With one sharp flick, the scarf fell off.
“For a few brief moments people watching me forgot about their miserable lives, and every time I escaped my handcuffs they were escaping with me—escaping those shackles, escaping this dreary world. I taught them how to escape with their minds. Sometimes the gift we give people is simply a few moments of relief.”
Pickford removed her hat and stared at herself in the mirror. She touched her face gently, as if it were not her own.
“I give people a dream,” she said. “I live the life everybody else wishes they could. I’m America’s Sweetheart. The Girl With the Curls. I give people hope, too. A different kind.”
She turned her soft hazel eyes to Houdini.
“Why do you think I married Douglas? He’s America’s Hero. We’re the perfect pairing. Don’t get me wrong, I love him dearly. But it’s what the people wanted. Sometimes I wonder if it was the people’s dream before it became mine.”
She prodded at her cheek with clinical interest.
“I don’t see what else I could do for the world,” she said.
“There may come a time when all of us are called to do more than we are accustomed,” Houdini said.
He stared at her as she stared at herself. As much as he didn’t want it to, his heart beat faster and his pulse raced. She was powerful, and he knew she could get him to do anything she wanted. He hoped she could do the same for Atlas.
How much does she use her talent on Fairbanks?
“You and your husband, you might be the first great talents in history to marry,” Houdini said. “At least, I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Douglas says it’s destiny.”
“I never believed in destiny,” Houdini said. “It supposes a higher power, and I’ve never been one for the supernatural. But I can’t get past the feeling that we’ve all been drawn here, to this place and time, for a reason.”
Pickford laughed.
“You mean other than the endless sunshine? That’s reason enough to stay.”
“Stay? Who’s staying?”
Houdini cocked his head and saw Douglas Fairbanks making his way through the aisle of clothes. He smiled brightly but his eyes burned with something darker.
“Mr. Houdini can’t stay. Surely New York would miss him.”
The seamstress, Houdini remembered, was gone.
“My apologies, Mr. Fairbanks. I came to see Chaplin on business and happened upon Mrs. Pickford.”
“Happened upon her?” Fairbanks asked. “Aisles deep in the costume warehouse? You must have an awful sense of direction.”
Fairbanks was in the right, Houdini realized. It had been inappropriate for him to be alone with the man’s wife.
“How would you like it if I happened upon your wife all alone?” Fairbanks asked.
“I would not like it,” Houdini said.
“Well, don’t you worry a bit,” Fairbanks said. “I’ve seen a photo of your wife and I can assure you she’d remain perfectly untouched.”
Houdini’s hands clenched. He felt his fingernails digging into his palms. Fairbanks might be ten years younger and renowned for his athleticism, but Houdini had half a dozen hidden picks on his person, and any of them could serve as a shiv.
Fairbanks flashed a congenial smile.
“Please stay where you are, old magician. I’m not in a mood to wrinkle my suit.”
The words tingled in Houdini’s ears, and he felt the urge to fight Fairbanks wither away.
“It was a completely harmless conversation, Doug,” Pickford said. “Let him go.”
“You’re right,” Fairbanks said. “There’s nothing to fear from this vaudeville performer in his cheap suit and tattered shoes.”
Houdini was wearing his new suit, but he hadn’t gotten around to buying new shoes. He had washed and dried them as best he could, but the soles were flapping off them and they were covered in Los Angeles dust.
“Those shoes are positively careworn, Mr. Houdini. Do tell me, what happened to them?”
“I fell into a sewer,” Houdini said.
Fairbanks clicked his tongue.
“It sounds like they need a cleaning. Mr. Houdini, would you do me a favor and take those filthy shoes off?”
Houdini’s ears tingled again, and he did as Fairbanks asked. As much as his anger burned against the man, he found himself wanting to do whatever Fairbanks requested.
“Now, please clean the soles of your shoes, Mr. Houdini. With your tongue.”
“Douglas, don’t do this!” Pickford said. She stood up and faced him, her beauty blazing. Fairbanks stared at her with the same silly expression Houdini imagined he made too.
“Stop it,” Pickford said. “For me.”
There was a standoff going on, one Houdini could only guess happened at regular intervals in their marriage.
“I’m sorry dear,” Fairbanks said. With monumental effort he pulled his eyes off her. “But it’s for your own good.”
Fairbanks turned his back to her and winked at Houdini.
“Now clean, my friend. Please?”
The magician felt himself raising one of his shoes toward his mouth. He felt as if he and Fairbanks were on the inside of a funny joke. But even as his tongue came out of his mouth, Houdini felt a small part of him somewhere inside, trying to resist the command. If he could only get to that part soon enough, he might be able to stop himself.
His tongue hit leather, covered in dirt and tiny bits of gravel. Pickford let out a little cry as the magician licked the sole of his shoe completely clean. Houdini’s mouth felt gritty and earthy, as if he were chewing on a bit of sidewalk from Hollywood Boulevard.
“You’re a good sport,” Fairbanks said, smiling. “Now leave, Mr. Houdini, and don’t ever let me catch you alone with my wife again.”
Houdini nodded and walked willingly out of the costume warehouse. But even as he left, he grasped tightly onto the part of his mind he had found, the piece that could resist Fairbank’s charm.
You’ll see me again soon enough, Fairbanks. And you won’t be smiling.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HOUDINI HAD COUNTED up all of the ways he could die and was satisfied. There were only a few more than usual, but not so many that it gave him pause. He was confident he could pull off the Hangman’s Death the following evening.
So then why can’t I sleep?
He had spent the entire day scouting the location and planning out every step. The stunt would occur on the busiest stretch of Hollywood Boulevard, directly across the street from the famous Egyptian Theatre, where the United Artists movie premiere would take place. He would perform on top of a one-story building that housed a few small businesses: Betty’s Fine Eveningwear, McCadden’s Rare Books, and an Emory Partridge toy store.
The building was flat and sturdy and would support the crane easily enough. With a piece of chalk, he had drawn a large circle on the sidewalk below, which would be blocked off for the spikes. It would also keep spectators far enough away for the illusion portion of his stunt to work. On the roof he had measured and marked places to drill bolts into the building’s beams to secure the crane, which would be installed on top of the roof in the morning.
Houdini had made a special trip to the county hospital for a straightjacket. It was a standard issue, made of thick duck cloth and lined with five leather straps to secure the long sleeves behind the back. He had escaped from that exact model hundreds of times. When he first held the straightjacket in his hands earlier that day, it had nearly brought tears to his eyes. Whereas others recoiled at the sight of one, to Houdini the jacket felt like an old friend—a familiar face greeting him in the midst of the strangers and palm trees and relentless sunshine that made up this strange city.
Even though every step of the stunt was accounted for, Houdini found himself staring up at the ceiling. He realized it wasn’t the anticipation of the performance that left him rolling in bed, it was the anticipation of vengeance. It was Fairbanks. D
espite the inappropriateness of Houdini’s actions a few days before, the man had crossed a line and humiliated him in front of Pickford.
Even so, Houdini needed the man's help once Atlas arrived. He could only hope Fairbanks had enough integrity to keep his word.
Houdini got up from bed and went to the phone by the door. On a hunch, he placed a call through the operator to his brownstone in Harlem. It rang seven or eight times. He was about to hang up the receiver when he heard a groggy voice.
“Hello?”
The sound of his wife’s voice gripped his heart like a vice. He had never been away from her for so long, not since the day they had first met by the beach.
“Bess!” Houdini said. “What are you doing there?”
“Harry! Where are you?”
“I’m in Los Angeles. You’re supposed to be at the cabin. It’s not safe there.”
“I was at the cabin for five days,” she said. “I didn’t hear from you, so I came back yesterday. Someone ransacked our home.”
Terror gripped Houdini. Atlas had been in their home. He knew where Bess was.
“You have to leave!” Houdini said. “There’s a dangerous man. He could be back at any time.”
“I’m not leaving,” Bess said. “I doubt he’ll be back, and I’m tired of living on the run. Besides, I don’t want to pull little Samuel out of school again.”
“This is no time to joke. You must leave!”
“No,” Bess said. “Come home, Mr. Houdini, and we’ll deal with this together.”
Houdini knew that tone. His wife was staying, and there was nothing he could do to change her mind.
“I have to finish something first,” he said.
“What is it you’re doing out there?”
“Making friends,” he said.
And making enemies.
“You’re not doing anything foolish, are you?” she asked.
“Not foolish,” Houdini said.
It was only foolish if it was unnecessary.
“Please be careful,” she said.
The worry in her voice, it extinguished all of his anger toward Fairbanks. Let the actor have Hollywood; Houdini wanted to be home with his wife.
“I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
They said their goodbyes, and Houdini hung up the phone.
Bess was vulnerable as long as Atlas was out there. To keep her safe, his best bet was to focus on his stunt and lure Atlas to Los Angeles as soon as possible.
The phone rang, and Houdini picked it up.
“Bess?”
“I’ve been thinking…”
Houdini recognized the gruff voice of Louis B. Mayer on the other end. He didn’t bother to apologize for the lateness of the call.
“There’s nothing about your stunt that identifies it as MGM,” Mayer said. “We may as well get some publicity in while we’re at it.”
“Whatever you like,” Houdini said brusquely. “You can hang a sign from the roof of the stores.”
For all Houdini cared, Mayer could tap dance out in front so long as it didn’t interfere with the stunt.
“Bah! Signs,” Mayer said. “They’re everywhere. No one reads a sign. What I was thinking is that we need a symbol. The symbol of MGM. We need Slats.”
“What are slats?”
“Slats is our lion,” Mayer said. “The MGM lion. Damn animal sits in a cage on the backlot all day, burning a hole in my pocket with all the meat he eats. Why not put him to good use? Why not put the lion in your performance? It’s brilliant!”
Houdini was not the type of man to chide another, but he had more pressing concerns than tending to Mayer’s whims.
“It’s not brilliant,” Houdini said. “It’s idiotic. I’m not going to incorporate a wild animal, whom I’ve never worked with, into an act that is happening in less than twenty-four hours. You’re a fool.”
It was quiet on the other end of the line, like the brief silence of a building wave before it crashes onto shore.
“Men have called me a fool before,” Mayer finally said. “If he was my employee, I fired him. If he was my boss, I soon replaced him. It takes a fool to get things done. It takes a fool to have vision. So when I call you past midnight to tell you that I have an idea, I’m not brainstorming with you, I’m giving you a command, damn it! That lion is showing up tomorrow and you’d better find a use for it in your act, or you’ll find yourself blackballed from this town for the rest of your life!”
The phone went dead on the other end. Houdini set down the receiver softly. He went into the kitchen to make coffee. There would be no sleep that night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GRAUMAN’S EGYPTIAN THEATRE was built like a pharaoh’s temple, with sand-colored blocks of thick concrete jutting upward from the sidewalk. It was as if a sandstorm had swept up a Middle Eastern citadel and plopped it onto the heart of Hollywood Boulevard. Two towering obelisks flanked the grand entrance, each capped with the head of an Egyptian deity.
Houdini had been around enough mystics and spiritualists to recognize the sandstone busts. The one with the head of a dog was Anubis, the god of the afterlife. The other, with the head of a crocodile, was Sobek, the god of fertility and power. Death and birth. Birth and death.
The grand entrance led to a small courtyard, reminiscent of an ancient public square. The theater itself, as if an afterthought, was at the back of the courtyard.
From the rooftop across the street, Houdini closed his hand into a loose fist and looked through the tiny hole it made. Without the passing automobiles, the crowd of spectators, or the giant neon sign blinking “GRAUMAN’S,” it was easy to believe he was staring at a scene from the days of Tutankhamen.
“Fairbanks is on his way,” said Ned Auerbach, Mayer’s assistant. “You should start getting ready.”
In about ten minutes, just before sunset, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford would arrive at the theater. Auerbach had a man watching the couple, and telephoned as soon as they left Pickfair, their mansion home. Spectators had been lining up for hours, and the press was already in place, stationed by the two obelisks at the entrance. A street car rolled down the tracks in the middle of the street; Houdini hoped the trollies wouldn’t block the view of photographers. He needed them to get a good shot if he hoped to make it on the front page of the newspapers.
For The Thief of Baghdad, Oriental carpets had been set out along the walkway leading up to the theater, flanked with potted desert palms. Massive purple curtains with gold Arabesque embroidery draped from the tops of the obelisks all the way to the sidewalk.
That’s enough cloth to dress a pharaoh’s harem.
Men and women dressed as Arabian servants took their posts along the carpets with palm fronds to fan the arriving celebrities. Two belly dancers in flowing turquoise garments warmed up in the courtyard.
Houdini began to wonder if maybe his stunt wasn’t flashy enough. His escapes were always dramatic, but with a kind of quiet, nail-biting suspense. He didn’t want people’s attention drawn away by a couple of glittery belly dancers.
“Get the lion,” Houdini said.
Auerbach stared at the magician.
“Are you sure?”
Houdini nodded.
“Set up a second set of gates around the spikes.”
Auerbach nodded and climbed down the ladder. The lion was in a cage in the alley. Mayer had his animal handlers deliver it that morning despite Houdini’s protests.
Holding onto the crane, Houdini leaned out over the rooftop and looked down at the spikes his men had set up on the sidewalk below. They were long skewers with pointed ends that had been disassembled from the castle gate of an old movie set on the MGM lot. Although they were only silver-painted wood, not metal, they would still skewer him easily enough from the height at which Houdini was performing.
The spikes were cordoned off with a wall of sawhorses. The police had stopped by to question them, but ten dollars each and an autograph from Harry Houdini had been answer e
nough. He even got one of the cops, a lazy-faced officer named Barry Stoker, to help out with the act.
Auerbach re-appeared behind Houdini.
“Fairbanks is almost here. I can see their car down near the corner of Orange.”
Houdini looked west and could see Fairbanks’s bright red Mercer Raceabout down the street. It was shaped like a bullet and appeared to be just as fast. Like Fairbanks himself, there was nothing subtle about it.
He triple-checked the items spread out on a cloth: the megaphone, the straightjacket, the handcuffs, the razor blade, matches.
“Get the cop,” Houdini said.
Auerbach nodded behind them, toward the grunts of an overweight man cresting the roof from the ladder. Officer Stoker pulled himself onto the rooftop and then flopped down prostrate, like a sunbathing seal.
“We’re nearly ready, officer,” Houdini called over to him.
The policeman got onto his hands and knees, then finally to full standing. He walked over to the edge of the roof facing Hollywood.
“Thirty clams, right?”
Auerbach pulled out the dollar bills and waved them in front of his face.
“Thirty aces. But only after.”
Houdini pulled the noose over his head, which he had tied himself. From his neck, the rope wound upward to the top of the small crane, then back down its arm, where it was coiled around a winch at the base.
“Let’s go.”
Houdini looked down and saw the lion being lead into a narrow corridor made of sawhorses that circled the spikes. He hoped the animal trainers knew what they were doing. One jump and the lion could easily be out and about on the streets of Hollywood.
Officer Stoker spit on the lion below. It looked up and growled at him.
“I hate cats,” he said.
Houdini closed his eyes and searched for his fears. Fear of being constrained. Fear of impaling himself. Fear of becoming a wild animal’s dinner. He pictured a wooden storage chest inside his head and put all of his fears inside of it. Then he locked the chest, and buried the key deep inside the recesses of his mind.
Houdini's Last Trick (The Burdens Trilogy) Page 7