait, it appeared, until after De Vries made a pitch for his fifteen minutes (or more) of fame.

  “Difficult to blame him,” Angus whispered. “He’s worked bloody hard for forty years, made others famous with his designs, and yet no one knows who he is, the poor bastard.”

  Roy clucked his tongue. “Poor my bloodshot eye,” he said a bit too loudly, and then continued in a heavy whisper. “Have you seen his place in San Diego? It gives Baxter’s Folly a run for its money. He’s not hurting, believe me.”
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  “It’s not always about the money,” Harry said.

  “Most of the time it is, mate,” Angus countered.

  “Yes, but not always,” Harry continued. “Sometimes it’s about posterity. About leaving a legacy.”

  “Well, if debts can be considered a legacy, then I’m golden,” Roy said, giggling quietly at his own joke as we settled in and waited for the highly scheduled, yet seemingly spontaneous, press conference to wrap up.

  With the last of the official questions out of the way, Davis De Vries moved into performance mode and stepped to the center of the stage. Although he looked every inch the confident designer and inventor, after hearing his peers remarks about him, I wondered how thin that veneer was and how deep his resentments might run. Did he have any possible grudge against Borys, who never used large-scale illusions like the ones he created? Or against the one-armed Oskar Korhonen? Or, for that matter, against Harry?

  “Now it is my very great pleasure to introduce to you the performer who will inaugurate the Davis De Vries’ Catherine Wheel,” he continued, “although, frankly, no introduction is really required. Please welcome magician, television star, and accomplished actor who is currently selling out on a nightly basis in the West End theatre district...the incomparable Jake North.”

  He gestured to the wings and Jake stepped out as video cameras rolled and cameras snapped photo after photo. The sound of all the activity drowned out the snickering in the last row, although I’m not entirely sure if we were all laughing at the same thing. It was either De Vries’ statement that Jake was both a television star and an accomplished actor...or the use of the phrase “selling out on a nightly basis.” Either way, the old guys in the back row were suddenly enjoying the show.

  I wouldn’t say what followed was technically a disaster, but it was clear Jake had not been completely prepped as to the nature of his commitment. To begin with, every time he mentioned the Catherine Wheel, he called it “the Cathy Wheel.” This would require an interruption and clarification from De Vries, which definitely put a crimp in the flow of questions. Try as he might, the full name “Davis De Vries’ Catherine Wheel” did not appear to have the cachet he had been hoping for.

  Once it became apparent Jake wasn’t really helping the cause, De Vries took a new tack and jumped ahead to the actual unveiling of the illusion. Whatever rehearsal this program had gone through looked like it had been for naught, as bombastic introductory music came blaring out of the sound system squarely in the middle of his introduction. De Vries finally conceded to its louder volume and waved to someone backstage who wisely pulled the ropes that jerkily opened the curtain, finally revealing the device in all its glory.

  Despite the hiccups along the way, this reveal had clearly been worth the wait.

  Even after hearing Harry’s earlier description of the illusion, I had to admit the first sight of the Catherine Wheel—that is, Davis De Vries’ Catherine Wheel—was stunning. It was imposing and enormous. This impression was enhanced by the small size of The Magic Circle’s stage, but I suspect it would have looked massive just about anywhere.

  The thing darn near sparkled like an exploding star when the stage lights hit it, so much so that even the jaded press took a step back and delivered a collective ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh.’ The wheel’s spokes jutted out from a hub, which appeared to be encrusted with rubies, sending red reflections bouncing around the room. I’m not sure what the material was—it looked like a mix of chrome and solid gold—but this was no PVC-pipe basement workshop creation. This was stunning, more work of art than standard stage illusion.

  Of course, the reaction of the three magicians next to me in the back row was one you would expect from seasoned pros: Awe mixed with practicality.

  “That thing fits in two travel cases?” Roy Templeton hissed once the room’s first reaction to the illusion had settled. “Two cases?”

  “Plus he says it can be put together by one guy,” Harry added. “With no tools.”

  “It’s like pulling back a screen and discovering the Holy Grail,” Angus Bishop whispered reverently. “You hardly even need to do a trick with the bloody thing, just open the curtain and stand back.”

  Jake appeared to be equally awed. He stepped back to get a better view of the device and might have backed right off the stage if a couple reporters with quick reactions hadn’t reached up to steady him. As he regained his balance, two young women dressed in matching sparkly cocktail dresses appeared from the wings and grabbed Jake’s arms, positioning him next to the illusion. Each of the women then struck a pose on either side of the slightly dazed actor.

  “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this Saturday night will see the first public performance of Davis De Vries’ Catherine Wheel,” De Vries said, trying to sound dramatic and almost succeeding. It was clear he was a man accustomed to watching from the wings and not commanding center stage. “Performed by Jake North and,” he continued, gesturing toward Jake and the two women and then clearly forgetting their names, so he quickly added, “with the trusty aid of these two lovely assistants.”

  This was evidently the key photo op portion of the press conference, and the media folks wasted no time capturing image after image of Jake in front of the towering wheel, flanked by two smiling models.

  I noted that the large-scale illusion’s placement was exactly where the deadly chair that had taken Oskar Korhonen’s life had been situated. I was sitting way in the back, and although the theater has great sightlines, I had to squint a bit to see the expression on Jake’s face. I leaned forward once I determined what it was to make sure I was reading him right.

  Despite all the hoopla going on around him, Jake North looked like he might be physically sick.

  And, as it turned out, I was absolutely right.

  Chapter 11

  “Is this your card?”

  In the first five minutes I spent in the Club Room after leaving the press conference in the theater, I would guess I heard that phrase, or slight variations on it, nearly a dozen times. As it turned out, today was an open club day, which meant members gathered to swap ideas, practice their moves and geek out over new tricks. It was a popular event, so much so that the room was overflowing with magicians and wannabes of all ages—mostly male—trading secrets and absorbing new ones.

  As I snaked my way through the crowd, I spotted Hector Hechizo, holding court at a table, demonstrating one of his impossibly complicated card routines. Three members sat around him at the table as he took each of their decks of cards, shuffled them, cut them, and then spread them out on the table into a messy tableau. With every move the piles got messier, which seemed to delight Hector. He laughed as he rattled off his patter, a charming and surprisingly decipherable mix of Spanish and English. The three young magicians did their best to keep up with him, following his instructions as best they could, each getting hopelessly confused about what they were doing and why.

  I peered over the crowd that had gathered to watch, amazed at Hector’s ability to create what appeared to be a disaster on the table but which would ultimately prove to be a miracle.

  “He makes Lennart Green look like a neat freak, doesn’t he?” a voice said next to me. I turned to see that, as he had done at our first meeting, Laurence Baxter had appeared silently beside me. He was watching the card artistry with unbridled admiration.

  “I don’t know how he keeps track of the cards,” I said quietly.

  “He lost me five moves ago,” Baxter said. “But fear not, he is always in complete control. Hector is the definition of sprezzatura.”

  As if that were his cue, Hector quickly straightened each of the three different decks, squaring them up and handing each back to its proper owner. Then, on his command, the three young magicians turned the decks over and spread the faces so everyone could see.

  Every deck was now in new deck order, each suit separated and in sequence. The crowd around
the table roared in surprise and then burst into applause. Hector nodded humbly and gestured to his three subjects, as if it were they who had accomplished this miracle and not him.

  “Do you think he’d ever tell me how he did that?” I said, turning back to Laurence Baxter. However, he had missed the conclusion of the trick and had moved several feet away. He was giving instructions to Gareth MacKenzie, who looked tense and uncomfortable—like a school boy who has found himself suddenly being reprimanded by the Head Master.

  “Gareth, it’s bloody freezing in here. Be a good fellow and get the temperature up to something above arctic wasteland. And look into refilling the nut bowls, we’ve run low on cashews.” Without waiting for a reply, Baxter moved into the crowd, giving a cheerful wave to a small group who had assembled across the room.

  Despite the urgent tone of the request, MacKenzie stood immobile. His face remained expressionless, but his jaw moved slowly, suggesting he was grinding his teeth. A small vein in his temple pulsated in time with his jaw. He noticed me and recognized I must have overheard the exchange.

  “Treats me like I’m on his bloody domestic staff,” he said, spitting out the words. “Plus he insists on bringing in his own servants to muck around the place, so I have to deal with that lot as well. Acts like The Magic Circle is his own personal in-town apartment.”

  I shrugged. “He is Laurence Baxter,” I said, not sure if this qualified as an answer or why, for that matter, I felt the need to apologize for Baxter’s officious behavior. “And President of the Board.”

  “For now,” MacKenzie said with a harrumph, turning to watch as Baxter glad-handed some arriving attendees.

  “Do you also perform magic?” I asked, hoping the change in topic might alter his mood.

  MacKenzie shook his head. “No, I don’t have much of a taste for it,” he said grimly. “I had an uncle who tortured me with childish magic tricks when I was a lad. Soured me on the whole enterprise.”