“No, thank you,” Houdini said.
I already am.
CHAPTER NINE
HOUDINI STARED OUT his window at the massive sails of a 17th Century merchant ship. They billowed in a light ocean breeze, even though the shore was a good five miles away.
“Action!” someone shouted.
Thirty sailors darted across the deck with swords in hand as a dozen pirates scurried up the ship like rats up a rain gutter. They met at the center of the deck, where a fierce and highly choreographed fight took place. The pirates killed three sailors for every man they lost, and in minutes only a handful lived. In the end, as had happened for the previous three takes, a young maiden was hoisted over the shoulder of the pirate captain and carted off to their black-sailed ship.
Houdini had watched the film shoot all morning from above, distracted by the monotony of the filmmaking process. Men fought, and died, then stood up to fight and die all over again. It had a Sisyphean quality about it.
The apartment Louis B. Mayer had given him was a massive attic converted into a penthouse, smack dab in the center of the MGM studio backlot in Culver City. Mayer had built out the space, Houdini learned, so his directors could sleep close to the sets while their films were in production.
To keep them working sixteen hours a day.
The space ran half the length of the sound stage below, and had peekaboo views of the mishmash of lagoons, castles, and urban sets that made up the massive backlot. To the windows on his left was a row of rickety buildings called Ghost Town Street. On the right was a strip of adobe homes called Mexican Village Way. Past the pirate ship was the enormous water tower at the dead center of the lot.
Houdini hadn’t slept well that night. He had called Mayer to tell him he would do the escape, but guilt itched at him as if he had bedbugs. Mayer was pleased but didn’t seem surprised; he seemed used to getting his way.
When Houdini had searched inside himself, he found a hodgepodge of motivations. Without knowing where Atlas was, the public stunt really was the best way to grab the man’s attention and lure him to Los Angeles. But Houdini also wanted to do the escape, to put into action a plan he had been thinking about for months.
He had been up half the night making sketches that had long been locked in his mind. Now, he shuffled a deck of cards back and forth between his hands, looking at the easel where the sketches stood. The plan was good, and he knew it.
Someone rapped playfully at the door. Houdini was expecting Mayer’s assistant, who would be in charge of buying Houdini’s equipment and assisting him the day of the event.
Houdini set down the deck of cards and crossed the loft-style room, crossing over plush Oriental rugs and weaving through the eclectic mix of furniture, to answer the door.
“Who is it?”
“Benito Mussolini.”
Houdini opened the door. Charlie Chaplin pinched Houdini’s cheek and pushed his way through.
“Good morning,” Chaplin said.
“How did you manage to get on the lot?” Houdini asked. “I can’t imagine Mayer would want you seeing his sets.”
“I caught a lucky break. The guard ran off to the restroom just as I was walking up.”
He hung his hat and coat on the rack and gave a long whistle at the expansive apartment. At the sound of shouting below, he peeked out one of the far windows.
“Snazzy accommodations, though I hope the pirates don’t wake you up too early.”
“They die soon enough,” Houdini said. “Would you like tea?”
“I am English, am I not?”
Houdini had a kettle of hot water already boiling on the electric stove in the kitchen. He poured Chaplin a cup and found an assortment of teas in the well-stocked pantry, then put it all on a tray and brought it over to the sitting area.
Chaplin’s attention was drawn to the easel and sketchpad in the corner.
“What are you doing for Louis Mayer, anyway?” Chaplin asked. “Is it a torture device? I always wondered how Mayer got actors to sign his contracts.”
Houdini took a throw blanket from the couch and covered the easel.
“I’m under agreement not to say,” Houdini said. “But it will draw Atlas to Los Angeles. That’s why I’ve agreed to do it. That’s what matters.”
Chaplin dipped his tea bag in his cup with a deftness that looked almost like performance art.
“You could have asked to stay with me,” Chaplin said.
“I wasn’t sure,” Houdini said. “It’s been so long.”
“We’re friends,” Chaplin said. “Aren’t we?”
Houdini felt guilt press into his chest like an accusatory finger.
Maybe not after the stunt I’m going to pull.
It had been ten years since the two men had seen each other. At the time, Houdini was at the peak of his success while Chaplin was just a young scalawag trying to make a name for himself in America.
“I owe one of my biggest breaks to you,” Chaplin said. “You got me into the Hippodrome. At the very least, that’s worth a few nights in my guest room.”
Houdini had first seen Chaplin performing in New York as part of a comedy troupe in Karno’s North American tour. He had immediately recognized something unique about his physical comedy; the way he moved, the ease with which he emoted—there was something transcendent about it, as if the very spirit of humor were channeling through his body.
One night, Houdini asked Chaplin to open for him at the Hippodrome. It would be ten times Chaplin’s normal audience. He did a short but spectacular performance of the Inebriate Swell, his lovable but perpetually drunk character. Chaplin received a standing ovation, and from that point on the comedian began headlining with his comedy troupe. The film contracts came soon after.
“It was an amazing stroke of luck you saw me that night,” Chaplin said. “I feel like I owe half of my success to luck. I should become a professional gambler.”
Chaplin added a lump of sugar, a splash of cream, and gave the cup exactly three stirs with a spoon. He sipped it. Houdini watched him, this silly young man he was going to betray.
“We’re not heroes,” Chaplin said suddenly, staring into his tea. “We have talents that I’m grateful for, but that doesn’t make me a Robin Hood any more than it makes Douglas a Zorro, as much as he likes to think so.”
Houdini understood what he was trying to say.
We’re not fighters.
“Mr. Fairbanks has a way with words,” Houdini said. “He inspires devotion in others. And Mrs. Pickford, well, she could have the entire male population wrapped around her little finger with just the right look. Heroes aren’t always armed with swords.”
“Perhaps,” Chaplin said. “But I’ve never heard of someone laughing another to death. I’m afraid my gift is rather useless.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Houdini said.
The magician thought of his own talent, the way his introspection over the years had grown beyond a mere examination of his present self and extended into the realm of his future self and what might be.
He used that gift now, following all of the glowing threads of conversation that might convince Chaplin to help him in protecting the Eye. In the end, the one option that would prove most effective was also the easiest: saying nothing.
Houdini stared at his old acquaintance. Chaplin cleared his throat, uncomfortable with silence. He stared at the deck of cards on the table.
“Can I show you something?” Chaplin said. “It’s something I haven’t shown anyone before.”
He pulled the deck of cards closer to him and touched the top card.
“Three of clubs,” he said.
Chaplin flipped over the card. It was the three of clubs. He touched the next card on top.
“Queen of diamonds.”
He flipped over the card. It was the queen of diamonds.
“A trick?” Houdini asked. Chaplin said nothing. He touched the next card on top.
“Seven of spades.”
“Every lucky streak has to end.”
Guessing even two cards in a row was so unlikely it was beyond mere chance. Houdini touched the deck, feeling the edges of each card. Nothing about them was abnormal. There was no way Chaplin could have even known about the cards before that moment.
“Clairvoyance?” Houdini asked.
Chaplin shook his head.
“I honestly had no idea what those cards were going to be.”
“Then how?”
Chaplin bit his lip.
“I don’t know for sure,” he said. “It started a few years ago, when I found myself getting all sorts of lucky breaks. Perhaps fortune favors the man who can laugh at himself.”
Houdini knew it couldn’t be unrelated; this good fortune was somehow an extension of his humor. The magician took up the cards and shuffled them in his hands.
“I’ve been wondering how you met Fairbanks and Pickford,” Houdini said. “I can understand how you’d all come to Hollywood with the gifts you have, but it’s still incredible odds that you found each other. I wondered if it were some kind of destiny. But maybe not. Maybe it was just…”
“My dumb luck?” Chaplin asked.
Houdini sipped his tea.
“Our world is rapidly changing. Talent that used to live in isolation just a hundred years ago may find a future that is more integrated, whether we like it or not.”
“There is opportunity in that,” Chaplin said.
Houdini clenched his jaw. When he reached to see the possibilities, he couldn’t see anything clearly, but he had the overwhelming sense of precariousness—as if the future were a boulder on the edge of a cliff, and the slightest breath from any of them would knock it over.
“Opportunity breeds opportunists. I think what we’re seeing is the beginning of a war. A secret war for the talent of this world.”
From outside the window someone yelled, “Shiver me timbers!”
“At least it’s not a pirate war,” Chaplin said. “My sword fighting is positively rusty.”
Chaplin set down his cup.
“I’ll help you,” he said. “I don’t know what use my jokes and good fortune will be against an eight-foot giant, but to whatever extent I can, I’ll help you guard the Eye.”
“Your humor seems to turn situations to your favor,” Houdini said. “Maybe you’ll be our lucky charm. Our rabbit’s foot.”
“Yes, I like the sound of that. Especially if I can hide in your pocket.”
Chaplin stood.
“Now, I should go. Doug isn’t the only one with interviews to do for this film premiere. We’ve plunged every last penny into it.”
The two walked toward the door. Houdini handed Chaplin his coat.
“I should tell you what the stunt is,” Houdini said. “You won’t like it.”
Chaplin plugged his ears.
“Then I’d rather not know.”
“It involves you.”
“If it gets Atlas here, then I’ll cope,” Chaplin said.
He slipped his hat on as Houdini opened the door.
“By the way, be careful of Doug,” Chaplin said. “He has a good heart but he’s impulsive and erratic. And he’s very jealous of his wife.”
“So I shouldn’t pay her a private visit?”
Chaplin laughed.
“Now you’re the funny one. He wouldn’t let a man alone with her in exchange for all the good press in Hollywood.”
Houdini slapped Chaplin on the back as he led him out. The magician’s smile faded as soon as he closed the door.
A problem, since that’s exactly what I’m planning to do.
CHAPTER TEN
THE NEXT DAY, when Houdini should have been on the MGM studio lot practicing his escape on the crane that had just arrived, he found himself standing at the entrance to United Artists studios. It was a small guard gate with a simple wooden sign—nothing like the veritable gates of Babylon at MGM Studios.
After signing in, he walked along the plain halls and cheap wooden flooring that had all the ambience of a broom closet. It was far less glamorous than the carpeted halls and cream draperies of MGM’s grand offices. These were the independents, the artists struggling to make movies outside of the well-funded studio system. And struggling they were.
He found his way to the second floor, to a door with Pickford’s name on it. No one answered when he knocked.
A tall, gaunt-looking man popped his head out of an office down the hall.
“Mary isn’t here,” the man said. “Try the costume department; last I heard she was doing a fitting.”
“Thank you,” Houdini said.
The man gave Houdini a scrutinizing stare.
“Douglas Fairbanks will be back soon as well,” he said. “In case you’re looking for him.”
Houdini got the message.
In case you’re trying to avoid him.
The man directed Houdini to a separate building past a small courtyard with two benches surrounded by white rose bushes. It was a square one-story building even more utilitarian than the main offices. As soon as Houdini stepped inside he found himself in a labyrinth of clothes racks. There were costumes for every era—it looked like a thrift store through the ages. He squeezed through the claustrophobic aisles toward the sound of voices.
In a far corner he found Mary Pickford with a seamstress, standing in front of a three-way mirror. The actress was wearing a baggy plaid dress with black leggings, and an oversized plaid golf hat topped with a pom-pom.
“Bring the waistline out more,” Pickford said. “I’m supposed to be a young girl, not a fashion model.”
The seamstress quickly changed some pins in the cloth.
“You could wear a tent and you’d still be beautiful,” Houdini said.
Pickford looked up. She didn’t seem entirely surprised to see him.
“Douglas will be back from an interview any moment.”
“I didn’t come to see him.”
“Yes, you came to see me. Everyone wants just one more look.”
Her glare, it was a beam of contempt she focused at him like a death ray.
“That look is meant to scare men off,” Houdini said. “You’re not really so mean.”
“It’s self-preservation,” Pickford said. “You see how nice you are when men drool over you like starving beasts in front of filet mignon.”
“Fortunately for me, then, I’m more like chopped liver,” Houdini said. “May we speak?”
Pickford looked at the seamstress and gave her a nod. The woman eyed Houdini head to toe, and reluctantly left. With the two of them alone, Houdini found himself staring openly at Pickford again. She let out an exhausted huff.
“I apologize,” Houdini said. “I can’t control how you look, but I should be able to control where I look.”
He pulled his eyes away and toward the costumes. On a nearby rack was a hat of every shape and style. There was a large black sun hat, which Houdini imagined could only be appropriate for a woman to wear during an outdoor funeral. He plucked it from the rack and, approaching Pickford, gently removed the golf hat from her head and replaced it with the large sun hat. By pulling the brim of it down, he could only see Pickford’s lips and chin.
“Your talent may get stronger with age,” Houdini said.
Pickford barked a laugh.
“You’re the first person to tell an actress at thirty-one that she’s only going to get more beautiful.”
“It’s true. I’m much older than you. We grow into our gifts. They expand.”
“I wouldn’t want to be any more beautiful,” she said. “But I’m pretty, that’s all. Thousands of women are.”
“Not like you. You’re special. You’re a Burden.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that pitch from Charlie. He says we have unique talents unlike anyone else in the world. It sounds a bit megalomanic, don’t you think, Mr. Houdini?”
“It
’s not megalomanic if it’s true,” Houdini said. “Surely the effect you have on men is all the evidence you need.”
“Beauty is a parlor trick.”
“Even tricks have their value. I should know. It’s why I need your help.”
She looked up at him, then remembered her hat and tugged it low on her face.
“You want me to disobey my husband.”
“Of the four of us, you are the best equipped to contain Atlas,” Houdini said. “He won’t listen to me, and your husband’s charms may have their limits. But one look at you and I’m convinced he’ll listen.”
Pickford turned to the mirror and tilted her hat at a more fashionable angle.
“If you and Charlie are right, that our gifts are unique in all the world, why do we have them? What’s the purpose?”
Houdini had ruminated over this for years, from the moment Calamity Jane had recognized him for what he was.
“I believe our gifts are meant to help people, to benefit mankind,” Houdini said. “It will look different for each of us. Some of us are meant to be warriors to protect people in times of war. Others are meant to be great scholars, to change the way people understand the world. Still others are meant to have compassion and care for the sick and the poor, as an example to humanity.”
“And you?” Pickford asked. “A magician?”
The question was sharp but her mouth puckered immediately after as if she regretted the tone.
“I suppose I could have been a great thinker,” Houdini said. “I could have written books to help people understand their motivations so they aren’t controlled by them. But instead I’ve used my gift to be an entertainer.”
“How does that do anyone any good?”
Houdini found a box of clothes behind him and sat on it. A long blue scarf was poking out of the box, and he pulled it out. Deftly, he wound the fabric around his own wrists, binding them together. He yanked his hands apart to show it was secure.
“You see, I’m a Hungarian Jew with immigrant parents. We grew up in a poor neighborhood in New York. My little tricks, my escapes from handcuffs and such, they not only entertained people, they gave folks hope. The hope of escape.”
Houdini's Last Trick (The Burdens Trilogy) Page 6